Books
- Details
- Written by: Administrator
- Category: Books
- Hits: 333
TIMOTHY CRUMP'S WARD:
A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE.
by Horatio Alger
1866.
CONTENTS :.
I. INTRODUCES THE CRUMPS
II. THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING
III. THE LANDLORD'S VISIT
IV. THE NEW YEAR'S PRESENT
V. A LUCKY RESCUE
VI. WHAT THE ENVELOPE CONTAINED
VII. EIGHT YEARS. IDA'S PROGRESS
VIII. A STRANGE VISITOR
IX. A JOURNEY
X. UNEXPECTED QUARTERS
XI. SUSPENSE
XII. HOW IDA FARED
XIII. BAD COIN
XIV. DOUBTS AND FEARS
XV. AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS
XVI. THE FLOWER-GIRL
XVII. JACK (sic) OBTAIN'S INFORMATION
XVIII. FINESSE
XIX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP
XX. JACK IN CONFINEMENT
XXI. THE PRISONER ESCAPES
XXII. MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE
XXIII. THE LAW STEPS IN
XXIV. "THE FLOWER-GIRL"
XXV. IDA IS FOUND
XXVI. "NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND"
XXVII. CONCLUSION
TIMOTHY CRUMP'S WARD.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCES THE CRUMPS.
IT was drawing towards the close of the last day of the year. A few hours more, and 1836 would be no more.
It was a cold day. There was no snow on the ground, but it was frozen into stiff ridges, making it uncomfortable to walk upon. The sun had been out all day, but there was little heat or comfort in its bright, but frosty beams.
The winter is a hard season for the poor. It multiplies their necessities, while, in general, it limits their means and opportunities of earning. The winter of 1836-37 was far from being an exception to this rule. It was worse than usual, on account of the general stagnation of business.
In an humble tenement, located on what was then the outskirts of New York, though to-day a granite warehouse stands on the spot, lived Timothy Crump, an industrious cooper. His family consisted of a wife and one child, a boy of twelve, whose baptismal name was John, though invariably addressed, by his companions, as Jack.
There was another member of the household who would be highly offended if she were not introduced, in due form, to the reader. This was Miss Rachel Crump, maiden sister of Uncle Tim, as he was usually designated.
Miss Rachel was not much like her brother, for while the latter was a good-hearted, cheerful easy man, who was inclined to view the world in its sunniest aspect, Rachel was cynical, and given to misanthropy. Poor Rachel, let us not be too hard upon thy infirmities. Could we lift the veil that hides the secrets of that virgin heart, it might be, perchance, that we should find a hidden cause, far back in the days when thy cheeks were rounder and thine eyes brighter, and thine aspect not quite so frosty. Ah, faithless Harry Fletcher! thou hadst some hand in that peevishness and repining which make Rachel Crump, and all about her, uncomfortable. Lured away by a prettier face, you left her to pass through life, unblessed by that love which every female heart craves, and for which no kindred love will compensate. It was your faithlessness that left her to walk, with repining spirit, the flinty path of the old maid.
Yes; it must be said--Rachel Crump was an old maid; not from choice,
but hard necessity. And so, one by one, she closed up the avenues of
her heart, and clothed herself with complaining, as with a garment.
Being unblessed with earthly means, she had accepted the hearty
invitation of her brother, and become an inmate of his family, where
she paid her board by little services about the house, and obtained
sufficient needle-work to replenish her wardrobe as often as there
was occasion. Forty-five years had now rolled over her head, leaving
clearer traces of their presence, doubtless, than if her spirit had
been more cheerful; so that Rachel, whose strongly marked features
never could have been handsome, was now undeniably homely.
Mrs. Crump, fortunately for her husband's peace, did not in the
least resemble her sister-in-law. Her disposition was cheerful, and
she had frequent occasion to remonstrate with her upon the dark view
she took of life. Had her temper been different, it is very easy to
see that she would have been continually quarrelling with Rachel;
but, happily, she was one of those women with whom it is impossible
to quarrel. With her broad mantle of charity, she was always seeking
to cover up and extenuate the defects of her sister-in-law, though
she could not help acknowledging their existence.
It had been a hard winter for the cooper. For a month he had been
unable to obtain work of any kind, and for the two months previous
he had worked scarcely more than half the time. Unfortunately for
him, his expenses for a few years back had kept such even pace with
his income, that he had no reserved fund to fall back upon in such a
time as this. That was no fault of his. Both he and his wife had
been economical enough, but there are a great many things included
in family expenses--rent, fuel, provisions, food, clothing, and a
long list of sundries, besides; and all these had cost money, of
which desirable article Uncle Tim's trade furnished not a very large
supply.
So it happened that, as tradesmen were slow to trust, they had been
obliged to part with a sofa to defray the expenses of the month of
December. This article was selected because it was best convertible
into cash,--being wanted by a neighbor,--besides being about the
only article of luxury, if it could be called such, in possession of
the family. As such it had been hardly used, being reserved for
state occasions; yet hardly had it left (sic) the the house, when
Aunt Rachel began to show signs of extreme lowness of spirits, and
bewailed its loss as a privation of a personal comfort.
"Life's full of disappointments," she groaned. "Our paths is
continually beset by 'em. There's that sofa! It's so pleasant to
have one in the house when a body's sick. But there, it's gone, and
if I happen to get down, as most likely I shall, for I've got a bad
feeling in my stummick this very minute, I shall have to go
up-stairs, and most likely catch my death of cold, and that will be
the end of me."
"Not so bad as that, I hope," said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. "You
know, when you was sick last, you didn't want to use the sofa--you
said it didn't lay comfortable. Besides, I hope, before you are sick
again we may be able to buy it back again."
Aunt Rachel shook her head despondingly.
"There ain't any use in hoping that," said she. "Timothy's got so
much behindhand that he won't be able to get up again; I know he
won't."
"But if he manages to get steady work soon, he will."
"No, he won't. I'm sure he won't. There won't be any work before
spring, and most likely not then."
"You are too desponding, Aunt Rachel."
"Enough to make me so. If you had only taken my advice, we shouldn't
have come to this."
"I don't know what advice you refer to, Rachel."
"No, I don't expect you do. You didn't pay no attention to it.
That's the reason."
"But if you'll repeat it, perhaps we can profit by it yet," said
Mrs. Crump, with imperturbable good humor.
"I told you you ought to be layin' up something ag'in a rainy day.
But that's always the way. Folks think when times is good it's
always a goin' to be so, but I knew better."
"I don't see how we could have been more economical," said Mrs.
Crump, mildly.
"There's a hundred ways. Poor folks like us ought not to expect to
have meat so often. It's frightful to think what the butcher's bill
must have been the last six months."
Inconsistent Rachel! Only the day before she had made herself very
uncomfortable because there was no meat for dinner, and said she
couldn't live without it. Mrs. Crump might have reminded her of
this, but the good woman was too kind to make the retort. She
contented herself with saying that they must try to do better in
future.
"That's always the way," muttered Rachel. "Shut the stable door when
the horse is stolen. Folks never learn from experience till it's too
late to be of any use. I don't see what the world was made for, for
my part. Everything goes topsy-turvy, and all sorts of ways except
the right way. I sometimes think 'taint much use livin'."
"Oh, you'll feel better by and by, Rachel. Hark, there's Jack, isn't
it?"
"Anybody might know by the noise who it is," pursued Rachel, in the
same general tone that had marked her conversation hitherto. "He
always comes _stomping_ along as if he was paid for makin' a noise.
Anybody ought to have a cast-iron head that lives anywhere in his
hearing."
Her cheerful remarks were here broken in upon by the sudden entrance
of Jack, who, in his eagerness, slammed the door behind him,
unheeding his mother's quiet admonition not to make a noise.
"Look there!" said he, displaying a quarter of a dollar.
"How did you get it?" asked his mother.
"Holding horses," answered Jack.
"Here, take it, mother. I warrant you'll find a use for it."
"It comes in good time," said Mrs. Crump. "We're out of flour, and I
had no money to buy any. Before you take off your boots, Jack, why
can't you run over to the store, and get half a dozen pounds?"
"You see the Lord hasn't quite forgotten us," remarked his mother,
as Jack started on his errand.
"What's a quarter of a dollar?" said Rachel, gloomily. "Will it
carry us through the winter?"
"It will carry us through to-night, and perhaps Timothy will have
work to-morrow. Hark, that's his step."
CHAPTER II.
THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.
AT this moment the outer door opened, and Timothy Crump entered, not
with the quick elastic step of one who brings good tidings, but
slowly and deliberately, with a quiet gravity of demeanor, in which
his wife could read only too well that he had failed in his efforts
to procure work.
His wife, reading all these things in his manner, had the delicacy
to forbear intruding upon him questions to which she saw that he
could give no satisfactory answers.
Not so Aunt Rachel.
"I needn't ask," she began, "whether you got work, Timothy. I knew
beforehand you wouldn't. There ain't no use in tryin'. The times is
awful dull, and, mark my words, they'll be wuss before they're
better. We mayn't live to see 'em. I don't expect we shall. Folks
can't live without money, and when that's gone we shall have to
starve."
"Not so bad as that, Rachel," said the cooper, trying to look
cheerful; "don't talk about starving till the time comes. Anyhow,"
glancing at the table on which was spread a good plain meal, "we
needn't talk about starving till to-morrow, with that before us.
Where's Jack?"
"Gone after some flour," replied his wife.
"On credit?" asked the cooper.
"No, he's got the money to pay for a few pounds," said Mrs. Crump,
smiling, with an air of mystery.
"Where did it come from?" asked Timothy, who was puzzled, as his
wife anticipated. "I didn't know you had any money in the house."
"No more we had, but he earned it himself, holding horses, this
afternoon."
"Come, that's good," said the cooper, cheerfully, "We ain't so bad
off as we might be, you see, Rachel."
The latter shook her head with the air of a martyr.
At this moment Jack returned, and the family sat down to supper.
"You haven't told us," said Mrs. Crump, seeing her husband's
cheerfulness in a measure restored, "what Mr. Blodgett said about
the chances for employment."
"Not much that was encouraging," answered Timothy. "He isn't at all
sure how soon it will be best to commence work; perhaps not before
spring."
"Didn't I tell you so?" commented Rachel, with sepulchral sadness.
Even Mr. Crump could not help looking sober.
"I suppose, Timothy, you haven't formed any plans," she said.
"No, I haven't had time. I must try to get something else to do."
"What, for instance?"
"Anything by which I can earn a little, I don't care if it's only
sawing wood. We shall have to get along as economically as we can;
cut our coat according to our cloth."
"Oh, you'll be able to earn something, and we can live _very_
plain," said Mrs. Crump, affecting a cheerfulness greater than she
felt.
"Pity you hadn't done it sooner," was the comforting suggestion of
Rachel.
"Mustn't cry over spilt milk," said the cooper, good-humoredly.
"Perhaps we might have lived a _leetle_ more economically, but I
don't think we've been extravagant."
"Besides, I can earn something, father," said Jack, hopefully. "You
know I did this afternoon."
"So you can," said Mrs. Crump, brightly.
"There ain't horses to hold every day," said Rachel, apparently
fearing that the family might become too cheerful, when, like
herself, it was their duty to become profoundly gloomy.
"You're always trying' to discourage people," said Jack,
discontentedly.
Rachel took instant umbrage at these words.
"I'm sure," said she; mournfully, "I don't want to make you unhappy.
If you can find anything to be cheerful about when you're on the
verge of starvation, I hope you'll enjoy yourselves, and not mind
me. I'm a poor dependent creetur, and I feel to know I'm a burden."
"Now, Rachel, that's all foolishness," said Uncle Tim. "You don't
feel anything of the kind."
"Perhaps others can tell how I feel, better than I can myself,"
answered his sister, knitting rapidly. "If it hadn't been for me, I
know you'd have been able to lay up money, and have something to
carry you through the winter. It's hard to be a burden upon your
relations, and bring a brother's family to poverty."
"Don't talk of being a burden, Rachel," said Mrs. Crump. "You've
been a great help to me in many ways. That pair of stockings now
you're knitting for Jack--that's a help, for I couldn't have got
time for them myself."
"I don't expect," said Aunt Rachel, in the same sunny manner, "that
I shall be able to do it long. From the pains I have in my hands
sometimes, I expect I'm going to lose the use of 'em soon, and be as
useless as old Mrs. Sprague, who for the last ten years of her life
had to sit with her hands folded in her lap. But I wouldn't stay to
be a burden. I'd go to the poor-house first, but perhaps," with the
look of a martyr, "they wouldn't want me there, because I should be
discouragin' 'em too much."
Poor Jack, who had so unwittingly raised this storm, winced under
the words, which he knew were directed at him.
"Then why," said he, half in extenuation, "why don't you try to look
pleasant and cheerful? Why won't you be jolly, as Tom Piper's aunt
is?"
"I dare say I ain't pleasant," said Aunt Rachel, "as my own nephew
tells me so. There is some folks that can be cheerful when their
house is a burnin' down before their eyes, and I've heard of one
young man that laughed at his aunt's funeral," directing a severe
glance at Jack; "but I'm not one of that kind. I think, with the
Scriptures, that there's a time to weep."
"Doesn't it say there's a time to laugh, also?" asked Mrs. Crump.
"When I see anything to laugh about, I'm ready to laugh," said Aunt
Rachel; "but human nature ain't to be forced. I can't see anything
to laugh at now, and perhaps you won't by and by."
It was evidently of no use to attempt a confutation of this, and the
subject dropped.
The tea-things were cleared away by Mrs. Crump, who afterwards sat
down to her sewing. Aunt Rachel continued to knit in grim silence,
while Jack seated himself on a three-legged stool near his aunt, and
began to whittle out a boat after a model lent him by Tom Piper, a
young gentleman whose aunt has already been referred to.
The cooper took out his spectacles, wiped them carefully with his
handkerchief, and as carefully adjusted them to his nose. He then
took down from the mantel-piece one of the few books belonging to
his library,--"Captain Cook's Travels,"--and began to read, for the
tenth time it might be, the record of the gallant sailor's
circumnavigations.
The plain little room presented a picture of peaceful tranquillity,
but it proved to be only the calm which precedes a storm.
The storm in question, I regret to say, was brought about by the
luckless Jack. As has been said, he was engaged in constructing a
boat, the particular operation he was now intent upon being the
excavation or hollowing out. Now three-legged stools are not the
most secure seats in the world. That, I think, no one can doubt who
has any practical acquaintance with them. Jack was working quite
vigorously, the block from which the boat was to be fashioned being
held firmly between his knees. His knife having got wedged in the
wood, he made an unusual effort to draw it out, in which he lost his
balance, and disturbed the equilibrium of his stool, which, with his
load, tumbled over backwards. Now it very unfortunately happened
that Aunt Rachel sat close behind, and the treacherous stool came
down with considerable force upon her foot.
A piercing shriek was heard, and Aunt Rachel, lifting her foot,
clung to it convulsively, while an expression of pain distorted her
features.
At the sound, the cooper hastily removed his spectacles, and letting
"Captain Cook" fall to the floor, started up in great dismay--Mrs.
Crump likewise dropped her sewing, and jumped to her feet in alarm.
It did not take long to see how matters stood.
"Hurt ye much, Rachel?" inquired Timothy.
"It's about killed me," groaned the afflicted maiden. "Oh, I shall
have to have my foot cut off, or be a cripple anyway." Then turning
upon Jack, fiercely, "you careless, wicked, ungrateful boy, that
I've been wearin' myself out knittin' for. I'm almost sure you did
it a purpose. You won't be satisfied till you've got me out of the
world, and then--then, perhaps----" here Rachel began to whimper,
"perhaps you'll get Tom Piper's aunt to knit your stockings."
"I didn't mean to, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, penitently, eyeing his
aunt, who was rocking to and fro in her chair. "Besides, I hurt
myself like thunder," rubbing vigorously the lower part of the
dorsal-region.
"Served you right," said his aunt, still clasping her foot.
"Sha'n't I get something for you to put on it?" asked Mrs. Crump of
(sic) her-sister-in-law.
This Rachel steadily refused, and after a few more postures, (sic)
indicatiing a great amount of anguish, limped out of the room, and
ascended the stairs to her own apartment.
CHAPTER III.
THE LANDLORD'S VISIT.
SOON after Rachel's departure Jack, also, was seized with a sleepy
fit, and postponing the construction of his boat to a more favorable
opportunity, took a candle and followed his aunt's example.
The cooper and his wife were now left alone.
"Now that Rachel and Jack have gone to bed, Mary," he commenced,
hesitatingly, "I don't mind saying that I am a little troubled in
mind about one thing."
"What's that?" asked Mrs. Crump, anxiously.
"It's just this, I don't anticipate being stinted for food. I know
we shall get along some way; but there's another expense which I am
afraid of."
"Is it the rent?" inquired his wife, apprehensively.
"That's it. The quarter's rent, twenty dollars, comes due to-morrow,
and I've got less than a dollar to meet it."
"Won't Mr. Colman wait?"
"I'm afraid not. You know what sort of a man he is, Mary. There
ain't much feeling about him. He cares more for money than anything
else."
"Perhaps you are doing him injustice."
"I am afraid not. Did you never hear how he treated the Underhills?"
"How was it?"
"Underhill was laid up with a rheumatic fever for three months. The
consequence was, that, when quarter-day came round, he was in about
the same situation with ourselves,--a little worse even, for his
wife was sick, also. But though Colman was aware of the
circumstances, he had no pity; but turned them out without
ceremony."
"Is it possible?" asked Mrs. Crump, uneasily.
"And there's no reason for his being more lenient with us. I can't
but feel anxious about to-morrow, Mary."
At this moment, verifying an old adage which will perhaps occur to
the reader, who should knock but Mr. Colman himself?
Both the cooper and his wife had an instinctive foreboding as to the
meaning of his visit.
He came in, rubbing his hands in a social way, as was his custom. No
one, to look at him, would have suspected the hardness of heart that
lay veiled under his velvety softness of manner.
"Good evening, Mr. Crump," said he, affably, "I trust you and your
worthy wife are in good health."
"That blessing, at least, is continued to us," said the cooper,
gravely.
"And how comfortable you're looking too, eh! It makes an old
bachelor, like me, feel lonesome when he contrasts his own solitary
room with such a scene of comfort as this. You've got a comfortable
home, and dog-cheap, too. All my other tenants are grumbling to
think you don't have to pay any more for such superior
accommodations. I've about made up my mind that I must ask you
twenty-five dollars a quarter, hereafter."
All this was said very pleasantly, but the pill was none the less
bitter.
"It seems to me, Mr. Colman," remarked the cooper soberly, "you have
chosen rather a singular time for raising the rent."
"Why singular, my good sir?" inquired the landlord, urbanely.
"You know of course, that this is a time of general business
depression; my own trade in particular has suffered greatly. For a
month past, I have not been able to find any work."
Colman's face lost something of its graciousness.
"And I fear I sha'n't be able to pay my quarter's rent to-morrow."
"Indeed!" said the landlord coldly. "Perhaps you can make it up
within two or three dollars?"
"I can't pay a dollar towards it," said the cooper. "It's the first
time, in five years that I've lived here, that this thing has
happened to me. I've always been prompt before."
"You should have economized as you found times growing harder," said
Colman, harshly. "It is hardly honest to live in a house when you
know you can't pay the rent."
"You sha'n't lose it Mr. Colman," said the cooper, earnestly. "No
one ever yet lost anything by me. Only give me time, and I will pay
you all."
The landlord shook his head.
"You ought to cut your coat according to your cloth," he responded.
"Much as it will go against my feelings, under the circumstances I
am compelled by a prudent regard to my own interests to warn you
that, in case your rent is not ready to-morrow, I shall be obliged
to trouble you to find another tenement; and furthermore, the rent
of this will be raised five dollars a quarter."
"I can't pay it, Mr. Colman," said the cooper; "I may as well say
that now; and it's no use my agreeing to pay more rent. I pay all I
can afford now."
"Very well, you know the alternative. But it is a disagreeable
subject. We won't talk of it now; I shall be round to-morrow
morning. How's your excellent sister; as cheerful as ever?"
"Quite as much so as usual," answered the cooper, dryly.
"But there's one favor I should like to ask, if you will allow us to
remain here a few days till I can look about me a little."
"I would with the greatest pleasure in the world," was the reply,
"but there's another family very anxious to take the house, and they
wish to come in immediately. Therefore I shall be obliged to ask you
to move out to-morrow. In fact that is the very thing I came here
this evening to speak about, as I thought you might not wish to pay
the increased rent."
"We are much obliged to you," said the cooper, with a tinge of
bitterness unusual to him. "If we are to be turned out of doors, it
is pleasant to have a few hours' notice of it."
"Turned out of doors, my good friend! What disagreeable expressions
you employ! It is merely a matter of business. I have an article to
dispose of. There are two bidders; yourself and another person. The
latter is willing to pay a larger sum. Of course I give him the
preference. Don't you see how it is?"
"I believe I do," replied the cooper. "Of course, it's a regular
proceeding; but you must excuse me if I think of it in another
light, when I reflect that to-morrow at this time my family and
myself may be without a shelter."
"My dear sir, positively you are looking on the dark side of things.
It is actually sinful to distrust Providence as you seem to do.
You're a little disappointed, that's all. Just take to-night to
sleep on it, and I've no doubt you'll think better of it and of me.
But positively I have stayed longer than I intended. Good night, my
friends. I'll look in upon you in the morning. And by the by, as it
is so near the time, allow me to wish you a Happy New Year."
The door closed upon the landlord, leaving behind two anxious
hearts.
"It looks well in him to wish that," said the cooper, gloomily. "A
great deal he is doing to make it so. I don't know how it seems to
others, but for my part I never say them words to any one unless I
really wish 'em well, and am willing to do something to make 'em so.
I should feel as if I was a hypocrite if I acted anyways different."
Mary did not respond to this. In her own gentle heart she could not
help feeling a silent repugnance, mingled, it may be, with a shade
of contempt, for the man who had just left them. It was an
uncomfortable feeling, and she strove to get rid of it."
"Is there any tenement vacant in this neighborhood?" she asked.
"Yes, there's the one at the corner, belonging to Mr. Harrison."
"It is a better one than this."
"Yes, but Harrison only asks the same that we have been paying. He
is not so exorbitant as Colman."
"Couldn't we get that?"
"I am afraid, if he knew that we had failed to pay our rent here, he
would object."
"But he knows you are honest, and that nothing but the hard times
would have brought you to such a pass."
"It may be, Mary. At any rate you have lightened my heart a little.
I feel as if there was some hope left."
"We ought always to feel so, Timothy. There was one thing that Mr.
Colman said that didn't sound so well, coming from his lips; but
it's true, for all that."
"What do you mean, Mary?"
"I mean that about not distrusting Providence. Many a time have I
been comforted by reading the verse, "Never have I seen the
righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread. "As long as we try to
do what is right, Timothy, God will not suffer us to want."
"You are right, Mary. He is our ever-present help in time of need.
Let us put away all anxious cares, fully confiding in his gracious
promises."
They retired to rest thoughtfully, but not sadly.
The fire upon the hearth flickered, and died out at length. The last
sands of the old year were running out, and the new morning ushered
in its successor.
CHAPTER IV.
THE NEW YEAR'S PRESENT.
"HAPPY New Year!" was Jack's salutation to Aunt Rachel, as, with an
unhappy expression of countenance, she entered the sitting-room.
"Happy, indeed!" she repeated, dismally. "There's great chance of
its being so, I should think. We don't any of us know what the year
may bring forth. We may all be dead before the next New Year."
"If that's the case, said Jack, "we'll be jolly as long as it
lasts."
"I don't know what you mean by such a vulgar word," said Aunt
Rachel, disdainfully. "I've heard of drunkards and such kind of
people being jolly; but, thank Providence, I haven't got to that
yet."
"If that was the only way to be jolly," said Jack, stoutly, "then
I'd be a drunkard; I wouldn't carry round such a long face as you
do, Aunt Rachel, for any money."
"It's enough to make all of us have long faces, when you are brazen
enough to own that you mean to be a drunkard."
"I didn't say any such thing," said Jack, indignantly.
"Perhaps I have ears," remarked Aunt Rachel, sententiously, "and
perhaps I have not. It's a new thing for a nephew to tell his aunt
that she lies. They didn't use to allow such things when I was
young.--But the world's going to rack and ruin, and I shouldn't much
wonder if the people are right that says it's comin' to an end."
Here Mrs. Crump happily interposed, by asking Jack to go round to
the grocery, in the next street, and buy a pint of milk.
Jack took his cap and started, with alacrity, glad to leave the
dismal presence of Aunt Rachel.
He had scarcely opened the door when he started back in surprise,
exclaiming, "By hokey, if there isn't a basket on the steps!"
"A basket!" repeated Mrs. Crump, in surprise. "Can it be a New
Year's present? Bring it in, Jack."
It was brought in immediately, and the cover being lifted there
appeared a female child, of apparently a year old. All uttered
exclamations of surprise, each in itself characteristic.
"What a dear, innocent little thing!" said Mrs. Crump, with true
maternal instinct.
"Ain't it a pretty 'un?" said Jack, admiringly.
"Poor thing!" said the cooper, compassionately.
"It's a world of iniquity!" remarked Rachel, lifting up her eyes,
dismally. "There isn't any one you can trust. I didn't think a
brother of mine would have such a sin brought to his door."
"Good heavens, Rachel!" said the honest cooper, in amazement, "what
can you mean?"
"It isn't for me to explain," said Rachel, shaking her head; "only
it's strange that it should have been brought to _this_ house,
that's all I say."
"Perhaps it was meant for you, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, with
thoughtless fun.
"Me!" exclaimed Rachel, rising to her feet, while her face betrayed
the utmost horror at the suggestion. She fell back in her seat, and
made a violent effort to faint.
"What have I said?" asked Jack, a little frightened at the effect of
his words. "Aunt Rachel takes one up so."
"He didn't mean anything," said Mrs. Crump. "How could you suspect
such a thing? But here's a letter. It looks as if there was
something in it. Here, Timothy, it is directed to you."
Mr. Cooper opened the letter, and read as follows:--
"For reasons which it is unnecessary to state, the guardians of this
child find it expedient to (sic) intrust it to others to be brought
up. The good opinion which they have formed of you, has led them to
select you for that charge. No further explanation is necessary,
except that it is by no means their object to make this a service of
charity. They therefore (sic) inclose a certificate of deposits on
the Broadway Bank, of three hundred dollars, the same having been
made in your name. Each year, while the child remains in your
charge, the same sum will in like manner be placed to your credit at
the same bank It may be as well to state, farther, that all attempts
to fathom whatever of mystery may attach to this affair, will prove
useless."
This letter was read in silent amazement.
The certificate of deposits, which had fallen to the floor, was
handed to Timothy by his wife.
Amazement was followed by a feeling of gratitude and relief.
"What could be more fortunate?" exclaimed Mrs. Crump. "Surely,
Timothy, our faith has been rewarded."
"God has listened to our cry," said the cooper, devoutly; "and, in
the hour of our need, He has remembered us."
"Isn't it prime?" said Jack, gleefully; "three hundred dollars!
Ain't we rich, Aunt Rachel?"
"Like as not," observed Rachel, "the certificate isn't genuine. It
doesn't look natural it should be. I've heard of counterfeits
before. I shouldn't be surprised at all if Timothy got taken up for
presenting it."
"I'll risk that," said Mr. Crump, who did not look very much
depressed by this suggestion.
"Now you'll be able to pay the rent, Timothy," said Mrs. Crump,
cheerfully.
"Yes; and it's the last quarter I shall pay to Mr. Colman, if I can
help it."
"Why, where are you going?" inquired Jack.
"To the corner house belonging to Mr. Harrison, that is, if it is
not already engaged. I think I will go and see about it at once. If
Mr. Colman should come in while I am gone, tell him I will be back
directly; I don't wish you to tell him of the change in our
circumstances."
The cooper found Mr. Harrison at home.
"I called to inquire," commenced the cooper, "whether you had let
that house of yours on the corner of the street."
"Not as yet," was the reply.
"What rent do you ask?"
"Twenty dollars a quarter," said Mr. Harrison; "that I consider
reasonable."
"It is satisfactory to me," was the cooper's reply, "and, if you
have no objections to me as a tenant, I will engage it at once."
"Far from having any objections, Mr. Crump," was the courteous
reply, "I shall be glad to secure so good a tenant. Will you go over
and look at the house?"
"Not now, sir; I am somewhat in haste. When can we move in?"
"To-day, if you like."
His errand satisfactorily accomplished, the cooper returned home.
Meanwhile the landlord had called.
He was a little surprised to find that Mrs. Crump, instead of
looking depressed, looked cheerful, rather than otherwise.
"I was not aware you had a child so young," he remarked, looking at
the baby.
"It isn't mine," said Mrs. Crump, briefly.
"The child of a neighbor, I suppose," thought Colman.
Meanwhile he scrutinized closely, without appearing to do so, the
furniture in the room.
At this point Mr. Crump opened the outer door.
"Good-morning," said Colman, affably. "A fine morning."
"Quite so," answered his tenant, shortly.
"I have called, Mr. Crump, to know if you are ready with your
quarter's rent."
"I think I told you, last night, how I was situated. Of course I am
sorry----"
"So am I," said the landlord, "for I may be obliged to have recourse
to unpleasant measures."
"You mean that we must leave the house!"
"Of course, you cannot expect to remain in it if you are unable to
pay the rent. Of course," added Colman, making an inventory with his
eyes, of the furniture, "you will leave behind a sufficient amount
of furniture to cover your bill----"
"Surely, you would not deprive us of our furniture!"
"Is there any hardship in requiring payment of honest debts?"
"There are cases of that description. However, I will not put you to
that trouble. I am ready to pay you your dues."
"You have the money?" said Colman, hastily.
"I have, and something over; as you will see by this document. Can
you give me the two hundred and eighty dollars over?"
It would be difficult to picture the amazement of Colman. "Surely,
you told me a different story last night," he said.
"Last night and this morning are different times. Then I could not
pay you; now, luckily, I am able. If you cannot change this amount,
and will accompany me to the bank, I will place the money in your
hands."
"My dear sir, I am not at all in haste," said the landlord, with a
return of his former affability. "Any time within a week will do. I
hope, by the way, you will continue to occupy this house."
"As I have already engaged Mr. Harrison's house, at the corner of
the street, I shall be unable to remain. Besides, I do not want to
interfere with the family who are so desirous of moving in."
Mr. Colman was silenced. He regretted, too late, the hasty course
which had lost him a good tenant. The family referred to had no
existence; and, it may be remarked, the house remained vacant for
several months, when he was glad to rent it at the old price.
CHAPTER V.
A LUCKY RESCUE.
THE opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of
comparative prosperity in the home of Timothy Crump. To persons
accustomed to live in their frugal way, three hundred dollars seemed
a fortune. Nor, as might have happened in some cases, did this
unexpected windfall tempt the cooper or his wife to extravagances.
"Let us save something against a rainy day," said Mrs. Crump.
"We can, if I get work soon," answered her husband. "This little one
will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we
should not save up at least half of it."
"There's no knowing when you will get work, Timothy," said Rachel,
in her usual cheerful way; "it isn't well to crow before you're out
of the woods."
"Very true, Rachel. It isn't your failing to look too much at the
sunny side of the picture."
"I'm ready to look at it when I can see it anywhere," said his
sister, in the same enlivening way.
"Don't you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with
this child?" asked Timothy.
"I've no doubt it seems bright enough, now," said Rachel, gloomily,
"but a young child's a great deal of trouble."
"Do you speak from experience, Aunt Rachel?" inquired Jack,
demurely.
"Yes;" said his aunt, slowly; "if all babies were as cross as you
were when you were an infant, three hundred dollars wouldn't begin
to pay for the trouble of having one round."
Mr. Crump and his wife laughed at this sally at Jack's expense, but
the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer, "I've
always heard, Aunt Rachel, that the crosser a child is the
pleasanter he will grow up. What a very pleasant baby you must have
been!"
"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked
upon it as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly, "He's got you
there, Rachel."
The latter, however, took it as a serious matter, and observed that,
when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their
elders. "But, I don't know as I can blame 'em much," she continued,
wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, "when their own
parents encourage 'em in it."
Timothy was warned, by experience, that silence was his best (sic)
defence. Since anything he might say would only be likely to make
matters worse.
Aunt Rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say
another word till dinner time. She sat down to the table with a
profound sigh, as if there was little in life worth living for.
Notwithstanding this, it was observed that she had a good appetite.
Indeed, Rachel seemed to thrive on her gloomy views of life and
human nature. She was, it must be acknowledged, perfectly consistent
in all her conduct, as far as this peculiarity was concerned.
Whenever she took up a newspaper, she always looked first to the
space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to the column of
accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly
exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list.
Mr. Crump continued to look out for work, but it was with a more
cheerful spirit. He did not now feel as if the comfort of his family
depended absolutely upon his immediate success. Used economically,
the money he had by him would last nine months, and during that time
it was impossible that he should not find something to do. It was
this sense of security--of possessing something upon which he could
fall back--that enabled him to keep up good heart. It is too
generally the case that people are content to live as if they were
sure of constantly retaining their health and never losing their
employment. When a reverse does come they are at once plunged into
discouragement, and feel that something must be done immediately.
There is only one way to fend off such an embarrassment, and that is
to resolve, whatever may be the amount of the income, to lay aside
some part to serve as a reliance in time of trouble. A little
economy--though it involves privation--will be well repaid by the
feeling of security thus engendered.
Mr. Crump was not compelled to remain inactive as long as he feared.
Not that his line of business revived,--that still remained
depressed,--but another path was opened to him for a time.
Returning home late one evening, the cooper saw a man steal out from
a doorway, and assault a gentleman whose dress and general
appearance indicated probable wealth. Seizing him by the throat, the
villain effectually prevented him from calling the police, and was
engaged in rifling his pockets when the cooper arrived at the scene.
A sudden blow on the side of the head admonished the robber that he
had more than one to deal with.
"Leave this man instantly," said the cooper, sternly, "or I will
deliver you into the hands of the police."
The villain hesitated, but fear prevailed, and springing to his
feet, he hastily made off under cover of the darkness.
"I hope you have received no injury," said Timothy, respectfully,
turning towards the stranger he had rescued.
"No, my worthy friend, thanks to your timely assistance. The rascal
nearly succeeded, however."
"I hope you have lost nothing, sir."
"Nothing, fortunately. You can form an idea of the value of your
interference, when I say that I have fifteen hundred dollars with
me, all of which I should undoubtedly have lost."
"I am glad," said the cooper, "that I was able to do you such
essential service. It was by the merest chance that I came this
way."
"Will you add to my indebtedness by accompanying me with that trusty
club of yours? I have some little distance yet to go, and the amount
of money I have with me makes me feel desirous of taking every
possible precaution."
"Willingly," said the cooper.
"But I am forgetting," said the gentleman, "that you yourself will
be obliged to return alone."
"I do not carry enough money to make me fear an attack," said Mr.
Crump, laughing. "Money brings care I have always heard, and now I
realize it."
"Yet most people are willing to take their chance of that," said the
merchant.
"You are right, sir, nor can I call myself an exception. Still I
should be satisfied with the certainty of constant employment."
"I hope you have that, at least."
"I have had until recently."
"Then, at present, you are unemployed?"
"Yes, sir."
"What is your business?"
"That of a cooper."
"I must see what I can do for you. Can you call at my office
to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock?"
"I shall be glad to do so, sir."
"I believe I have a card with me. Yes, here is one. And this is my
house. Thank you for your company, my good friend. I shall see you
to-morrow."
They stood before a handsome dwelling-house, from whose windows,
draped by heavy crimson curtains, a soft light proceeded. The cooper
could hear the ringing of childish voices welcoming home their
father, whose life, unknown to them, had been in such peril, and he
could not but be grateful to Providence that he had been the means
of frustrating the designs of the villain who would have robbed him,
and perhaps done him farther injury.
He determined to say nothing to his wife of the night's adventure
until after his meeting appointed for the next day. Then if any
advantage accrued to him from it, he would tell the whole at once.
When he reached home, Mrs. Crump was sewing beside the fire. Aunt
Rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of
martyr-like resignation to the woes of life.
"I've brought you home a paper, Aunt Rachel," said the cooper,
cheerfully. "You may find something interesting in it."
"I sha'n't be able to read it this evening," said Rachel,
mournfully. "My eyes have troubled me lately. I feel that it is more
than probable that I am growing blind. But I trust I shall not live
to be a burden to you. Your prospects are dark enough without that."
"Don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, Rachel," said
the cooper, cheerily. "I think I know what will enable you to use
your eyes as well as ever."
"What?" asked Rachel, with melancholy curiosity.
"A pair of spectacles," said her brother, incautiously.
"Spectacles!" retorted Rachel, indignantly. "It will be a good many
years before I am old enough to wear spectacles. I didn't expect to
be insulted by my own brother. But it's one of my trials."
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Rachel," said the cooper,
perplexed.
"Good night," said Rachel, rising and taking a small lamp from the
table.
"Come, Rachel, don't go yet. It is early."
"After what you have said to me, Timothy, my self-respect will not
permit me to stay."
Rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary
melancholy.
"I wish Rachel war'n't quite so contrary," said the cooper. "She
turns upon a body so sudden, it's hard to know how to take her.
How's the little girl, Mary?"
"She's been asleep ever since six o'clock."
"I hope you don't find her very much trouble. That all comes upon
you, while we have the benefit of the money."
"I don't think of that, Timothy. She is a sweet child, and I love
her almost as much as if she were my own. As for Jack, he perfectly
idolizes her."
"And how does Aunt Rachel look upon her?"
"I am afraid she will never be a favorite with Rachel."
"Rachel never took to children much. It isn't her way. Now, Mary,
while you are sewing, I will read you the news."
CHAPTER VI.
WHAT THE ENVELOPE CONTAINED.
THE card which had been handed to Timothy Crump contained the name
of Thomas Merriam,----Wall Street. Punctually at twelve, the cooper
reported himself at the counting-room, and received a cordial
welcome from the merchant.
"I am glad to see you," he said. "I will come to business at once,
as I am particularly engaged this morning. Is there any way in which
I can serve you?"
"Not unless you can procure me a situation, sir."
"I think you told me you were a cooper."
"Yes sir."
"Does this yield you a good support?"
"In good times it pays me two dollars a day. Lately it has been
depressed, and for a time paid me but a dollar and a half."
"When do you anticipate its revival?"
"That is uncertain. It may be some months first."
"And, in the mean time, you are willing to undertake some other
employment?"
"Yes, sir. I have no objection to any honest employment."
Mr. Merriam reflected a moment.
"Just at present," he said, "I have nothing to offer except the post
of porter. If that will suit you, you can enter upon the duties
to-morrow."
"I shall be very glad to take it, sir. Anything is better than
idleness."
"Your compensation shall be the same that you have been accustomed
to earn by your trade,--two dollars a day."
"I only received that in the best times," said Timothy,
conscientiously.
"Your services will be worth it. I will expect you, then, to-morrow
morning at eight. You are married, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. I am blessed with a good wife."
"I am glad of that. Stay a moment."
The merchant went to his desk, and presently returned with a scaled
envelope.
"Give that to your wife," he said.
The interview terminated, and the cooper went home, quite elated by
his success. His present engagement would enable him to bridge over
the dull time, and save him from incurring debt, of which he had a
just horror.
"Just in time," said Mrs. Crump. "We've got an apple-pudding
to-day."
"You haven't forgotten what I like, Mary."
"There's no knowing how long you will be able to afford puddings,"
said Aunt Rachel. "To my mind it's extravagant to have meat and
pudding both, when a month hence you may be in the poor-house."
"Then," said Jack, "I wouldn't eat any."
"Oh, if you grudge me the little I eat," said his aunt, in severe
sorrow, "I will go without."
"Tut, Rachel, nobody grudges you anything here," said her brother,
"and as to the poor-house, I've got some good news to tell you that
will put that thought out of your heads."
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Crump, looking up brightly.
"I have found employment."
"Not at your trade?"
"No, but at something else, which will pay equally well, till trade
revives."
Here he told the story of the chance by which he was enabled to
serve Mr. Merriam, and of the engagement to which it had led.
"You are, indeed, fortunate," said Mrs. Crump. "Two dollars a day,
and we've got nearly the whole of the money that came with this dear
child. How rich we shall be!"
"Well, Rachel, where are your congratulations?" asked the cooper of
his sister, who, in subdued sorrow, was eating her second slice of
pudding.
"I don't see anything so very fortunate in being engaged as a
porter," said Rachel, lugubriously. "I heard of a porter, once, who
had a great box fall upon him and crush him; and another, who
committed suicide."
The cooper laughed.
"So, Rachel, you conclude that one or the other is the inevitable
lot of all who are engaged in this business."
"It is always well to be prepared for the worst," said Rachel,
oracularly.
"But not to be always looking for it," said her brother.
"It'll come, whether you look for it or not," returned her sister,
sententiously.
"Then, suppose we spend no thoughts upon it, since, according to
your admission, it's sure to come either way."
Rachel pursued her knitting, in severe melancholy.
"Won't you have another piece of pudding, Timothy?" asked Mrs.
Crump.
"I don't care if I do, Mary, it's so good," said the cooper, passing
his plate. "Seems to me it's the best pudding you ever made."
"You've got a good appetite, that is all," said Mrs. Crump,
modestly.
"By the way, Mary," said the cooper, with a sudden thought, "I quite
forgot that I have something for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, from Mr. Merriam."
"But he don't know me," said Mrs. Crump, in surprise.
"At any rate, he asked me if I were married, and then handed me this
envelope for you. I am not quite sure whether I ought to allow
gentlemen to write letters to my wife."
Mrs. Crump opened the envelope with considerable curiosity, and
uttered an exclamation of surprise, as a bank-note fluttered to the
carpet.
"By gracious, mother," said Jack, springing to get it, "you're in
luck. It's a hundred dollar bill."
"So it is, I declare," said Mrs. Crump, joyfully. "But, Timothy, it
isn't mine. It belongs to you."
"No, Mary, it shall be yours. I'll put it in the Savings Bank for
you."
"Merriam's a trump, and no mistake," said Jack. "By the way, father,
when you see him again, won't you just insinuate that you have a
son? Ain't we in luck, Aunt Rachel?"
"'Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a
fall,'" said Rachel.
"I never knew Aunt Rachel to be jolly but once," said Jack, under
his breath; "and that was at a funeral."
CHAPTER VI.
EIGHT YEARS. IDA'S PROGRESS.
EIGHT years slipped by, unmarked by any important event. The Crumps
were still prosperous in an humble way. The cooper had been able to
obtain work most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance
for little Ida, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort,
but even to save up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. They might
even have saved more, living as frugally as they were accustomed to
do, but there was one point upon which none of them would consent to
be economical. The little Ida must have everything she wanted.
Timothy brought home daily some little delicacy for her, which none
of the rest thought of sharing. While Mrs. Crump, far enough from
vanity, always dressed with exceeding plainness, Ida's attire was
always rich and tasteful. She would sometimes ask, "Mother, why
don't you buy yourself some of the pretty things you get for me?"
Mrs. Crump would answer, smiling, "Oh, I'm an old woman, Ida. Plain
things are best for me."
"No, I'm sure you're not old, mother. You don't wear a cap."
But Mrs. Crump would always playfully evade the child's questions.
Had Ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an
injurious effect upon her mind. But, fortunately she had that rare
simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers to
which many might have been subjected. Instead of being made vain,
she only felt grateful for the many kindnesses bestowed upon her by
her father and mother and brother Jack, as she was wont to call
them. Indeed, it had not been thought best to let her know that such
was not the relation in which they really stood to her.
There was one point, more important than dress, in which Ida
profited by the indulgence of her friends.
"Wife," the cooper was wont to say, "Ida is a sacred charge in our
hands. If we allow her to grow up ignorant, or afford her only
ordinary advantages, we shall not fulfil our duty. We have the
means, through Providence, to give her some of those advantages
which she would enjoy if she remained in that sphere to which her
parents, doubtless, belong. Let no unwise parsimony, on our part,
withhold them from her."
"You are right, Timothy," said Mrs. Crump; "right, as you always
are. Follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that I
shall disapprove."
Accordingly Ida was, from the first, sent to a carefully-selected
private school, where she had the advantage of good associates, and
where her progress was astonishingly rapid.
She early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. As soon as this
was discovered, her foster parents took care that she should have
abundant opportunity for cultivating it. A private master was
secured, who gave her daily lessons, and boasted everywhere of his
charming little pupil, whose progress, as he assured her friends,
exceeded anything he had ever before known.
Nothing could exceed the cooper's gratification when, on his
birthday, Ida presented him with a beautifully-drawn sketch of his
wife's placid and benevolent face.
"When did you do it, Ida?" he asked, after earnest expressions of
admiration.
"I did it in odd minutes," she said; "in the evening."
"But how could you do it without any one of us knowing what you were
about?"
"I had a picture before me, and you thought I was copying it, but
whenever I could do it without being noticed, I looked up at mother
as she sat at her sewing, and so, after awhile, I made this
picture."
"And a fine one it is," said Timothy, admiringly.
Mrs. Crump insisted that Ida had flattered her, but this the child
would not admit. "I couldn't make it look as good as you, mother,"
she said. "I tried to, but somehow I couldn't succeed as well as I
wanted to."
"You wouldn't have that difficulty with Aunt Rachel," said Jack,
roguishly.
Ida, with difficulty, suppressed a laugh.
"I see," said Aunt Rachel, with severe resignation, "that you've
taken to ridiculing your poor aunt again. But it's what I expect. I
don't never expect any consideration in this house. I was born to be
a martyr, and I expect I shall fulfil my destiny. If my own
relations laugh at me, of course I can't expect anything better from
other folks. But I sha'n't be long in the way. I've had a cough for
some time past, and I expect I'm in a consumption."
"You make too much of a little thing, Rachel," said the cooper. "I
don't think Jack meant anything."
"I'm sure, what I said was complimentary," said Jack.
Rachel shook her head incredulously.
"Yes it was. Ask Ida. Why won't you draw Aunt Rachel, Ida? I think
she'd make a capital picture."
"So I will," said Ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me."
"Now, Aunt Rachel, there's a chance for you," said Jack. "I advise
you to improve it. When it's finished, it can be hung up at the Art
Rooms, and who knows but you may secure a husband by it?"
"I wouldn't marry," said his aunt, firmly compressing her lips, "not
if anybody'd go down on their knees to me."
"Now I am sure, Aunt Rachel, that's cruel in you."
"There ain't any man that I'd trust my happiness to."
"She hasn't any to trust," observed Jack, _sotto voce_.
"They're all deceivers," pursued Rachel, "the best of 'em. You can't
believe what one of 'em says. It would be a great deal better if
people never married at all."
"Then where would the world be a hundred years hence?" suggested her
nephew.
"Come to an end, most likely," said Aunt Rachel; "and I don't know
but that would be the best thing. It's growing more and more wicked
every day."
It will be seen that no great change has come over Miss Rachel Crump
during the years that have intervened. She takes the same
disheartening view of human nature and the world's prospects, as
ever. Nevertheless, her own hold upon the world seems as strong as
ever. Her appetite continues remarkably good, and although she
frequently expresses herself to the effect that there is little use
in living, probably she would be as unwilling to leave the world as
any one. I am not sure that she does not derive as much enjoyment
from her melancholy as other people from their cheerfulness.
Unfortunately, her peculiar way of enjoying herself is calculated to
have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits of those with
whom she comes in contact--always excepting Jack, who has a lively
sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than in
bantering his aunt.
Ida is no less a favorite with Jack than with the other members of
the household. Rough as he is sometimes, Jack is always gentle with
Ida. When she was just learning to walk, and in her helplessness
needed the constant care of others, he used, from choice, to relieve
his mother of much of the task of amusing the child. He had never
had a little sister, and the care of a child as young as Ida was a
novelty to him. It was, perhaps, this very office of guardian to the
child, assumed when she was so young, that made him feel ever after
as if she was placed under his special protection.
And Ida was equally attached to Jack. She learned to look up to him
for assistance in anything which she had at heart, and he never
disappointed her. Whenever he could, he would accompany her to
school, holding her by the hand; and fond as he was of rough play,
nothing would induce him to leave her.
"How long have you been a nurse-maid?" asked a boy, older than
himself, one day.
Jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he
had a duty to perform, and contented himself with saying, "Just wait
a few minutes, and I'll let you know."
"I dare say," was the reply. "I rather think I shall have to wait
till both of us are gray before that time."
"You won't have to wait long before you are black and blue,"
retorted Jack.
"Don't mind what he says, Jack," whispered Ida, fearful lest he
should leave her.
"Don't be afraid, Ida; I won't leave you; I guess he won't trouble
us another day."
Meanwhile the boy, emboldened by Jack's passiveness, followed, with
more abuse of the same sort. If he had been wiser, he would have
seen a storm gathering in the flash of Jack's eye; but he mistook
the cause of his forbearance.
The next day, as they were again going to school, Ida saw the same
boy dodging round the corner, with his head bound up.
"What's the matter with him, Jack?" she asked.
"I licked him like blazes, that's all," said Jack, quietly.
"I guess he'll let us alone after this."
CHAPTER VIII.
A STRANGE VISITOR.
IT was about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, Mrs. Crump was in the
kitchen, busy in preparations for dinner, when a loud knock was
heard at the door.
"Who can it be?" ejaculated Mrs. Crump. "Aunt Rachel, there's
somebody at the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?"
"People have no business to call at such an hour in the morning,"
grumbled Aunt Rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and
rose from her seat. "Nobody seems to have any consideration for
anybody else. But that's the way of the world."
Opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in
a gown of some dark stuff, with marked, and not altogether pleasant
features.
"Are you the lady of the house?" inquired the visitor.
"There ain't any ladies in this house," said Rachel. "You've come to
the wrong place. We have to work for a living here."
"The woman of the house, then. It doesn't make any difference about
names. Are you the one I want to see?"
"No, I ain't," said Rachel, shortly.
"Will you lead me to your mistress, then?"
"I have none."
The visitor's eyes flashed, as if her temper was easily roused.
"I want to see Mrs. Crump," she said, impatiently. Will you call
her, or shall I go and announce myself?"
"Some folks are mighty impatient," muttered Rachel. "Stay here, and
I'll call her to the door."
In a short time Mrs. Crump presented herself.
"Won't you come in?" she asked, pleasantly.
"I don't care if I do," was the reply. "I wish to speak to you on
important business."
Mrs. Crump, whose interest was excited, led the way into the
sitting-room.
"You have in your family," said the stranger, after seating herself,
"a girl named Ida."
Mrs. Crump looked up suddenly and anxiously. Could it be that the
secret of Ida's birth was to be revealed at last!
"Yes," she said.
"Who is not your child."
"But _whom_ I love as such; whom I have always taught to look upon
me as a mother."
"I presume so. It is of her that I wish to speak to you."
"Do you know anything of her parentage?" inquired Mrs. Crump,
eagerly.
"I was her nurse," said the other, quietly.
Mrs. Crump examined, anxiously, the hard features of the woman. It
was a relief at least to know, though she could hardly have
believed, that there was no tie of blood between her and Ida.
"Who were her parents?"
"I am not permitted to tell," was the reply.
Mrs. Crump looked disappointed.
"Surely," she said, with a sudden sinking of heart, "you have not
come to take her away?"
"This letter will explain my object in visiting you," said the
woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried on her
arm.
The cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as
follows:--
"MRS. CRUMP;
"Eight years ago last New Year's night, a child was left on your
door-steps, with a note containing a request that you would care for
it kindly as your own. Money was sent, at the same time, to defray
the expenses of such care. The writer of this note is the mother of
the child Ida. There is no need to say, here, why I sent the child
away from me. You will easily understand that only the most
imperative circumstances would have led me to such a step. Those
circumstances still prevent me from reclaiming the child, and I am
content, still, to leave Ida in your charge. Yet, there is one thing
of which I am (sic) desirious. You will understand a mother's desire
to see, face to face, the child who belongs, of right, to her. With
this view, I have come to this neighborhood. I will not say where,
for concealment is necessary to me. I send this note by a
trustworthy attendant,--Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida's nurse in her
infancy,--who will conduct Ida to me, and return her again to you.
Ida is not to know whom she is visiting. No doubt she believes you
her mother, and it is well. Tell her only, that it is a lady who
takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish
curiosity. I make this request as
"IDA'S MOTHER."
Mrs. Crump read this letter with mingled feelings. Pity for the
writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances
which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of
jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear
adopted daughter superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief
at the assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed,--all
these feelings affected the cooper's wife.
"So you were Ida's nurse," she said, gently.
"Yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "I hope the dear child is well."
"Perfectly well. How much her mother must have suffered from the
separation!"
"Indeed, you may say so, ma'am. It came near to break her heart."
"So it must," said sympathizing Mrs. Crump. "There is one thing I
would like to ask," she continued, hesitating and reddening. "Don't
answer it unless you please. Was--is Ida the child of shame?"
"She is not," answered the nurse.
Mrs. Crump looked relieved. It removed a thought from her mind which
would now and then intrude, though it had never, for an instant,
lessened her affection for the child.
At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. He
had just come home on an errand.
"It is my husband," said Mrs. Crump, turning to her visitor, by way
of explanation. "Timothy, will you come in a moment?"
Mr. Crump regarded his wife's visitor with some surprise. His wife
hastened to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida's nurse, and handed
to the astonished cooper the letter which the latter had brought
with her.
He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through
the letter. He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful. The
nurse regarded him with a slight uneasiness.
"This is, indeed, unexpected," he said, at last. "It is a new
development in Ida's history. May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have
any further proof. I want to be prudent with a child that I love as
my own,--if you have any further proof that you are what you claim
to be?"
"I judged that this letter would be sufficient," said the nurse;
moving a little in her chair.
"True; but how can we be sure that the writer is Ida's mother?"
"The tone of the letter, sir. Would anybody else write like that?"
"Then you have read the letter?" said the cooper, quickly.
"It was read to me, before I set out."
"By----"
"By Ida's mother. I do not blame you for your caution," she
continued. "You must be so interested in the happiness of the dear
child of whom you have taken such (sic) excelent care, I don't mind
telling you that I was the one who left her at your door eight years
ago, and that I never left the neighborhood until I found that you
had taken her in."
"And it was this, that enabled you to find the house, to-day."
"You forget," said the nurse, "that you were not then living in this
house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the
street."
"You are right," said the cooper. "I am disposed to believe in the
genuineness of your claim. You must pardon my testing you in such a
manner, but I was not willing to yield up Ida, even for a little
time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into."
"You are right," said the nurse. "I don't blame you in the least. I
shall report it to Ida's mother, as a proof of your attachment to
your child."
"When do you wish Ida to go with you?" asked Mrs. Crump.
"Can you let her go this afternoon?"
"Why," said Mrs. Crump, hesitating, "I should like to have a chance
to wash out some clothes for her. I want her to appear as neat a
possible, when she meets her mother."
The nurse hesitated.
"I do not wish to hurry you. If you will let me know when she will
be ready, I will call for her."
"I think I can get her ready early to-morrow morning."
"That will answer excellently. I will call for her then."
The nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her.
"Where are you going, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked the cooper's wife.
"To a hotel," was the reply.
"We cannot allow that," said Mrs. Crump, kindly. "It is a pity if we
cannot accommodate Ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as
long, for that matter."
"My wife is quite right," said the cooper; "we must insist upon your
stopping with us."
The nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. It was plain she would
have preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which Mrs. Crump made,
decided her to accept the invitation.
It was this. "You know, Mrs. Hardwick, if Ida is to go with you, she
ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you
go."
"I will accept your kind invitation," she said; "but I am afraid I
shall be in your way."
"Not in the least. It will be a pleasure to us to have you here. If
you will excuse me now, I will go out and attend to my dinner, which
I am afraid is getting behindhand."
Left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be
regarded as singular. She rose from her seat, and approached the
mirror. She took a full survey of herself as she stood there, and
laughed a short, hard laugh.
Then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying, "How
do you do, Mrs. Hardwick?"
"Did you speak?" asked the cooper, who was passing through the entry
on his way out.
"No," said the nurse, a little awkwardly. "I believe I said
something to myself. It's of no consequence."
"Somehow," thought the cooper, "I don't fancy the woman's looks, but
I dare say I am prejudiced. We're all of us as God made us."
While Mrs. Crump was making preparations for the noon-day meal, she
imparted to Rachel the astonishing information, which has already
been detailed to the reader.
"I don't believe a word of it," said Rachel, resolutely.
"She's an imposter. I knew she was the very first moment I set eyes
on her."
This remark was so characteristic of Rachel, that Mrs. Crump did not
attach any special importance to it. Rachel, of course, had no
grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. It was
consistent, however, with her general estimate of human nature.
"What object could she have in inventing such a story?"
"What object? Hundreds of 'em," said Rachel, rather indefinitely.
"Mark my words, if you let her carry off Ida, it'll be the last
you'll ever see of her."
"Try to look on the bright side, Rachel. Nothing is more natural
than that her mother should want to see her."
"Why couldn't she come herself?" muttered Rachel.
"The letter explains."
"I don't see that it does."
"It says that the same reasons exist for concealment as ever."
"And what are they, I should like to know? I don't like mysteries,
for my part."
"We won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to
keep Ida with us."
Aunt Rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, "but I ought to invite Mrs.
Hardwick in here. I have left her alone in the front room."
"I don't want to see her," said Aunt Rachel. Then changing her mind,
suddenly, "Yes, you may bring her in. I'll find out whether she is
an imposter or not."
Mrs. Crump returned with the nurse. "Mrs. Hardwick," said she, "this
is my sister, Miss Rachel Crump."
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am," said the nurse.
"Aunt Rachel, I will leave you to entertain Mrs. Hardwick," said
Mrs. Crump. "I am obliged to be in the kitchen."
Rachel and the nurse eyed each other with mutual dislike.
"I hope you don't expect me to entertain you," said Rachel. "I never
expect to entertain anybody again. This is a world of trial and
tribulation, and I've had my share. So you've come after Ida, I
hear?" with a sudden change of subject.
"At her mother's request," said the nurse.
"She wants to see her, then?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I wonder she didn't think of it before," said Aunt Rachel, sharply.
"She's good at waiting. She's waited eight years."
"There are circumstances that cannot be explained," commenced the
nurse.
"No, I dare say not," said Rachel, dryly. "So you were her nurse?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Hardwick, who evidently did not relish this
cross-examination.
"Have you lived with the mother ever since?"
"No,--yes," stammered the nurse. "Some of the time," she added,
recovering herself.
"Umph!" grunted Rachel, darting a sharp glance at her.
"Have you a husband living?" inquired Rachel, after a pause.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hardwick. "Have you?"
"I!" repeated Aunt Rachel, scornfully. "No, neither living nor dead.
I'm thankful to say I never married. I've had trials enough without
that. Does Ida's mother live in the city?"
"I can't tell you," said the nurse.
"Humph, I don't like mystery."
"It isn't my mystery," said the nurse. "If you have any objection to
make against it, you must make it to Ida's mother."
The two were not likely to get along very amicably. Neither was
gifted with the best of tempers, and perhaps it was as well that
there should have been an interruption as there was.
CHAPTER IX.
A JOURNEY.
"OH, mother," exclaimed Ida, bounding into the room, fresh from
school.
She stopped short, in some confusion, on seeing a stranger.
"Is this my own dear child, over whose infancy I watched so
tenderly?" exclaimed the nurse, rising, her harsh features wreathed
into a smile.
"It is Ida," said Mrs. Crump.
Ida looked from one to the other in silent bewilderment.
"Ida," said Mrs. Crump, in a little embarrassment, "this is Mrs.
Hardwick, who took care of you when you were an infant."
"But I thought you took care of me, mother," said Ida, in surprise.
"Very true," said Mrs. Crump, evasively, "but I was not able to have
the care of you all the time. Didn't I ever mention Mrs. Hardwick to
you?"
"No, mother."
"Although it is so long since I have seen her, I should have known
her anywhere," said the nurse, applying a handkerchief to her eyes.
"So pretty as she's grown up, too!"
Mrs. Crump, who, as has been said, was devotedly attached to Ida,
glanced with pride at the beautiful child, who blushed at the
compliment.
"Ida," said Mrs. Hardwick, "won't you come and kiss your old nurse?"
Ida looked at the hard face, which now wore a smile intended to
express affection. Without knowing why, she felt an instinctive
repugnance to her, notwithstanding her words of endearment.
She advanced timidly, with a reluctance which she was not wholly
able to conceal, and passively submitted to a caress from the nurse.
There was a look in the eyes of the nurse, carefully guarded, yet
not wholly concealed, which showed that she was quite aware of Ida's
feeling towards her, and resented it. But whether or not she was
playing a part, she did not betray this feeling openly, but pressed
the unwilling child more closely to her bosom.
Ida breathed a sigh of relief when she was released, and walked
quietly away, wondering what it was that made her dislike the woman
so much.
"Is my nurse a good woman?" she asked, thoughtfully, when alone with
Mrs. Crump, who was setting the table for dinner.
A good woman! What makes you ask that?" queried her adopted mother,
in surprise.
"I don't know," said Ida.
"I don't know anything to indicate that she is otherwise," said Mrs.
Crump. "And, by the way, Ida, she is going to take you on a little
excursion, to-morrow."
"She going to take me?" exclaimed Ida. "Why, where are we going?"
"On a little pleasure trip, and perhaps she may introduce you to a
pleasant lady, who has already become interested in you, from what
she has told her."
"What could she say of me?" inquired Ida, "she has not seen me since
I was a baby."
"Why," said the cooper's wife a little puzzled, "she appears to have
thought of you ever since, with a good deal of affection."
"Is it wicked," asked Ida, after a pause, "not to like those that
like us?"
"What makes you ask?"
"Because, somehow or other, I don't like this Mrs. Hardwick at all,
for all she was my old nurse, and I don't believe ever shall."
"Oh yes, you will," said Mrs. Crump, "when you find she is exerting
herself to give you pleasure."
"Am I going to-morrow morning with Mrs. Hardwick?"
"Yes. She wanted you to go to-day, but your clothes were not in
order."
"We shall come back at night, sha'n't we?"
"I presume so."
"I hope we shall," said Ida, decidedly, "and that she won't want me
to go with her again."
"Perhaps you will think differently when it is over, and you find
you have enjoyed yourself better than you anticipated."
Mrs. Crump exerted herself to fit Ida up as neatly as possible, and
when at length she was got ready, she thought to herself, with
sudden fear, "Perhaps her mother won't be willing to part with her
again."
When Ida was ready to start, there came over all a little shadow of
depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a
year, and not for a day only. Perhaps this was only natural, since
even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been
parted from her since, an infant, she was left at their door.
The nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany
her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of
Ida's mother should not be known at once. "Of course," she said,
"after Ida returns, she can tell you what she pleases. Then it will
be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. She does not live
in this neighborhood; she has only come here to have an interview
with Ida."
"Shall you bring her back to-night?" asked Mrs. Crump.
"I may keep her till to-morrow," said the nurse. "After eight years'
absence, that will seem short enough."
To this, Mrs. Crump agreed, but thought that it would seem long to
her, she had been so accustomed to have Ida present at meals.
The nurse walked as far as Broadway, holding Ida by the hand.
"Where are we going?" asked the child, timidly. "Are we going to
walk all the way?"
"No," said the nurse, "we shall ride. There is an omnibus coming
now. We will get into it."
She beckoned to the driver who stopped his horse. Ida and her
companion got in.
They got out at the Jersey City ferry.
"Did you ever ride in a steamboat?" asked Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone
intended to be gracious.
"Once or twice," said Ida. "I went with brother Jack once, over to
Hoboken. Are we going there, now?"
"No, we are going over to the city, you can see over the water."
"What is it? Is it Brooklyn?"
"No, it is Jersey City."
"Oh, that will be pleasant," said Ida, forgetting, in her childish
love of novelty, the repugnance with which the nurse had inspired
her.
"Yes, and that is not all; we are going still further," said the
nurse.
"Are we going further?" asked Ida, her eyes sparkling. "Where are we
going?"
"To a town on the line of the railroad."
"And shall we ride in the cars?" asked the child, with animation.
"Yes, didn't you ever ride in the cars before?"
"No, never."
"I think you will like it."
"Oh, I know I shall. How fast do the cars go?"
"Oh, a good many miles an hour,--maybe thirty."
"And how long will it take us to go to the place you are going to
carry me to!"
"I don't know exactly,--perhaps two hours."
"Two whole hours in the cars!" exclaimed Ida. "How much I shall have
to tell father and Jack when I get back."
"So you will," said Mrs. Hardwick, with an unaccountable smile,
"when you get back."
There was something peculiar in her tone as she pronounced these
last words, but Ida did not notice it.
So Ida, despite her company, actually enjoyed, in her bright
anticipation, a keen sense of pleasure.
"Are we most there?" she asked, after riding about two hours.
"It won't be long," said the nurse.
"We must have come ever so many miles," said Ida.
An hour passed. She amused herself by gazing out of the car windows
at the towns which seemed to flit by. At length, both Ida and her
nurse became hungry.
The nurse beckoned to her side a boy who was going through the cars
selling apples and seed-cakes, and inquired their price.
"The apples are two cents apiece, ma'am, and the cakes a cent
apiece."
Ida, who had been looking out of the window, turned suddenly round,
and exclaimed, in great astonishment; "Why, William Fitts, is that
you?"
"Why, Ida, where did you come from?" asked the boy, his surprise
equalling her own.
The nurse bit her lips in vexation at this unexpected recognition.
"I'm making a little journey with her," indicating Mrs. Hardwick.
"So you're going to Philadelphia," said the boy.
"To Philadelphia!" said Ida, in surprise. "Not that I know of."
"Why, you're most there now."
"Are we, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked Ida, looking in her companion's face.
"It isn't far from there where we're going," said the nurse,
shortly. "Boy, I'll take two of your apples and four seed-cakes. And
now you'd better go along, for there's somebody by the stove that
looks as if he wanted to buy of you."
William looked back as if he would like to question Ida farther, but
her companion looked forbidding, and he passed on reluctantly.
"Who is that boy?" asked the nurse, abruptly.
"His name is William Fitts."
"Where did you get acquainted with him?"
"He went to school with Jack, so I used to see him sometimes."
"With Jack! Who's Jack?"
"What! Don't you know Jack, brother Jack?" asked Ida, in childish
surprise.
"O yes," replied the nurse, recollecting herself; "I didn't think of
him."
He's a first-rate boy, William is," said Ida, who was disposed to be
communicative. "He's good to his mother. You see his mother is sick
most of the time, and can't do much; and he's got a little sister,
she ain't more than four or five years old--and William supports
them by selling things. "He's only sixteen; isn't he a smart boy?"
"Yes;" said the nurse, mechanically.
"Some time," continued Ida, "I hope I shall be able to earn
something for father and mother, so they won't be obliged to work so
hard."
"What could you do?" asked the nurse, curiously.
"I don't know as I could do much," said Ida, modestly; "but when I
have practised more, perhaps I could draw pictures that people would
buy."
"So you know how to draw?"
"Yes, I've been taking lessons for over a year."
"And how do you like it?"
"Oh, ever so much! I like it a good deal better than music."
"Do you know anything of that?"
"Yes, I can play a few easy pieces."
Mrs. Hardwick looked surprised, and regarded her young charge with
curiosity.
"Have you got any of your drawings with you?" she asked.
"No, I didn't bring any."
"I wish you had; the lady we are going to see would have liked to
see some of them."
"Are we going to see a lady?"
"Yes, didn't your mother tell you?"
"Yes, I believe she said something about a lady that was interested
in me."
"That's the one."
"Where does she live? When shall we get there?"
"We shall get there before very long."
"And shall we come back to New York to-night?"
"No, it wouldn't leave us any time to stay. Besides, I feel tired
and want to rest; don't you?"
"I do feel a little tired," acknowledged Ida.
"Philadelphia!" announced the conductor, opening the car-door.
"We get out, here," said the nurse. "Keep close to me, or you may
get lost. Perhaps you had better take hold of my hand."
"When are you coming back, Ida?" asked William Fitts, coming up to
her with his basket on his arm.
"Mrs. Hardwick says we sha'n't go back till to-morrow."
"Come, Ida," said the nurse, sharply. "We must hurry along."
"Good-by, William," said Ida. "If you see Jack, just tell him you
saw me."
"Yes, I will," was the reply.
"I wonder who that woman is with Ida," thought the boy. "I don't
like her looks much. I wonder if she's any relation of Mr. Crump.
She looks about as pleasant as Aunt Rachel."
The last-mentioned lady would hardly have felt complimented at the
comparison, or the manner in which it was made.
Ida looked about her with curiosity. There was a novelty in being in
a new place, since, as far back as she could remember, she had never
left New York, except for a brief excursion to Hoboken; and one
Fourth of July was made memorable in her recollection, by a trip to
Staten Island, which she had taken with Jack, and enjoyed
exceedingly.
"Is this Philadelphia?" she inquired.
"Yes;" said her companion, shortly.
"How far is it from New York?"
"I don't know; a hundred miles, more or less."
"A hundred miles!" repeated Ida, to whom this seemed an immense
distance. "Am I a hundred miles from father and mother, and Jack,
and--and Aunt Rachel?"
The last name was mentioned last, and rather as an after-thought, if
Ida felt it her duty to include the not very amiable spinster, who
had never erred in the way of indulgence.
"Why, yes, of course you are," said Mrs. Hardwick, in a practical,
matter-of-fact tone. "Here, cross the street here. Take care or
you'll get run over. Now turn down here."
They had now entered a narrow and dirty street, with unsightly
houses on either side.
"This ain't a very nice looking street," said Ida, looking about
her.
"Why isn't it?" demanded the nurse, looking displeased.
"Why, it's narrow, and the houses don't look nice."
"What do you think of that house, there?" asked Mrs. Hardwick,
pointing out a tall, brick tenement house.
"I shouldn't like to live there," said Ida, after a brief survey.
"You shouldn't! You don't like it so well as the house you live in
in New York?"
"No, not half so well."
The nurse smiled.
"Wouldn't you like to go up and look at the house?" she asked.
"Go up and look at it!" repeated Ida, in surprise.
"Yes, I mean to go in."
"Why, what should we do that for?"
"You see there are some poor families living there that I go to see
sometimes," said Mrs. Hardwick, who appeared to be amused at
something. "You know it is our duty to visit the poor."
"Yes, that's what mother says."
"There's a poor man living in the third story that I've made a good
many clothes for, first and last," said the nurse, in the same
peculiar tone.
"He must be very much obliged to you," said Ida, thinking that Mrs.
Hardwick was a better woman than she had supposed.
"We're going up to see him, now," said the nurse. "Just take care
of. that hole in the stairs. Here we are."
Somewhat to Ida's surprise, her companion opened the door without
the ceremony of knocking, and revealed a poor untidy room, in which
a coarse, unshaven man, was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a
pipe.
"Hallo!" exclaimed this individual, jumping up suddenly. "So you've
got along, old woman! Is that the gal?"
Ida stared from one to the other, in unaffected amazement.
CHAPTER X.
UNEXPECTED QUARTERS.
THE appearance of the man whom Mrs. Hardwick addressed so familiarly
was more picturesque than pleasing. He had a large, broad face,
which, not having been shaved for a week, looked like a wilderness
of stubble. His nose indicated habitual indulgence in alcoholic
beverages. His eyes, likewise, were bloodshot, and his skin looked
coarse and blotched; his coat was thrown aside, displaying a shirt
which bore evidence of having been useful in its day and generation.
The same remark may apply to his nether integuments, which were
ventilated at each knee, indicating a most praiseworthy regard to
the laws of health. He was sitting in a chair pitched back against
the wall, with his feet resting on another, and a short Dutch pipe
in his mouth, from which volumes of smoke were pouring.
Ida thought she had never seen before so disgusting a man. She
continued to gaze at him, half in astonishment, half in terror, till
the object of her attention exclaimed,--
"Well, little girl, what you're looking at? Hain't you never seen a
gentleman before?"
Ida clung the closer to her companion, who, she was surprised to
find, did not resent the man's impertinence.
"Well, Dick, how've you got along since I've been gone?" asked Mrs.
Hardwick, to Ida's unbounded astonishment.
"Oh, so so."
"Have you felt lonely any?"
"I've had good company."
"Who's been here?"
Dick pointed significantly to a jug, which stood beside his chair.
"So you've brought the gal. How did you get hold of her?"
There was something in these questions which terrified Ida. It
seemed to indicate a degree of complicity between these two, which
boded no good to her.
"I'll tell you the particulars by and by," said the nurse, looking
significantly at the child's expressive face.
At the same time she began to take off her bonnet.
"You ain't going to stop, are you?" whispered Ida.
"Ain't going to stop!" repeated the man called Dick. "Why shouldn't
she? Ain't she at home?"
"At home!" echoed Ida, apprehensively, opening wide her eyes in
astonishment.
"Yes, ask her."
Ida looked, inquiringly, at Mrs. Hardwick.
"You might as well take off your things," said the latter, grimly.
"We ain't going any farther to-day."
"And where's the lady you said you were going to see?" asked the
child, bewildered.
"The one that was interested in you?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm the one."
"You!"
"Yes."
"I don't want to stay here," said Ida, becoming frightened.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked the woman,
mockingly.
"Will you take me back early to-morrow?"
"No, I don't intend to take you back at all," said the nurse,
coolly.
Ida seemed stupefied with astonishment and terror at first. Then,
actuated by a sudden impulse, she ran to the door, and had got it
open when the nurse sprang forward, and seizing her by the arm,
dragged her rudely back.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" she demanded, roughly.
"Back to father and mother," said Ida, bursting into tears. "Oh, why
did you carry me away?"
"I'll tell you why," answered Dick, jocularly. "You see, Ida, we
ain't got any little girl to love us, and so we got you."
"But I don't love you, and I never shall," said Ida, indignantly.
"Now don't you go to saying that," said Dick. "You'll break my
heart, you will, and then Peg will be a widow."
To give effect to this pathetic speech, Dick drew out a tattered red
handkerchief, and made a great demonstration of wiping his eyes.
The whole scene was so ludicrous that Ida, despite her fears and
disgust, could not help laughing hysterically. She recovered herself
instantly, and said, imploringly, "Oh, do let me go, and father will
pay you; I'm sure he will."
"You really think he would?" said Dick.
"Oh, yes; and you'll tell her to carry me back, won't you?"
"No, he won't tell me any such thing," said Peg, gruffly; "and if he
did, I wouldn't do it; so you might as well give up all thoughts of
that first as last. You're going to stay here; so take off that
bonnet of yours, and say no more about it."
Ida made no motion towards obeying this mandate.
"Then I'll do it for you," said Peg.
She roughly untied the bonnet, Ida struggling vainly in opposition,
and taking this with the shawl, carried them to a closet, in which
she placed them, and then, locking the door, deliberately put the
key in her pocket.
"There," said she, "I guess you're safe for the present."
"Ain't you ever going to carry me back?" asked Ida, wishing to know
the worst.
"Some years hence," said the woman, coolly. "We want you here for
the present. Besides, you're not sure that they want to see you back
again."
"Not glad to see me?"
"No; how do you know but your father and mother sent you off on
purpose? They've been troubled with you long enough, and now they've
bound you apprentice to me till you're eighteen."
"It's a lie," said Ida, firmly. "They didn't send me off, and you're
a wicked woman to keep me here."
"Hoity-toity!" said the woman, pausing and looking menacingly at the
child. "Have you anything more to say before I whip you?"
"Yes," said Ida, goaded to desperation; "I shall complain of you to
the police, and they will put you in jail, and send me home. That is
what I will do."
The nurse seized Ida by the arm, and striding with her to the closet
already spoken of, unlocked it, and rudely pushing her in, locked
the door after her.
"She's a spunky 'un," remarked Dick, taking the pipe from his mouth.
"Yes," said the woman, "she makes more fuss than I thought she
would."
"How did you manage to come it over her family?" asked Dick.
His wife, gave substantially, the same account with which the reader
is already familiar.
"Pretty well done, old woman!" exclaimed Dick, approvingly. "I
always said you was a deep 'un. I always say if Peg can't find out a
way to do a thing it can't be done, no how."
"How about the counterfeit coin?" asked his wife, abruptly.
"They're to supply us with all we can get off, and we are to have
one half of all we succeed in passing."
"That is good," said the woman, thoughtfully. "When this girl Ida
gets a little tamed down, we'll give her some business to do."
"Won't she betray us if she gets caught?"
"We'll manage that, or at least I will. I'll work on her fears so
that she won't any more dare to say a word about us than to cut her
own head off."
Ida sank down on the floor of the closet into which she had been
thrust. Utter darkness was around her, and a darkness as black
seemed to hang over all her prospects of future happiness. She had
been snatched in a moment from parents, or those whom she regarded
as such, and from a comfortable and happy though humble home, to
this dismal place. In place of the kindness and indulgence to which
she had been accustomed, she was now treated with harshness and
cruelty. What wonder that her heart desponded, and her tears of
childish sorrow flowed freely?
CHAPTER XI.
SUSPENSE.
IT doesn't somehow seem natural," said Mr. Crump, as he took his
seat at the tea-table, "to sit down without Ida. It seems as if half
of the family were gone."
"Just what I've said twenty times to-day," remarked his wife.
"Nobody knows how much a child is to them till they lose it."
"Not lose it, mother," said Jack, who had been sitting in a silence
unusual for him."
"I didn't mean to say that," said Mrs. Crump. "I meant till they
were gone away for a time."
"When you spoke of losing," said Jack, "it made me feel just as Ida
wasn't coming back."
"I don't know how it is," said his mother, thoughtfully, "but that's
just the feeling I've had several times to-day. I've felt just as if
something or other would happen so that Ida wouldn't come back."
"That is only because she has never been away before," said the
cooper, cheerfully. "It isn't best to borrow trouble; we shall have
enough of it without."
"You never said a truer word, brother," said Rachel, lugubriously.
"'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.' This world is a
vale of tears. Folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't
what they're sent here for."
"Now that's where I differ from you," said the cooper,
good-humoredly, "just as there are many more pleasant than stormy
days, so I believe that there is much more of brightness than shadow
in this life of ours, if we would only see it."
"I can't see it," said Rachel, shaking her head very decidedly.
"Perhaps you could if you tried."
"So I do."
"It seems to me, Rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds
than the sun."
"Yes," chimed in Jack; "I've noticed whenever Aunt Rachel takes up
the newspaper, she always looks first at the (sic) death's, and next
at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions."
"It's said," said Aunt Rachel, with severe emphasis, "if you should
ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded you wouldn't find much
to laugh at."
"Yes, I should," said Jack. "I should laugh----"
"What!" said Aunt Rachel, horrified.
"On the other side of my mouth," concluded Jack. "You didn't wait
till I had got through the sentence."
"I don't think it proper to make light of such matters."
"Nor I, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, drawing down the corners of his
mouth. "I am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. I
should feel as they said the cow did, that was thrown three hundred
feet into the air."
"How was that?" inquired his mother.
"A little discouraged," replied Jack.
All laughed except Aunt Rachel, who preserved the same severe
composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air
of one gulping down medicine.
So the evening passed. All seemed to miss Ida. Mrs. Crump found
herself stealing glances at the smaller chair beside her own in
which Ida usually sat. The cooper appeared abstracted, and did not
take as much interest as usual in the evening paper. Jack was
restless, and found it difficult to fix his attention upon anything.
Even Aunt Rachel looked more dismal than usual, if such a thing be
possible.
In the morning all felt brighter.
"Ida will be home to-night," said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. "What an
age it seems since she left us!"
"We shall know better how to appreciate her presence," said the
cooper, cheerfully.
"What time do you expect her home? Did Mrs. Hardwick say?"
"Why no," said Mrs. Crump, she didn't say, but I guess she will be
along in the course of the afternoon."
"If we only knew where she had gone," said Jack, "we could tell
better."
"But as we don't know," said his father, "we must wait patiently
till she comes."
"I guess," said Mrs. Crump, in the spirit of a notable housewife,
"I'll make up some apple-turnovers for supper to-night. There's
nothing Ida likes so well."
"That's where Ida is right," said Jack, "apple-turnovers are
splendid."
"They're very unwholesome," remarked Aunt Rachel.
"I shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, Aunt Rachel,"
retorted Jack. "You ate four the last time we had them for supper."
"I didn't think you'd begrudge me the little I eat," said Rachel,
dolefully. "I didn't think you took the trouble to keep account of
what I ate."
"Come, Rachel, this is unreasonable," said her brother. "(sic)
Noboby begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice
as much as you do. I dare say, Jack ate more of them than you did."
"I ate six," said Jack.
Rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more; but, feeling
it unnecessary to explain why she ate what she admitted to be
unhealthy, added, "And if I do eat what's unwholesome, it's because
life ain't of any value to me. The sooner one gets out of this vale
of affliction the better."
"And the way you take to get out of it," said Jack, gravely, "is by
eating apple-turnovers. Whenever you die, Aunt Rachel, we shall have
to put a paragraph in the papers, headed, 'Suicide by eating
apple-turnovers.'"
Rachel intimated, in reply, that she presumed it would afford Jack a
great deal of satisfaction to write such a paragraph.
The evening came. Still no tidings of Ida.
The family began to feel alarmed. An indefinable sense of
apprehension oppressed the minds of all. Mrs. Crump feared that
Ida's mother, seeing her grown up so attractive, could not resist
the temptation of keeping her.
"I suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her; but it
will be a terrible thing for us to part with her."
"Don't let us trouble ourselves in that way," said the cooper. "It
seems to me very natural that they should keep her a little longer
than they intended. Besides, it is not too late for her to return
to-night."
This cheered Mrs. Crump a little.
The evening passed slowly.
At length there came a knock at the door.
"I guess that is Ida," said Mrs. Crump, joyfully.
Jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. But
there was no Ida there. In her place stood William Fitts, the boy
who had met Ida in the cars.
"How do you do, Bill?" said Jack, endeavoring not to look
disappointed. "Come in, and take a seat, and tell us all the news."
"Well," said William, "I don't know of any. I suppose Ida has got
home."
"No," said Jack, "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come
yet."
"She told me that she expected to come back to-day," said William.
"What! have you seen her?" exclaimed all in chorus.
"Yes, I saw her yesterday noon."
"Where?"
"Why, in the cars," said William, a little surprised at the
question.
"What cars?" asked the cooper.
"Why, the Philadelphia cars. Of course, you knew that was where she
was going?"
"Philadelphia!" all exclaimed, in surprise.
"Yes, the cars were almost there when I saw her. Who was that with
her?"
"Mrs. Hardwick, who was her old nurse."
"Anyway, I didn't like her looks," said the boy.
"That's where I agree with you," said Jack, decidedly.
"She didn't seem to want me to speak to Ida," continued William,
"but hurried her off, just as quick as possible."
"There were reasons for that," said Mrs. Crump, "she wanted to keep
secret her destination."
"I don't know what it was," said William; "but any how, I don't like
her looks."
The family felt a little relieved by this information; and, since
Ida had gone so far, it did not seem strange that she should have
outstayed her time.
CHAPTER XII.
HOW IDA FARED.
WE left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over
her.
After an hour she was released.
"Well," said Peg, grimly, "how do you feel now?"
"I want to go home," sobbed the child.
"You are at home," said the woman. This is going to be your home
now."
"Shall I never see father and mother and Jack, again?"
"Why," answered Peg, "that depends on how you behave yourself."
"Oh, if you will only let me go," said Ida, gathering hope from this
remark, "I'll do anything you say."
"Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting
away?"
"Oh, I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, just tell me
what I am to do, and I will obey you cheerfully."
"Very well," said Peg, "only you needn't try to get anything out of
me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you
don't care a cent about me. In the second place, I am not good; and
finally, my name isn't Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York."
"What is it, then?" asked Ida.
"It's just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg."
"I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick."
"Then you'll have a good many years to call me so. You'd better do
as I tell you if you want any favors. Now what do you say?"
"Yes, Aunt Peg," said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her
repugnance.
"That's well. Now the first thing to do, is to stay here for the
present."
"Yes--aunt."
"The second is, you're not to tell anybody that you came from New
York. That is very important. You understand that, do you?"
The child replied in the affirmative.
"The next is, that you're to pay for your board, by doing whatever I
tell you."
"If it isn't wicked."
"Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?"
"You said you wasn't good," mildly suggested Ida.
"I'm good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that?
Answer me."
"Yes."
"There's another thing. You ain't to try to run away."
Ida hung down her head.
"Ha!" said Peg. "So you've been thinking of it, have you?"
"Yes," said Ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation; "I did think I
should if I got a good chance."
"Humph!" said the woman; "I see we must understand one another.
Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I
shall keep you there all the time."
Ida shuddered at this fearful threat, terrible to a child of nine.
"Do you promise?"
"Yes," said the child, faintly.
"For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have
something to show you."
She went to the cupboard, and took down a large pistol.
"There," she said, "do you see that?"
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"What is it?"
"It is a pistol, I believe."
"Do you know what it is for?"
"To shoot people with," said Ida, fixing her eyes on the weapon, as
if impelled by a species of fascination.
"Yes," said the woman; "I see you understand. Well, now, do you know
what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or
attempt to run away? Can you guess now?"
"Would you shoot me?" asked the child, struck with terror.
"Yes, I would," said Peg, with fierce emphasis. "That's just what
I'd do. And what's more," she added, "even if you got away, and got
back to your family in New York. I would follow you and shoot you
dead in the street."
"You wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed Ida, appalled.
"Wouldn't I, though?" repeated Peg, significantly. "If you don't
believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try
it?"
"No," said the child, with a shudder.
"Well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. Now, that you
have got to be a little more reasonable, I'll tell you what I am
going to do with you."
Ida looked up eagerly into her face.
"I am going to keep you with me a year. I want the services of a
little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then
send you back to your friends in New York."
"Will you?" said Ida, hopefully.
"Yes. But you must mind and do what I tell you."
"O yes," said the child, joyfully.
This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the
prospect of returning home, even after a year, gave her fresh
courage.
"What shall I do?" she asked, anxious to conciliate Peg.
"You may take the broom,--you will find it just behind the
door,--and sweep the room."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"And after that you may wash the dishes. Or, rather, you may wash
the dishes first."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"And after that I will find something for you to do."
The next morning Ida was asked if she would like to go out into the
street.
This was a welcome proposition, as the sun was shining brightly, and
there was little to please a child's fancy in Peg's shabby
apartment.
"I am going to let you do a little shopping," said Peg. "There are
various things that we want. Go and get your bonnet."
"It's in the closet," said Ida.
"O yes, where I put it. That was before I could trust you."
She went to the closet, and came back bringing the bonnet and shawl.
As soon as they were ready, they emerged into the street. Ida was
glad to be in the open air once more.
"This is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't
it?" said Peg.
Ida owned that it was.
"You see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as I bid you.
I don't want to do you any harm. I want you to be happy."
So they walked along together, until Peg, suddenly pausing, laid her
hand on Ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her, "Do
you see that shop?"
"Yes," said Ida.
"Well, that is a baker's shop. And now I'll tell you what to do. I
want you to go in, and ask for a couple of rolls. They come at three
cents apiece. Here's some money to pay for them. It is a silver
dollar, as you see. You will give this to them, and they will give
you back ninety-four cents in change. Do you understand'?"
"Yes," said Ida; "I think I do."
"And if they ask if you haven't anything smaller, you will say no."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"I will stay just outside. I want you to go in alone, so that you
will get used to doing without me."
Ida entered the shop. The baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood
behind the counter.
"Well, my dear, what is it?" he asked.
"I should like a couple of rolls."
"For your mother, I suppose," said the baker, sociably.
"No," said Ida; "for the woman I board with."
"Ha! a silver dollar, and a new one, too," said the baker, receiving
the coin tendered in payment. "I shall have to save that for my
little girl."
Ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change.
"Did he say anything about the money?" asked Peg, a little
anxiously.
"He said he should save it for his little girl."
"Good," said the woman, approvingly; "you've done well."
Ida could not help wondering what the baker's disposal of the dollar
had to do with her doing well, but she was soon thinking of other
things.
CHAPTER XIII.
BAD COIN.
THE baker introduced to the reader's notice in the last chapter was
named Crump. Singularly enough Abel Crump, for this was his name,
was a brother of Timothy Crump, the cooper. In many respects he
resembled his brother. He was an excellent man, exemplary in all the
relations of life, and had a good heart. He was in very comfortable
circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent
attention to his business. Like his brother, Abel Crump had married,
and had one child, now about the size of Ida, that is, nine years
old. She had received the name of Ellen.
When the baker closed his shop for the night he did not forget the
silver dollar which he had received, or the disposal which he told
Ida he should make of it.
He selected it carefully from the other coins, and slipped it into
his vest pocket.
Ellen ran to meet him as he entered the house.
"What do you think I have brought you, Ellen?" said her father,
smiling.
"Do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly.
"What if I should tell you it was a silver dollar?"
"Oh, father, thank you," and Ellen ran to show it to her mother.
"You got it at the shop?" asked his wife.
"Yes," said the baker; "I received it from a little girl about the
size of Ellen, and I suppose it was that gave me the idea of
bringing it home to her."
"Was she a pretty little girl?" asked Ellen, interested.
"Yes, she was very attractive. I could not help feeling interested
in her. I hope she will come again."
This was all that passed concerning Ida at that time. The thought of
her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been
recalled by circumstances.
Ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money,
could not be easy until she had spent it. Her mother advised her to
lay it away, or perhaps deposit it in some Savings Bank; but Ellen
preferred present gratification.
Accordingly one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she
persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw
in the window. The price was sixty-two cents. Ellen concluded to
take it, and tendered the silver dollar in payment.
The shopman took it into his hand, glancing at it carelessly at
first, then scrutinizing it with considerable attention.
"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Crump. "It is good, isn't it?"
"That is what I am doubtful of," was the reply.
"It is new."
"And that is against it. If it were old, it would be more likely to
be genuine."
"But you wouldn't (sic) comdemn a piece because it was new?"
"Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases
where spurious dollars have been circulated, and I suspect this is
one of them. However, I can soon test it."
"I wish you, would," said Mrs. Crump. "My husband took it at his
shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is placed on his
guard."
The shopman retired a moment, and then reappeared.
"It is as I thought," he said. "The coin is not good."
"And can't I pass it, then?" said Ellen, disappointed.
"I am afraid not."
"Then I don't see, Ellen," said her mother, "but you will have to
give up your purchase for to-day. We must tell your father of this."
Mr. Crump was exceedingly surprised at his wife's account.
"Really," he said, "I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible
that such a beautiful child could be guilty of such a crime?"
"Perhaps not," said his wife. "She may be as innocent in the matter
as Ellen or myself."
"I hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that such a child
should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before
long."
"How?"
"She will undoubtedly come again some time, and if she offers me one
of the same coins I shall know what to think."
Mr. Crump watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days
in vain. It was not the policy of Peg to send the child too often to
the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection.
One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.
"Good morning," said the baker. "What will you have to-day?"
"You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir."
The baker placed it in her hands.
"How much will it be?"
"Twelve cents."
Ida offered him another silver dollar.
As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter, and
managed to place himself between Ida and the door.
"What is your name, my child?" he asked.
"Ida, sir."
"Ida? A very pretty name; but what is your other name?"
Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the
name of Crump, and told her if the inquiry was ever made, she must
answer Hardwick.
She answered, reluctantly, "My name is Ida Hardwick."
The baker observed the hesitation, and this increased his
suspicions.
"Hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the
child as much information as he could before allowing her to
perceive that he suspected her. "And where do you live?"
Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be
questioned so closely. She said, with some impatience, "I am in a
hurry, sir, and would like to have you hand me the change as soon as
you can."
"I have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner changing; "but
you cannot go just yet."
"And why not?" asked Ida, her eyes flashing.
"Because you have been trying to deceive me."
"I trying to deceive you!" exclaimed the child, in astonishment.
"Really," thought Mr. Crump, "she does it well, but no doubt they
train her to it. It is perfectly shocking, such depravity in a
child."
"Don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he said, in
as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.
"Yes," said Ida, promptly; "I bought two rolls at three cents a
piece."
"And what did you offer me in payment?"
"I handed you a silver dollar."
"Like this?" asked Mr. Crump, holding up the coin.
"Yes, sir."
"And do you mean to say," said the baker, sternly, "that you didn't
know it was bad when you handed it to me?"
"Bad!" exclaimed Ida, in great surprise.
"Yes, spurious. It wasn't worth one tenth of a dollar."
"And is this like it?"
"Precisely."
"Indeed, sir, I didn't know anything about it," said Ida, earnestly,
"I hope you will believe me when I say that I thought it was good."
"I don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed.
"I don't know whether to believe you or not," said he. "Have you any
other money?"
"That is all I have got."
Of course, I can't let you have the gingerbread. Some would deliver
you up into the hands of the police. However, I will let you go if
you will make me one promise."
"Oh, anything, sir."
"You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good
one to-morrow?"
Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.
CHAPTER XIV.
DOUBTS AND FEARS.
WELL, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida
rejoined her at the corner of the street, where she had been waiting
for her. "And where's your gingerbread?"
"He wouldn't let me have it," said Ida.
"And why not?"
"Because he said the money wasn't good."
"Stuff! it's good enough," said Peg, hastily. "Then we must go
somewhere else."
"But he said the dollar I gave him last week wasn't good, and I
promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me
go."
"Well, where are you going to get your dollar to carry him?"
"Why, won't you give it to me?" said Ida, hesitatingly.
"Catch me at such nonsense! But here we are at another shop. Go in
and see whether you can do any better there. Here's the money."
"Why, it's the same piece."
"What if it is?"
"I don't want to pass bad money."
"Tut, what hurt will it do?"
"It is the same as stealing."
"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."
"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida, whose truthful
perceptions saw through the woman's sophistry.
"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly.
"Maybe you know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do to
be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out if you live with me
long."
"Where did you take the dollar?" asked Ida, with a sudden thought;
"and how is it that you have so many of them?"
"None of your business," said her companion, roughly. "You shouldn't
pry into the affairs of other people."
"Are you going to do as I told you?" she demanded, after a moment's
pause.
"I can't," said Ida, pale but resolute.
"You can't," repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do
whatever I told you?"
"Except what was wicked," interrupted Ida.
"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with
me."
Peg, walked in sullen silence, occasionally turning round to scowl
upon the unfortunate child, who had been strong enough, in her
determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the
woman whom she had every reason to dread.
Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder.
Dick was lounging in a chair, with the inevitable pipe in his mouth.
"Hilloa!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's movements, "what's
the gal been doing, hey?"
"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg; "I should like to know what
she hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy some
gingerbread of the baker, as I told her."
"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't
this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of
ingratitude, when we go to the trouble of earning the money to pay
for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't willing to go in and
buy it?"
"I would just as lieves go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me good
money to pay for it."
"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist; "jest
do as she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take the risk."
"I can't!" said the child.
"You hear her?" said Peg.
"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head. "Put her in
the closet."
So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet, in the
midst of her desolation, there was a feeling of pleasure in thinking
that she was suffering for doing right.
When Ida failed to return on the expected day, the Crumps, though
disappointed, did not think it strange.
"If I were her mother," said Mrs. Crump, "and had been parted from
her so long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear
heart! how pretty she is, and how proud her mother must be of her!"
"It's all a delusion," said Aunt Rachel, shaking her head. "It's all
a delusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs.
Hardwick is an imposter. I knew it, and told you so at the time, but
you wouldn't believe me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in
this world."
"I do," said Jack, confidently.
"There's many a hope that's doomed to disappointment," said Aunt
Rachel.
"So there is," said Jack. "I was hoping mother would have
apple-pudding for dinner to-day, but she didn't."
The next day passed, and still no tidings of Ida. There was a cloud
of anxiety, even upon Mr. Crump's usually placid face, and he was
more silent than usual at the evening meal.
At night, after Rachel and Jack had both retired, he said,
anxiously, "What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged
absence, Mary?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, seriously. "It seems to me, if her
mother wanted te keep her longer than the time she at first
proposed, it would be no more than right that she should write us a
line. She must know that we would feel anxious."
"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of nothing
else."
"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from
her, I shall be seriously troubled."
"Suppose she should never come back," said the cooper, sadly.
"Oh, husband, don't think of such a thing," said his wife,
distressed.
"We must contemplate it as a possibility," returned Timothy,
gravely, "though not, I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an
undoubted right to her; a better right than any we can urge."
"Then it would be better," said his wife, tearfully, "if she had
never been placed in our charge. Then we should not have had the
pain of parting with her."
"Not so, Mary," said the cooper, seriously. "We ought to be grateful
for God's blessings, even if he suffers us to possess them but a
short time. And Ida has been a blessing to us, I am sure. How many
hours have been made happy by her childish prattle! how our hearts
have been filled with cheerful happiness and affection when we have
gazed upon her! That can't be taken from us, even if she is, Mary.
There's some lines I met with in the paper, to-night, that express
just what I feel. Let me find them."
The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns
of the paper, till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson,
which he read aloud,--
"I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all."
"There, wife," said he, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know who
writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great
sorrow, and conquered it."
"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare say
you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have reason to learn the
truth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that
Ida will come back. We are troubling ourselves too soon."
"At any rate," said the cooper, "there is no doubt that it is our
duty to take every means to secure Ida if we can. Of course, if her
mother insists upon keeping her, we can't say anything; but we ought
to be sure, before we yield her up, that such is the case."
"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Mrs. Crump, with anxious
interest.
"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said her husband. "Very
likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel
more anxious."
"You have already aroused my anxiety," said his wife. "I should feel
better if you would tell me."
"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes doubted," he
continued, lowering his voice, "whether Ida's mother really sent for
her."
"And the letter?" queried Mrs. Crump, looking less surprised than he
supposed she would.
"I thought--mind it is only a guess on my part--that Mrs. Hardwick
might have got somebody to write it for her."
"It is very singular," murmured Mrs. Crump, in a tone of
abstraction.
"What is singular?"
"Why, the very same thought occurred to me. Somehow, I couldn't help
feeling a little suspicious of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps
unjustly. But what object could she have in obtaining possession of
Ida?"
"That I cannot conjecture; but I have come to one determination."
"And what is that?"
"Unless we learn something of Ida within a week from the time she
left here, I shall go on to Philadelphia, or send Jack, and endeavor
to get track of her."
CHAPTER XV.
AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS.
THE week which had been assigned by Mr. Crump slipped away, and
still no tidings of Ida. The house seemed lonely without her. Not
until then, did they understand how largely she had entered into
their life and thoughts. But worse even, than the sense of loss, was
the uncertainty as to her fate.
When seven days had passed the cooper said, "It is time that we took
some steps about finding Ida. I had intended to go to Philadelphia
myself, to make inquiries about her, but I am just now engaged upon
a job which I cannot very well leave, and so I have concluded to
send Jack."
"When shall I start?" exclaimed Jack, eagerly.
"To-morrow morning," answered his father, "and you must take clothes
enough with you to last several days, in case it should be
necessary."
"What good do you suppose it will do, Timothy," broke in Rachel, "to
send such a mere boy as Jack?"
"A mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly.
"A boy hardly sixteen years old," continued Rachel. "Why, he'll need
somebody to take care of him. Most likely you'll have to go after
him."
"What's the use of provoking a fellow so, Aunt Rachel?" said Jack.
"You know I'm most eighteen. Hardly sixteen! Why, I might as well
say you're hardly forty, when everybody knows you're most fifty."
"Most fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "It's a base
slander. I'm only forty-three."
"Maybe I'm mistaken," said Jack, carelessly. "I didn't know exactly.
I only judged from your looks."
"'Judge not that ye be not judged!'" said Rachel, whom this
explanation was not likely to appease. "The world is full of calumny
and misrepresentation. I've no doubt you would like to shorten my
days upon the earth, but I sha'n't live long to trouble any of you.
I feel that, ere the summer of life is over, I shall be gathered
into the garden of the Great Destroyer."
At this point, Rachel applied a segment of a pocket-handkerchief to
her eyes; but unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect,
instead of being pathetic, as she had intended, was simply
ludicrous.
It so happened that a short time previous the inkstand had been
partially spilled on the table, and this handkerchief had been used
to sop it up. It had been placed inadvertently on the window-seat,
where it had remained till Rachel, who sat beside the window, called
it into requisition. The ink upon it was by no means dry. The
consequence was that, when Rachel removed it from her eyes, her face
was found to be covered with ink in streaks,--mingling with the
tears that were falling, for Rachel always had tears at her command.
The first intimation the luckless spinster had of her misfortune,
was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from Jack, whose organ of
mirthfulness, marked _very large_ by the phrenologist, could not
withstand such a provocation to laughter.
He looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow upon his aunt's
face, of which she was yet unconscious--and doubling up, went into a
perfect paroxysm of laughter.
Aunt Rachel looked equally amazed and indignant.
"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the
cause of his amusement. "It's improper for you to laugh at your aunt
in such a rude manner."
"Oh, I can't help it, mother. It's too rich! Just look at her," and
Jack went off into another paroxysm.
Thus invited, Mrs. Crump did look, and the rueful expression of
Rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical,
that, after a little struggle, she too gave way, and followed Jack's
example.
Astounded and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her
sister-in-law, Rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again
had recourse to the handkerchief.
"I've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as
my own nephew, from whom I expect nothing better, makes me her
laughing-stock. Brother Timothy, I can no longer remain in your
dwelling to be laughed at; I will go to the poor-house, and end my
life as a pauper. If I only receive Christian burial, when I leave
the world, it will be all I hope or expect from my relatives, who
will be glad enough to get rid of me."
The second application of the handkerchief had so increased the
effect, that Jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while
the cooper, whose attention was now for the first time drawn to his
sister's face, burst out in a similar manner.
This more amazed Rachel than even Mrs. Crump's merriment.
"Even you, Timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed,
in an 'Et tu Brute,' tone.
"We don't mean to ridicule you, Rachel," gasped Mrs. Crump, with
difficulty, "but we can't help laughing----"
"At the prospect of my death," uttered Rachel. "Well, I'm a poor
forlorn creetur, I know; I haven't got a friend in the world. Even
my nearest relations make sport of me, and when I speak of dying
they shout their joy to my face."
"Yes," gasped Jack, "that's it exactly. It isn't your death we're
laughing at, but your face."
"My face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "One would think I was a
fright, by the way you laugh at it."
So you are," said Jack, in a state of semi-strangulation.
"To be called a fright to my face!" shrieked Rachel, "by my own
nephew! This is too much. Timothy, I leave your house forever."
The excited maiden seized her hood, which was hanging from a nail,
and hardly knowing what she did, was about to leave the house with
no other protection, when she was arrested in her progress towards
the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to
say: "Before you go, Rachel, just look in the glass."
Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon
a face which streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every
direction.
In her first confusion, Rachel did not understand the nature of her
mishaps, but hastily jumped to the conclusion that she had been
suddenly stricken by some terrible disease like the plague, whose
ravages in London she had read of with the interest which one of her
melancholy temperament might be expected to find in it.
Accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and
exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish,--
"It is the fatal plague spot! I feel it; I know it! I am marked for
the tomb. The sands of my life are fast running out!"
Jack broke into a fresh burst of merriment, so that an observer
might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent
danger of suffocation.
"You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel; I know you will," he gasped out.
"You may order my coffin, Timothy," said Rachel, in a sepulchral
tone. "I sha'n't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for
a week past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like
to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help. I
will go up to my chamber."
"I think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "that you will
find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the
plague-spots, as you call them."
Rachel turned towards him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes
rested, for the first time, upon the handkerchief which she had
used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was
enabled to account for her own.
Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as
the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly,
and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.
After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's
approaching journey.
"I don't know," said his mother, "but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack
isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake
such a mission."
"Now, mother," expostulated Jack, "you ain't going to side against
me, are you?"
"There is no better plan," said Mr. Crump, quietly, "and I have
sufficient confidence in Jack's shrewdness and intelligence to
believe he may be trusted in this business."
Jack looked gratified by this tribute to his powers and capacity,
and determined to show that he was deserving of his father's
favorable opinion.
The preliminaries were settled, and it was agreed that he should set
out early the next morning. He went to bed with the brightest
anticipations, and with the resolute determination to find Ida if
she was anywhere in Philadelphia.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FLOWER-GIRL.
HENRY BOWEN was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned
the farm, on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing
his favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest
success. The foremost rank in his profession was not for him. But he
had good taste, a correct eye, and a skilful hand, and his
productions were pleasing and popular. A few months before his
introduction to the reader's notice, he had formed a connection with
a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable
work in his way.
"Have you any new commission this morning?" inquired the young
artist, on the day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed
to pass off spurious coins.
"Yes," said the publisher, "I have thought of something which I
think may prove attractive. Just at present, the public seem fond of
pictures of children in different characters. I should like to have
you supply me with a sketch of a flower-girl, with, say, a basket of
flowers in her hand. The attitude and incidentals I will leave to
your taste. The face must, of course, be as beautiful and expressive
as you can make it, where regularity of features is not sufficient.
Do you comprehend my idea?"
"I believe I do," said the young man, "and hope to be able to
satisfy you."
The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he
had undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but
found himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not
sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to
produce the effect he desired. The faces which he successively
outlined were all stiff, and though perhaps sufficiently regular in
feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and life-like.
"What is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently, throwing
down his pencil. "Is it impossible for me to succeed? Well, I will
be patient, and make one trial more."
He made another trial, that proved as unsatisfactory as those
preceding.
"It is clear," he decided, "that I am not in the vein. I will go out
and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the street something will
strike me."
He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and, descending, emerged
into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng.
It was only natural that, as he walked, with his task still in his
thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young
girls as he met.
"Perhaps," it occurred to him, "I may get a hint from some face I
may see. That will be better than to depend upon my fancy. Nothing,
after all, is equal to the masterpieces of Nature."
But the young artist was fastidious. "It is strange," he thought,
"how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be
called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes
but a badly-cut mouth, Here is one that would be pretty, if the face
was rounded out; and here is a child, Heaven help it! that was
designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances
have pinched and cramped it."
It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the
corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.
Henry Bowen looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own
lighted up with pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as
he has despaired of it.
"The very face I have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself.
"My flower-girl is found at last!"
He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at
a shop-window to examine some articles which were exhibited there.
This afforded a fresh opportunity to examine Ida's face.
"It is precisely what I want," he murmured. "Now the question comes
up, whether this woman, who, I suppose, is the girl's attendant,
will permit me to copy her face."
The artist's inference that Peg was merely Ida's attendant, was
natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to
her companion. Peg thought that in this way she should be more
likely to escape suspicion when occupied in passing spurious coin.
The young man followed the strangely-assorted pair to the apartments
which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he
learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the
relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had
the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He
mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door.
"What do you want?" said a sharp voice from within.
"I should like to see you a moment," was the reply.
Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man
suspiciously.
"I don't know you," she said, shortly. "I never saw you before."
"I presume not," said the young man. "We have never met, I think. I
am an artist."
"That is a business I don't know anything about," said Peg,
abruptly. "You've come to the wrong place. I don't want to buy any
pictures. I've got plenty of other ways to spend my money."
Certainly, Mrs. Hardwick, to give her the name she once claimed, did
not look like a patron of the arts.
"You have a young girl, about eight or nine years old, living with
you," said the artist.
"Who told you that?" queried Peg, her suspicions at once roused.
"No one told me. I saw her with you in the street."
Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the
fact that that the child was stolen--possibly he might be acquainted
with the Crumps, or might be their emissary. She therefore answered,
shortly,--
"People that are seen walking together don't always live together."
"But I saw the child entering this house with you."
"What if you did?" demanded Peg, defiantly.
"I was about," said the artist, perceiving that he was
misapprehended, and desiring to set matters right, "I was about to
make a proposition which might prove advantageous to both of us."
"Eh!" said Peg, catching at the hint. "Tell me what it is, and
perhaps we may come to terms."
"It is simply this," said Bowen, "I am, as I told you, an artist.
Just now I am employed to sketch a flower-girl, and in seeking for a
face such as I wished to sketch from, I was struck by that of your
child."
"Of Ida?"
"Yes, if that is her name. I will pay you five dollars for the
privilege of copying it."
Peg was fond of money, and the prospect of earning five dollars
through Ida's instrumentality, so easily, blinded her to the
possibility that this picture might prove a means of discovery to
her friends.
"Well," said she, more graciously, "if that's all you want, I don't
know as I have any objections. I suppose you can copy her face here
as well as anywhere."
"I should prefer to have her come to my studio."
"I sha'n't let her come," said Peg, decidedly.
"Then I will consent to your terms, and come here."
"Do you want to begin now?"
"I should like to do so."
"Come in, then. Here, Ida, I want you."
"Yes, Peg."
"This young man wants to copy your face."
Ida looked surprised.
"I am an artist," said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "I
will endeavor not to try your patience too much. Do you think you
can stand still for half an hour, without much fatigue?"
Ida was easily won by kindness, while she had a spirit which was
roused by harshness. She was prepossessed at once in favor of the
young man, and readily assented.
He kept her in pleasant conversation while with a free, bold hand,
he sketched the outlines of her face and figure.
"I shall want one more sitting," he said. "I will come to-morrow at
this time."
"Stop a minute," said Peg. "I should like the money in advance. How
do I know that you will come again?"
"Certainly, if you prefer it," said the young man, opening his
pocket-book.
"What strange fortune," he thought, "can have brought these two
together? Surely there can be no relationship."
The next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once
placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval.
CHAPTER XVII.
JACK OBTAINS INFORMATION.
JACK set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of
enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first
journey. Partly by cars, partly by boat, he traveled, till in a few
hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in
Philadelphia.
Among the admonitions given to Jack on leaving home, one was
prominently in his mind, to beware of imposition, and to be as
economical as possible.
Accordingly he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode along,
with his carpet-bag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very
little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his
uncle's shop. By dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found
it at length, and, walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker
as his nephew Jack.
"What, are you Jack?" exclaimed Mr. Abel Crump, pausing in his
labor; "well, I never should have known you, that's a fact. Bless
me, how you've grown! Why, you're most as big as your father, ain't
you?"
"Only half an inch shorter," returned Jack, complacently.
"And you're--let me see, how old are you?"
"Eighteen, that is, almost; I shall be in two months."
"Well, I'm glad to see you, Jack, though I hadn't the least idea of
your raining down so unexpectedly. How's your father and mother and
Rachel, and your adopted sister?"
"Father and mother are pretty well," answered Jack, "and so is Aunt
Rachel," he added, smiling; "though she ain't so cheerful as she
might be."
"Poor Rachel!" said Abel, smiling also, "all things look upside down
to her. I don't suppose she's wholly to blame for it. Folks differ
constitutionally. Some are always looking on the bright side of
things, and others can never see but one side, and that's the dark
one."
"You've hit it, uncle," said Jack, laughing. "Aunt Rachel always
looks as if she was attending a funeral."
"So she is, my boy," said Abel Crump, gravely, "and a sad funeral it
is."
"I don't understand you, uncle."
"The funeral of her affections,--that's what I mean. Perhaps you
mayn't know that Rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to
a young man whom she ardently loved. She was a different woman then
from what she is now. But her lover deserted her just before the
wedding was to have come off, and she's never got over the
disappointment. But that isn't what I was going to talk about. You
haven't told me about your adopted sister."
"That's what I've come to Philadelphia about," said Jack, soberly.
"Ida has been carried off, and I've been sent in search of her."
"Been carried off!" exclaimed his uncle, in amazement. "I didn't
know such things ever happened in this country. What do you mean?"
In answer to this question Jack told the story of Mrs. Hardwick's
arrival with a letter from Ida's mother, conveying the request that
the child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to
pay her a visit. To this, and the subsequent details, Abel Crump
listened with earnest attention.
"So you have reason to think the child is in (sic) Phildelphia?" he
said, musingly.
"Yes," said Jack, "Ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy
who knew her in New York."
"Ida!" repeated his Uncle Abel, looking up, suddenly.
"Yes. You know that's my sister's name, don't you?"
"Yes, I dare say I have known it; but I have heard so little of your
family lately, that I had forgotten it. It is rather a singular
circumstance."
"What is singular!"
"I will tell you," said his uncle. It may not amount to anything,
however. A few days since, a little girl came into my shop to buy a
small amount of bread. I was at once favorably impressed with her
appearance. She was neatly dressed, and had a very sweet face."
"What was her name?" inquired Jack.
"That I will tell you by and by. Having made the purchase, she
handed me in payment a silver dollar. 'I'll keep that for my little
girl,' thought I at once. Accordingly, when I went home at night, I
just took the dollar out the till, and gave it to her. Of course she
was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at
once. So her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. Well,
they selected some nicknack or other, but when they came to pay for
it the dollar proved to be spurious."
"Spurious!"
"Yes, bad. Got up, no doubt, by a gang of coiners. When they told me
of this I thought to myself, 'Can it be that this little girl knew
what she was about when she offered me that money?' I couldn't think
it possible, but decided to wait till she came again."
"Did she come again?"
"Yes, only day before yesterday. This time she wanted some
gingerbread, so she said. As I thought likely, she offered me
another dollar just like the other. Before letting her know that I
had discovered the imposition I asked her one or two questions, with
the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. When I told
her the coin was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. It might
have been all acting, but I didn't think so then. I even felt pity
for her and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a
good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. I suppose I was a
fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that I
couldn't make up my mind to speak or harshly to her. But I'm afraid
that I was deceived, and that she is an artful character, after
all."
"Then she didn't come back with the good money?" said Jack.
"No, I haven't seen her since; and, what's more, I don't think it
very likely she will venture into my shop at present."
"What name did she give you?" asked Jack.
"Haven't I told you? It was the name that made me think of telling
you. It was Ida Hardwick."
"Ida Hardwick!" exclaimed Jack, bounding from his chair, somewhat to
his uncle's alarm.
"Yes, Ida Hardwick. But that hasn't anything to do with your Ida,
has it?"
"Hasn't it, though?" said Jack. "Why, Mrs. Hardwick was the woman
that carried her away."
"Mrs. Hardwick--her mother!"
"No, not her mother. She was, or at least she said she was, the
woman that took care of Ida before she was brought to us."
"Then you think that Ida Hardwick may be your missing sister?"
"That's what I don't know," said Jack. "If you would only describe
her, Uncle Abel, I could tell better."
"Well," said Mr. Abel Crump, thoughtfully, "I should say this little
girl might be eight or nine years old."
"Yes," said Jack, nodding; "what color were her eyes?"
"Blue."
"So are Ida's."
"A small mouth, with a very sweet expression."
"Yes."
"And I believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon about
her waist. She also had a brown scarf about her neck, if I remember
rightly."
"That is exactly the way Ida was dressed when she went away. I am
sure it must be she."
"Perhaps," suggested his uncle, "this woman, though calling herself
Ida's nurse, was really her mother."
"No, it can't be," said Jack, vehemently. "What, that ugly,
disagreeable woman, Ida's mother! I won't believe it. I should just
as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn-bush. There
isn't the least resemblance between them."
"You know I have not seen Mrs. Hardwick, so I cannot judge on that
point."
"No great loss," said Jack. "You wouldn't care much about seeing her
again. She is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable looking woman; while Ida
is fair, and sweet looking. I didn't fancy this Mrs. Hardwick when I
first set eyes on her. Aunt Rachel was right, for once."
"What did she think?"
"She took a dislike to her, and declared that it was only a plot to
get possession of Ida; but then, that was what we expected of Aunt
Rachel."
"Still, it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the
part of this woman, supposing she is not Ida's mother."
"Mother, or not," returned Jack, "she's got possession of Ida; and,
from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. I
am determined to rescue Ida from this she-dragon. Will you help me,
uncle?"
"You may count upon me, Jack, for all I can do."
"Then," said Jack, with energy, "we shall succeed. I feel sure of
it. 'Where there's a will there's a way,' you know."
CHAPTER XVIII.
FINESSE.
THE next thing to be done by Jack was, of course, in some way to
obtain a clew to the whereabouts of Peg, or Mrs. Hardwick, to use
the name by which he knew her. No mode of proceeding likely to
secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of
keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance
might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit.
Fortunately her face was accurately daguerreotyped in his memory, so
that he felt certain of recognizing her, under whatever
circumstances they might meet.
In pursuance of this, the only plan which suggested itself, Jack
became a daily promenader in Chestnut and other streets. Many
wondered what could be the object of the young man who so
persistently frequented the thoroughfares. It was observed that,
while he paid no attention to young ladies, he scrutinized the faces
of all middle-aged or elderly women whom he met, a circumstance
likely to attract remark, in the case of a well-made youth like
Jack.
Several days passed, and, although he only returned to his uncle's
house at the hour of meals, he had the same report to bring on each
occasion.
"I am afraid," said the baker, "it will be as hard as finding a
needle in a hay-stack, to hope to meet the one you seek, among so
many faces."
"There's nothing like trying," answered Jack, courageously. "I'm not
going to give up yet awhile."
He sat down and wrote the following note, home:--
"DEAR PARENTS:
"I arrived in Philadelphia safe, and am stopping at Uncle Abel's. He
received me very kindly. I have got track of Ida, though I have not
found her yet. I have learned as much as this, that this Mrs.
Hardwick--who is a double distilled she-rascal--probably has Ida in
her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle's. I am
spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for
her. If I do meet her, see if I don't get Ida away from her. But it
may take some time. Don't get discouraged, therefore, but wait
patiently. Whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line
from your dutiful son
"JACK."
In reply to this letter, or rather note, Jack received an intimation
that he was not to cease his efforts as long as a chance remained to
find Ida.
The very day after the reception of this letter, as Jack was
sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him a
form which at once reminded him of Mrs. Hardwick. Full of hope that
this might be so, he bounded forward, and rapidly passed the
suspected person, turned suddenly round, and confronted Ida's nurse.
The recognition was mutual. Peg was taken aback by this unexpected
encounter.
"Her first impulse was to make off, but the young man's resolute
expression warned her that this would prove in vain.
"Mrs. Hardwick!" said Jack.
"You are right," said she, nodding, "and you, if I am not mistaken,
are John Crump, the son of my worthy friends in New York."
"Well," ejaculated Jack, internally, "if that doesn't beat all for
coolness."
"My name is Jack," he said, aloud.
"Indeed! I thought it might be a nickname."
"You can't guess what I came here for," said Jack, with an attempt
at sarcasm, which utterly failed of its effect.
"To see your sister Ida, I presume," said Peg, coolly.
"Yes," said Jack, amazed at the woman's composure.
"I thought some of you would be coming on," said Peg, whose prolific
genius had already mapped out her course.
"You did?"
"Yes, it was only natural. But what did your father and mother say
to the letter I wrote them?"
"The letter you wrote them!"
"The letter in which I wrote that Ida's mother had been so pleased
with the appearance and manners of her child, that she could not
resolve to part with her, and had determined to keep her for the
present."
"You don't mean to say," said Jack, "that any such letter as that
has been written?"
"What, has it not been received?" inquired Peg, in the greatest
apparent astonishment.
"Nothing like it," answered Jack. "When was it written?"
"The second day after Ida's arrival," replied Peg, unhesitatingly.
"If that is the case," returned Jack, not knowing what to think, "it
must have miscarried."
"That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!" remarked Peg,
sympathizingly.
"It seemed as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida's
mother mean to keep her?"
"A month or six weeks," was the reply.
"But," said Jack, his suspicions returning, "I have been told that
Ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and, when asked
what her name was, answered Ida Hardwick.' You don't mean to say
that you pretend to be her mother?"
"Yes, I do," returned Peg, calmly.
"It's a lie," said Jack, vehemently. "She isn't your daughter."
"Young man," said Peg, with wonderful self-command, "you are
exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I _pretended_ to be
her mother. I do pretend; but I admit, frankly, that it is all
pretence."
"I don't understand what you mean," said Jack, mystified.
"Then I will take the trouble to explain it to you. As I informed
your father and mother, when in New York, there are circumstances
which stand in the way of Ida's real mother recognizing her as her
own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert all
suspicion, and prevent embarrassing questions being asked, while she
remains in Philadelphia she is to pass as my daughter."
This explanation was tolerably plausible, and Jack was unable to
gainsay it, though it was disagreeable to him to think of even a
nominal connection between Ida and the woman before him.
"Can I see Ida?" asked Jack, at length.
To his great joy, Peg replied, "I don't think there can be any
objection. I am going to the house now. Will you come now, or
appoint some other time?"
"I will go now by all means," said Jack, eagerly. "Nothing should
stand in the way of seeing Ida."
A grim smile passed over the nurse's face.
"Follow me, then," she said. "I have no doubt Ida will be delighted
to see you."
"Dear Ida!" said Jack. "Is she well, Mrs. Hardwick?"
"Perfectly well," answered Peg. "She has never been in better health
than since she has been in Philadelphia."
"I suppose," said Jack, with a pang, "that she is so taken up with
her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in New
York."
"If she did," said Peg, sustaining her part with admirable
self-possession, "she would not deserve to have friends at all. She
is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to New York
to those who have been so kind to her."
"Really," thought Jack; "I don't know what to make of this Mrs.
Hardwick. She talks fair enough, if her looks are against her.
Perhaps I have misjudged her, after all."
CHAPTER XIX.
CAUGHT IN A TRAP.
JACK and his guide paused in front of a three-story brick building
of respectable appearance.
"Docs Ida's mother live here?" interrogated Jack.
"Yes," said Peg, coolly. "Follow me up the steps."
The woman led the way, and Jack followed.
The former rang the bell. An untidy servant girl made her
appearance.
"We will go up-stairs, Bridget," said Peg.
Without betraying any astonishment, the servant conducted them to an
upper room, and opened the door.
"If you will go in and take a seat," said Peg, "I will send Ida to
you immediately."
She closed the door after him, and very softly slipped the bolt
which had been placed on the outside. She then hastened downstairs,
and finding the proprietor of the house, who was a little old man
with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long aquiline nose, she said to
this man, who was a leading spirit among the coiners into whose
employ she and her husband had entered, "I want you to keep this lad
in confinement, until I give you notice that it will be safe to let
him go."
"What has he done?" asked the old man.
"He is acquainted with a secret dangerous to both of us," answered
Peg, with intentional prevarication; for she knew that, if it were
supposed that she only had an interest in Jack's detention, they
would not take the trouble to keep him.
"Ha!" exclaimed the old man; "is that so? Then, I warrant me, he
can't get out unless he has sharp claws."
"Fairly trapped, my young bird," thought Peg, as she hastened away;
"I rather think that will put a stop to your troublesome
interference for the present. You haven't lived quite long enough to
be a match for old Peg. You'll find that out by and by. Ha, ha!
won't your worthy uncle, the baker, be puzzled to know why you don't
come home to-night?"
Meanwhile Jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played
upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair, waiting impatiently for
the coming of Ida, whom he was resolved to carry back with him to
New York if his persuasions could effect it.
Impelled by a natural curiosity he examined, attentively, the room
in which he was seated. It was furnished moderately well; that is,
as well as the sitting-room of a family in moderate circumstances.
The floor was covered with a plain carpet. There was a sofa, a
mirror, and several chairs covered with hair-cloth were standing
stiffly at the windows. There were one or two engravings, of no
great artistic excellence, hanging against the walls. On the
centre-table were two or three books. Such was the room into which
Jack had been introduced.
Jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. Then he began to grow
impatient.
"Perhaps Ida is out," thought our hero; "but, if she is, Mrs.
Hardwick ought to come and let me know."
Another fifteen minutes passed, and still Ida came not.
"This is rather singular," thought Jack. "She can't have told Ida
that I am here, or I am sure she would rush up at once to see her
brother Jack."
At length, tired of waiting, and under the impression that he had
been forgotten, Jack walked to the door, and placing his hand upon
the latch, attempted to open it.
There was a greater resistance than he had anticipated.
Supposing that it must stick, he used increased exertion, but the
door perversely refused to open.
"Good heavens!" thought Jack, the real state of the case flashing
upon him, "is it possible that I am locked in?"
To determine this he employed all his strength, but the door still
resisted. He could no longer doubt.
He rushed to the windows. There were two in number, and looked out
upon a court in the rear of the house. No part of the street was
visible from them; therefore there was no hope of drawing the
attention of passers-by to his situation.
Confounded by this discovery, Jack sank into his chair in no very
enviable state of mind.
"Well," thought he, "this is a pretty situation for me to be in! I
wonder what father would say if he knew that I was locked up like a
prisoner. And then to think I let that treacherous woman, Mrs.
Hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. Aunt Rachel was about
right when she said I wasn't fit to come alone. I hope she'll never
find out this adventure of mine; I never should hear the last of
it."
Jack's mortification was extreme. His self-love was severely wounded
by the thought that a woman had got the better of him, and he
resolved, if he ever got out, that he would make Mrs. Hardwick
suffer, he didn't quite know how, for the manner in which she had
treated him.
Time passed. Every hour seemed to poor Jack to contain at least
double the number of minutes which are usually reckoned to that
division of time. Moreover, not having eaten for several hours, he
was getting hungry.
A horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. "The wretches can't
mean to starve me, can they?" he asked himself, while, despite his
constitutional courage, he could not help shuddering at the idea.
He was unexpectedly answered by the sliding of a little door in the
wall, and the appearance of the old man whose interview with Peg has
been referred to.
"Are you getting hungry, my dear sir?" he inquired, with a
disagreeable smile upon his features.
"Why am I confined here?" demanded Jack, in a tone of irritation.
"Why are you confined?" repeated his interlocutor. "Really, one
would think you did not find your quarters comfortable."
"I am so far from finding them comfortable that I insist upon
leaving them immediately," returned Jack.
"Then all you have got to do is to walk through that door.
"It is locked; I can't open it."
"Can't open it!" repeated the old man, with another disagreeable
leer; "perhaps, then, it will be well for you to wait till you are
strong enough."
Irritated by this reply, Jack threw himself spitefully against the
door, but to no purpose.
"The old man laughed in a cracked, wheezing way.
"Good fellow!" said he, encouragingly. "try it again! Won't you try
it again? Better luck next time."
Jack throw himself sullenly into a chair.
"Where is the woman that brought me here?" he asked.
"Peg? Oh, she couldn't stay. She had important business to transact,
my young friend, and so she has gone; but don't feel anxious. She
commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as
well treated as if she were here."
This assurance was not very well calculated to comfort Jack.
"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he asked,
desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once.
"Really, my young friend, I couldn't say. We are very hospitable,
very. We always like to have our friends with us as long as
possible."
Jack groaned internally at the prospect before him.
"One question more," he said, "will you tell me if my sister Ida is
in this house?"
"Your sister Ida!" repeated the old man, surprised in his turn.
"Yes," said Jack; believing, his astonishment feigned. "You needn't
pretend that you don't know anything about her. I know that she is
in your hands."
"Then if you know so much," said the other, shrugging his shoulders,
"there is no need of asking."
Jack was about to press the question, but the old man, anticipating
him, pointed to a plate of food which he pushed in upon a shelf,
just in front of the sliding door, and said: "Here's some supper for
you. When you get ready to go to bed you can lie down on the sofa.
Sorry we didn't know of your coming, or we would have got our best
bed-chamber ready for you. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!"
Smiling disagreeably he slid to the door, bolted it, and
disappeared, leaving Jack more depressed, if possible, than before.
CHAPTER XX.
JACK IN CONFINEMENT.
THE anxiety of Mr. Abel Crump's family, when Jack failed to return
at night, can be imagined. They feared that he had fallen among
unscrupulous persons, of whom there is no lack in every large city,
and that some ill had come to him. The baker instituted immediate
inquiries, but was unsuccessful in obtaining any trace of his
nephew. He resolved to delay as long as possible communicating the
sad intelligence to his brother Timothy, who he knew would be quite
(sic) overwhelwed by this double blow.
In the mean time, let us see how Jack enjoyed himself. We will look
in upon him after he has been confined four days. To a youth as
active as himself, nothing could be more wearisome. It did not add
to his cheerfulness to reflect that Ida was in the power of the one
who had brought upon him his imprisonment, while he was absolutely
unable to help her. He did not lack for food. This was brought him
three times a day. His meals, in fact, were all he had to look
forward to, to break the monotony of his confinement. The books upon
the table were not of a kind likely to interest him, though he had
tried to find entertainment in them.
Four days he had lived, or rather vegetated in this way. His spirit
chafed against the confinement.
"I believe," thought he, "I would sooner die than be imprisoned for
a long term. Yet," and here he sighed, "who knows what may be the
length of my present confinement? They will be sure to find some
excuse for retaining me."
While he was indulging in these uncomfortable reflections, suddenly
the little door in the wall, previously referred to, slid open, and
revealed the old man who had first supplied him with food. To
explain the motive of his present visit, it will be remembered that
he was under a misapprehension in regard to the cause of Jack's
confinement. He naturally supposed that our hero was acquainted with
the unlawful practises of the gang of coiners with which he was
connected.
The old man, whose name was Foley, had been favorably impressed by
the bold bearing of Jack, and the idea had occurred to him that he
might be able to win him as an accomplice. He judged, that if once
induced to join them, he would prove eminently useful. Another
motive which led him to favor this project was, that it would be
very embarrassing to be compelled to keep Jack in perpetual custody,
as well as involve a considerable expense.
Jack was somewhat surprised at the old man's visit.
"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he inquired,
impatiently.
"Don't you find your quarters comfortable?" asked Foley.
"As comfortable as any prison, I suppose."
"My young friend, don't talk of imprisonment. You make me shudder.
You must banish all thoughts of such a disagreeable subject."
"I wish I could," groaned poor Jack.
"Consider yourself as my guest, whom I delight to entertain."
"But, I don't like the entertainment."
"The more the pity."
"How long is this going to last? Even a prisoner knows the term of
his imprisonment."
"My young friend," said Foley, "I do not desire to control your
inclinations. I am ready to let you go whenever you say the word."
"You are?" returned Jack, incredulously. "Then suppose I ask you to
let me go immediately."
"Certainly, I will; but upon one condition."
"What is it?"
"It so happens, my young friend, that you are acquainted with a
secret which might prove troublesome to me."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Jack, mystified.
"Yes; you see I have found it out. Such things do not escape me."
"I don't know what you mean," returned Jack, perplexed.
"No doubt, no doubt,", said Foley, cunningly. "Of course, if I
should tell you that I was in the coining business, it would be
altogether new to you."
"On my honor," said Jack, "this is the first I knew of it. I never
saw or heard of you before I came into this house."
"Could Peg be mistaken?" thought Foley. "But no, no; he is only
trying to deceive me. I am too old a bird to be caught with such
chaff."
"Of course, I won't dispute your word, my young friend," he said,
softly; "but there is one tiling certain; if you didn't know it
before you know it now."
"And you are afraid that I shall denounce you to the police."
"Well, there is a possibility of that. That class of people have a
little prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody
wants to do, _making money_."
The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands at this joke, which he
evidently considered a remarkably good one.
Jack reflected a moment.
"Will you let me go if I will promise to keep your secret?" he
asked.
"How could I be sure you would do it?"
"I would pledge my word."
"Your word!" Foley snapped his fingers in derision. "That is not
sufficient."
"What will be?"
"You must become one of us."
"One of you!"
Jack started in surprise at a proposition so unexpected.
"Yes. You must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that
it will be for your own interest to keep silent. Otherwise we cannot
trust you."
"And suppose I decline these terms," said Jack.
"Then I shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my
guest."
Foley smiled disagreeably.
Jack walked the room in perturbation. He felt that imprisonment
would be better than liberty, on such terms. At the same time he did
not refuse unequivocally, as possibly stricter watch than ever night
be kept over him.
He thought it best to temporize.
"Well, what do you say?" asked the old man.
"I should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal," said
Jack. "It is of so important a character that I do not like to
decide at once."
"How long do you require?"
"Two days," returned Jack. "If I should come to a decision sooner, I
will let you know."
"Agreed. Meanwhile can I do anything to promote your comfort? I want
you to enjoy yourself as well as you can under the circumstances."
"If you have any interesting books, I wish you would send them up.
It is rather dull staying here with nothing to do."
"You shall have something to do as soon as you please, my young
friend. As to books, we are not very bountifully supplied with that
article. We ain't any of us college graduates, but I will see what I
can do for you in that way. I'll be back directly."
Foley disappeared, but soon after returned, laden with one or two
old magazines, and a worn copy of the "Adventures of Baron Trenck."
It may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this
singular book. Baron Trenck was several times imprisoned for
political offences, and this book contains an account of the manner
in which he succeeded, in some cases after years of labor, in
breaking from his dungeon. His feats in this way are truly
wonderful, and, if not true, at least they have so very much
similitude that they find no difficulty in winning the reader's
credence.
Such was the book which Foley placed in Jack's hands. He must have
been in ignorance of the character of the book, since it was evident
to what thoughts it would lead the mind of the prisoner.
Jack read the book with intense interest. It was just such a one as
he would have read with avidity under any circumstances. It
gratified his taste for adventure, and he entered heart and soul
into the Baron's plans, and felt a corresponding gratification when
he succeeded. When he completed the perusal of the fascinating
volume, he thought, "Why cannot I imitate Baron Trenck? He was far
worse off than I am. If he could succeed in overcoming so many
obstacles, it is a pity if I cannot find some means of escape."
He looked about the room in the hope that some plan might be
suggested.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE PRISONER ESCAPES.
TO give an idea of the difficulties of Jack's situation, let it be
repeated that there was but one door to the room, and this was
bolted on the outside. The room was in the second story. The only
two windows looked out upon a court. These windows were securely
fastened. Still a way might have been devised to break through them,
if this would at all have improved his condition. Of this, however,
there seemed but little chance. Even if he had succeeded in getting
safely into the court, there would have been difficulty and danger
in getting into the street.
All these considerations passed through Jack's mind, and occasioned
him no little perplexity. He began to think that the redoubtable
Baron Trenck himself might have been puzzled, if placed under
similar circumstances.
At length this suggestion occurred to him: Why might he not cut a
hole through the door, just above or below the bolt, sufficiently
large for him to thrust his hand through, and slip it back? Should
he succeed in this, he would steal down stairs, and as, in all
probability, the key would be in the outside door, he could open it,
and then he would be free.
With hope springing up anew in his heart, he hastened to the door
and examined it. It was of common strength. He might, perhaps, have
been able to kick it open, but of course this was not to be thought
of, as the noise would at once attract the attention of those
interested in frustrating his plans.
Fortunately, Jack was provided with a large, sharp jack-knife. He
did not propose, however, to commence operations at present. In the
daytime he would be too subject to a surprise. With evening, he
resolved to commence his work. He might be unsuccessful, and
subjected, in consequence, to a more rigorous confinement; but of
this he must run the risk. "Nothing venture, nothing have."
Jack awaited the coming of evening with impatience. The afternoon
had never seemed so long.
It came at last--a fine moonlight night. This was fortunate, for his
accommodating host, from motives of economy possibly, was not in the
habit of providing him with a candle.
Jack thought it prudent to wait till he heard the city clocks
pealing the hour of twelve. By this time, as far as he could see
from his windows, there were no lights burning, and all who occupied
the building were probably asleep.
He selected that part of the door which he judged to be directly
under the bolt, and began to cut away with his knife. The wood was
soft, and easy of excavation. In the course of half an hour Jack had
cut a hole sufficiently large to pass his hand through, but found
that, in order to reach the bolt, he must enlarge it a little. This
took him fifteen minutes longer.
His efforts were crowned with success. As the city clock struck one
Jack softly drew back the bolt, and, with a wild throb of joy, felt
that freedom was half regained. But his (sic) embarassments were not
quite at an end. Opening the door, he found himself in the entry,
but in the darkness. On entering the house he had not noticed the
location of the stairs, and was afraid that some noise or stumbling
might reveal to Foley the attempted escape of his prisoner. He took
off his boots, and crept down-stairs in his stocking feet.
Unfortunately he had not kept the proper bearing in his mind, and
the result was, that he opened the door of a room on one side of the
front door. It was used as a bedroom. At the sound of the door
opening, the occupant of the bed, Mr. Foley himself, called out,
drowsily, "Who's there?"
Jack, aware of his mistake, precipitately retired, and concealed
himself under the front stairs, a refuge which his good fortune led
him to, for he could see absolutely nothing.
The sleeper, just awakened, was naturally a little confused in his
ideas. He had not seen Jack. He had merely heard the noise, and
thought he saw the door moving. But of this he was not certain. To
make sure, however, he got out of bed, and opening wide the door of
his room, called out, "Is anybody there?"
Jack had excellent reasons for not wishing to volunteer an answer to
this question. One advantage of the opened door (for there was a
small oil lamp burning in the room) was to reveal to him the nature
of the mistake he had made, and to show him the front door in which,
by rare good fortune, he could discover the key in the lock.
Meanwhile the old man, to make sure that all was right, went
up-stairs, far enough to see that the door of the apartment in which
Jack had been confined was closed. Had he gone up to the landing he
would have seen the aperture in the door, and discovered the hole,
but he was sleepy, and anxious to get back to bed, which rendered
him less watchful.
"All seems right," he muttered to himself, and re-entered the
bed-chamber, from which Jack could soon hear the deep, regular
breathing which indicated sound slumber. Not till then did he creep
cautiously from his place of concealment, and advancing stealthily
to the front door, turn the key, and step out into the
faintly-lighted street. A delightful sensation thrilled our hero, as
he felt the pure air fanning his cheek.
"Nobody can tell," thought he, "what a blessed thing freedom is till
he has been cooped up, as I have been, for the last week. Won't the
old man be a little surprised to find, in the morning, that the bird
has flown? I've a great mind to serve him a little trick."
So saying, Jack drew the key from its place inside, and locking the
door after him, went off with the key in his. pocket. First,
however, he took care to scratch a little mark on the outside of the
door, as he could not see the number, to serve as a means of
identification.
This done Jack made his way as well as he could guess to the house
of his uncle, the baker. Not having noticed the way by which Peg had
led him to the house, he wandered at first from the straight course.
At length, however, he came to Chestnut Street. He now knew where he
was, and, fifteen minutes later, he was standing before his uncle's
door.
Meanwhile, Abel Crump had been suffering great anxiety on account of
Jack's protracted absence. Several days had now elapsed, and still
he was missing. He had been unable to find the slightest trace of
him.
"I am afraid of the worst," he said to his wife, on the afternoon of
the day on which Jack made his escape. "I think Jack was probably
rash and imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the
death of him."
"Don't you think there is any hope? He may be confined."
"It is possible; but, at all events, I don't think it right to keep
it from Timothy any longer. I've put off writing as long as I could,
hoping Jack would come back, but I don't feel as if I ought to hold
it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy
to come right on. It'll be a dreadful blow to him."
"Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from
Jack before that time?"
The baker shook his head.
"If we'd been going to hear, we'd have heard before this time," he
said.
He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the
thought of his brother's affliction, kept him awake.
About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by
a knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, "Who's there?"
"A friend," was the answer.
"What friend?" asked the baker, suspiciously. Friends are not very
apt to come at this time of night."
"Don't you know me, Uncle Abel?" asked a cheery voice.
"Why, it's Jack, I verily believe," said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he
hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.
"Where in the name of wonder have you been, Jack?" he asked,
surveying his nephew by the light of the candle.
"I've been shut up, uncle,--boarded and lodged for nothing,--by some
people who liked my company better than I liked theirs. But to-night
I made out to escape, and hero I am. I'll tell you all about it in
the morning. Just now I'm confoundedly hungry, and if there's
anything in the pantry, I'll ask permission to go in there a few
minutes."
"I guess you'll find something, Jack. Take the candle with you.
Thank God, you're back alive. We've been very anxious about you."
CHAPTER XXII.
MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE.
PEG had been thinking.
This was the substance of her reflections. Ida, whom she had
kidnapped for certain purposes of her own, was likely to prove an
(sic) incumbrance rather than a source of profit. The child, her
suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had
been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose.
So firmly resolved was she not to do what was wrong, that threats
and persuasions were alike unavailing. Added to this was the danger
of her encountering some one sent in search of her by the Crumps.
Under these circumstances, Peg bethought herself of the ultimate
object which she had proposed to herself in kidnapping Ida--that of
extorting money from a man who is now to be introduced to the
reader.
John Somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome
lodging-house on Walnut Street. A man wanting yet several years of
forty, he looked a greater age. Late hours and dissipation, though
kept within respectable limits, had left their traces on his face.
At twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined
with some professional practice (for he was a lawyer, and not
without ability), was quite sufficient to support him handsomely,
and leave a considerable surplus every year. But, latterly, he had
contracted a passion for gaming, and however shrewd he might be
naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily
habitues of the gaming-table, who had marked him as their prey.
The evening before he is introduced to the reader's notice he had,
passed till a late hour at a fashionable gambling-house, where he
had lost heavily. His reflections, on awakening, were not of the
pleasantest. For the first time, within fifteen years, he realized
the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. The evening
previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his
I O U. Where to raise this money, he did not know. He bathed his
aching head, and cursed his ill luck, in no measured terms. After
making his toilet, he rang the bell, and ordered breakfast.
For this he had but scanty appetite. Scarcely had he finished, and
directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to
announce a visitor.
"Is it a gentleman?" he inquired, hastily, fearing it might be a
creditor. He occasionally had such visitors.
"No, sir."
"A lady?"
"No, sir."
"A child? But what could a child want of me?"
"If it's neither a gentleman, lady, nor child," said Somerville,
somewhat surprised, "will you have the goodness to inform me who it
is?"
"It's a woman, sir," said the servant, grinning.
"Why didn't you say so when I asked you?" said his employer,
irritably.
"Because you asked if it was a lady, and this isn't--at least she
don't look like one."
"You can send her up, whoever she is," said Mr. Somerville.
A moment afterwards Peg entered the apartment.
John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that
she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for
charity. So many years had passed since he had met with this woman,
that she had passed out of his remembrance.
"Do you wish to see me about anything?" he asked, indifferently. "If
so, you must be quick, for I am just going out."
"You don't seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville," said Peg, fixing
her keen black eyes upon his face.
"I can't say I do," he replied, carelessly. "Perhaps you used to
wash for me once."
"I am not in the habit of acting as laundress," said the woman,
proudly. It is worth noticing that she was not above passing
spurious coin, and doing other things which are stamped as
disreputable by the laws of the land, but her pride revolted at the
imputation that she was a washer-woman.
"In that case," said Somerville, carelessly, "you will have to tell
me who you are, for it is out of my power to conjecture."
"Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection," said Peg,
composedly.
"Ida!" repeated John Somerville, changing color, and gazing now with
attention at the woman's features.
"Yes."
"I have known several persons of that name," he said, evasively. "Of
course, I can't tell which of them you refer to."
"The Ida I mean was and is a child," said Peg. "But, Mr. Somerville,
there's no use in beating about the bush, when I can come straight
to the point. It is now about eight years since my husband and
myself were employed in carrying off a child--a female child of
about a year old--named Ida. We placed it, according to your
directions, on the door-step of a poor family in New York, and they
have since cared for it as their own. I suppose you have not
forgotten that."
John Somerville deliberated. Should he deny it or not? He decided to
put a bold face on the matter.
"I remember it," said he, "and now recall your features. How have
you fared since the time I employed you? Have you found your
business profitable?"
"Far from it," answered Peg. "We are not yet able to retire on a
competence."
"One of your youthful appearance," said Solmerville, banteringly,
"ought not to think of retiring under ten years."
Peg smiled. She knew how to appreciate this speech.
"I don't care for compliments," said she, "even when they are
sincere. As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have
reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into
my second childhood."
"Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business has
brought you here?"
"I want a thousand dollars."
"A thousand dollars!" repeated John Somerville. "Very likely, I
should like that amount myself. You have not come here to tell me
that?"
"I have come here to ask that amount of you."
"Suppose I should say that your husband is the proper person for you
to apply to in such a case."
"I think I am more likely to get it out of you," answered Peg,
coolly. "My husband couldn't supply me with a thousand cents, even
if he were willing, which is not likely."
"Much as I am flattered by your application," said Somerville,
"since it would seem to place me next in your estimation to your
husband, I cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow
such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent
rendered."
"I am ready to give you an equivalent."
"Of what value?"
"I am willing to be silent."
"And how can your silence benefit me?"
John Somerville asked this question with an assumption of
indifference, but his fingers twitched nervously.
"That _you_ will be best able to estimate," said Peg.
"Explain yourself."
"I can do that in a few words. You employed me to kidnap a child. I
believe the law has something to say about that. At any rate, the
child's mother may have."
"What do you know about the child's mother?" demanded Somerville,
hastily.
"All about her!" returned Peg, emphatically.
"How am I to know that? It is easy to claim the knowledge."
"Shall I tell you all? In the first place she married your cousin,
_after rejecting you_. You never forgave her for this. When a year
after marriage her husband died, you renewed your proposals. They
were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain
of forfeiting her friendship forever. You left her presence,
determined to be revenged. With this object you sought Dick and
myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. There is the whole
story, briefly told."
John Somerville listened, with compressed lips and pale face.
"Woman, how came this within your knowledge?" he demanded, coarsely.
"That is of no consequence," said Peg. "It was for my interest to
find out, and I did so."
"Well?"
"I know one thing more--the residence of the child's mother. I
hesitated this morning whether to come here, or carry Ida to her
mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what I demand from
you, because it is your interest to comply with my request."
"You speak of carrying the child to her mother. She is in New York."
"You are mistaken," said Peg, coolly. "She is in Philadelphia."
"With you?"
"With me."
"How long has this been?"
"Nearly a fortnight."
John Somerville paced the room with hurried steps. Peg watched him
carelessly. She felt that she had succeeded. He paused after awhile,
and stood before her.
"You demand a thousand dollars," he said.
"I do."
"I have not that amount with me. I have recently lost a heavy sum,
no matter how. But I can probably get it to-day. Call to-morrow at
this time,--no, in the afternoon, and I will see what I can do for
you."
"Very well," said Peg.
Left to himself, John Somerville spent some time in reflection.
Difficulties encompassed him--difficulties from which he found it
hard to find a way of escape. He knew how impossible it would be to
meet this woman's demand. Something must be done. Gradually his
countenance lightened. He had decided what that something should be.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAW STEPS IN.
WHEN Peg left Mr. John Somerville's apartment, it was with a high
degree of satisfaction at the result of her interview. She looked
upon the thousand dollars as sure to be hers. The considerations
which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to make every
effort to secure her silence. With a thousand dollars, what might
not be done? She would withdraw from the coining-business, for one
thing. It was too hazardous. Why might not Dick and she retire to
the country, lease a country-inn, and live an honest life hereafter.
There were times when she grew tired of the life she lived at
present. It would be pleasant to go to some place where she was not
known, and enrol herself among the respectable members of the
community. She was growing old; she wanted rest and a quiet home.
Her early years had been passed in the country. She remembered still
the green fields in which she played as a child, and to this woman,
old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life return.
It occurred to her to look in upon Jack, whom she had left in
captivity four days before. She had a curiosity to see how he bore
his confinement.
She knocked at the door, and was admitted by the old man who kept
the house. Mr. Foley was looking older and more wrinkled than ever.
He had been disturbed of his rest the night previous, he said.
"Well," said Peg, "and how is our prisoner?"
"Bless my soul," said Mr. Foley, "I haven't been to give him his
breakfast this morning. He must be hungry. But my head is in such a
state. However, I think I've secured him."
"What do you mean?"
"I have asked him to become one of us,--he's a bold lad,--and he has
promised to think of it."
"He is not to be trusted," said Peg, hastily,
"You think not?"
"I know it."
"Well," said the old man, "I suppose you know him better than I do.
But he's a bold lad."
"I should like to go up and see him," said Peg.
"Wait a minute, and I will carry up his breakfast."
The old man soon reappeared from the basement with some cold meat
and bread and butter.
"You may go up first," he said; "you are younger than I am."
They reached the landing.
"What's all this?" demanded Peg, her quick eyes detecting the
aperture in the door.
"What's what?" asked Foley.
"Is this the care you take of your prisoners?" demanded Peg,
sharply. "It looks as if he had escaped."
"Escaped! Impossible!"
"I hope so. Open the door quick."
The door was opened, and the two hastily entered.
"The bird is flown," said Peg.
"I--I don't understand it," said the old man, turning pale.
"I do. He has cut a hole in the door, slipped back the bolt, and
escaped. When could this have happened?"
"I don't know. Yes, I do remember, now, being disturbed last night
by a noise in the entry. I got out of bed, and looked out, but could
see no one."
"Did you come up-stairs?"
"Part way."
"When was this?"
"Past midnight."
"No doubt that was the time he escaped."
"That accounts for the door being locked," said the old man,
thoughtfully.
"What door?"
"The outer door. When I got up this morning, I found the key had
disappeared, and the door was locked. Luckily we had an extra key,
and so opened it."
"Probably he carried off the other in his pocket."
"Ah, he is a bold lad,--a bold lad," said Foley.
"You may find that out to your cost. He'll be likely to bring the
police about your ears."
"Do you think so?" said the old man, in alarm.
"I think it more than probable."
"But he don't know the house," said Foley, in a tone of reassurance.
"It was dark when he left here, and he will not be apt to find it
again."
"Perhaps not, but lie will be likely to know you when he sees you
again. I advise you to keep pretty close."
"I certainly shall," said the old man, evidently alarmed by this
suggestion. "What a pity that such a bold lad shouldn't be in our
business!"
"Perhaps you'll wish yourself out of it before long," muttered Peg.
As if in corroboration of her words, there was a sharp ring at the
door-bell.
The old man, who was constitutionally timid, turned pale, and looked
helplessly at his companion.
"What is it?" he asked, apprehensively.
"Go and see."
"I don't dare to."
"You're a coward," said Peg, contemptuously. "Then I'll go."
She went down stairs, followed by the old man. She threw open the
street door, but even her courage was somewhat daunted by the sight
of two police officers, accompanied by Jack.
"That's the man," said Jack, pointing out Foley, who tried to
conceal himself behind Mrs. Hardwick's more ample proportions.
"I have a warrant for your arrest," said one of the officers,
advancing to Foley.
"Gentlemen, spare me," he said, clasping his hands. "What have I
done?"
"You are charged with uttering counterfeit coin.
"I am innocent."
"If you are, that will come out on your trial."
"Shall I have to be tried?" he asked, piteously.
"Of course. If you are innocent, no harm will come to you."
Peg had been standing still, irresolute what to do. Determined upon
a bold step, she made a movement to pass the officers.
"Stop!" said Jack. "I call upon you to arrest that woman. She is the
Mrs. Hardwick against whom you have a warrant."
"What is all this for?" demanded Peg, haughtily. "What right have
you to interfere with me?"
"That will be made known to you in due time. You are suspected of
being implicated with this man."
"I suppose I must yield," said Peg, sulkily. "But perhaps you, young
sir," turning to Jack, "may not be the gainer by it."
"Where is Ida?" asked Jack, anxiously.
"She is safe," said Peg, sententiously.
"You won't tell me where she is?"
"No. Why should I? I am indebted to you, I suppose, for this arrest.
She shall be kept out of your way as long as it is in my power to do
so."
Jack's countenance fell.
"At least you will tell me whether she is well?"
"I shall answer no questions whatever," said Mrs. Hardwick.
"Then I will find her," he said, gaining courage. "She is somewhere
in the city, and sooner or later I shall find her."
Peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great
disappointment to her. Apart from the consequences which might
result from it, it would prevent her meeting with John Somerville,
and obtaining from him the thousand dollars of which she had
regarded herself certain. Yet even from her prison-cell she might
hold over him _in terrorem_ the threat of making known to Ida's
mother the secret of her child's existence. All was not lost. She
walked quietly to the carriage in waiting, while her companions, in
an ecstasy of terror, seemed to have lost the power of locomotion,
and had to be supported on either side.
CHAPTER XXIV.
"THE FLOWER-GIRL."
"BY gracious, if that isn't Ida!" exclaimed Jack, in profound
surprise.
He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly, troubled
by the thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody,
he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his foster-sister than
before. What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide.
In his perplexity he came suddenly upon the print of the
"Flower-Girl."
"Yes," said he, "that is Ida, plain enough. Perhaps they will know
in the store where she is to be found."
He at once entered the store.
"Can you tell me anything about the girl that picture was taken
for?" he asked, abruptly of the nearest clerk.
The clerk smiled.
"It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think it would take you a long
time to find the original."
"It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. It is
the picture of my sister."
"Of your sister!" repeated the clerk, with surprise, half
incredulous.
There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout,
good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida's beauty was of a
delicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,--her skin of a
brilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,--exhibiting a
physical perfection, which it requires several generations of
refined habits and exemptions from the coarser burdens of life to
produce. The perfection of human development is not wholly a matter
of chance, but is dependent, in no small degree, upon outward
conditions. We frequently see families who have sprung from poverty
to wealth exhibiting, in the younger branches, marked improvement in
this respect.
"Yes;" said Jack, "my sister."
"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she
is."
Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a
surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her
eyes, also, were fixed upon "The Flower-Girl."
"Who is this?" she asked, hurriedly. "Is it taken from life?"
"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.
"Your sister!" said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack.
In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as
it seemed, disappointment.
"Yes, madam," said Jack, respectfully.
"Pardon me," she said, "there is so little family resemblance, I
should hardly have supposed it."
"She is not my own sister," said Jack, "but I love her just the
same."
"Do you live in (sic) Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the
lady, eagerly.
"I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from us
nearly a fortnight since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I
have not been able to find her yet."
"Did you say her name was Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange
agitation.
"Yes, madam."
"My young friend," said the lady, rapidly, "I have been much
interested in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more,
but not here. Would you have any objection to coming home with me,
and telling me the rest? Then we will, together, concert measures
for discovering her."
"You are very kind, madam," said Jack, somewhat bashfully; for the
lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to
converse with many ladies of her rank; "I shall be very much obliged
to you for your advice and assistance."
"Then we will drive home at once."
Jack followed her to the street, where he saw an elegant carriage,
and a coachman in livery.
With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage,
and, at her bidding, got in himself.
"Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as
possible."
"Yes, madam."
"How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked Mrs.
Clifton. Jack afterwards ascertained that this was her name.
"About a year old, madam."
"And how long since was it?" asked the lady, bending forward with
breathless interest.
"Eight years since. She is now nine."
"It must be," said the lady, in a low voice. "If it is indeed so,
how will my life be blessed!"
"Did you speak, madam?"
"Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted Ida."
Jack related, briefly, the circumstances, which are already familiar
to the reader.
"And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"
"It was at the close of December, the night before New Years."
"It is--it must be she!" ejaculated the lady, clasping her hands
while tears of happy joy welled from her eyes.
"I--I do not understand," said Jack.
"My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential. I
have every reason to believe that this child--your adopted
sister--is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the
time of which you speak. From that day to this I have never been
able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery.
I have long taught myself to look upon her as dead."
"It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside
him. She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened
into the maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling
complexion--the same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were
wonderfully like Ida's. Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.
"You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."
"You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.
"Yes, madam."
"I had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of Ida just before I lost
her. I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you."
The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet
street. The driver dismounted, and opened the door. Jack assisted
Mrs. Clifton to alight.
Bashfully, he followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding,
seated himself in an elegant apartment, furnished with a splendor
which excited his wonder. He had little time to look about him, for
Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to take off her street-attire,
hastened down stairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.
"Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?" she
asked. "Did she look like this?"
"It is her image," said Jack, decidedly. "I should know it
anywhere."
"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my
child whom you have cared for so long. Oh, why could I not have
known it? How many sleepless nights and lonely days would it have
spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! Pardon me, I
have not yet asked your name."
"My name is Crump--Jack Crump."
"Jack?" said the lady, smiling.
"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to
be called by another."
"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's
heart at once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful
than Ida; "as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in
some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Crump, for that would
seem too formal. I will call you Jack."
To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of her
life was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not be
exceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero. Had Mrs.
Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a
profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.
"Now Jack," said Mrs. Clifton, "we must take measures immediately to
discover Ida. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from
your house, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding
her out."
Jack began at the beginning, and described the appearance of Mrs.
Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false
representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to
Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate
refusal to impart any information as to Ida's whereabouts.
Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more
difficulties in the way than she had supposed.
"Do you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, at length.
"Yes, madam," said our hero. "The man who painted the picture of Ida
may know where she is to be found."
"You are right," said the lady. "I should have thought of it before.
I will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go
back to the print-store."
An hour later, Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant
lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of eighteen.
"I think you are the artist who designed 'The Flower-Girl,'" said
Mrs. Clifton.
"I am, madam."
"It was taken from life?"
"You are right."
"I am anxious to find out the little girl whose face you copied. Can
you give me any directions that will enable me to find her out?"
"I will accompany you to the place, if you desire it, madam," said
the young man. "It is a strange neighborhood to look for so much
beauty."
"I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far,"
said the lady. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your
orders."
Once more they were on the move. A few minutes later, and the
carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite
scandalized at the idea of bringing his lady to such a place.
"This can't be the place, madam," he said.
"Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, madam. I will go in, and
find out all that is needful."
Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.
"We are too late," he said. "An hour since a gentleman called, and
took away the child."
Mrs. Clifton sank back, in keen disappointment.
"My child, my child!" she murmured. "Shall I ever see thee again?"
Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to
acknowledge. He could not conjecture who this gentleman could be who
had carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and more complicated
than ever.
CHAPTER XXV.
IDA IS FOUND.
IDA was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now
obliged to call home. Peg had gone out, and not feeling quite
certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had
left some work for the child,--some handkerchiefs to hem for
Dick,--with strict orders to keep steadily at work.
While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a
knock at the, door.
"Who's there?" asked Ida.
"A friend," was the reply.
"Mrs. Hardwick--Peg isn't at home," returned Ida. "I don't know when
she will be back."
"Then I will come in and wait till she comes back," said the voice
outside.
"I can't open the door," said Ida. "It's fastened on the outside."
"Yes, I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt."
Mr. John Somerville entered the room, and for the first time in
eight years his glance fell upon the child whom, for so long a time,
he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness.
Ida returned to the window.
"How beautiful she is!" thought Somerville, with surprise. "She
inherits all her mother's rare beauty."
On the table beside Ida was a drawing.
"Whose is this?" he inquired.
"Mine," answered Ida.
"So you have learned to draw?"
"A little," answered the child, modestly.
"Who taught you? Not the woman you live with?"
"No;" said Ida.
"You have not always lived with her, I am sure."
Ida admitted that she had not.
"You lived in New York with a family named Crump, did you not?"
"Do you know father and mother?" asked Ida, with sudden hope. "Did
they send you for me?"
"I will tell you that by and by, my child; but I want to ask you a
few questions first. Why does this woman Peg lock you in whenever
she goes away?"
"I suppose," said Ida, "she is afraid I will run away."
"Then she knows you don't want to live with her?"
"Oh, yes, she knows that," said the child, frankly. "I have asked
her to send me home, but she says she won't for a year."
"And how long have you been with her?"
"About a fortnight."
"What does she make you do?"
"I can't tell what she made me do first."
"Why not?"
"Because she would be very angry."
"Suppose I should tell you that I would deliver you from her. Would
you be willing to go with me?"
"And you would carry me back to my mother and father?"
"Certainly, I would restore you to your mother," said he, evasively.
"Then I will go with you."
Ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl.
"We had better go at once," said Somerville. "Peg might return, and
give us trouble."
"O yes, let us go quickly," said Ida, turning pale at the remembered
threats of Peg.
Neither knew yet that Peg could not return if she would; that, at
this very moment, she was in legal custody on a charge of a serious
nature. Still less did Ida know that, in going, she was losing the
chance of seeing Jack and her mother, of whose existence, even, she
was not yet aware; and that he, to whose care she consigned herself
so gladly, had been her worst enemy.
"I will carry you to my room, in the first place," said her
companion. "You must remain in concealment for a day or two, as Peg
will, undoubtedly, be on the lookout for you, and we want to avoid
all trouble."
Ida was delighted with her escape, and, with the hope of soon seeing
her friends in New York, She put implicit faith in her guide, and
was willing to submit to any conditions which he might impose.
On emerging into the street, her companion summoned a cab. He had
reasons for not wishing to encounter any one whom he knew.
At length they reached his lodgings.
They were furnished more richly than any room Ida had yet seen; and
formed, indeed, a luxurious contrast to the dark and
scantily-furnished apartment which she had occupied for the last
fortnight.
"Well, are you glad to get away from Peg?" asked John Somerville,
giving Ida a seat at the fire.
"Oh, _so_ glad!" said Ida.
"And you wouldn't care about going back?"
The child shuddered.
"I suppose," said she, "that Peg will be very angry. She would beat
me, if she should get me back again."
"But she sha'n't. I will take good care of that."
Ida looked her gratitude. Her heart went out to those who appeared
to deal kindly with her, and she felt very grateful to her companion
for his instrumentality in effecting her deliverance from Peg.
"Now," said Somerville, "perhaps you will be willing to tell me what
it was you were required to do."
"Yes," said Ida; "but she must never know that I told. It was to
pass bad money."
"Ha!" exclaimed her companion. "Do you mean bad bills, or spurious
coin?"
"It was silver dollars."
"Does she do much in that way?"
"A good deal. She goes out every day to buy things with the money."
"I am glad to learn this," said John Somerville, thoughtfully.
"Ida," said he, after a pause, "I am going out for a time. You will
find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading; I won't
make you sew, as Peg did," he said, smiling.
Ida laughed.
"Oh, yes," said she, "I like reading. I shall amuse myself very
well."
Mr. Somerville went out, and Ida, as he recommended, read awhile.
Then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. A
carriage was passing slowly, on account of a press of carriages. Ida
saw a face that she knew. Forgetting her bonnet in her sudden joy,
she ran down the stairs, into the street, and up to the carriage
window.
"O Jack!" she exclaimed; "have you come for me?"
It was Mrs. Clifton's carriage, returning from Peg's lodgings.
"Why, it's Ida!" exclaimed Jack, almost springing through the window
of the carriage. "Where did you come from, and where have you been
all the time?"
He opened the door of the carriage, and drew Ida in.
Till then she had not seen the lady who sat at Jack's side.
"My child, my child! Thank God, you are restored to me," exclaimed
Mrs. Clifton.
She drew the astonished child to her bosom. Ida looked up into her
face. Was it Nature that prompted her to return the lady's embrace?
"My God, I thank thee!" murmured Mrs. Clifton; "for this, my child,
was lost and is found."
"Ida," said Jack, "this lady is your mother."
"My mother!" said the child, bewildered. "Have I two mothers?"
"Yes, but this is your real mother. You were brought to our house
when you were an infant, and we have always taken care of you; but
this lady is your real mother."
Ida hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry.
"And you are not my brother?"
"You shall still consider him your brother, Ida," said Mrs. Clifton.
"Heaven forbid that I should wean your heart from the friends who
have cared so kindly for you! You shall keep all your old friends,
and love them as dearly as ever. You will only have one friend the
more."
"Where are we going?" asked Ida, suddenly.
"We are going home."
"What will the gentleman say?"
"What gentleman?"
"The one that took me away from Peg's. Why, there he is now!"
Mrs. Clifton followed the direction of Ida's finger, as she pointed
to a gentleman passing.
"Is he the one?"
"Yes, mamma," said Ida, shyly.
Mrs. Clifton pressed Ida to her breast. It was the first time she
had ever been called mamma. It made her realize, more fully, her
present happiness.
Arrived at the house, Jack's bashfulness returned. He hung back, and
hesitated about going in.
Mrs. Clifton observed this.
"Jack," said she, "this house is to be your home while you remain in
Philadelphia. Come in, and Thomas shall go for your baggage."
"Perhaps I had better go with him," said Jack. "Uncle Abel will be
glad to know that Ida is found."
"Very well; only return soon."
"Well!" thought Jack, as he re-entered the (sic) carraige, and gave
the direction to the coachman; "won't Uncle Abel be a little
surprised when he sees me coming home in such style!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
"NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."
MEANWHILE, Peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. It was
certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was
likely to make it most profitable. After some reflection, she
determined to send for Mrs. Clifton, and reveal to her all she knew,
trusting to her generosity for a recompense.
To one of the officers of the prison she communicated the
intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to Mrs.
Clifton, and absolutely refused to make it unless the lady would
visit her in prison.
Scarcely had Mrs. Clifton returned home, after recovering her child,
than the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced.
"Is this Mrs. Clifton?" he inquired.
"It is."
"Then I have a message for you."
The lady inclined her head.
"You must know, madam, that I am one of the officers connected with
the City Prison. A woman was placed in confinement this morning, who
says she has a most important communication to make to you, but
declines to make it except to you in person."
"Can you bring her here, sir?"
"That is impossible. We will give you every facility, however, for
visiting her in prison."
"It must be Peg," whispered Ida; "the woman that carried me off."
Such a request Mrs. Clifton could not refuse. She at once made ready
to accompany the officer. She resolved to carry Ida with her,
fearful that, unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she
might disappear again as before.
As Jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they
proceeded at once to the prison. Ida shuddered as she passed beneath
the gloomy portal which shut out hope and the world from so many.
"This way, madam!"
They followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came
to the cell in which Peg was confined.
The tenant of the cell looked surprised to find Mrs. Clifton
accompanied by Ida.
"How do you do, Ida?" she said, smiling grimly; "you see I've moved.
Just tell your mother she can sit down on the bed. I'm sorry I
haven't any rocking-chair or sofa to offer you."
"O Peg," said Ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's
misfortunes; "how sorry I am to find you here!"
"Are you sorry?" asked Peg, looking at her in surprise.
"You haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy, or one of
the worst."
"I can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine
compassion; "it must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able
to go out into the bright sunshine. I do pity you."
Peg's heart was not wholly hardened. Few are. But it was long since
it had been touched as it was now by this great pity on the part of
one she had injured.
"You're a good girl, Ida," she said; "and I'm sorry I've injured
you. I didn't think I should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but I
do ask your forgiveness."
The child rose, and advancing towards Peg, took her large hand in
(sic) her's and said, "I forgive you, Peg."
"From your heart?"
"With all my heart."
"Thank you, child. I feel better now. There have been times when I
thought I should like to lead a better life."
"It is not too late now, Peg."
Peg shook her head.
"Who will trust me after I have come from here?"
"I will," said Mrs. Clifton, speaking for the first time.
"You will?"
"Yes."
"And yet you have much to forgive. But it was not my plan to steal
your daughter from you. I was poor, and money tempted me."
"Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?"
"One whom you know well,--Mr. John Somerville."
"Surely, you are wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, in unbounded
astonishment. "It cannot be. What object could he have had?"
"Can you think of none?" queried Peg, looking at her shrewdly.
Mrs. Clifton changed color. "Perhaps so," she said. "Go on."
Peg told the whole story, so circumstantially, that there was no
room left for doubt.
"I did not believe him capable of such wickedness," she ejaculated.
"It was a base, unmanly revenge. How could you lend yourself to it?"
"How could I?" repeated Peg. "Madam, you are rich. You have always
had whatever wealth could procure. How can you understand the
temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face,
we have not the strength to resist that you have in your luxurious
homes."
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Clifton, touched by these words, half bitter,
half pathetic; "let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you
have done me now. When you are released from your confinement, come
to me. If you wish to change your mode of life and live honestly
henceforth, I will give you the chance."
"You will!" said Peg, eagerly.
"I will."
"After all the injury I have done you, you will trust me still?"
"Who am I that I should condemn you? Yes, I will trust you, and
forgive you."
"I never expected to hear such words," said Peg, her heart softened,
and her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion, "least of all from
you. I should like to ask one thing."
"What is it?"
"Will you let her come and see me sometimes?" she pointed to Ida as
she spoke; "it will remind me that this is not all a dream--these
words which you have spoken."
"She shall come," said Mrs. Clifton, "and I will come too,
sometimes."
"Thank you," said Peg.
They left the prison behind them, and returned home.
"Mr. Somerville is in the drawing-room," said the servant. "He
wishes to see you."
Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.
"I will go down," she said. "Ida, you will remain here."
She descended to the drawing-room, and met the man who had injured
her. He had come with the resolve to stake his all upon a single
cast. His fortunes were desperate. Through the mother's love for the
daughter whom she had mourned so long, whom, as he believed he had
it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to
a marriage, which would retrieve his fortunes, and gratify his
ambition.
Mrs. Clifton seated herself quietly. She did not, as usual, offer
him her hand. Full of his own plans, he did not notice this
omission.
"How long is it since Ida was lost?" inquired Somerville.
Mrs. Clifton started in some surprise. She had not expected him to
introduce this subject.
"Eight years," she said.
"And you believe she yet lives?"
"Yes, I am certain of it."
John Somerville did not understand her aright. He felt only that a
mother never gives up hope.
"Yet it is a long time," he said.
"It is--a long time to suffer," she said. "How could any one have
the heart to work me this great injury? For eight years I have led a
sad and solitary life,--years that might have been made glad by
Ida's presence."
There was something in her tone which puzzled John Somerville, but
he was far enough from suspecting the truth.
"Rose," he said, after a pause. "Do you love your child well enough
to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?"
"What sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.
"A sacrifice of your feelings."
"Explain. You talk in enigmas."
"Listen, then. I, too, believe Ida to be living. Withdraw the
opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will
reward my affection by your land if I succeed, and I will devote
myself to the search for Ida, resting day nor night till I am able
to place her in your arms. Then, if I succeed, may I claim my
reward?"
"What reason have you for thinking you should find her?" asked Mrs.
Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.
"I think I have got a clew."
"And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding
of me this sacrifice?"
"No, Rose," he said, "I am not unselfish enough."
"But, consider a moment. Will not even that be poor atonement enough
for the wrong you have done me,"--she spoke rapidly now,--"for the
grief and loneliness and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty
have wrought?"
"I do not understand you," he said, turning pale.
"It is enough to say that I have seen the woman who is now in
prison,--your paid agent,--and that I need no assistance to recover
Ida. She is in my house."
What more could be said?
John Somerville rose, and left the room. His grand scheme had
failed.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CONCLUSION.
I AM beginning to feel anxious about Jack," said Mrs. Crump. "It's
almost a week since we heard from him. I'm afraid he's got into some
trouble."
"Probably he's too busy to write," said the cooper.
"I told you so," said Rachel, in one of her usual fits of
depression. "I told you Jack wasn't fit to be sent on such an
errand. If you'd only taken my advice, you wouldn't have had so much
worry and trouble about him now. Most likely he's got into the House
of Reformation, or somewhere. I knew a young man once who went away
from home, and never came back again. Nobody ever knew what became
of him till his body was found in the river, half-eaten by fishes."
"How can you talk so, Rachel?" said Mrs. Crump, indignantly; "and of
your own nephew, too!"
"This is a world of trial and disappointment," said Rachel; "and we
might as well expect the worst, because it's sure to come."
"At that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said the cooper.
"No, Rachel, you are wrong. God didn't send us into the world to be
melancholy. He wants us to enjoy ourselves. Now I have no idea that
Jack has jumped into the river. Then again, if he has, he can swim."
"I suppose," said Rachel, "you expect him to come home in a coach
and four, bringing Ida with him."
"Well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "I don't know but that is
as probable as your anticipations."
Rachel shook her head dismally.
"Bless me!" said Mrs. Crump, in a tone of excitement; "there's a
carriage just stopped at our door, and--yes, it is Jack, and Ida
too!"
The strange (sic) fulfilment of the cooper's suggestion struck even
Aunt Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome
carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two elegant bays,
standing before the door. Jack had already jumped out, and was now
assisting Ida to alight. No sooner was Ida on firm ground than she
ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her
adopted mother.
"O mother!" she exclaimed; "how glad I am to see you once more."
"Haven't you a kiss for me too, Ida?" said the cooper, his face
radiant with joy. "You don't know how much we've missed you."
"And I'm so glad to sec you all, and Aunt Rachel, too."
To her astonishment, Aunt Rachel, for the first time in the child's
remembrance, kissed her. There was nothing wanting to her welcome
home.
Scarcely had the spinster done so than her observant eyes detected
what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy.
"Where did you get this dress, Ida?" she asked.
Then, for the first time, all observed that Ida was more elegantly
dressed than when she went away. She looked like a young princess.
"That Mrs. Hardwick didn't give you this gown, I'll be bound," said
she.
"Oh, I've so much to tell you," said Ida, breathlessly. "I've found
my mother,--my other mother!"
A pang struck to the honest hearts of Timothy Crump and his wife.
Ida must leave them. After all the happy years during which they had
watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length.
Just then, an elegantly-dressed lady appeared at the threshold.
Smiling, radiant with happiness, Mrs. Clifton seemed, to the
cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere.
"Mother," said Ida, taking her hand, and leading her to Mrs. Crump,
"this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me
and loved me so well."
"Mrs. Crump," said Mrs. Clifton, "how can I ever thank you for your
care of my child?"
My child!
It was hard for Mrs. Crump to hear another speak of Ida in this way.
"I have tried to do my duty by her," she said, simply; "I love her
so much."
"Yes," said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little
huskily, "we all love her as if she was our own. She has been so
long with us that we have come to think of her as our own, and--and
it won't be easy at first to give her up."
"My friend," said Mrs. Clifton, "think not that I shall ever ask you
to make that sacrifice. I shall always think of Ida as only a little
less yours than mine."
"But you live in Philadelphia. We shall lose sight of her."
"Not unless you refuse to come to Philadelphia, too."
"I am not sure whether I could find work there."
"That shall be my care. I have another inducement. God has bestowed
upon me a large share of this world's goods. I am thankful for it,
since it will enable me in some slight way to express my sense of
your great services to Ida. I own a neat brick house in a quiet
street, which you will find more comfortable than this. Just before
I left Philadelphia my lawyer drew up a deed of gift, conveying the
house to you. It is Ida's gift, not mine. Ida, give this to Mr.
Crump."
The child took the parchment, and handed it to the cooper, who was
bewildered by his sudden good fortune.
"This for me?" he said.
"It is the first installment of my debt of gratitude; it shall not
be the last," said Mrs. Clifton.
"How shall I thank you, madam?" said the cooper. "To a poor man this
is, indeed, an acceptable gift."
"By accepting it," said Mrs. Clifton. "Let me add, for I know it
will enhance the value of the gift in your eyes, that it is only
five minutes' walk from my own house, and Ida will come and see you
every day."
"Yes, mamma," said Ida; "I couldn't be happy away from father and
mother and Jack, and Aunt Rachel."
"You must introduce me to your Aunt Rachel," said Mrs. Clifton, with
a grace all her own.
Ida did so.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Rachel," said Mrs.
Clifton. "I need not say that I shall be glad to see you, as well as
Mr. and Mrs. Crump, at my house very frequently."
"I'm much obleeged to you," said Aunt Rachel; "but I don't think I
shall live long to go anywhere. The feelin's I have, sometimes warn
me that I'm not long for this world."
"You see, Mrs. Clifton," said Jack, his eyes dancing with mischief,
"we come of a short-lived family. Grandmother died at eighty-two,
and that wouldn't give Aunt Rachel long to live."
"You impudent boy!" exclaimed Miss Rachel, in great indignation.
Then relapsing into melancholy, "I'm a poor afflicted creetur, and
the sooner I leave this scene of trial the better."
"Let us hope," said Mrs. Clifton, politely, "that you will find the
air of Philadelphia beneficial to your health. Change of air
sometimes works wonders."
In the course of a few weeks the whole family removed to
Philadelphia. The house which Mrs. Clifton had given them, (sic)
excceeded their anticipations. It was so much better and larger than
their present dwelling, that their furniture would have shown to
great disadvantage in it. But Mrs. Clifton had foreseen this, and
they found the house already furnished for their reception. Through
Mrs. Clifton's influence the cooper was enabled to establish himself
in business on a larger scale, and employ others, instead of working
himself, for hire. Ida was such a frequent visitor, that it was hard
to tell which she considered her home--her mother's elegant
dwelling, or Mrs. Cooper's comfortable home.
For Jack, a situation was found in a merchant's counting-room, and
he became a thriving young merchant, being eventually taken into
partnership. Ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare
beauty caused her to be sought after. If she does not marry well and
happily, it will not be for want of an opportunity.
Dear reader, you who deem that all stories should end with a
marriage, shall not be disappointed.
One day Aunt Rachel was missing from her room. It was remembered
that she had appeared singularly for some days previous, and the
knowledge of her constitutional low spirits, led to the apprehension
that she had made way with herself. The cooper was about to notify
the police, when the front door opened and Rachel walked in. She was
accompanied by a short man, stout and freckled.
"Why, Aunt Rachel," exclaimed Mrs. Crump, "where _have_ you been? We
have been so anxious about you."
A faint flush came to Aunt Rachel's sallow cheek.
"Sister Mary," said she, "you will be surprised, perhaps, but--but
this is my consort. Mr. Smith, let me introduce you to my sister."
"Then you are married, Rachel," said Mrs. Crump, quite confounded.
"Yes," said Rachel; "I--I don't expect to live long, and it won't
make much difference."
"I congratulate you, _Mrs. Smith_," said Mary Crump, heartily; "and
I wish you a long and happy life, I am sure."
It is observed that, since her marriage, Aunt Rachel's fits of
depression are less numerous than before. She has even been seen to
smile repeatedly, and has come to bear, with philosophical
equanimity, her nephew Jack's sly allusions to her elopement.
One word more. At the close of her term of confinement, Peg came to
Mrs. Clifton, and reminded her of her promise. Dick was dead, and
she was left alone in the world. Imprisonment had not hardened her
as it so often does. She had been redeemed by the kindness of those
she had injured. Mrs. Clifton secured her a position in which her
energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she
leads a laborious and useful life, in a community where her
antecedents are not known.
*** END. ***
- Details
- Written by: Administrator
- Category: Books
- Hits: 305
TIMOTHY CRUMP'S WARD:
A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE.
by Horatio Alger
1866.
CONTENTS :.
I. INTRODUCES THE CRUMPS
II. THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING
III. THE LANDLORD'S VISIT
IV. THE NEW YEAR'S PRESENT
V. A LUCKY RESCUE
VI. WHAT THE ENVELOPE CONTAINED
VII. EIGHT YEARS. IDA'S PROGRESS
VIII. A STRANGE VISITOR
IX. A JOURNEY
X. UNEXPECTED QUARTERS
XI. SUSPENSE
XII. HOW IDA FARED
XIII. BAD COIN
XIV. DOUBTS AND FEARS
XV. AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS
XVI. THE FLOWER-GIRL
XVII. JACK (sic) OBTAIN'S INFORMATION
XVIII. FINESSE
XIX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP
XX. JACK IN CONFINEMENT
XXI. THE PRISONER ESCAPES
XXII. MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE
XXIII. THE LAW STEPS IN
XXIV. "THE FLOWER-GIRL"
XXV. IDA IS FOUND
XXVI. "NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND"
XXVII. CONCLUSION
TIMOTHY CRUMP'S WARD.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCES THE CRUMPS.
IT was drawing towards the close of the last day of the year. A few
hours more, and 1836 would be no more.
It was a cold day. There was no snow on the ground, but it was
frozen into stiff ridges, making it uncomfortable to walk upon. The
sun had been out all day, but there was little heat or comfort in
its bright, but frosty beams.
The winter is a hard season for the poor. It multiplies their
necessities, while, in general, it limits their means and
opportunities of earning. The winter of 1836-37 was far from being
an exception to this rule. It was worse than usual, on account of
the general stagnation of business.
In an humble tenement, located on what was then the outskirts of New
York, though to-day a granite warehouse stands on the spot, lived
Timothy Crump, an industrious cooper. His family consisted of a wife
and one child, a boy of twelve, whose baptismal name was John,
though invariably addressed, by his companions, as Jack.
There was another member of the household who would be highly
offended if she were not introduced, in due form, to the reader.
This was Miss Rachel Crump, maiden sister of Uncle Tim, as he was
usually designated.
Miss Rachel was not much like her brother, for while the latter was
a good-hearted, cheerful easy man, who was inclined to view the
world in its sunniest aspect, Rachel was cynical, and given to
misanthropy. Poor Rachel, let us not be too hard upon thy
infirmities. Could we lift the veil that hides the secrets of that
virgin heart, it might be, perchance, that we should find a hidden
cause, far back in the days when thy cheeks were rounder and thine
eyes brighter, and thine aspect not quite so frosty. Ah, faithless
Harry Fletcher! thou hadst some hand in that peevishness and
repining which make Rachel Crump, and all about her, uncomfortable.
Lured away by a prettier face, you left her to pass through life,
unblessed by that love which every female heart craves, and for
which no kindred love will compensate. It was your faithlessness
that left her to walk, with repining spirit, the flinty path of the
old maid.
Yes; it must be said--Rachel Crump was an old maid; not from choice,
but hard necessity. And so, one by one, she closed up the avenues of
her heart, and clothed herself with complaining, as with a garment.
Being unblessed with earthly means, she had accepted the hearty
invitation of her brother, and become an inmate of his family, where
she paid her board by little services about the house, and obtained
sufficient needle-work to replenish her wardrobe as often as there
was occasion. Forty-five years had now rolled over her head, leaving
clearer traces of their presence, doubtless, than if her spirit had
been more cheerful; so that Rachel, whose strongly marked features
never could have been handsome, was now undeniably homely.
Mrs. Crump, fortunately for her husband's peace, did not in the
least resemble her sister-in-law. Her disposition was cheerful, and
she had frequent occasion to remonstrate with her upon the dark view
she took of life. Had her temper been different, it is very easy to
see that she would have been continually quarrelling with Rachel;
but, happily, she was one of those women with whom it is impossible
to quarrel. With her broad mantle of charity, she was always seeking
to cover up and extenuate the defects of her sister-in-law, though
she could not help acknowledging their existence.
It had been a hard winter for the cooper. For a month he had been
unable to obtain work of any kind, and for the two months previous
he had worked scarcely more than half the time. Unfortunately for
him, his expenses for a few years back had kept such even pace with
his income, that he had no reserved fund to fall back upon in such a
time as this. That was no fault of his. Both he and his wife had
been economical enough, but there are a great many things included
in family expenses--rent, fuel, provisions, food, clothing, and a
long list of sundries, besides; and all these had cost money, of
which desirable article Uncle Tim's trade furnished not a very large
supply.
So it happened that, as tradesmen were slow to trust, they had been
obliged to part with a sofa to defray the expenses of the month of
December. This article was selected because it was best convertible
into cash,--being wanted by a neighbor,--besides being about the
only article of luxury, if it could be called such, in possession of
the family. As such it had been hardly used, being reserved for
state occasions; yet hardly had it left (sic) the the house, when
Aunt Rachel began to show signs of extreme lowness of spirits, and
bewailed its loss as a privation of a personal comfort.
"Life's full of disappointments," she groaned. "Our paths is
continually beset by 'em. There's that sofa! It's so pleasant to
have one in the house when a body's sick. But there, it's gone, and
if I happen to get down, as most likely I shall, for I've got a bad
feeling in my stummick this very minute, I shall have to go
up-stairs, and most likely catch my death of cold, and that will be
the end of me."
"Not so bad as that, I hope," said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. "You
know, when you was sick last, you didn't want to use the sofa--you
said it didn't lay comfortable. Besides, I hope, before you are sick
again we may be able to buy it back again."
Aunt Rachel shook her head despondingly.
"There ain't any use in hoping that," said she. "Timothy's got so
much behindhand that he won't be able to get up again; I know he
won't."
"But if he manages to get steady work soon, he will."
"No, he won't. I'm sure he won't. There won't be any work before
spring, and most likely not then."
"You are too desponding, Aunt Rachel."
"Enough to make me so. If you had only taken my advice, we shouldn't
have come to this."
"I don't know what advice you refer to, Rachel."
"No, I don't expect you do. You didn't pay no attention to it.
That's the reason."
"But if you'll repeat it, perhaps we can profit by it yet," said
Mrs. Crump, with imperturbable good humor.
"I told you you ought to be layin' up something ag'in a rainy day.
But that's always the way. Folks think when times is good it's
always a goin' to be so, but I knew better."
"I don't see how we could have been more economical," said Mrs.
Crump, mildly.
"There's a hundred ways. Poor folks like us ought not to expect to
have meat so often. It's frightful to think what the butcher's bill
must have been the last six months."
Inconsistent Rachel! Only the day before she had made herself very
uncomfortable because there was no meat for dinner, and said she
couldn't live without it. Mrs. Crump might have reminded her of
this, but the good woman was too kind to make the retort. She
contented herself with saying that they must try to do better in
future.
"That's always the way," muttered Rachel. "Shut the stable door when
the horse is stolen. Folks never learn from experience till it's too
late to be of any use. I don't see what the world was made for, for
my part. Everything goes topsy-turvy, and all sorts of ways except
the right way. I sometimes think 'taint much use livin'."
"Oh, you'll feel better by and by, Rachel. Hark, there's Jack, isn't
it?"
"Anybody might know by the noise who it is," pursued Rachel, in the
same general tone that had marked her conversation hitherto. "He
always comes _stomping_ along as if he was paid for makin' a noise.
Anybody ought to have a cast-iron head that lives anywhere in his
hearing."
Her cheerful remarks were here broken in upon by the sudden entrance
of Jack, who, in his eagerness, slammed the door behind him,
unheeding his mother's quiet admonition not to make a noise.
"Look there!" said he, displaying a quarter of a dollar.
"How did you get it?" asked his mother.
"Holding horses," answered Jack.
"Here, take it, mother. I warrant you'll find a use for it."
"It comes in good time," said Mrs. Crump. "We're out of flour, and I
had no money to buy any. Before you take off your boots, Jack, why
can't you run over to the store, and get half a dozen pounds?"
"You see the Lord hasn't quite forgotten us," remarked his mother,
as Jack started on his errand.
"What's a quarter of a dollar?" said Rachel, gloomily. "Will it
carry us through the winter?"
"It will carry us through to-night, and perhaps Timothy will have
work to-morrow. Hark, that's his step."
CHAPTER II.
THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.
AT this moment the outer door opened, and Timothy Crump entered, not
with the quick elastic step of one who brings good tidings, but
slowly and deliberately, with a quiet gravity of demeanor, in which
his wife could read only too well that he had failed in his efforts
to procure work.
His wife, reading all these things in his manner, had the delicacy
to forbear intruding upon him questions to which she saw that he
could give no satisfactory answers.
Not so Aunt Rachel.
"I needn't ask," she began, "whether you got work, Timothy. I knew
beforehand you wouldn't. There ain't no use in tryin'. The times is
awful dull, and, mark my words, they'll be wuss before they're
better. We mayn't live to see 'em. I don't expect we shall. Folks
can't live without money, and when that's gone we shall have to
starve."
"Not so bad as that, Rachel," said the cooper, trying to look
cheerful; "don't talk about starving till the time comes. Anyhow,"
glancing at the table on which was spread a good plain meal, "we
needn't talk about starving till to-morrow, with that before us.
Where's Jack?"
"Gone after some flour," replied his wife.
"On credit?" asked the cooper.
"No, he's got the money to pay for a few pounds," said Mrs. Crump,
smiling, with an air of mystery.
"Where did it come from?" asked Timothy, who was puzzled, as his
wife anticipated. "I didn't know you had any money in the house."
"No more we had, but he earned it himself, holding horses, this
afternoon."
"Come, that's good," said the cooper, cheerfully, "We ain't so bad
off as we might be, you see, Rachel."
The latter shook her head with the air of a martyr.
At this moment Jack returned, and the family sat down to supper.
"You haven't told us," said Mrs. Crump, seeing her husband's
cheerfulness in a measure restored, "what Mr. Blodgett said about
the chances for employment."
"Not much that was encouraging," answered Timothy. "He isn't at all
sure how soon it will be best to commence work; perhaps not before
spring."
"Didn't I tell you so?" commented Rachel, with sepulchral sadness.
Even Mr. Crump could not help looking sober.
"I suppose, Timothy, you haven't formed any plans," she said.
"No, I haven't had time. I must try to get something else to do."
"What, for instance?"
"Anything by which I can earn a little, I don't care if it's only
sawing wood. We shall have to get along as economically as we can;
cut our coat according to our cloth."
"Oh, you'll be able to earn something, and we can live _very_
plain," said Mrs. Crump, affecting a cheerfulness greater than she
felt.
"Pity you hadn't done it sooner," was the comforting suggestion of
Rachel.
"Mustn't cry over spilt milk," said the cooper, good-humoredly.
"Perhaps we might have lived a _leetle_ more economically, but I
don't think we've been extravagant."
"Besides, I can earn something, father," said Jack, hopefully. "You
know I did this afternoon."
"So you can," said Mrs. Crump, brightly.
"There ain't horses to hold every day," said Rachel, apparently
fearing that the family might become too cheerful, when, like
herself, it was their duty to become profoundly gloomy.
"You're always trying' to discourage people," said Jack,
discontentedly.
Rachel took instant umbrage at these words.
"I'm sure," said she; mournfully, "I don't want to make you unhappy.
If you can find anything to be cheerful about when you're on the
verge of starvation, I hope you'll enjoy yourselves, and not mind
me. I'm a poor dependent creetur, and I feel to know I'm a burden."
"Now, Rachel, that's all foolishness," said Uncle Tim. "You don't
feel anything of the kind."
"Perhaps others can tell how I feel, better than I can myself,"
answered his sister, knitting rapidly. "If it hadn't been for me, I
know you'd have been able to lay up money, and have something to
carry you through the winter. It's hard to be a burden upon your
relations, and bring a brother's family to poverty."
"Don't talk of being a burden, Rachel," said Mrs. Crump. "You've
been a great help to me in many ways. That pair of stockings now
you're knitting for Jack--that's a help, for I couldn't have got
time for them myself."
"I don't expect," said Aunt Rachel, in the same sunny manner, "that
I shall be able to do it long. From the pains I have in my hands
sometimes, I expect I'm going to lose the use of 'em soon, and be as
useless as old Mrs. Sprague, who for the last ten years of her life
had to sit with her hands folded in her lap. But I wouldn't stay to
be a burden. I'd go to the poor-house first, but perhaps," with the
look of a martyr, "they wouldn't want me there, because I should be
discouragin' 'em too much."
Poor Jack, who had so unwittingly raised this storm, winced under
the words, which he knew were directed at him.
"Then why," said he, half in extenuation, "why don't you try to look
pleasant and cheerful? Why won't you be jolly, as Tom Piper's aunt
is?"
"I dare say I ain't pleasant," said Aunt Rachel, "as my own nephew
tells me so. There is some folks that can be cheerful when their
house is a burnin' down before their eyes, and I've heard of one
young man that laughed at his aunt's funeral," directing a severe
glance at Jack; "but I'm not one of that kind. I think, with the
Scriptures, that there's a time to weep."
"Doesn't it say there's a time to laugh, also?" asked Mrs. Crump.
"When I see anything to laugh about, I'm ready to laugh," said Aunt
Rachel; "but human nature ain't to be forced. I can't see anything
to laugh at now, and perhaps you won't by and by."
It was evidently of no use to attempt a confutation of this, and the
subject dropped.
The tea-things were cleared away by Mrs. Crump, who afterwards sat
down to her sewing. Aunt Rachel continued to knit in grim silence,
while Jack seated himself on a three-legged stool near his aunt, and
began to whittle out a boat after a model lent him by Tom Piper, a
young gentleman whose aunt has already been referred to.
The cooper took out his spectacles, wiped them carefully with his
handkerchief, and as carefully adjusted them to his nose. He then
took down from the mantel-piece one of the few books belonging to
his library,--"Captain Cook's Travels,"--and began to read, for the
tenth time it might be, the record of the gallant sailor's
circumnavigations.
The plain little room presented a picture of peaceful tranquillity,
but it proved to be only the calm which precedes a storm.
The storm in question, I regret to say, was brought about by the
luckless Jack. As has been said, he was engaged in constructing a
boat, the particular operation he was now intent upon being the
excavation or hollowing out. Now three-legged stools are not the
most secure seats in the world. That, I think, no one can doubt who
has any practical acquaintance with them. Jack was working quite
vigorously, the block from which the boat was to be fashioned being
held firmly between his knees. His knife having got wedged in the
wood, he made an unusual effort to draw it out, in which he lost his
balance, and disturbed the equilibrium of his stool, which, with his
load, tumbled over backwards. Now it very unfortunately happened
that Aunt Rachel sat close behind, and the treacherous stool came
down with considerable force upon her foot.
A piercing shriek was heard, and Aunt Rachel, lifting her foot,
clung to it convulsively, while an expression of pain distorted her
features.
At the sound, the cooper hastily removed his spectacles, and letting
"Captain Cook" fall to the floor, started up in great dismay--Mrs.
Crump likewise dropped her sewing, and jumped to her feet in alarm.
It did not take long to see how matters stood.
"Hurt ye much, Rachel?" inquired Timothy.
"It's about killed me," groaned the afflicted maiden. "Oh, I shall
have to have my foot cut off, or be a cripple anyway." Then turning
upon Jack, fiercely, "you careless, wicked, ungrateful boy, that
I've been wearin' myself out knittin' for. I'm almost sure you did
it a purpose. You won't be satisfied till you've got me out of the
world, and then--then, perhaps----" here Rachel began to whimper,
"perhaps you'll get Tom Piper's aunt to knit your stockings."
"I didn't mean to, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, penitently, eyeing his
aunt, who was rocking to and fro in her chair. "Besides, I hurt
myself like thunder," rubbing vigorously the lower part of the
dorsal-region.
"Served you right," said his aunt, still clasping her foot.
"Sha'n't I get something for you to put on it?" asked Mrs. Crump of
(sic) her-sister-in-law.
This Rachel steadily refused, and after a few more postures, (sic)
indicatiing a great amount of anguish, limped out of the room, and
ascended the stairs to her own apartment.
CHAPTER III.
THE LANDLORD'S VISIT.
SOON after Rachel's departure Jack, also, was seized with a sleepy
fit, and postponing the construction of his boat to a more favorable
opportunity, took a candle and followed his aunt's example.
The cooper and his wife were now left alone.
"Now that Rachel and Jack have gone to bed, Mary," he commenced,
hesitatingly, "I don't mind saying that I am a little troubled in
mind about one thing."
"What's that?" asked Mrs. Crump, anxiously.
"It's just this, I don't anticipate being stinted for food. I know
we shall get along some way; but there's another expense which I am
afraid of."
"Is it the rent?" inquired his wife, apprehensively.
"That's it. The quarter's rent, twenty dollars, comes due to-morrow,
and I've got less than a dollar to meet it."
"Won't Mr. Colman wait?"
"I'm afraid not. You know what sort of a man he is, Mary. There
ain't much feeling about him. He cares more for money than anything
else."
"Perhaps you are doing him injustice."
"I am afraid not. Did you never hear how he treated the Underhills?"
"How was it?"
"Underhill was laid up with a rheumatic fever for three months. The
consequence was, that, when quarter-day came round, he was in about
the same situation with ourselves,--a little worse even, for his
wife was sick, also. But though Colman was aware of the
circumstances, he had no pity; but turned them out without
ceremony."
"Is it possible?" asked Mrs. Crump, uneasily.
"And there's no reason for his being more lenient with us. I can't
but feel anxious about to-morrow, Mary."
At this moment, verifying an old adage which will perhaps occur to
the reader, who should knock but Mr. Colman himself?
Both the cooper and his wife had an instinctive foreboding as to the
meaning of his visit.
He came in, rubbing his hands in a social way, as was his custom. No
one, to look at him, would have suspected the hardness of heart that
lay veiled under his velvety softness of manner.
"Good evening, Mr. Crump," said he, affably, "I trust you and your
worthy wife are in good health."
"That blessing, at least, is continued to us," said the cooper,
gravely.
"And how comfortable you're looking too, eh! It makes an old
bachelor, like me, feel lonesome when he contrasts his own solitary
room with such a scene of comfort as this. You've got a comfortable
home, and dog-cheap, too. All my other tenants are grumbling to
think you don't have to pay any more for such superior
accommodations. I've about made up my mind that I must ask you
twenty-five dollars a quarter, hereafter."
All this was said very pleasantly, but the pill was none the less
bitter.
"It seems to me, Mr. Colman," remarked the cooper soberly, "you have
chosen rather a singular time for raising the rent."
"Why singular, my good sir?" inquired the landlord, urbanely.
"You know of course, that this is a time of general business
depression; my own trade in particular has suffered greatly. For a
month past, I have not been able to find any work."
Colman's face lost something of its graciousness.
"And I fear I sha'n't be able to pay my quarter's rent to-morrow."
"Indeed!" said the landlord coldly. "Perhaps you can make it up
within two or three dollars?"
"I can't pay a dollar towards it," said the cooper. "It's the first
time, in five years that I've lived here, that this thing has
happened to me. I've always been prompt before."
"You should have economized as you found times growing harder," said
Colman, harshly. "It is hardly honest to live in a house when you
know you can't pay the rent."
"You sha'n't lose it Mr. Colman," said the cooper, earnestly. "No
one ever yet lost anything by me. Only give me time, and I will pay
you all."
The landlord shook his head.
"You ought to cut your coat according to your cloth," he responded.
"Much as it will go against my feelings, under the circumstances I
am compelled by a prudent regard to my own interests to warn you
that, in case your rent is not ready to-morrow, I shall be obliged
to trouble you to find another tenement; and furthermore, the rent
of this will be raised five dollars a quarter."
"I can't pay it, Mr. Colman," said the cooper; "I may as well say
that now; and it's no use my agreeing to pay more rent. I pay all I
can afford now."
"Very well, you know the alternative. But it is a disagreeable
subject. We won't talk of it now; I shall be round to-morrow
morning. How's your excellent sister; as cheerful as ever?"
"Quite as much so as usual," answered the cooper, dryly.
"But there's one favor I should like to ask, if you will allow us to
remain here a few days till I can look about me a little."
"I would with the greatest pleasure in the world," was the reply,
"but there's another family very anxious to take the house, and they
wish to come in immediately. Therefore I shall be obliged to ask you
to move out to-morrow. In fact that is the very thing I came here
this evening to speak about, as I thought you might not wish to pay
the increased rent."
"We are much obliged to you," said the cooper, with a tinge of
bitterness unusual to him. "If we are to be turned out of doors, it
is pleasant to have a few hours' notice of it."
"Turned out of doors, my good friend! What disagreeable expressions
you employ! It is merely a matter of business. I have an article to
dispose of. There are two bidders; yourself and another person. The
latter is willing to pay a larger sum. Of course I give him the
preference. Don't you see how it is?"
"I believe I do," replied the cooper. "Of course, it's a regular
proceeding; but you must excuse me if I think of it in another
light, when I reflect that to-morrow at this time my family and
myself may be without a shelter."
"My dear sir, positively you are looking on the dark side of things.
It is actually sinful to distrust Providence as you seem to do.
You're a little disappointed, that's all. Just take to-night to
sleep on it, and I've no doubt you'll think better of it and of me.
But positively I have stayed longer than I intended. Good night, my
friends. I'll look in upon you in the morning. And by the by, as it
is so near the time, allow me to wish you a Happy New Year."
The door closed upon the landlord, leaving behind two anxious
hearts.
"It looks well in him to wish that," said the cooper, gloomily. "A
great deal he is doing to make it so. I don't know how it seems to
others, but for my part I never say them words to any one unless I
really wish 'em well, and am willing to do something to make 'em so.
I should feel as if I was a hypocrite if I acted anyways different."
Mary did not respond to this. In her own gentle heart she could not
help feeling a silent repugnance, mingled, it may be, with a shade
of contempt, for the man who had just left them. It was an
uncomfortable feeling, and she strove to get rid of it."
"Is there any tenement vacant in this neighborhood?" she asked.
"Yes, there's the one at the corner, belonging to Mr. Harrison."
"It is a better one than this."
"Yes, but Harrison only asks the same that we have been paying. He
is not so exorbitant as Colman."
"Couldn't we get that?"
"I am afraid, if he knew that we had failed to pay our rent here, he
would object."
"But he knows you are honest, and that nothing but the hard times
would have brought you to such a pass."
"It may be, Mary. At any rate you have lightened my heart a little.
I feel as if there was some hope left."
"We ought always to feel so, Timothy. There was one thing that Mr.
Colman said that didn't sound so well, coming from his lips; but
it's true, for all that."
"What do you mean, Mary?"
"I mean that about not distrusting Providence. Many a time have I
been comforted by reading the verse, "Never have I seen the
righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread. "As long as we try to
do what is right, Timothy, God will not suffer us to want."
"You are right, Mary. He is our ever-present help in time of need.
Let us put away all anxious cares, fully confiding in his gracious
promises."
They retired to rest thoughtfully, but not sadly.
The fire upon the hearth flickered, and died out at length. The last
sands of the old year were running out, and the new morning ushered
in its successor.
CHAPTER IV.
THE NEW YEAR'S PRESENT.
"HAPPY New Year!" was Jack's salutation to Aunt Rachel, as, with an
unhappy expression of countenance, she entered the sitting-room.
"Happy, indeed!" she repeated, dismally. "There's great chance of
its being so, I should think. We don't any of us know what the year
may bring forth. We may all be dead before the next New Year."
"If that's the case, said Jack, "we'll be jolly as long as it
lasts."
"I don't know what you mean by such a vulgar word," said Aunt
Rachel, disdainfully. "I've heard of drunkards and such kind of
people being jolly; but, thank Providence, I haven't got to that
yet."
"If that was the only way to be jolly," said Jack, stoutly, "then
I'd be a drunkard; I wouldn't carry round such a long face as you
do, Aunt Rachel, for any money."
"It's enough to make all of us have long faces, when you are brazen
enough to own that you mean to be a drunkard."
"I didn't say any such thing," said Jack, indignantly.
"Perhaps I have ears," remarked Aunt Rachel, sententiously, "and
perhaps I have not. It's a new thing for a nephew to tell his aunt
that she lies. They didn't use to allow such things when I was
young.--But the world's going to rack and ruin, and I shouldn't much
wonder if the people are right that says it's comin' to an end."
Here Mrs. Crump happily interposed, by asking Jack to go round to
the grocery, in the next street, and buy a pint of milk.
Jack took his cap and started, with alacrity, glad to leave the
dismal presence of Aunt Rachel.
He had scarcely opened the door when he started back in surprise,
exclaiming, "By hokey, if there isn't a basket on the steps!"
"A basket!" repeated Mrs. Crump, in surprise. "Can it be a New
Year's present? Bring it in, Jack."
It was brought in immediately, and the cover being lifted there
appeared a female child, of apparently a year old. All uttered
exclamations of surprise, each in itself characteristic.
"What a dear, innocent little thing!" said Mrs. Crump, with true
maternal instinct.
"Ain't it a pretty 'un?" said Jack, admiringly.
"Poor thing!" said the cooper, compassionately.
"It's a world of iniquity!" remarked Rachel, lifting up her eyes,
dismally. "There isn't any one you can trust. I didn't think a
brother of mine would have such a sin brought to his door."
"Good heavens, Rachel!" said the honest cooper, in amazement, "what
can you mean?"
"It isn't for me to explain," said Rachel, shaking her head; "only
it's strange that it should have been brought to _this_ house,
that's all I say."
"Perhaps it was meant for you, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, with
thoughtless fun.
"Me!" exclaimed Rachel, rising to her feet, while her face betrayed
the utmost horror at the suggestion. She fell back in her seat, and
made a violent effort to faint.
"What have I said?" asked Jack, a little frightened at the effect of
his words. "Aunt Rachel takes one up so."
"He didn't mean anything," said Mrs. Crump. "How could you suspect
such a thing? But here's a letter. It looks as if there was
something in it. Here, Timothy, it is directed to you."
Mr. Cooper opened the letter, and read as follows:--
"For reasons which it is unnecessary to state, the guardians of this
child find it expedient to (sic) intrust it to others to be brought
up. The good opinion which they have formed of you, has led them to
select you for that charge. No further explanation is necessary,
except that it is by no means their object to make this a service of
charity. They therefore (sic) inclose a certificate of deposits on
the Broadway Bank, of three hundred dollars, the same having been
made in your name. Each year, while the child remains in your
charge, the same sum will in like manner be placed to your credit at
the same bank It may be as well to state, farther, that all attempts
to fathom whatever of mystery may attach to this affair, will prove
useless."
This letter was read in silent amazement.
The certificate of deposits, which had fallen to the floor, was
handed to Timothy by his wife.
Amazement was followed by a feeling of gratitude and relief.
"What could be more fortunate?" exclaimed Mrs. Crump. "Surely,
Timothy, our faith has been rewarded."
"God has listened to our cry," said the cooper, devoutly; "and, in
the hour of our need, He has remembered us."
"Isn't it prime?" said Jack, gleefully; "three hundred dollars!
Ain't we rich, Aunt Rachel?"
"Like as not," observed Rachel, "the certificate isn't genuine. It
doesn't look natural it should be. I've heard of counterfeits
before. I shouldn't be surprised at all if Timothy got taken up for
presenting it."
"I'll risk that," said Mr. Crump, who did not look very much
depressed by this suggestion.
"Now you'll be able to pay the rent, Timothy," said Mrs. Crump,
cheerfully.
"Yes; and it's the last quarter I shall pay to Mr. Colman, if I can
help it."
"Why, where are you going?" inquired Jack.
"To the corner house belonging to Mr. Harrison, that is, if it is
not already engaged. I think I will go and see about it at once. If
Mr. Colman should come in while I am gone, tell him I will be back
directly; I don't wish you to tell him of the change in our
circumstances."
The cooper found Mr. Harrison at home.
"I called to inquire," commenced the cooper, "whether you had let
that house of yours on the corner of the street."
"Not as yet," was the reply.
"What rent do you ask?"
"Twenty dollars a quarter," said Mr. Harrison; "that I consider
reasonable."
"It is satisfactory to me," was the cooper's reply, "and, if you
have no objections to me as a tenant, I will engage it at once."
"Far from having any objections, Mr. Crump," was the courteous
reply, "I shall be glad to secure so good a tenant. Will you go over
and look at the house?"
"Not now, sir; I am somewhat in haste. When can we move in?"
"To-day, if you like."
His errand satisfactorily accomplished, the cooper returned home.
Meanwhile the landlord had called.
He was a little surprised to find that Mrs. Crump, instead of
looking depressed, looked cheerful, rather than otherwise.
"I was not aware you had a child so young," he remarked, looking at
the baby.
"It isn't mine," said Mrs. Crump, briefly.
"The child of a neighbor, I suppose," thought Colman.
Meanwhile he scrutinized closely, without appearing to do so, the
furniture in the room.
At this point Mr. Crump opened the outer door.
"Good-morning," said Colman, affably. "A fine morning."
"Quite so," answered his tenant, shortly.
"I have called, Mr. Crump, to know if you are ready with your
quarter's rent."
"I think I told you, last night, how I was situated. Of course I am
sorry----"
"So am I," said the landlord, "for I may be obliged to have recourse
to unpleasant measures."
"You mean that we must leave the house!"
"Of course, you cannot expect to remain in it if you are unable to
pay the rent. Of course," added Colman, making an inventory with his
eyes, of the furniture, "you will leave behind a sufficient amount
of furniture to cover your bill----"
"Surely, you would not deprive us of our furniture!"
"Is there any hardship in requiring payment of honest debts?"
"There are cases of that description. However, I will not put you to
that trouble. I am ready to pay you your dues."
"You have the money?" said Colman, hastily.
"I have, and something over; as you will see by this document. Can
you give me the two hundred and eighty dollars over?"
It would be difficult to picture the amazement of Colman. "Surely,
you told me a different story last night," he said.
"Last night and this morning are different times. Then I could not
pay you; now, luckily, I am able. If you cannot change this amount,
and will accompany me to the bank, I will place the money in your
hands."
"My dear sir, I am not at all in haste," said the landlord, with a
return of his former affability. "Any time within a week will do. I
hope, by the way, you will continue to occupy this house."
"As I have already engaged Mr. Harrison's house, at the corner of
the street, I shall be unable to remain. Besides, I do not want to
interfere with the family who are so desirous of moving in."
Mr. Colman was silenced. He regretted, too late, the hasty course
which had lost him a good tenant. The family referred to had no
existence; and, it may be remarked, the house remained vacant for
several months, when he was glad to rent it at the old price.
CHAPTER V.
A LUCKY RESCUE.
THE opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of
comparative prosperity in the home of Timothy Crump. To persons
accustomed to live in their frugal way, three hundred dollars seemed
a fortune. Nor, as might have happened in some cases, did this
unexpected windfall tempt the cooper or his wife to extravagances.
"Let us save something against a rainy day," said Mrs. Crump.
"We can, if I get work soon," answered her husband. "This little one
will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we
should not save up at least half of it."
"There's no knowing when you will get work, Timothy," said Rachel,
in her usual cheerful way; "it isn't well to crow before you're out
of the woods."
"Very true, Rachel. It isn't your failing to look too much at the
sunny side of the picture."
"I'm ready to look at it when I can see it anywhere," said his
sister, in the same enlivening way.
"Don't you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with
this child?" asked Timothy.
"I've no doubt it seems bright enough, now," said Rachel, gloomily,
"but a young child's a great deal of trouble."
"Do you speak from experience, Aunt Rachel?" inquired Jack,
demurely.
"Yes;" said his aunt, slowly; "if all babies were as cross as you
were when you were an infant, three hundred dollars wouldn't begin
to pay for the trouble of having one round."
Mr. Crump and his wife laughed at this sally at Jack's expense, but
the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer, "I've
always heard, Aunt Rachel, that the crosser a child is the
pleasanter he will grow up. What a very pleasant baby you must have
been!"
"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked
upon it as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly, "He's got you
there, Rachel."
The latter, however, took it as a serious matter, and observed that,
when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their
elders. "But, I don't know as I can blame 'em much," she continued,
wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, "when their own
parents encourage 'em in it."
Timothy was warned, by experience, that silence was his best (sic)
defence. Since anything he might say would only be likely to make
matters worse.
Aunt Rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say
another word till dinner time. She sat down to the table with a
profound sigh, as if there was little in life worth living for.
Notwithstanding this, it was observed that she had a good appetite.
Indeed, Rachel seemed to thrive on her gloomy views of life and
human nature. She was, it must be acknowledged, perfectly consistent
in all her conduct, as far as this peculiarity was concerned.
Whenever she took up a newspaper, she always looked first to the
space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to the column of
accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly
exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list.
Mr. Crump continued to look out for work, but it was with a more
cheerful spirit. He did not now feel as if the comfort of his family
depended absolutely upon his immediate success. Used economically,
the money he had by him would last nine months, and during that time
it was impossible that he should not find something to do. It was
this sense of security--of possessing something upon which he could
fall back--that enabled him to keep up good heart. It is too
generally the case that people are content to live as if they were
sure of constantly retaining their health and never losing their
employment. When a reverse does come they are at once plunged into
discouragement, and feel that something must be done immediately.
There is only one way to fend off such an embarrassment, and that is
to resolve, whatever may be the amount of the income, to lay aside
some part to serve as a reliance in time of trouble. A little
economy--though it involves privation--will be well repaid by the
feeling of security thus engendered.
Mr. Crump was not compelled to remain inactive as long as he feared.
Not that his line of business revived,--that still remained
depressed,--but another path was opened to him for a time.
Returning home late one evening, the cooper saw a man steal out from
a doorway, and assault a gentleman whose dress and general
appearance indicated probable wealth. Seizing him by the throat, the
villain effectually prevented him from calling the police, and was
engaged in rifling his pockets when the cooper arrived at the scene.
A sudden blow on the side of the head admonished the robber that he
had more than one to deal with.
"Leave this man instantly," said the cooper, sternly, "or I will
deliver you into the hands of the police."
The villain hesitated, but fear prevailed, and springing to his
feet, he hastily made off under cover of the darkness.
"I hope you have received no injury," said Timothy, respectfully,
turning towards the stranger he had rescued.
"No, my worthy friend, thanks to your timely assistance. The rascal
nearly succeeded, however."
"I hope you have lost nothing, sir."
"Nothing, fortunately. You can form an idea of the value of your
interference, when I say that I have fifteen hundred dollars with
me, all of which I should undoubtedly have lost."
"I am glad," said the cooper, "that I was able to do you such
essential service. It was by the merest chance that I came this
way."
"Will you add to my indebtedness by accompanying me with that trusty
club of yours? I have some little distance yet to go, and the amount
of money I have with me makes me feel desirous of taking every
possible precaution."
"Willingly," said the cooper.
"But I am forgetting," said the gentleman, "that you yourself will
be obliged to return alone."
"I do not carry enough money to make me fear an attack," said Mr.
Crump, laughing. "Money brings care I have always heard, and now I
realize it."
"Yet most people are willing to take their chance of that," said the
merchant.
"You are right, sir, nor can I call myself an exception. Still I
should be satisfied with the certainty of constant employment."
"I hope you have that, at least."
"I have had until recently."
"Then, at present, you are unemployed?"
"Yes, sir."
"What is your business?"
"That of a cooper."
"I must see what I can do for you. Can you call at my office
to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock?"
"I shall be glad to do so, sir."
"I believe I have a card with me. Yes, here is one. And this is my
house. Thank you for your company, my good friend. I shall see you
to-morrow."
They stood before a handsome dwelling-house, from whose windows,
draped by heavy crimson curtains, a soft light proceeded. The cooper
could hear the ringing of childish voices welcoming home their
father, whose life, unknown to them, had been in such peril, and he
could not but be grateful to Providence that he had been the means
of frustrating the designs of the villain who would have robbed him,
and perhaps done him farther injury.
He determined to say nothing to his wife of the night's adventure
until after his meeting appointed for the next day. Then if any
advantage accrued to him from it, he would tell the whole at once.
When he reached home, Mrs. Crump was sewing beside the fire. Aunt
Rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of
martyr-like resignation to the woes of life.
"I've brought you home a paper, Aunt Rachel," said the cooper,
cheerfully. "You may find something interesting in it."
"I sha'n't be able to read it this evening," said Rachel,
mournfully. "My eyes have troubled me lately. I feel that it is more
than probable that I am growing blind. But I trust I shall not live
to be a burden to you. Your prospects are dark enough without that."
"Don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, Rachel," said
the cooper, cheerily. "I think I know what will enable you to use
your eyes as well as ever."
"What?" asked Rachel, with melancholy curiosity.
"A pair of spectacles," said her brother, incautiously.
"Spectacles!" retorted Rachel, indignantly. "It will be a good many
years before I am old enough to wear spectacles. I didn't expect to
be insulted by my own brother. But it's one of my trials."
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Rachel," said the cooper,
perplexed.
"Good night," said Rachel, rising and taking a small lamp from the
table.
"Come, Rachel, don't go yet. It is early."
"After what you have said to me, Timothy, my self-respect will not
permit me to stay."
Rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary
melancholy.
"I wish Rachel war'n't quite so contrary," said the cooper. "She
turns upon a body so sudden, it's hard to know how to take her.
How's the little girl, Mary?"
"She's been asleep ever since six o'clock."
"I hope you don't find her very much trouble. That all comes upon
you, while we have the benefit of the money."
"I don't think of that, Timothy. She is a sweet child, and I love
her almost as much as if she were my own. As for Jack, he perfectly
idolizes her."
"And how does Aunt Rachel look upon her?"
"I am afraid she will never be a favorite with Rachel."
"Rachel never took to children much. It isn't her way. Now, Mary,
while you are sewing, I will read you the news."
CHAPTER VI.
WHAT THE ENVELOPE CONTAINED.
THE card which had been handed to Timothy Crump contained the name
of Thomas Merriam,----Wall Street. Punctually at twelve, the cooper
reported himself at the counting-room, and received a cordial
welcome from the merchant.
"I am glad to see you," he said. "I will come to business at once,
as I am particularly engaged this morning. Is there any way in which
I can serve you?"
"Not unless you can procure me a situation, sir."
"I think you told me you were a cooper."
"Yes sir."
"Does this yield you a good support?"
"In good times it pays me two dollars a day. Lately it has been
depressed, and for a time paid me but a dollar and a half."
"When do you anticipate its revival?"
"That is uncertain. It may be some months first."
"And, in the mean time, you are willing to undertake some other
employment?"
"Yes, sir. I have no objection to any honest employment."
Mr. Merriam reflected a moment.
"Just at present," he said, "I have nothing to offer except the post
of porter. If that will suit you, you can enter upon the duties
to-morrow."
"I shall be very glad to take it, sir. Anything is better than
idleness."
"Your compensation shall be the same that you have been accustomed
to earn by your trade,--two dollars a day."
"I only received that in the best times," said Timothy,
conscientiously.
"Your services will be worth it. I will expect you, then, to-morrow
morning at eight. You are married, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. I am blessed with a good wife."
"I am glad of that. Stay a moment."
The merchant went to his desk, and presently returned with a scaled
envelope.
"Give that to your wife," he said.
The interview terminated, and the cooper went home, quite elated by
his success. His present engagement would enable him to bridge over
the dull time, and save him from incurring debt, of which he had a
just horror.
"Just in time," said Mrs. Crump. "We've got an apple-pudding
to-day."
"You haven't forgotten what I like, Mary."
"There's no knowing how long you will be able to afford puddings,"
said Aunt Rachel. "To my mind it's extravagant to have meat and
pudding both, when a month hence you may be in the poor-house."
"Then," said Jack, "I wouldn't eat any."
"Oh, if you grudge me the little I eat," said his aunt, in severe
sorrow, "I will go without."
"Tut, Rachel, nobody grudges you anything here," said her brother,
"and as to the poor-house, I've got some good news to tell you that
will put that thought out of your heads."
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Crump, looking up brightly.
"I have found employment."
"Not at your trade?"
"No, but at something else, which will pay equally well, till trade
revives."
Here he told the story of the chance by which he was enabled to
serve Mr. Merriam, and of the engagement to which it had led.
"You are, indeed, fortunate," said Mrs. Crump. "Two dollars a day,
and we've got nearly the whole of the money that came with this dear
child. How rich we shall be!"
"Well, Rachel, where are your congratulations?" asked the cooper of
his sister, who, in subdued sorrow, was eating her second slice of
pudding.
"I don't see anything so very fortunate in being engaged as a
porter," said Rachel, lugubriously. "I heard of a porter, once, who
had a great box fall upon him and crush him; and another, who
committed suicide."
The cooper laughed.
"So, Rachel, you conclude that one or the other is the inevitable
lot of all who are engaged in this business."
"It is always well to be prepared for the worst," said Rachel,
oracularly.
"But not to be always looking for it," said her brother.
"It'll come, whether you look for it or not," returned her sister,
sententiously.
"Then, suppose we spend no thoughts upon it, since, according to
your admission, it's sure to come either way."
Rachel pursued her knitting, in severe melancholy.
"Won't you have another piece of pudding, Timothy?" asked Mrs.
Crump.
"I don't care if I do, Mary, it's so good," said the cooper, passing
his plate. "Seems to me it's the best pudding you ever made."
"You've got a good appetite, that is all," said Mrs. Crump,
modestly.
"By the way, Mary," said the cooper, with a sudden thought, "I quite
forgot that I have something for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, from Mr. Merriam."
"But he don't know me," said Mrs. Crump, in surprise.
"At any rate, he asked me if I were married, and then handed me this
envelope for you. I am not quite sure whether I ought to allow
gentlemen to write letters to my wife."
Mrs. Crump opened the envelope with considerable curiosity, and
uttered an exclamation of surprise, as a bank-note fluttered to the
carpet.
"By gracious, mother," said Jack, springing to get it, "you're in
luck. It's a hundred dollar bill."
"So it is, I declare," said Mrs. Crump, joyfully. "But, Timothy, it
isn't mine. It belongs to you."
"No, Mary, it shall be yours. I'll put it in the Savings Bank for
you."
"Merriam's a trump, and no mistake," said Jack. "By the way, father,
when you see him again, won't you just insinuate that you have a
son? Ain't we in luck, Aunt Rachel?"
"'Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a
fall,'" said Rachel.
"I never knew Aunt Rachel to be jolly but once," said Jack, under
his breath; "and that was at a funeral."
CHAPTER VI.
EIGHT YEARS. IDA'S PROGRESS.
EIGHT years slipped by, unmarked by any important event. The Crumps
were still prosperous in an humble way. The cooper had been able to
obtain work most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance
for little Ida, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort,
but even to save up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. They might
even have saved more, living as frugally as they were accustomed to
do, but there was one point upon which none of them would consent to
be economical. The little Ida must have everything she wanted.
Timothy brought home daily some little delicacy for her, which none
of the rest thought of sharing. While Mrs. Crump, far enough from
vanity, always dressed with exceeding plainness, Ida's attire was
always rich and tasteful. She would sometimes ask, "Mother, why
don't you buy yourself some of the pretty things you get for me?"
Mrs. Crump would answer, smiling, "Oh, I'm an old woman, Ida. Plain
things are best for me."
"No, I'm sure you're not old, mother. You don't wear a cap."
But Mrs. Crump would always playfully evade the child's questions.
Had Ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an
injurious effect upon her mind. But, fortunately she had that rare
simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers to
which many might have been subjected. Instead of being made vain,
she only felt grateful for the many kindnesses bestowed upon her by
her father and mother and brother Jack, as she was wont to call
them. Indeed, it had not been thought best to let her know that such
was not the relation in which they really stood to her.
There was one point, more important than dress, in which Ida
profited by the indulgence of her friends.
"Wife," the cooper was wont to say, "Ida is a sacred charge in our
hands. If we allow her to grow up ignorant, or afford her only
ordinary advantages, we shall not fulfil our duty. We have the
means, through Providence, to give her some of those advantages
which she would enjoy if she remained in that sphere to which her
parents, doubtless, belong. Let no unwise parsimony, on our part,
withhold them from her."
"You are right, Timothy," said Mrs. Crump; "right, as you always
are. Follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that I
shall disapprove."
Accordingly Ida was, from the first, sent to a carefully-selected
private school, where she had the advantage of good associates, and
where her progress was astonishingly rapid.
She early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. As soon as this
was discovered, her foster parents took care that she should have
abundant opportunity for cultivating it. A private master was
secured, who gave her daily lessons, and boasted everywhere of his
charming little pupil, whose progress, as he assured her friends,
exceeded anything he had ever before known.
Nothing could exceed the cooper's gratification when, on his
birthday, Ida presented him with a beautifully-drawn sketch of his
wife's placid and benevolent face.
"When did you do it, Ida?" he asked, after earnest expressions of
admiration.
"I did it in odd minutes," she said; "in the evening."
"But how could you do it without any one of us knowing what you were
about?"
"I had a picture before me, and you thought I was copying it, but
whenever I could do it without being noticed, I looked up at mother
as she sat at her sewing, and so, after awhile, I made this
picture."
"And a fine one it is," said Timothy, admiringly.
Mrs. Crump insisted that Ida had flattered her, but this the child
would not admit. "I couldn't make it look as good as you, mother,"
she said. "I tried to, but somehow I couldn't succeed as well as I
wanted to."
"You wouldn't have that difficulty with Aunt Rachel," said Jack,
roguishly.
Ida, with difficulty, suppressed a laugh.
"I see," said Aunt Rachel, with severe resignation, "that you've
taken to ridiculing your poor aunt again. But it's what I expect. I
don't never expect any consideration in this house. I was born to be
a martyr, and I expect I shall fulfil my destiny. If my own
relations laugh at me, of course I can't expect anything better from
other folks. But I sha'n't be long in the way. I've had a cough for
some time past, and I expect I'm in a consumption."
"You make too much of a little thing, Rachel," said the cooper. "I
don't think Jack meant anything."
"I'm sure, what I said was complimentary," said Jack.
Rachel shook her head incredulously.
"Yes it was. Ask Ida. Why won't you draw Aunt Rachel, Ida? I think
she'd make a capital picture."
"So I will," said Ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me."
"Now, Aunt Rachel, there's a chance for you," said Jack. "I advise
you to improve it. When it's finished, it can be hung up at the Art
Rooms, and who knows but you may secure a husband by it?"
"I wouldn't marry," said his aunt, firmly compressing her lips, "not
if anybody'd go down on their knees to me."
"Now I am sure, Aunt Rachel, that's cruel in you."
"There ain't any man that I'd trust my happiness to."
"She hasn't any to trust," observed Jack, _sotto voce_.
"They're all deceivers," pursued Rachel, "the best of 'em. You can't
believe what one of 'em says. It would be a great deal better if
people never married at all."
"Then where would the world be a hundred years hence?" suggested her
nephew.
"Come to an end, most likely," said Aunt Rachel; "and I don't know
but that would be the best thing. It's growing more and more wicked
every day."
It will be seen that no great change has come over Miss Rachel Crump
during the years that have intervened. She takes the same
disheartening view of human nature and the world's prospects, as
ever. Nevertheless, her own hold upon the world seems as strong as
ever. Her appetite continues remarkably good, and although she
frequently expresses herself to the effect that there is little use
in living, probably she would be as unwilling to leave the world as
any one. I am not sure that she does not derive as much enjoyment
from her melancholy as other people from their cheerfulness.
Unfortunately, her peculiar way of enjoying herself is calculated to
have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits of those with
whom she comes in contact--always excepting Jack, who has a lively
sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than in
bantering his aunt.
Ida is no less a favorite with Jack than with the other members of
the household. Rough as he is sometimes, Jack is always gentle with
Ida. When she was just learning to walk, and in her helplessness
needed the constant care of others, he used, from choice, to relieve
his mother of much of the task of amusing the child. He had never
had a little sister, and the care of a child as young as Ida was a
novelty to him. It was, perhaps, this very office of guardian to the
child, assumed when she was so young, that made him feel ever after
as if she was placed under his special protection.
And Ida was equally attached to Jack. She learned to look up to him
for assistance in anything which she had at heart, and he never
disappointed her. Whenever he could, he would accompany her to
school, holding her by the hand; and fond as he was of rough play,
nothing would induce him to leave her.
"How long have you been a nurse-maid?" asked a boy, older than
himself, one day.
Jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he
had a duty to perform, and contented himself with saying, "Just wait
a few minutes, and I'll let you know."
"I dare say," was the reply. "I rather think I shall have to wait
till both of us are gray before that time."
"You won't have to wait long before you are black and blue,"
retorted Jack.
"Don't mind what he says, Jack," whispered Ida, fearful lest he
should leave her.
"Don't be afraid, Ida; I won't leave you; I guess he won't trouble
us another day."
Meanwhile the boy, emboldened by Jack's passiveness, followed, with
more abuse of the same sort. If he had been wiser, he would have
seen a storm gathering in the flash of Jack's eye; but he mistook
the cause of his forbearance.
The next day, as they were again going to school, Ida saw the same
boy dodging round the corner, with his head bound up.
"What's the matter with him, Jack?" she asked.
"I licked him like blazes, that's all," said Jack, quietly.
"I guess he'll let us alone after this."
CHAPTER VIII.
A STRANGE VISITOR.
IT was about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, Mrs. Crump was in the
kitchen, busy in preparations for dinner, when a loud knock was
heard at the door.
"Who can it be?" ejaculated Mrs. Crump. "Aunt Rachel, there's
somebody at the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?"
"People have no business to call at such an hour in the morning,"
grumbled Aunt Rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and
rose from her seat. "Nobody seems to have any consideration for
anybody else. But that's the way of the world."
Opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in
a gown of some dark stuff, with marked, and not altogether pleasant
features.
"Are you the lady of the house?" inquired the visitor.
"There ain't any ladies in this house," said Rachel. "You've come to
the wrong place. We have to work for a living here."
"The woman of the house, then. It doesn't make any difference about
names. Are you the one I want to see?"
"No, I ain't," said Rachel, shortly.
"Will you lead me to your mistress, then?"
"I have none."
The visitor's eyes flashed, as if her temper was easily roused.
"I want to see Mrs. Crump," she said, impatiently. Will you call
her, or shall I go and announce myself?"
"Some folks are mighty impatient," muttered Rachel. "Stay here, and
I'll call her to the door."
In a short time Mrs. Crump presented herself.
"Won't you come in?" she asked, pleasantly.
"I don't care if I do," was the reply. "I wish to speak to you on
important business."
Mrs. Crump, whose interest was excited, led the way into the
sitting-room.
"You have in your family," said the stranger, after seating herself,
"a girl named Ida."
Mrs. Crump looked up suddenly and anxiously. Could it be that the
secret of Ida's birth was to be revealed at last!
"Yes," she said.
"Who is not your child."
"But _whom_ I love as such; whom I have always taught to look upon
me as a mother."
"I presume so. It is of her that I wish to speak to you."
"Do you know anything of her parentage?" inquired Mrs. Crump,
eagerly.
"I was her nurse," said the other, quietly.
Mrs. Crump examined, anxiously, the hard features of the woman. It
was a relief at least to know, though she could hardly have
believed, that there was no tie of blood between her and Ida.
"Who were her parents?"
"I am not permitted to tell," was the reply.
Mrs. Crump looked disappointed.
"Surely," she said, with a sudden sinking of heart, "you have not
come to take her away?"
"This letter will explain my object in visiting you," said the
woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried on her
arm.
The cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as
follows:--
"MRS. CRUMP;
"Eight years ago last New Year's night, a child was left on your
door-steps, with a note containing a request that you would care for
it kindly as your own. Money was sent, at the same time, to defray
the expenses of such care. The writer of this note is the mother of
the child Ida. There is no need to say, here, why I sent the child
away from me. You will easily understand that only the most
imperative circumstances would have led me to such a step. Those
circumstances still prevent me from reclaiming the child, and I am
content, still, to leave Ida in your charge. Yet, there is one thing
of which I am (sic) desirious. You will understand a mother's desire
to see, face to face, the child who belongs, of right, to her. With
this view, I have come to this neighborhood. I will not say where,
for concealment is necessary to me. I send this note by a
trustworthy attendant,--Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida's nurse in her
infancy,--who will conduct Ida to me, and return her again to you.
Ida is not to know whom she is visiting. No doubt she believes you
her mother, and it is well. Tell her only, that it is a lady who
takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish
curiosity. I make this request as
"IDA'S MOTHER."
Mrs. Crump read this letter with mingled feelings. Pity for the
writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances
which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of
jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear
adopted daughter superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief
at the assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed,--all
these feelings affected the cooper's wife.
"So you were Ida's nurse," she said, gently.
"Yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "I hope the dear child is well."
"Perfectly well. How much her mother must have suffered from the
separation!"
"Indeed, you may say so, ma'am. It came near to break her heart."
"So it must," said sympathizing Mrs. Crump. "There is one thing I
would like to ask," she continued, hesitating and reddening. "Don't
answer it unless you please. Was--is Ida the child of shame?"
"She is not," answered the nurse.
Mrs. Crump looked relieved. It removed a thought from her mind which
would now and then intrude, though it had never, for an instant,
lessened her affection for the child.
At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. He
had just come home on an errand.
"It is my husband," said Mrs. Crump, turning to her visitor, by way
of explanation. "Timothy, will you come in a moment?"
Mr. Crump regarded his wife's visitor with some surprise. His wife
hastened to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida's nurse, and handed
to the astonished cooper the letter which the latter had brought
with her.
He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through
the letter. He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful. The
nurse regarded him with a slight uneasiness.
"This is, indeed, unexpected," he said, at last. "It is a new
development in Ida's history. May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have
any further proof. I want to be prudent with a child that I love as
my own,--if you have any further proof that you are what you claim
to be?"
"I judged that this letter would be sufficient," said the nurse;
moving a little in her chair.
"True; but how can we be sure that the writer is Ida's mother?"
"The tone of the letter, sir. Would anybody else write like that?"
"Then you have read the letter?" said the cooper, quickly.
"It was read to me, before I set out."
"By----"
"By Ida's mother. I do not blame you for your caution," she
continued. "You must be so interested in the happiness of the dear
child of whom you have taken such (sic) excelent care, I don't mind
telling you that I was the one who left her at your door eight years
ago, and that I never left the neighborhood until I found that you
had taken her in."
"And it was this, that enabled you to find the house, to-day."
"You forget," said the nurse, "that you were not then living in this
house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the
street."
"You are right," said the cooper. "I am disposed to believe in the
genuineness of your claim. You must pardon my testing you in such a
manner, but I was not willing to yield up Ida, even for a little
time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into."
"You are right," said the nurse. "I don't blame you in the least. I
shall report it to Ida's mother, as a proof of your attachment to
your child."
"When do you wish Ida to go with you?" asked Mrs. Crump.
"Can you let her go this afternoon?"
"Why," said Mrs. Crump, hesitating, "I should like to have a chance
to wash out some clothes for her. I want her to appear as neat a
possible, when she meets her mother."
The nurse hesitated.
"I do not wish to hurry you. If you will let me know when she will
be ready, I will call for her."
"I think I can get her ready early to-morrow morning."
"That will answer excellently. I will call for her then."
The nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her.
"Where are you going, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked the cooper's wife.
"To a hotel," was the reply.
"We cannot allow that," said Mrs. Crump, kindly. "It is a pity if we
cannot accommodate Ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as
long, for that matter."
"My wife is quite right," said the cooper; "we must insist upon your
stopping with us."
The nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. It was plain she would
have preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which Mrs. Crump made,
decided her to accept the invitation.
It was this. "You know, Mrs. Hardwick, if Ida is to go with you, she
ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you
go."
"I will accept your kind invitation," she said; "but I am afraid I
shall be in your way."
"Not in the least. It will be a pleasure to us to have you here. If
you will excuse me now, I will go out and attend to my dinner, which
I am afraid is getting behindhand."
Left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be
regarded as singular. She rose from her seat, and approached the
mirror. She took a full survey of herself as she stood there, and
laughed a short, hard laugh.
Then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying, "How
do you do, Mrs. Hardwick?"
"Did you speak?" asked the cooper, who was passing through the entry
on his way out.
"No," said the nurse, a little awkwardly. "I believe I said
something to myself. It's of no consequence."
"Somehow," thought the cooper, "I don't fancy the woman's looks, but
I dare say I am prejudiced. We're all of us as God made us."
While Mrs. Crump was making preparations for the noon-day meal, she
imparted to Rachel the astonishing information, which has already
been detailed to the reader.
"I don't believe a word of it," said Rachel, resolutely.
"She's an imposter. I knew she was the very first moment I set eyes
on her."
This remark was so characteristic of Rachel, that Mrs. Crump did not
attach any special importance to it. Rachel, of course, had no
grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. It was
consistent, however, with her general estimate of human nature.
"What object could she have in inventing such a story?"
"What object? Hundreds of 'em," said Rachel, rather indefinitely.
"Mark my words, if you let her carry off Ida, it'll be the last
you'll ever see of her."
"Try to look on the bright side, Rachel. Nothing is more natural
than that her mother should want to see her."
"Why couldn't she come herself?" muttered Rachel.
"The letter explains."
"I don't see that it does."
"It says that the same reasons exist for concealment as ever."
"And what are they, I should like to know? I don't like mysteries,
for my part."
"We won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to
keep Ida with us."
Aunt Rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, "but I ought to invite Mrs.
Hardwick in here. I have left her alone in the front room."
"I don't want to see her," said Aunt Rachel. Then changing her mind,
suddenly, "Yes, you may bring her in. I'll find out whether she is
an imposter or not."
Mrs. Crump returned with the nurse. "Mrs. Hardwick," said she, "this
is my sister, Miss Rachel Crump."
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am," said the nurse.
"Aunt Rachel, I will leave you to entertain Mrs. Hardwick," said
Mrs. Crump. "I am obliged to be in the kitchen."
Rachel and the nurse eyed each other with mutual dislike.
"I hope you don't expect me to entertain you," said Rachel. "I never
expect to entertain anybody again. This is a world of trial and
tribulation, and I've had my share. So you've come after Ida, I
hear?" with a sudden change of subject.
"At her mother's request," said the nurse.
"She wants to see her, then?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I wonder she didn't think of it before," said Aunt Rachel, sharply.
"She's good at waiting. She's waited eight years."
"There are circumstances that cannot be explained," commenced the
nurse.
"No, I dare say not," said Rachel, dryly. "So you were her nurse?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Hardwick, who evidently did not relish this
cross-examination.
"Have you lived with the mother ever since?"
"No,--yes," stammered the nurse. "Some of the time," she added,
recovering herself.
"Umph!" grunted Rachel, darting a sharp glance at her.
"Have you a husband living?" inquired Rachel, after a pause.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hardwick. "Have you?"
"I!" repeated Aunt Rachel, scornfully. "No, neither living nor dead.
I'm thankful to say I never married. I've had trials enough without
that. Does Ida's mother live in the city?"
"I can't tell you," said the nurse.
"Humph, I don't like mystery."
"It isn't my mystery," said the nurse. "If you have any objection to
make against it, you must make it to Ida's mother."
The two were not likely to get along very amicably. Neither was
gifted with the best of tempers, and perhaps it was as well that
there should have been an interruption as there was.
CHAPTER IX.
A JOURNEY.
"OH, mother," exclaimed Ida, bounding into the room, fresh from
school.
She stopped short, in some confusion, on seeing a stranger.
"Is this my own dear child, over whose infancy I watched so
tenderly?" exclaimed the nurse, rising, her harsh features wreathed
into a smile.
"It is Ida," said Mrs. Crump.
Ida looked from one to the other in silent bewilderment.
"Ida," said Mrs. Crump, in a little embarrassment, "this is Mrs.
Hardwick, who took care of you when you were an infant."
"But I thought you took care of me, mother," said Ida, in surprise.
"Very true," said Mrs. Crump, evasively, "but I was not able to have
the care of you all the time. Didn't I ever mention Mrs. Hardwick to
you?"
"No, mother."
"Although it is so long since I have seen her, I should have known
her anywhere," said the nurse, applying a handkerchief to her eyes.
"So pretty as she's grown up, too!"
Mrs. Crump, who, as has been said, was devotedly attached to Ida,
glanced with pride at the beautiful child, who blushed at the
compliment.
"Ida," said Mrs. Hardwick, "won't you come and kiss your old nurse?"
Ida looked at the hard face, which now wore a smile intended to
express affection. Without knowing why, she felt an instinctive
repugnance to her, notwithstanding her words of endearment.
She advanced timidly, with a reluctance which she was not wholly
able to conceal, and passively submitted to a caress from the nurse.
There was a look in the eyes of the nurse, carefully guarded, yet
not wholly concealed, which showed that she was quite aware of Ida's
feeling towards her, and resented it. But whether or not she was
playing a part, she did not betray this feeling openly, but pressed
the unwilling child more closely to her bosom.
Ida breathed a sigh of relief when she was released, and walked
quietly away, wondering what it was that made her dislike the woman
so much.
"Is my nurse a good woman?" she asked, thoughtfully, when alone with
Mrs. Crump, who was setting the table for dinner.
A good woman! What makes you ask that?" queried her adopted mother,
in surprise.
"I don't know," said Ida.
"I don't know anything to indicate that she is otherwise," said Mrs.
Crump. "And, by the way, Ida, she is going to take you on a little
excursion, to-morrow."
"She going to take me?" exclaimed Ida. "Why, where are we going?"
"On a little pleasure trip, and perhaps she may introduce you to a
pleasant lady, who has already become interested in you, from what
she has told her."
"What could she say of me?" inquired Ida, "she has not seen me since
I was a baby."
"Why," said the cooper's wife a little puzzled, "she appears to have
thought of you ever since, with a good deal of affection."
"Is it wicked," asked Ida, after a pause, "not to like those that
like us?"
"What makes you ask?"
"Because, somehow or other, I don't like this Mrs. Hardwick at all,
for all she was my old nurse, and I don't believe ever shall."
"Oh yes, you will," said Mrs. Crump, "when you find she is exerting
herself to give you pleasure."
"Am I going to-morrow morning with Mrs. Hardwick?"
"Yes. She wanted you to go to-day, but your clothes were not in
order."
"We shall come back at night, sha'n't we?"
"I presume so."
"I hope we shall," said Ida, decidedly, "and that she won't want me
to go with her again."
"Perhaps you will think differently when it is over, and you find
you have enjoyed yourself better than you anticipated."
Mrs. Crump exerted herself to fit Ida up as neatly as possible, and
when at length she was got ready, she thought to herself, with
sudden fear, "Perhaps her mother won't be willing to part with her
again."
When Ida was ready to start, there came over all a little shadow of
depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a
year, and not for a day only. Perhaps this was only natural, since
even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been
parted from her since, an infant, she was left at their door.
The nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany
her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of
Ida's mother should not be known at once. "Of course," she said,
"after Ida returns, she can tell you what she pleases. Then it will
be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. She does not live
in this neighborhood; she has only come here to have an interview
with Ida."
"Shall you bring her back to-night?" asked Mrs. Crump.
"I may keep her till to-morrow," said the nurse. "After eight years'
absence, that will seem short enough."
To this, Mrs. Crump agreed, but thought that it would seem long to
her, she had been so accustomed to have Ida present at meals.
The nurse walked as far as Broadway, holding Ida by the hand.
"Where are we going?" asked the child, timidly. "Are we going to
walk all the way?"
"No," said the nurse, "we shall ride. There is an omnibus coming
now. We will get into it."
She beckoned to the driver who stopped his horse. Ida and her
companion got in.
They got out at the Jersey City ferry.
"Did you ever ride in a steamboat?" asked Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone
intended to be gracious.
"Once or twice," said Ida. "I went with brother Jack once, over to
Hoboken. Are we going there, now?"
"No, we are going over to the city, you can see over the water."
"What is it? Is it Brooklyn?"
"No, it is Jersey City."
"Oh, that will be pleasant," said Ida, forgetting, in her childish
love of novelty, the repugnance with which the nurse had inspired
her.
"Yes, and that is not all; we are going still further," said the
nurse.
"Are we going further?" asked Ida, her eyes sparkling. "Where are we
going?"
"To a town on the line of the railroad."
"And shall we ride in the cars?" asked the child, with animation.
"Yes, didn't you ever ride in the cars before?"
"No, never."
"I think you will like it."
"Oh, I know I shall. How fast do the cars go?"
"Oh, a good many miles an hour,--maybe thirty."
"And how long will it take us to go to the place you are going to
carry me to!"
"I don't know exactly,--perhaps two hours."
"Two whole hours in the cars!" exclaimed Ida. "How much I shall have
to tell father and Jack when I get back."
"So you will," said Mrs. Hardwick, with an unaccountable smile,
"when you get back."
There was something peculiar in her tone as she pronounced these
last words, but Ida did not notice it.
So Ida, despite her company, actually enjoyed, in her bright
anticipation, a keen sense of pleasure.
"Are we most there?" she asked, after riding about two hours.
"It won't be long," said the nurse.
"We must have come ever so many miles," said Ida.
An hour passed. She amused herself by gazing out of the car windows
at the towns which seemed to flit by. At length, both Ida and her
nurse became hungry.
The nurse beckoned to her side a boy who was going through the cars
selling apples and seed-cakes, and inquired their price.
"The apples are two cents apiece, ma'am, and the cakes a cent
apiece."
Ida, who had been looking out of the window, turned suddenly round,
and exclaimed, in great astonishment; "Why, William Fitts, is that
you?"
"Why, Ida, where did you come from?" asked the boy, his surprise
equalling her own.
The nurse bit her lips in vexation at this unexpected recognition.
"I'm making a little journey with her," indicating Mrs. Hardwick.
"So you're going to Philadelphia," said the boy.
"To Philadelphia!" said Ida, in surprise. "Not that I know of."
"Why, you're most there now."
"Are we, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked Ida, looking in her companion's face.
"It isn't far from there where we're going," said the nurse,
shortly. "Boy, I'll take two of your apples and four seed-cakes. And
now you'd better go along, for there's somebody by the stove that
looks as if he wanted to buy of you."
William looked back as if he would like to question Ida farther, but
her companion looked forbidding, and he passed on reluctantly.
"Who is that boy?" asked the nurse, abruptly.
"His name is William Fitts."
"Where did you get acquainted with him?"
"He went to school with Jack, so I used to see him sometimes."
"With Jack! Who's Jack?"
"What! Don't you know Jack, brother Jack?" asked Ida, in childish
surprise.
"O yes," replied the nurse, recollecting herself; "I didn't think of
him."
He's a first-rate boy, William is," said Ida, who was disposed to be
communicative. "He's good to his mother. You see his mother is sick
most of the time, and can't do much; and he's got a little sister,
she ain't more than four or five years old--and William supports
them by selling things. "He's only sixteen; isn't he a smart boy?"
"Yes;" said the nurse, mechanically.
"Some time," continued Ida, "I hope I shall be able to earn
something for father and mother, so they won't be obliged to work so
hard."
"What could you do?" asked the nurse, curiously.
"I don't know as I could do much," said Ida, modestly; "but when I
have practised more, perhaps I could draw pictures that people would
buy."
"So you know how to draw?"
"Yes, I've been taking lessons for over a year."
"And how do you like it?"
"Oh, ever so much! I like it a good deal better than music."
"Do you know anything of that?"
"Yes, I can play a few easy pieces."
Mrs. Hardwick looked surprised, and regarded her young charge with
curiosity.
"Have you got any of your drawings with you?" she asked.
"No, I didn't bring any."
"I wish you had; the lady we are going to see would have liked to
see some of them."
"Are we going to see a lady?"
"Yes, didn't your mother tell you?"
"Yes, I believe she said something about a lady that was interested
in me."
"That's the one."
"Where does she live? When shall we get there?"
"We shall get there before very long."
"And shall we come back to New York to-night?"
"No, it wouldn't leave us any time to stay. Besides, I feel tired
and want to rest; don't you?"
"I do feel a little tired," acknowledged Ida.
"Philadelphia!" announced the conductor, opening the car-door.
"We get out, here," said the nurse. "Keep close to me, or you may
get lost. Perhaps you had better take hold of my hand."
"When are you coming back, Ida?" asked William Fitts, coming up to
her with his basket on his arm.
"Mrs. Hardwick says we sha'n't go back till to-morrow."
"Come, Ida," said the nurse, sharply. "We must hurry along."
"Good-by, William," said Ida. "If you see Jack, just tell him you
saw me."
"Yes, I will," was the reply.
"I wonder who that woman is with Ida," thought the boy. "I don't
like her looks much. I wonder if she's any relation of Mr. Crump.
She looks about as pleasant as Aunt Rachel."
The last-mentioned lady would hardly have felt complimented at the
comparison, or the manner in which it was made.
Ida looked about her with curiosity. There was a novelty in being in
a new place, since, as far back as she could remember, she had never
left New York, except for a brief excursion to Hoboken; and one
Fourth of July was made memorable in her recollection, by a trip to
Staten Island, which she had taken with Jack, and enjoyed
exceedingly.
"Is this Philadelphia?" she inquired.
"Yes;" said her companion, shortly.
"How far is it from New York?"
"I don't know; a hundred miles, more or less."
"A hundred miles!" repeated Ida, to whom this seemed an immense
distance. "Am I a hundred miles from father and mother, and Jack,
and--and Aunt Rachel?"
The last name was mentioned last, and rather as an after-thought, if
Ida felt it her duty to include the not very amiable spinster, who
had never erred in the way of indulgence.
"Why, yes, of course you are," said Mrs. Hardwick, in a practical,
matter-of-fact tone. "Here, cross the street here. Take care or
you'll get run over. Now turn down here."
They had now entered a narrow and dirty street, with unsightly
houses on either side.
"This ain't a very nice looking street," said Ida, looking about
her.
"Why isn't it?" demanded the nurse, looking displeased.
"Why, it's narrow, and the houses don't look nice."
"What do you think of that house, there?" asked Mrs. Hardwick,
pointing out a tall, brick tenement house.
"I shouldn't like to live there," said Ida, after a brief survey.
"You shouldn't! You don't like it so well as the house you live in
in New York?"
"No, not half so well."
The nurse smiled.
"Wouldn't you like to go up and look at the house?" she asked.
"Go up and look at it!" repeated Ida, in surprise.
"Yes, I mean to go in."
"Why, what should we do that for?"
"You see there are some poor families living there that I go to see
sometimes," said Mrs. Hardwick, who appeared to be amused at
something. "You know it is our duty to visit the poor."
"Yes, that's what mother says."
"There's a poor man living in the third story that I've made a good
many clothes for, first and last," said the nurse, in the same
peculiar tone.
"He must be very much obliged to you," said Ida, thinking that Mrs.
Hardwick was a better woman than she had supposed.
"We're going up to see him, now," said the nurse. "Just take care
of. that hole in the stairs. Here we are."
Somewhat to Ida's surprise, her companion opened the door without
the ceremony of knocking, and revealed a poor untidy room, in which
a coarse, unshaven man, was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a
pipe.
"Hallo!" exclaimed this individual, jumping up suddenly. "So you've
got along, old woman! Is that the gal?"
Ida stared from one to the other, in unaffected amazement.
CHAPTER X.
UNEXPECTED QUARTERS.
THE appearance of the man whom Mrs. Hardwick addressed so familiarly
was more picturesque than pleasing. He had a large, broad face,
which, not having been shaved for a week, looked like a wilderness
of stubble. His nose indicated habitual indulgence in alcoholic
beverages. His eyes, likewise, were bloodshot, and his skin looked
coarse and blotched; his coat was thrown aside, displaying a shirt
which bore evidence of having been useful in its day and generation.
The same remark may apply to his nether integuments, which were
ventilated at each knee, indicating a most praiseworthy regard to
the laws of health. He was sitting in a chair pitched back against
the wall, with his feet resting on another, and a short Dutch pipe
in his mouth, from which volumes of smoke were pouring.
Ida thought she had never seen before so disgusting a man. She
continued to gaze at him, half in astonishment, half in terror, till
the object of her attention exclaimed,--
"Well, little girl, what you're looking at? Hain't you never seen a
gentleman before?"
Ida clung the closer to her companion, who, she was surprised to
find, did not resent the man's impertinence.
"Well, Dick, how've you got along since I've been gone?" asked Mrs.
Hardwick, to Ida's unbounded astonishment.
"Oh, so so."
"Have you felt lonely any?"
"I've had good company."
"Who's been here?"
Dick pointed significantly to a jug, which stood beside his chair.
"So you've brought the gal. How did you get hold of her?"
There was something in these questions which terrified Ida. It
seemed to indicate a degree of complicity between these two, which
boded no good to her.
"I'll tell you the particulars by and by," said the nurse, looking
significantly at the child's expressive face.
At the same time she began to take off her bonnet.
"You ain't going to stop, are you?" whispered Ida.
"Ain't going to stop!" repeated the man called Dick. "Why shouldn't
she? Ain't she at home?"
"At home!" echoed Ida, apprehensively, opening wide her eyes in
astonishment.
"Yes, ask her."
Ida looked, inquiringly, at Mrs. Hardwick.
"You might as well take off your things," said the latter, grimly.
"We ain't going any farther to-day."
"And where's the lady you said you were going to see?" asked the
child, bewildered.
"The one that was interested in you?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm the one."
"You!"
"Yes."
"I don't want to stay here," said Ida, becoming frightened.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked the woman,
mockingly.
"Will you take me back early to-morrow?"
"No, I don't intend to take you back at all," said the nurse,
coolly.
Ida seemed stupefied with astonishment and terror at first. Then,
actuated by a sudden impulse, she ran to the door, and had got it
open when the nurse sprang forward, and seizing her by the arm,
dragged her rudely back.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" she demanded, roughly.
"Back to father and mother," said Ida, bursting into tears. "Oh, why
did you carry me away?"
"I'll tell you why," answered Dick, jocularly. "You see, Ida, we
ain't got any little girl to love us, and so we got you."
"But I don't love you, and I never shall," said Ida, indignantly.
"Now don't you go to saying that," said Dick. "You'll break my
heart, you will, and then Peg will be a widow."
To give effect to this pathetic speech, Dick drew out a tattered red
handkerchief, and made a great demonstration of wiping his eyes.
The whole scene was so ludicrous that Ida, despite her fears and
disgust, could not help laughing hysterically. She recovered herself
instantly, and said, imploringly, "Oh, do let me go, and father will
pay you; I'm sure he will."
"You really think he would?" said Dick.
"Oh, yes; and you'll tell her to carry me back, won't you?"
"No, he won't tell me any such thing," said Peg, gruffly; "and if he
did, I wouldn't do it; so you might as well give up all thoughts of
that first as last. You're going to stay here; so take off that
bonnet of yours, and say no more about it."
Ida made no motion towards obeying this mandate.
"Then I'll do it for you," said Peg.
She roughly untied the bonnet, Ida struggling vainly in opposition,
and taking this with the shawl, carried them to a closet, in which
she placed them, and then, locking the door, deliberately put the
key in her pocket.
"There," said she, "I guess you're safe for the present."
"Ain't you ever going to carry me back?" asked Ida, wishing to know
the worst.
"Some years hence," said the woman, coolly. "We want you here for
the present. Besides, you're not sure that they want to see you back
again."
"Not glad to see me?"
"No; how do you know but your father and mother sent you off on
purpose? They've been troubled with you long enough, and now they've
bound you apprentice to me till you're eighteen."
"It's a lie," said Ida, firmly. "They didn't send me off, and you're
a wicked woman to keep me here."
"Hoity-toity!" said the woman, pausing and looking menacingly at the
child. "Have you anything more to say before I whip you?"
"Yes," said Ida, goaded to desperation; "I shall complain of you to
the police, and they will put you in jail, and send me home. That is
what I will do."
The nurse seized Ida by the arm, and striding with her to the closet
already spoken of, unlocked it, and rudely pushing her in, locked
the door after her.
"She's a spunky 'un," remarked Dick, taking the pipe from his mouth.
"Yes," said the woman, "she makes more fuss than I thought she
would."
"How did you manage to come it over her family?" asked Dick.
His wife, gave substantially, the same account with which the reader
is already familiar.
"Pretty well done, old woman!" exclaimed Dick, approvingly. "I
always said you was a deep 'un. I always say if Peg can't find out a
way to do a thing it can't be done, no how."
"How about the counterfeit coin?" asked his wife, abruptly.
"They're to supply us with all we can get off, and we are to have
one half of all we succeed in passing."
"That is good," said the woman, thoughtfully. "When this girl Ida
gets a little tamed down, we'll give her some business to do."
"Won't she betray us if she gets caught?"
"We'll manage that, or at least I will. I'll work on her fears so
that she won't any more dare to say a word about us than to cut her
own head off."
Ida sank down on the floor of the closet into which she had been
thrust. Utter darkness was around her, and a darkness as black
seemed to hang over all her prospects of future happiness. She had
been snatched in a moment from parents, or those whom she regarded
as such, and from a comfortable and happy though humble home, to
this dismal place. In place of the kindness and indulgence to which
she had been accustomed, she was now treated with harshness and
cruelty. What wonder that her heart desponded, and her tears of
childish sorrow flowed freely?
CHAPTER XI.
SUSPENSE.
IT doesn't somehow seem natural," said Mr. Crump, as he took his
seat at the tea-table, "to sit down without Ida. It seems as if half
of the family were gone."
"Just what I've said twenty times to-day," remarked his wife.
"Nobody knows how much a child is to them till they lose it."
"Not lose it, mother," said Jack, who had been sitting in a silence
unusual for him."
"I didn't mean to say that," said Mrs. Crump. "I meant till they
were gone away for a time."
"When you spoke of losing," said Jack, "it made me feel just as Ida
wasn't coming back."
"I don't know how it is," said his mother, thoughtfully, "but that's
just the feeling I've had several times to-day. I've felt just as if
something or other would happen so that Ida wouldn't come back."
"That is only because she has never been away before," said the
cooper, cheerfully. "It isn't best to borrow trouble; we shall have
enough of it without."
"You never said a truer word, brother," said Rachel, lugubriously.
"'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.' This world is a
vale of tears. Folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't
what they're sent here for."
"Now that's where I differ from you," said the cooper,
good-humoredly, "just as there are many more pleasant than stormy
days, so I believe that there is much more of brightness than shadow
in this life of ours, if we would only see it."
"I can't see it," said Rachel, shaking her head very decidedly.
"Perhaps you could if you tried."
"So I do."
"It seems to me, Rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds
than the sun."
"Yes," chimed in Jack; "I've noticed whenever Aunt Rachel takes up
the newspaper, she always looks first at the (sic) death's, and next
at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions."
"It's said," said Aunt Rachel, with severe emphasis, "if you should
ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded you wouldn't find much
to laugh at."
"Yes, I should," said Jack. "I should laugh----"
"What!" said Aunt Rachel, horrified.
"On the other side of my mouth," concluded Jack. "You didn't wait
till I had got through the sentence."
"I don't think it proper to make light of such matters."
"Nor I, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, drawing down the corners of his
mouth. "I am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. I
should feel as they said the cow did, that was thrown three hundred
feet into the air."
"How was that?" inquired his mother.
"A little discouraged," replied Jack.
All laughed except Aunt Rachel, who preserved the same severe
composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air
of one gulping down medicine.
So the evening passed. All seemed to miss Ida. Mrs. Crump found
herself stealing glances at the smaller chair beside her own in
which Ida usually sat. The cooper appeared abstracted, and did not
take as much interest as usual in the evening paper. Jack was
restless, and found it difficult to fix his attention upon anything.
Even Aunt Rachel looked more dismal than usual, if such a thing be
possible.
In the morning all felt brighter.
"Ida will be home to-night," said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. "What an
age it seems since she left us!"
"We shall know better how to appreciate her presence," said the
cooper, cheerfully.
"What time do you expect her home? Did Mrs. Hardwick say?"
"Why no," said Mrs. Crump, she didn't say, but I guess she will be
along in the course of the afternoon."
"If we only knew where she had gone," said Jack, "we could tell
better."
"But as we don't know," said his father, "we must wait patiently
till she comes."
"I guess," said Mrs. Crump, in the spirit of a notable housewife,
"I'll make up some apple-turnovers for supper to-night. There's
nothing Ida likes so well."
"That's where Ida is right," said Jack, "apple-turnovers are
splendid."
"They're very unwholesome," remarked Aunt Rachel.
"I shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, Aunt Rachel,"
retorted Jack. "You ate four the last time we had them for supper."
"I didn't think you'd begrudge me the little I eat," said Rachel,
dolefully. "I didn't think you took the trouble to keep account of
what I ate."
"Come, Rachel, this is unreasonable," said her brother. "(sic)
Noboby begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice
as much as you do. I dare say, Jack ate more of them than you did."
"I ate six," said Jack.
Rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more; but, feeling
it unnecessary to explain why she ate what she admitted to be
unhealthy, added, "And if I do eat what's unwholesome, it's because
life ain't of any value to me. The sooner one gets out of this vale
of affliction the better."
"And the way you take to get out of it," said Jack, gravely, "is by
eating apple-turnovers. Whenever you die, Aunt Rachel, we shall have
to put a paragraph in the papers, headed, 'Suicide by eating
apple-turnovers.'"
Rachel intimated, in reply, that she presumed it would afford Jack a
great deal of satisfaction to write such a paragraph.
The evening came. Still no tidings of Ida.
The family began to feel alarmed. An indefinable sense of
apprehension oppressed the minds of all. Mrs. Crump feared that
Ida's mother, seeing her grown up so attractive, could not resist
the temptation of keeping her.
"I suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her; but it
will be a terrible thing for us to part with her."
"Don't let us trouble ourselves in that way," said the cooper. "It
seems to me very natural that they should keep her a little longer
than they intended. Besides, it is not too late for her to return
to-night."
This cheered Mrs. Crump a little.
The evening passed slowly.
At length there came a knock at the door.
"I guess that is Ida," said Mrs. Crump, joyfully.
Jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. But
there was no Ida there. In her place stood William Fitts, the boy
who had met Ida in the cars.
"How do you do, Bill?" said Jack, endeavoring not to look
disappointed. "Come in, and take a seat, and tell us all the news."
"Well," said William, "I don't know of any. I suppose Ida has got
home."
"No," said Jack, "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come
yet."
"She told me that she expected to come back to-day," said William.
"What! have you seen her?" exclaimed all in chorus.
"Yes, I saw her yesterday noon."
"Where?"
"Why, in the cars," said William, a little surprised at the
question.
"What cars?" asked the cooper.
"Why, the Philadelphia cars. Of course, you knew that was where she
was going?"
"Philadelphia!" all exclaimed, in surprise.
"Yes, the cars were almost there when I saw her. Who was that with
her?"
"Mrs. Hardwick, who was her old nurse."
"Anyway, I didn't like her looks," said the boy.
"That's where I agree with you," said Jack, decidedly.
"She didn't seem to want me to speak to Ida," continued William,
"but hurried her off, just as quick as possible."
"There were reasons for that," said Mrs. Crump, "she wanted to keep
secret her destination."
"I don't know what it was," said William; "but any how, I don't like
her looks."
The family felt a little relieved by this information; and, since
Ida had gone so far, it did not seem strange that she should have
outstayed her time.
CHAPTER XII.
HOW IDA FARED.
WE left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over
her.
After an hour she was released.
"Well," said Peg, grimly, "how do you feel now?"
"I want to go home," sobbed the child.
"You are at home," said the woman. This is going to be your home
now."
"Shall I never see father and mother and Jack, again?"
"Why," answered Peg, "that depends on how you behave yourself."
"Oh, if you will only let me go," said Ida, gathering hope from this
remark, "I'll do anything you say."
"Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting
away?"
"Oh, I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, just tell me
what I am to do, and I will obey you cheerfully."
"Very well," said Peg, "only you needn't try to get anything out of
me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you
don't care a cent about me. In the second place, I am not good; and
finally, my name isn't Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York."
"What is it, then?" asked Ida.
"It's just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg."
"I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick."
"Then you'll have a good many years to call me so. You'd better do
as I tell you if you want any favors. Now what do you say?"
"Yes, Aunt Peg," said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her
repugnance.
"That's well. Now the first thing to do, is to stay here for the
present."
"Yes--aunt."
"The second is, you're not to tell anybody that you came from New
York. That is very important. You understand that, do you?"
The child replied in the affirmative.
"The next is, that you're to pay for your board, by doing whatever I
tell you."
"If it isn't wicked."
"Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?"
"You said you wasn't good," mildly suggested Ida.
"I'm good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that?
Answer me."
"Yes."
"There's another thing. You ain't to try to run away."
Ida hung down her head.
"Ha!" said Peg. "So you've been thinking of it, have you?"
"Yes," said Ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation; "I did think I
should if I got a good chance."
"Humph!" said the woman; "I see we must understand one another.
Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I
shall keep you there all the time."
Ida shuddered at this fearful threat, terrible to a child of nine.
"Do you promise?"
"Yes," said the child, faintly.
"For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have
something to show you."
She went to the cupboard, and took down a large pistol.
"There," she said, "do you see that?"
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"What is it?"
"It is a pistol, I believe."
"Do you know what it is for?"
"To shoot people with," said Ida, fixing her eyes on the weapon, as
if impelled by a species of fascination.
"Yes," said the woman; "I see you understand. Well, now, do you know
what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or
attempt to run away? Can you guess now?"
"Would you shoot me?" asked the child, struck with terror.
"Yes, I would," said Peg, with fierce emphasis. "That's just what
I'd do. And what's more," she added, "even if you got away, and got
back to your family in New York. I would follow you and shoot you
dead in the street."
"You wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed Ida, appalled.
"Wouldn't I, though?" repeated Peg, significantly. "If you don't
believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try
it?"
"No," said the child, with a shudder.
"Well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. Now, that you
have got to be a little more reasonable, I'll tell you what I am
going to do with you."
Ida looked up eagerly into her face.
"I am going to keep you with me a year. I want the services of a
little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then
send you back to your friends in New York."
"Will you?" said Ida, hopefully.
"Yes. But you must mind and do what I tell you."
"O yes," said the child, joyfully.
This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the
prospect of returning home, even after a year, gave her fresh
courage.
"What shall I do?" she asked, anxious to conciliate Peg.
"You may take the broom,--you will find it just behind the
door,--and sweep the room."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"And after that you may wash the dishes. Or, rather, you may wash
the dishes first."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"And after that I will find something for you to do."
The next morning Ida was asked if she would like to go out into the
street.
This was a welcome proposition, as the sun was shining brightly, and
there was little to please a child's fancy in Peg's shabby
apartment.
"I am going to let you do a little shopping," said Peg. "There are
various things that we want. Go and get your bonnet."
"It's in the closet," said Ida.
"O yes, where I put it. That was before I could trust you."
She went to the closet, and came back bringing the bonnet and shawl.
As soon as they were ready, they emerged into the street. Ida was
glad to be in the open air once more.
"This is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't
it?" said Peg.
Ida owned that it was.
"You see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as I bid you.
I don't want to do you any harm. I want you to be happy."
So they walked along together, until Peg, suddenly pausing, laid her
hand on Ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her, "Do
you see that shop?"
"Yes," said Ida.
"Well, that is a baker's shop. And now I'll tell you what to do. I
want you to go in, and ask for a couple of rolls. They come at three
cents apiece. Here's some money to pay for them. It is a silver
dollar, as you see. You will give this to them, and they will give
you back ninety-four cents in change. Do you understand'?"
"Yes," said Ida; "I think I do."
"And if they ask if you haven't anything smaller, you will say no."
"Yes, Aunt Peg."
"I will stay just outside. I want you to go in alone, so that you
will get used to doing without me."
Ida entered the shop. The baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood
behind the counter.
"Well, my dear, what is it?" he asked.
"I should like a couple of rolls."
"For your mother, I suppose," said the baker, sociably.
"No," said Ida; "for the woman I board with."
"Ha! a silver dollar, and a new one, too," said the baker, receiving
the coin tendered in payment. "I shall have to save that for my
little girl."
Ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change.
"Did he say anything about the money?" asked Peg, a little
anxiously.
"He said he should save it for his little girl."
"Good," said the woman, approvingly; "you've done well."
Ida could not help wondering what the baker's disposal of the dollar
had to do with her doing well, but she was soon thinking of other
things.
CHAPTER XIII.
BAD COIN.
THE baker introduced to the reader's notice in the last chapter was
named Crump. Singularly enough Abel Crump, for this was his name,
was a brother of Timothy Crump, the cooper. In many respects he
resembled his brother. He was an excellent man, exemplary in all the
relations of life, and had a good heart. He was in very comfortable
circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent
attention to his business. Like his brother, Abel Crump had married,
and had one child, now about the size of Ida, that is, nine years
old. She had received the name of Ellen.
When the baker closed his shop for the night he did not forget the
silver dollar which he had received, or the disposal which he told
Ida he should make of it.
He selected it carefully from the other coins, and slipped it into
his vest pocket.
Ellen ran to meet him as he entered the house.
"What do you think I have brought you, Ellen?" said her father,
smiling.
"Do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly.
"What if I should tell you it was a silver dollar?"
"Oh, father, thank you," and Ellen ran to show it to her mother.
"You got it at the shop?" asked his wife.
"Yes," said the baker; "I received it from a little girl about the
size of Ellen, and I suppose it was that gave me the idea of
bringing it home to her."
"Was she a pretty little girl?" asked Ellen, interested.
"Yes, she was very attractive. I could not help feeling interested
in her. I hope she will come again."
This was all that passed concerning Ida at that time. The thought of
her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been
recalled by circumstances.
Ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money,
could not be easy until she had spent it. Her mother advised her to
lay it away, or perhaps deposit it in some Savings Bank; but Ellen
preferred present gratification.
Accordingly one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she
persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw
in the window. The price was sixty-two cents. Ellen concluded to
take it, and tendered the silver dollar in payment.
The shopman took it into his hand, glancing at it carelessly at
first, then scrutinizing it with considerable attention.
"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Crump. "It is good, isn't it?"
"That is what I am doubtful of," was the reply.
"It is new."
"And that is against it. If it were old, it would be more likely to
be genuine."
"But you wouldn't (sic) comdemn a piece because it was new?"
"Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases
where spurious dollars have been circulated, and I suspect this is
one of them. However, I can soon test it."
"I wish you, would," said Mrs. Crump. "My husband took it at his
shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is placed on his
guard."
The shopman retired a moment, and then reappeared.
"It is as I thought," he said. "The coin is not good."
"And can't I pass it, then?" said Ellen, disappointed.
"I am afraid not."
"Then I don't see, Ellen," said her mother, "but you will have to
give up your purchase for to-day. We must tell your father of this."
Mr. Crump was exceedingly surprised at his wife's account.
"Really," he said, "I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible
that such a beautiful child could be guilty of such a crime?"
"Perhaps not," said his wife. "She may be as innocent in the matter
as Ellen or myself."
"I hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that such a child
should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before
long."
"How?"
"She will undoubtedly come again some time, and if she offers me one
of the same coins I shall know what to think."
Mr. Crump watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days
in vain. It was not the policy of Peg to send the child too often to
the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection.
One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.
"Good morning," said the baker. "What will you have to-day?"
"You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir."
The baker placed it in her hands.
"How much will it be?"
"Twelve cents."
Ida offered him another silver dollar.
As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter, and
managed to place himself between Ida and the door.
"What is your name, my child?" he asked.
"Ida, sir."
"Ida? A very pretty name; but what is your other name?"
Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the
name of Crump, and told her if the inquiry was ever made, she must
answer Hardwick.
She answered, reluctantly, "My name is Ida Hardwick."
The baker observed the hesitation, and this increased his
suspicions.
"Hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the
child as much information as he could before allowing her to
perceive that he suspected her. "And where do you live?"
Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be
questioned so closely. She said, with some impatience, "I am in a
hurry, sir, and would like to have you hand me the change as soon as
you can."
"I have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner changing; "but
you cannot go just yet."
"And why not?" asked Ida, her eyes flashing.
"Because you have been trying to deceive me."
"I trying to deceive you!" exclaimed the child, in astonishment.
"Really," thought Mr. Crump, "she does it well, but no doubt they
train her to it. It is perfectly shocking, such depravity in a
child."
"Don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he said, in
as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.
"Yes," said Ida, promptly; "I bought two rolls at three cents a
piece."
"And what did you offer me in payment?"
"I handed you a silver dollar."
"Like this?" asked Mr. Crump, holding up the coin.
"Yes, sir."
"And do you mean to say," said the baker, sternly, "that you didn't
know it was bad when you handed it to me?"
"Bad!" exclaimed Ida, in great surprise.
"Yes, spurious. It wasn't worth one tenth of a dollar."
"And is this like it?"
"Precisely."
"Indeed, sir, I didn't know anything about it," said Ida, earnestly,
"I hope you will believe me when I say that I thought it was good."
"I don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed.
"I don't know whether to believe you or not," said he. "Have you any
other money?"
"That is all I have got."
Of course, I can't let you have the gingerbread. Some would deliver
you up into the hands of the police. However, I will let you go if
you will make me one promise."
"Oh, anything, sir."
"You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good
one to-morrow?"
Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.
CHAPTER XIV.
DOUBTS AND FEARS.
WELL, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida
rejoined her at the corner of the street, where she had been waiting
for her. "And where's your gingerbread?"
"He wouldn't let me have it," said Ida.
"And why not?"
"Because he said the money wasn't good."
"Stuff! it's good enough," said Peg, hastily. "Then we must go
somewhere else."
"But he said the dollar I gave him last week wasn't good, and I
promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me
go."
"Well, where are you going to get your dollar to carry him?"
"Why, won't you give it to me?" said Ida, hesitatingly.
"Catch me at such nonsense! But here we are at another shop. Go in
and see whether you can do any better there. Here's the money."
"Why, it's the same piece."
"What if it is?"
"I don't want to pass bad money."
"Tut, what hurt will it do?"
"It is the same as stealing."
"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."
"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida, whose truthful
perceptions saw through the woman's sophistry.
"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly.
"Maybe you know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do to
be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out if you live with me
long."
"Where did you take the dollar?" asked Ida, with a sudden thought;
"and how is it that you have so many of them?"
"None of your business," said her companion, roughly. "You shouldn't
pry into the affairs of other people."
"Are you going to do as I told you?" she demanded, after a moment's
pause.
"I can't," said Ida, pale but resolute.
"You can't," repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do
whatever I told you?"
"Except what was wicked," interrupted Ida.
"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with
me."
Peg, walked in sullen silence, occasionally turning round to scowl
upon the unfortunate child, who had been strong enough, in her
determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the
woman whom she had every reason to dread.
Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder.
Dick was lounging in a chair, with the inevitable pipe in his mouth.
"Hilloa!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's movements, "what's
the gal been doing, hey?"
"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg; "I should like to know what
she hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy some
gingerbread of the baker, as I told her."
"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't
this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of
ingratitude, when we go to the trouble of earning the money to pay
for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't willing to go in and
buy it?"
"I would just as lieves go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me good
money to pay for it."
"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist; "jest
do as she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take the risk."
"I can't!" said the child.
"You hear her?" said Peg.
"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head. "Put her in
the closet."
So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet, in the
midst of her desolation, there was a feeling of pleasure in thinking
that she was suffering for doing right.
When Ida failed to return on the expected day, the Crumps, though
disappointed, did not think it strange.
"If I were her mother," said Mrs. Crump, "and had been parted from
her so long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear
heart! how pretty she is, and how proud her mother must be of her!"
"It's all a delusion," said Aunt Rachel, shaking her head. "It's all
a delusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs.
Hardwick is an imposter. I knew it, and told you so at the time, but
you wouldn't believe me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in
this world."
"I do," said Jack, confidently.
"There's many a hope that's doomed to disappointment," said Aunt
Rachel.
"So there is," said Jack. "I was hoping mother would have
apple-pudding for dinner to-day, but she didn't."
The next day passed, and still no tidings of Ida. There was a cloud
of anxiety, even upon Mr. Crump's usually placid face, and he was
more silent than usual at the evening meal.
At night, after Rachel and Jack had both retired, he said,
anxiously, "What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged
absence, Mary?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, seriously. "It seems to me, if her
mother wanted te keep her longer than the time she at first
proposed, it would be no more than right that she should write us a
line. She must know that we would feel anxious."
"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of nothing
else."
"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from
her, I shall be seriously troubled."
"Suppose she should never come back," said the cooper, sadly.
"Oh, husband, don't think of such a thing," said his wife,
distressed.
"We must contemplate it as a possibility," returned Timothy,
gravely, "though not, I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an
undoubted right to her; a better right than any we can urge."
"Then it would be better," said his wife, tearfully, "if she had
never been placed in our charge. Then we should not have had the
pain of parting with her."
"Not so, Mary," said the cooper, seriously. "We ought to be grateful
for God's blessings, even if he suffers us to possess them but a
short time. And Ida has been a blessing to us, I am sure. How many
hours have been made happy by her childish prattle! how our hearts
have been filled with cheerful happiness and affection when we have
gazed upon her! That can't be taken from us, even if she is, Mary.
There's some lines I met with in the paper, to-night, that express
just what I feel. Let me find them."
The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns
of the paper, till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson,
which he read aloud,--
"I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all."
"There, wife," said he, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know who
writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great
sorrow, and conquered it."
"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare say
you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have reason to learn the
truth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that
Ida will come back. We are troubling ourselves too soon."
"At any rate," said the cooper, "there is no doubt that it is our
duty to take every means to secure Ida if we can. Of course, if her
mother insists upon keeping her, we can't say anything; but we ought
to be sure, before we yield her up, that such is the case."
"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Mrs. Crump, with anxious
interest.
"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said her husband. "Very
likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel
more anxious."
"You have already aroused my anxiety," said his wife. "I should feel
better if you would tell me."
"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes doubted," he
continued, lowering his voice, "whether Ida's mother really sent for
her."
"And the letter?" queried Mrs. Crump, looking less surprised than he
supposed she would.
"I thought--mind it is only a guess on my part--that Mrs. Hardwick
might have got somebody to write it for her."
"It is very singular," murmured Mrs. Crump, in a tone of
abstraction.
"What is singular?"
"Why, the very same thought occurred to me. Somehow, I couldn't help
feeling a little suspicious of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps
unjustly. But what object could she have in obtaining possession of
Ida?"
"That I cannot conjecture; but I have come to one determination."
"And what is that?"
"Unless we learn something of Ida within a week from the time she
left here, I shall go on to Philadelphia, or send Jack, and endeavor
to get track of her."
CHAPTER XV.
AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS.
THE week which had been assigned by Mr. Crump slipped away, and
still no tidings of Ida. The house seemed lonely without her. Not
until then, did they understand how largely she had entered into
their life and thoughts. But worse even, than the sense of loss, was
the uncertainty as to her fate.
When seven days had passed the cooper said, "It is time that we took
some steps about finding Ida. I had intended to go to Philadelphia
myself, to make inquiries about her, but I am just now engaged upon
a job which I cannot very well leave, and so I have concluded to
send Jack."
"When shall I start?" exclaimed Jack, eagerly.
"To-morrow morning," answered his father, "and you must take clothes
enough with you to last several days, in case it should be
necessary."
"What good do you suppose it will do, Timothy," broke in Rachel, "to
send such a mere boy as Jack?"
"A mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly.
"A boy hardly sixteen years old," continued Rachel. "Why, he'll need
somebody to take care of him. Most likely you'll have to go after
him."
"What's the use of provoking a fellow so, Aunt Rachel?" said Jack.
"You know I'm most eighteen. Hardly sixteen! Why, I might as well
say you're hardly forty, when everybody knows you're most fifty."
"Most fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "It's a base
slander. I'm only forty-three."
"Maybe I'm mistaken," said Jack, carelessly. "I didn't know exactly.
I only judged from your looks."
"'Judge not that ye be not judged!'" said Rachel, whom this
explanation was not likely to appease. "The world is full of calumny
and misrepresentation. I've no doubt you would like to shorten my
days upon the earth, but I sha'n't live long to trouble any of you.
I feel that, ere the summer of life is over, I shall be gathered
into the garden of the Great Destroyer."
At this point, Rachel applied a segment of a pocket-handkerchief to
her eyes; but unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect,
instead of being pathetic, as she had intended, was simply
ludicrous.
It so happened that a short time previous the inkstand had been
partially spilled on the table, and this handkerchief had been used
to sop it up. It had been placed inadvertently on the window-seat,
where it had remained till Rachel, who sat beside the window, called
it into requisition. The ink upon it was by no means dry. The
consequence was that, when Rachel removed it from her eyes, her face
was found to be covered with ink in streaks,--mingling with the
tears that were falling, for Rachel always had tears at her command.
The first intimation the luckless spinster had of her misfortune,
was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from Jack, whose organ of
mirthfulness, marked _very large_ by the phrenologist, could not
withstand such a provocation to laughter.
He looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow upon his aunt's
face, of which she was yet unconscious--and doubling up, went into a
perfect paroxysm of laughter.
Aunt Rachel looked equally amazed and indignant.
"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the
cause of his amusement. "It's improper for you to laugh at your aunt
in such a rude manner."
"Oh, I can't help it, mother. It's too rich! Just look at her," and
Jack went off into another paroxysm.
Thus invited, Mrs. Crump did look, and the rueful expression of
Rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical,
that, after a little struggle, she too gave way, and followed Jack's
example.
Astounded and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her
sister-in-law, Rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again
had recourse to the handkerchief.
"I've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as
my own nephew, from whom I expect nothing better, makes me her
laughing-stock. Brother Timothy, I can no longer remain in your
dwelling to be laughed at; I will go to the poor-house, and end my
life as a pauper. If I only receive Christian burial, when I leave
the world, it will be all I hope or expect from my relatives, who
will be glad enough to get rid of me."
The second application of the handkerchief had so increased the
effect, that Jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while
the cooper, whose attention was now for the first time drawn to his
sister's face, burst out in a similar manner.
This more amazed Rachel than even Mrs. Crump's merriment.
"Even you, Timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed,
in an 'Et tu Brute,' tone.
"We don't mean to ridicule you, Rachel," gasped Mrs. Crump, with
difficulty, "but we can't help laughing----"
"At the prospect of my death," uttered Rachel. "Well, I'm a poor
forlorn creetur, I know; I haven't got a friend in the world. Even
my nearest relations make sport of me, and when I speak of dying
they shout their joy to my face."
"Yes," gasped Jack, "that's it exactly. It isn't your death we're
laughing at, but your face."
"My face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "One would think I was a
fright, by the way you laugh at it."
So you are," said Jack, in a state of semi-strangulation.
"To be called a fright to my face!" shrieked Rachel, "by my own
nephew! This is too much. Timothy, I leave your house forever."
The excited maiden seized her hood, which was hanging from a nail,
and hardly knowing what she did, was about to leave the house with
no other protection, when she was arrested in her progress towards
the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to
say: "Before you go, Rachel, just look in the glass."
Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon
a face which streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every
direction.
In her first confusion, Rachel did not understand the nature of her
mishaps, but hastily jumped to the conclusion that she had been
suddenly stricken by some terrible disease like the plague, whose
ravages in London she had read of with the interest which one of her
melancholy temperament might be expected to find in it.
Accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and
exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish,--
"It is the fatal plague spot! I feel it; I know it! I am marked for
the tomb. The sands of my life are fast running out!"
Jack broke into a fresh burst of merriment, so that an observer
might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent
danger of suffocation.
"You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel; I know you will," he gasped out.
"You may order my coffin, Timothy," said Rachel, in a sepulchral
tone. "I sha'n't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for
a week past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like
to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help. I
will go up to my chamber."
"I think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "that you will
find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the
plague-spots, as you call them."
Rachel turned towards him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes
rested, for the first time, upon the handkerchief which she had
used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was
enabled to account for her own.
Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as
the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly,
and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.
After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's
approaching journey.
"I don't know," said his mother, "but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack
isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake
such a mission."
"Now, mother," expostulated Jack, "you ain't going to side against
me, are you?"
"There is no better plan," said Mr. Crump, quietly, "and I have
sufficient confidence in Jack's shrewdness and intelligence to
believe he may be trusted in this business."
Jack looked gratified by this tribute to his powers and capacity,
and determined to show that he was deserving of his father's
favorable opinion.
The preliminaries were settled, and it was agreed that he should set
out early the next morning. He went to bed with the brightest
anticipations, and with the resolute determination to find Ida if
she was anywhere in Philadelphia.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FLOWER-GIRL.
HENRY BOWEN was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned
the farm, on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing
his favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest
success. The foremost rank in his profession was not for him. But he
had good taste, a correct eye, and a skilful hand, and his
productions were pleasing and popular. A few months before his
introduction to the reader's notice, he had formed a connection with
a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable
work in his way.
"Have you any new commission this morning?" inquired the young
artist, on the day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed
to pass off spurious coins.
"Yes," said the publisher, "I have thought of something which I
think may prove attractive. Just at present, the public seem fond of
pictures of children in different characters. I should like to have
you supply me with a sketch of a flower-girl, with, say, a basket of
flowers in her hand. The attitude and incidentals I will leave to
your taste. The face must, of course, be as beautiful and expressive
as you can make it, where regularity of features is not sufficient.
Do you comprehend my idea?"
"I believe I do," said the young man, "and hope to be able to
satisfy you."
The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he
had undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but
found himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not
sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to
produce the effect he desired. The faces which he successively
outlined were all stiff, and though perhaps sufficiently regular in
feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and life-like.
"What is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently, throwing
down his pencil. "Is it impossible for me to succeed? Well, I will
be patient, and make one trial more."
He made another trial, that proved as unsatisfactory as those
preceding.
"It is clear," he decided, "that I am not in the vein. I will go out
and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the street something will
strike me."
He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and, descending, emerged
into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng.
It was only natural that, as he walked, with his task still in his
thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young
girls as he met.
"Perhaps," it occurred to him, "I may get a hint from some face I
may see. That will be better than to depend upon my fancy. Nothing,
after all, is equal to the masterpieces of Nature."
But the young artist was fastidious. "It is strange," he thought,
"how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be
called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes
but a badly-cut mouth, Here is one that would be pretty, if the face
was rounded out; and here is a child, Heaven help it! that was
designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances
have pinched and cramped it."
It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the
corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.
Henry Bowen looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own
lighted up with pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as
he has despaired of it.
"The very face I have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself.
"My flower-girl is found at last!"
He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at
a shop-window to examine some articles which were exhibited there.
This afforded a fresh opportunity to examine Ida's face.
"It is precisely what I want," he murmured. "Now the question comes
up, whether this woman, who, I suppose, is the girl's attendant,
will permit me to copy her face."
The artist's inference that Peg was merely Ida's attendant, was
natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to
her companion. Peg thought that in this way she should be more
likely to escape suspicion when occupied in passing spurious coin.
The young man followed the strangely-assorted pair to the apartments
which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he
learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the
relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had
the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He
mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door.
"What do you want?" said a sharp voice from within.
"I should like to see you a moment," was the reply.
Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man
suspiciously.
"I don't know you," she said, shortly. "I never saw you before."
"I presume not," said the young man. "We have never met, I think. I
am an artist."
"That is a business I don't know anything about," said Peg,
abruptly. "You've come to the wrong place. I don't want to buy any
pictures. I've got plenty of other ways to spend my money."
Certainly, Mrs. Hardwick, to give her the name she once claimed, did
not look like a patron of the arts.
"You have a young girl, about eight or nine years old, living with
you," said the artist.
"Who told you that?" queried Peg, her suspicions at once roused.
"No one told me. I saw her with you in the street."
Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the
fact that that the child was stolen--possibly he might be acquainted
with the Crumps, or might be their emissary. She therefore answered,
shortly,--
"People that are seen walking together don't always live together."
"But I saw the child entering this house with you."
"What if you did?" demanded Peg, defiantly.
"I was about," said the artist, perceiving that he was
misapprehended, and desiring to set matters right, "I was about to
make a proposition which might prove advantageous to both of us."
"Eh!" said Peg, catching at the hint. "Tell me what it is, and
perhaps we may come to terms."
"It is simply this," said Bowen, "I am, as I told you, an artist.
Just now I am employed to sketch a flower-girl, and in seeking for a
face such as I wished to sketch from, I was struck by that of your
child."
"Of Ida?"
"Yes, if that is her name. I will pay you five dollars for the
privilege of copying it."
Peg was fond of money, and the prospect of earning five dollars
through Ida's instrumentality, so easily, blinded her to the
possibility that this picture might prove a means of discovery to
her friends.
"Well," said she, more graciously, "if that's all you want, I don't
know as I have any objections. I suppose you can copy her face here
as well as anywhere."
"I should prefer to have her come to my studio."
"I sha'n't let her come," said Peg, decidedly.
"Then I will consent to your terms, and come here."
"Do you want to begin now?"
"I should like to do so."
"Come in, then. Here, Ida, I want you."
"Yes, Peg."
"This young man wants to copy your face."
Ida looked surprised.
"I am an artist," said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "I
will endeavor not to try your patience too much. Do you think you
can stand still for half an hour, without much fatigue?"
Ida was easily won by kindness, while she had a spirit which was
roused by harshness. She was prepossessed at once in favor of the
young man, and readily assented.
He kept her in pleasant conversation while with a free, bold hand,
he sketched the outlines of her face and figure.
"I shall want one more sitting," he said. "I will come to-morrow at
this time."
"Stop a minute," said Peg. "I should like the money in advance. How
do I know that you will come again?"
"Certainly, if you prefer it," said the young man, opening his
pocket-book.
"What strange fortune," he thought, "can have brought these two
together? Surely there can be no relationship."
The next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once
placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval.
CHAPTER XVII.
JACK OBTAINS INFORMATION.
JACK set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of
enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first
journey. Partly by cars, partly by boat, he traveled, till in a few
hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in
Philadelphia.
Among the admonitions given to Jack on leaving home, one was
prominently in his mind, to beware of imposition, and to be as
economical as possible.
Accordingly he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode along,
with his carpet-bag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very
little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his
uncle's shop. By dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found
it at length, and, walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker
as his nephew Jack.
"What, are you Jack?" exclaimed Mr. Abel Crump, pausing in his
labor; "well, I never should have known you, that's a fact. Bless
me, how you've grown! Why, you're most as big as your father, ain't
you?"
"Only half an inch shorter," returned Jack, complacently.
"And you're--let me see, how old are you?"
"Eighteen, that is, almost; I shall be in two months."
"Well, I'm glad to see you, Jack, though I hadn't the least idea of
your raining down so unexpectedly. How's your father and mother and
Rachel, and your adopted sister?"
"Father and mother are pretty well," answered Jack, "and so is Aunt
Rachel," he added, smiling; "though she ain't so cheerful as she
might be."
"Poor Rachel!" said Abel, smiling also, "all things look upside down
to her. I don't suppose she's wholly to blame for it. Folks differ
constitutionally. Some are always looking on the bright side of
things, and others can never see but one side, and that's the dark
one."
"You've hit it, uncle," said Jack, laughing. "Aunt Rachel always
looks as if she was attending a funeral."
"So she is, my boy," said Abel Crump, gravely, "and a sad funeral it
is."
"I don't understand you, uncle."
"The funeral of her affections,--that's what I mean. Perhaps you
mayn't know that Rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to
a young man whom she ardently loved. She was a different woman then
from what she is now. But her lover deserted her just before the
wedding was to have come off, and she's never got over the
disappointment. But that isn't what I was going to talk about. You
haven't told me about your adopted sister."
"That's what I've come to Philadelphia about," said Jack, soberly.
"Ida has been carried off, and I've been sent in search of her."
"Been carried off!" exclaimed his uncle, in amazement. "I didn't
know such things ever happened in this country. What do you mean?"
In answer to this question Jack told the story of Mrs. Hardwick's
arrival with a letter from Ida's mother, conveying the request that
the child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to
pay her a visit. To this, and the subsequent details, Abel Crump
listened with earnest attention.
"So you have reason to think the child is in (sic) Phildelphia?" he
said, musingly.
"Yes," said Jack, "Ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy
who knew her in New York."
"Ida!" repeated his Uncle Abel, looking up, suddenly.
"Yes. You know that's my sister's name, don't you?"
"Yes, I dare say I have known it; but I have heard so little of your
family lately, that I had forgotten it. It is rather a singular
circumstance."
"What is singular!"
"I will tell you," said his uncle. It may not amount to anything,
however. A few days since, a little girl came into my shop to buy a
small amount of bread. I was at once favorably impressed with her
appearance. She was neatly dressed, and had a very sweet face."
"What was her name?" inquired Jack.
"That I will tell you by and by. Having made the purchase, she
handed me in payment a silver dollar. 'I'll keep that for my little
girl,' thought I at once. Accordingly, when I went home at night, I
just took the dollar out the till, and gave it to her. Of course she
was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at
once. So her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. Well,
they selected some nicknack or other, but when they came to pay for
it the dollar proved to be spurious."
"Spurious!"
"Yes, bad. Got up, no doubt, by a gang of coiners. When they told me
of this I thought to myself, 'Can it be that this little girl knew
what she was about when she offered me that money?' I couldn't think
it possible, but decided to wait till she came again."
"Did she come again?"
"Yes, only day before yesterday. This time she wanted some
gingerbread, so she said. As I thought likely, she offered me
another dollar just like the other. Before letting her know that I
had discovered the imposition I asked her one or two questions, with
the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. When I told
her the coin was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. It might
have been all acting, but I didn't think so then. I even felt pity
for her and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a
good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. I suppose I was a
fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that I
couldn't make up my mind to speak or harshly to her. But I'm afraid
that I was deceived, and that she is an artful character, after
all."
"Then she didn't come back with the good money?" said Jack.
"No, I haven't seen her since; and, what's more, I don't think it
very likely she will venture into my shop at present."
"What name did she give you?" asked Jack.
"Haven't I told you? It was the name that made me think of telling
you. It was Ida Hardwick."
"Ida Hardwick!" exclaimed Jack, bounding from his chair, somewhat to
his uncle's alarm.
"Yes, Ida Hardwick. But that hasn't anything to do with your Ida,
has it?"
"Hasn't it, though?" said Jack. "Why, Mrs. Hardwick was the woman
that carried her away."
"Mrs. Hardwick--her mother!"
"No, not her mother. She was, or at least she said she was, the
woman that took care of Ida before she was brought to us."
"Then you think that Ida Hardwick may be your missing sister?"
"That's what I don't know," said Jack. "If you would only describe
her, Uncle Abel, I could tell better."
"Well," said Mr. Abel Crump, thoughtfully, "I should say this little
girl might be eight or nine years old."
"Yes," said Jack, nodding; "what color were her eyes?"
"Blue."
"So are Ida's."
"A small mouth, with a very sweet expression."
"Yes."
"And I believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon about
her waist. She also had a brown scarf about her neck, if I remember
rightly."
"That is exactly the way Ida was dressed when she went away. I am
sure it must be she."
"Perhaps," suggested his uncle, "this woman, though calling herself
Ida's nurse, was really her mother."
"No, it can't be," said Jack, vehemently. "What, that ugly,
disagreeable woman, Ida's mother! I won't believe it. I should just
as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn-bush. There
isn't the least resemblance between them."
"You know I have not seen Mrs. Hardwick, so I cannot judge on that
point."
"No great loss," said Jack. "You wouldn't care much about seeing her
again. She is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable looking woman; while Ida
is fair, and sweet looking. I didn't fancy this Mrs. Hardwick when I
first set eyes on her. Aunt Rachel was right, for once."
"What did she think?"
"She took a dislike to her, and declared that it was only a plot to
get possession of Ida; but then, that was what we expected of Aunt
Rachel."
"Still, it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the
part of this woman, supposing she is not Ida's mother."
"Mother, or not," returned Jack, "she's got possession of Ida; and,
from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. I
am determined to rescue Ida from this she-dragon. Will you help me,
uncle?"
"You may count upon me, Jack, for all I can do."
"Then," said Jack, with energy, "we shall succeed. I feel sure of
it. 'Where there's a will there's a way,' you know."
CHAPTER XVIII.
FINESSE.
THE next thing to be done by Jack was, of course, in some way to
obtain a clew to the whereabouts of Peg, or Mrs. Hardwick, to use
the name by which he knew her. No mode of proceeding likely to
secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of
keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance
might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit.
Fortunately her face was accurately daguerreotyped in his memory, so
that he felt certain of recognizing her, under whatever
circumstances they might meet.
In pursuance of this, the only plan which suggested itself, Jack
became a daily promenader in Chestnut and other streets. Many
wondered what could be the object of the young man who so
persistently frequented the thoroughfares. It was observed that,
while he paid no attention to young ladies, he scrutinized the faces
of all middle-aged or elderly women whom he met, a circumstance
likely to attract remark, in the case of a well-made youth like
Jack.
Several days passed, and, although he only returned to his uncle's
house at the hour of meals, he had the same report to bring on each
occasion.
"I am afraid," said the baker, "it will be as hard as finding a
needle in a hay-stack, to hope to meet the one you seek, among so
many faces."
"There's nothing like trying," answered Jack, courageously. "I'm not
going to give up yet awhile."
He sat down and wrote the following note, home:--
"DEAR PARENTS:
"I arrived in Philadelphia safe, and am stopping at Uncle Abel's. He
received me very kindly. I have got track of Ida, though I have not
found her yet. I have learned as much as this, that this Mrs.
Hardwick--who is a double distilled she-rascal--probably has Ida in
her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle's. I am
spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for
her. If I do meet her, see if I don't get Ida away from her. But it
may take some time. Don't get discouraged, therefore, but wait
patiently. Whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line
from your dutiful son
"JACK."
In reply to this letter, or rather note, Jack received an intimation
that he was not to cease his efforts as long as a chance remained to
find Ida.
The very day after the reception of this letter, as Jack was
sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him a
form which at once reminded him of Mrs. Hardwick. Full of hope that
this might be so, he bounded forward, and rapidly passed the
suspected person, turned suddenly round, and confronted Ida's nurse.
The recognition was mutual. Peg was taken aback by this unexpected
encounter.
"Her first impulse was to make off, but the young man's resolute
expression warned her that this would prove in vain.
"Mrs. Hardwick!" said Jack.
"You are right," said she, nodding, "and you, if I am not mistaken,
are John Crump, the son of my worthy friends in New York."
"Well," ejaculated Jack, internally, "if that doesn't beat all for
coolness."
"My name is Jack," he said, aloud.
"Indeed! I thought it might be a nickname."
"You can't guess what I came here for," said Jack, with an attempt
at sarcasm, which utterly failed of its effect.
"To see your sister Ida, I presume," said Peg, coolly.
"Yes," said Jack, amazed at the woman's composure.
"I thought some of you would be coming on," said Peg, whose prolific
genius had already mapped out her course.
"You did?"
"Yes, it was only natural. But what did your father and mother say
to the letter I wrote them?"
"The letter you wrote them!"
"The letter in which I wrote that Ida's mother had been so pleased
with the appearance and manners of her child, that she could not
resolve to part with her, and had determined to keep her for the
present."
"You don't mean to say," said Jack, "that any such letter as that
has been written?"
"What, has it not been received?" inquired Peg, in the greatest
apparent astonishment.
"Nothing like it," answered Jack. "When was it written?"
"The second day after Ida's arrival," replied Peg, unhesitatingly.
"If that is the case," returned Jack, not knowing what to think, "it
must have miscarried."
"That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!" remarked Peg,
sympathizingly.
"It seemed as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida's
mother mean to keep her?"
"A month or six weeks," was the reply.
"But," said Jack, his suspicions returning, "I have been told that
Ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and, when asked
what her name was, answered Ida Hardwick.' You don't mean to say
that you pretend to be her mother?"
"Yes, I do," returned Peg, calmly.
"It's a lie," said Jack, vehemently. "She isn't your daughter."
"Young man," said Peg, with wonderful self-command, "you are
exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I _pretended_ to be
her mother. I do pretend; but I admit, frankly, that it is all
pretence."
"I don't understand what you mean," said Jack, mystified.
"Then I will take the trouble to explain it to you. As I informed
your father and mother, when in New York, there are circumstances
which stand in the way of Ida's real mother recognizing her as her
own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert all
suspicion, and prevent embarrassing questions being asked, while she
remains in Philadelphia she is to pass as my daughter."
This explanation was tolerably plausible, and Jack was unable to
gainsay it, though it was disagreeable to him to think of even a
nominal connection between Ida and the woman before him.
"Can I see Ida?" asked Jack, at length.
To his great joy, Peg replied, "I don't think there can be any
objection. I am going to the house now. Will you come now, or
appoint some other time?"
"I will go now by all means," said Jack, eagerly. "Nothing should
stand in the way of seeing Ida."
A grim smile passed over the nurse's face.
"Follow me, then," she said. "I have no doubt Ida will be delighted
to see you."
"Dear Ida!" said Jack. "Is she well, Mrs. Hardwick?"
"Perfectly well," answered Peg. "She has never been in better health
than since she has been in Philadelphia."
"I suppose," said Jack, with a pang, "that she is so taken up with
her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in New
York."
"If she did," said Peg, sustaining her part with admirable
self-possession, "she would not deserve to have friends at all. She
is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to New York
to those who have been so kind to her."
"Really," thought Jack; "I don't know what to make of this Mrs.
Hardwick. She talks fair enough, if her looks are against her.
Perhaps I have misjudged her, after all."
CHAPTER XIX.
CAUGHT IN A TRAP.
JACK and his guide paused in front of a three-story brick building
of respectable appearance.
"Docs Ida's mother live here?" interrogated Jack.
"Yes," said Peg, coolly. "Follow me up the steps."
The woman led the way, and Jack followed.
The former rang the bell. An untidy servant girl made her
appearance.
"We will go up-stairs, Bridget," said Peg.
Without betraying any astonishment, the servant conducted them to an
upper room, and opened the door.
"If you will go in and take a seat," said Peg, "I will send Ida to
you immediately."
She closed the door after him, and very softly slipped the bolt
which had been placed on the outside. She then hastened downstairs,
and finding the proprietor of the house, who was a little old man
with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long aquiline nose, she said to
this man, who was a leading spirit among the coiners into whose
employ she and her husband had entered, "I want you to keep this lad
in confinement, until I give you notice that it will be safe to let
him go."
"What has he done?" asked the old man.
"He is acquainted with a secret dangerous to both of us," answered
Peg, with intentional prevarication; for she knew that, if it were
supposed that she only had an interest in Jack's detention, they
would not take the trouble to keep him.
"Ha!" exclaimed the old man; "is that so? Then, I warrant me, he
can't get out unless he has sharp claws."
"Fairly trapped, my young bird," thought Peg, as she hastened away;
"I rather think that will put a stop to your troublesome
interference for the present. You haven't lived quite long enough to
be a match for old Peg. You'll find that out by and by. Ha, ha!
won't your worthy uncle, the baker, be puzzled to know why you don't
come home to-night?"
Meanwhile Jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played
upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair, waiting impatiently for
the coming of Ida, whom he was resolved to carry back with him to
New York if his persuasions could effect it.
Impelled by a natural curiosity he examined, attentively, the room
in which he was seated. It was furnished moderately well; that is,
as well as the sitting-room of a family in moderate circumstances.
The floor was covered with a plain carpet. There was a sofa, a
mirror, and several chairs covered with hair-cloth were standing
stiffly at the windows. There were one or two engravings, of no
great artistic excellence, hanging against the walls. On the
centre-table were two or three books. Such was the room into which
Jack had been introduced.
Jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. Then he began to grow
impatient.
"Perhaps Ida is out," thought our hero; "but, if she is, Mrs.
Hardwick ought to come and let me know."
Another fifteen minutes passed, and still Ida came not.
"This is rather singular," thought Jack. "She can't have told Ida
that I am here, or I am sure she would rush up at once to see her
brother Jack."
At length, tired of waiting, and under the impression that he had
been forgotten, Jack walked to the door, and placing his hand upon
the latch, attempted to open it.
There was a greater resistance than he had anticipated.
Supposing that it must stick, he used increased exertion, but the
door perversely refused to open.
"Good heavens!" thought Jack, the real state of the case flashing
upon him, "is it possible that I am locked in?"
To determine this he employed all his strength, but the door still
resisted. He could no longer doubt.
He rushed to the windows. There were two in number, and looked out
upon a court in the rear of the house. No part of the street was
visible from them; therefore there was no hope of drawing the
attention of passers-by to his situation.
Confounded by this discovery, Jack sank into his chair in no very
enviable state of mind.
"Well," thought he, "this is a pretty situation for me to be in! I
wonder what father would say if he knew that I was locked up like a
prisoner. And then to think I let that treacherous woman, Mrs.
Hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. Aunt Rachel was about
right when she said I wasn't fit to come alone. I hope she'll never
find out this adventure of mine; I never should hear the last of
it."
Jack's mortification was extreme. His self-love was severely wounded
by the thought that a woman had got the better of him, and he
resolved, if he ever got out, that he would make Mrs. Hardwick
suffer, he didn't quite know how, for the manner in which she had
treated him.
Time passed. Every hour seemed to poor Jack to contain at least
double the number of minutes which are usually reckoned to that
division of time. Moreover, not having eaten for several hours, he
was getting hungry.
A horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. "The wretches can't
mean to starve me, can they?" he asked himself, while, despite his
constitutional courage, he could not help shuddering at the idea.
He was unexpectedly answered by the sliding of a little door in the
wall, and the appearance of the old man whose interview with Peg has
been referred to.
"Are you getting hungry, my dear sir?" he inquired, with a
disagreeable smile upon his features.
"Why am I confined here?" demanded Jack, in a tone of irritation.
"Why are you confined?" repeated his interlocutor. "Really, one
would think you did not find your quarters comfortable."
"I am so far from finding them comfortable that I insist upon
leaving them immediately," returned Jack.
"Then all you have got to do is to walk through that door.
"It is locked; I can't open it."
"Can't open it!" repeated the old man, with another disagreeable
leer; "perhaps, then, it will be well for you to wait till you are
strong enough."
Irritated by this reply, Jack threw himself spitefully against the
door, but to no purpose.
"The old man laughed in a cracked, wheezing way.
"Good fellow!" said he, encouragingly. "try it again! Won't you try
it again? Better luck next time."
Jack throw himself sullenly into a chair.
"Where is the woman that brought me here?" he asked.
"Peg? Oh, she couldn't stay. She had important business to transact,
my young friend, and so she has gone; but don't feel anxious. She
commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as
well treated as if she were here."
This assurance was not very well calculated to comfort Jack.
"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he asked,
desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once.
"Really, my young friend, I couldn't say. We are very hospitable,
very. We always like to have our friends with us as long as
possible."
Jack groaned internally at the prospect before him.
"One question more," he said, "will you tell me if my sister Ida is
in this house?"
"Your sister Ida!" repeated the old man, surprised in his turn.
"Yes," said Jack; believing, his astonishment feigned. "You needn't
pretend that you don't know anything about her. I know that she is
in your hands."
"Then if you know so much," said the other, shrugging his shoulders,
"there is no need of asking."
Jack was about to press the question, but the old man, anticipating
him, pointed to a plate of food which he pushed in upon a shelf,
just in front of the sliding door, and said: "Here's some supper for
you. When you get ready to go to bed you can lie down on the sofa.
Sorry we didn't know of your coming, or we would have got our best
bed-chamber ready for you. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!"
Smiling disagreeably he slid to the door, bolted it, and
disappeared, leaving Jack more depressed, if possible, than before.
CHAPTER XX.
JACK IN CONFINEMENT.
THE anxiety of Mr. Abel Crump's family, when Jack failed to return
at night, can be imagined. They feared that he had fallen among
unscrupulous persons, of whom there is no lack in every large city,
and that some ill had come to him. The baker instituted immediate
inquiries, but was unsuccessful in obtaining any trace of his
nephew. He resolved to delay as long as possible communicating the
sad intelligence to his brother Timothy, who he knew would be quite
(sic) overwhelwed by this double blow.
In the mean time, let us see how Jack enjoyed himself. We will look
in upon him after he has been confined four days. To a youth as
active as himself, nothing could be more wearisome. It did not add
to his cheerfulness to reflect that Ida was in the power of the one
who had brought upon him his imprisonment, while he was absolutely
unable to help her. He did not lack for food. This was brought him
three times a day. His meals, in fact, were all he had to look
forward to, to break the monotony of his confinement. The books upon
the table were not of a kind likely to interest him, though he had
tried to find entertainment in them.
Four days he had lived, or rather vegetated in this way. His spirit
chafed against the confinement.
"I believe," thought he, "I would sooner die than be imprisoned for
a long term. Yet," and here he sighed, "who knows what may be the
length of my present confinement? They will be sure to find some
excuse for retaining me."
While he was indulging in these uncomfortable reflections, suddenly
the little door in the wall, previously referred to, slid open, and
revealed the old man who had first supplied him with food. To
explain the motive of his present visit, it will be remembered that
he was under a misapprehension in regard to the cause of Jack's
confinement. He naturally supposed that our hero was acquainted with
the unlawful practises of the gang of coiners with which he was
connected.
The old man, whose name was Foley, had been favorably impressed by
the bold bearing of Jack, and the idea had occurred to him that he
might be able to win him as an accomplice. He judged, that if once
induced to join them, he would prove eminently useful. Another
motive which led him to favor this project was, that it would be
very embarrassing to be compelled to keep Jack in perpetual custody,
as well as involve a considerable expense.
Jack was somewhat surprised at the old man's visit.
"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he inquired,
impatiently.
"Don't you find your quarters comfortable?" asked Foley.
"As comfortable as any prison, I suppose."
"My young friend, don't talk of imprisonment. You make me shudder.
You must banish all thoughts of such a disagreeable subject."
"I wish I could," groaned poor Jack.
"Consider yourself as my guest, whom I delight to entertain."
"But, I don't like the entertainment."
"The more the pity."
"How long is this going to last? Even a prisoner knows the term of
his imprisonment."
"My young friend," said Foley, "I do not desire to control your
inclinations. I am ready to let you go whenever you say the word."
"You are?" returned Jack, incredulously. "Then suppose I ask you to
let me go immediately."
"Certainly, I will; but upon one condition."
"What is it?"
"It so happens, my young friend, that you are acquainted with a
secret which might prove troublesome to me."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Jack, mystified.
"Yes; you see I have found it out. Such things do not escape me."
"I don't know what you mean," returned Jack, perplexed.
"No doubt, no doubt,", said Foley, cunningly. "Of course, if I
should tell you that I was in the coining business, it would be
altogether new to you."
"On my honor," said Jack, "this is the first I knew of it. I never
saw or heard of you before I came into this house."
"Could Peg be mistaken?" thought Foley. "But no, no; he is only
trying to deceive me. I am too old a bird to be caught with such
chaff."
"Of course, I won't dispute your word, my young friend," he said,
softly; "but there is one tiling certain; if you didn't know it
before you know it now."
"And you are afraid that I shall denounce you to the police."
"Well, there is a possibility of that. That class of people have a
little prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody
wants to do, _making money_."
The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands at this joke, which he
evidently considered a remarkably good one.
Jack reflected a moment.
"Will you let me go if I will promise to keep your secret?" he
asked.
"How could I be sure you would do it?"
"I would pledge my word."
"Your word!" Foley snapped his fingers in derision. "That is not
sufficient."
"What will be?"
"You must become one of us."
"One of you!"
Jack started in surprise at a proposition so unexpected.
"Yes. You must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that
it will be for your own interest to keep silent. Otherwise we cannot
trust you."
"And suppose I decline these terms," said Jack.
"Then I shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my
guest."
Foley smiled disagreeably.
Jack walked the room in perturbation. He felt that imprisonment
would be better than liberty, on such terms. At the same time he did
not refuse unequivocally, as possibly stricter watch than ever night
be kept over him.
He thought it best to temporize.
"Well, what do you say?" asked the old man.
"I should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal," said
Jack. "It is of so important a character that I do not like to
decide at once."
"How long do you require?"
"Two days," returned Jack. "If I should come to a decision sooner, I
will let you know."
"Agreed. Meanwhile can I do anything to promote your comfort? I want
you to enjoy yourself as well as you can under the circumstances."
"If you have any interesting books, I wish you would send them up.
It is rather dull staying here with nothing to do."
"You shall have something to do as soon as you please, my young
friend. As to books, we are not very bountifully supplied with that
article. We ain't any of us college graduates, but I will see what I
can do for you in that way. I'll be back directly."
Foley disappeared, but soon after returned, laden with one or two
old magazines, and a worn copy of the "Adventures of Baron Trenck."
It may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this
singular book. Baron Trenck was several times imprisoned for
political offences, and this book contains an account of the manner
in which he succeeded, in some cases after years of labor, in
breaking from his dungeon. His feats in this way are truly
wonderful, and, if not true, at least they have so very much
similitude that they find no difficulty in winning the reader's
credence.
Such was the book which Foley placed in Jack's hands. He must have
been in ignorance of the character of the book, since it was evident
to what thoughts it would lead the mind of the prisoner.
Jack read the book with intense interest. It was just such a one as
he would have read with avidity under any circumstances. It
gratified his taste for adventure, and he entered heart and soul
into the Baron's plans, and felt a corresponding gratification when
he succeeded. When he completed the perusal of the fascinating
volume, he thought, "Why cannot I imitate Baron Trenck? He was far
worse off than I am. If he could succeed in overcoming so many
obstacles, it is a pity if I cannot find some means of escape."
He looked about the room in the hope that some plan might be
suggested.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE PRISONER ESCAPES.
TO give an idea of the difficulties of Jack's situation, let it be
repeated that there was but one door to the room, and this was
bolted on the outside. The room was in the second story. The only
two windows looked out upon a court. These windows were securely
fastened. Still a way might have been devised to break through them,
if this would at all have improved his condition. Of this, however,
there seemed but little chance. Even if he had succeeded in getting
safely into the court, there would have been difficulty and danger
in getting into the street.
All these considerations passed through Jack's mind, and occasioned
him no little perplexity. He began to think that the redoubtable
Baron Trenck himself might have been puzzled, if placed under
similar circumstances.
At length this suggestion occurred to him: Why might he not cut a
hole through the door, just above or below the bolt, sufficiently
large for him to thrust his hand through, and slip it back? Should
he succeed in this, he would steal down stairs, and as, in all
probability, the key would be in the outside door, he could open it,
and then he would be free.
With hope springing up anew in his heart, he hastened to the door
and examined it. It was of common strength. He might, perhaps, have
been able to kick it open, but of course this was not to be thought
of, as the noise would at once attract the attention of those
interested in frustrating his plans.
Fortunately, Jack was provided with a large, sharp jack-knife. He
did not propose, however, to commence operations at present. In the
daytime he would be too subject to a surprise. With evening, he
resolved to commence his work. He might be unsuccessful, and
subjected, in consequence, to a more rigorous confinement; but of
this he must run the risk. "Nothing venture, nothing have."
Jack awaited the coming of evening with impatience. The afternoon
had never seemed so long.
It came at last--a fine moonlight night. This was fortunate, for his
accommodating host, from motives of economy possibly, was not in the
habit of providing him with a candle.
Jack thought it prudent to wait till he heard the city clocks
pealing the hour of twelve. By this time, as far as he could see
from his windows, there were no lights burning, and all who occupied
the building were probably asleep.
He selected that part of the door which he judged to be directly
under the bolt, and began to cut away with his knife. The wood was
soft, and easy of excavation. In the course of half an hour Jack had
cut a hole sufficiently large to pass his hand through, but found
that, in order to reach the bolt, he must enlarge it a little. This
took him fifteen minutes longer.
His efforts were crowned with success. As the city clock struck one
Jack softly drew back the bolt, and, with a wild throb of joy, felt
that freedom was half regained. But his (sic) embarassments were not
quite at an end. Opening the door, he found himself in the entry,
but in the darkness. On entering the house he had not noticed the
location of the stairs, and was afraid that some noise or stumbling
might reveal to Foley the attempted escape of his prisoner. He took
off his boots, and crept down-stairs in his stocking feet.
Unfortunately he had not kept the proper bearing in his mind, and
the result was, that he opened the door of a room on one side of the
front door. It was used as a bedroom. At the sound of the door
opening, the occupant of the bed, Mr. Foley himself, called out,
drowsily, "Who's there?"
Jack, aware of his mistake, precipitately retired, and concealed
himself under the front stairs, a refuge which his good fortune led
him to, for he could see absolutely nothing.
The sleeper, just awakened, was naturally a little confused in his
ideas. He had not seen Jack. He had merely heard the noise, and
thought he saw the door moving. But of this he was not certain. To
make sure, however, he got out of bed, and opening wide the door of
his room, called out, "Is anybody there?"
Jack had excellent reasons for not wishing to volunteer an answer to
this question. One advantage of the opened door (for there was a
small oil lamp burning in the room) was to reveal to him the nature
of the mistake he had made, and to show him the front door in which,
by rare good fortune, he could discover the key in the lock.
Meanwhile the old man, to make sure that all was right, went
up-stairs, far enough to see that the door of the apartment in which
Jack had been confined was closed. Had he gone up to the landing he
would have seen the aperture in the door, and discovered the hole,
but he was sleepy, and anxious to get back to bed, which rendered
him less watchful.
"All seems right," he muttered to himself, and re-entered the
bed-chamber, from which Jack could soon hear the deep, regular
breathing which indicated sound slumber. Not till then did he creep
cautiously from his place of concealment, and advancing stealthily
to the front door, turn the key, and step out into the
faintly-lighted street. A delightful sensation thrilled our hero, as
he felt the pure air fanning his cheek.
"Nobody can tell," thought he, "what a blessed thing freedom is till
he has been cooped up, as I have been, for the last week. Won't the
old man be a little surprised to find, in the morning, that the bird
has flown? I've a great mind to serve him a little trick."
So saying, Jack drew the key from its place inside, and locking the
door after him, went off with the key in his. pocket. First,
however, he took care to scratch a little mark on the outside of the
door, as he could not see the number, to serve as a means of
identification.
This done Jack made his way as well as he could guess to the house
of his uncle, the baker. Not having noticed the way by which Peg had
led him to the house, he wandered at first from the straight course.
At length, however, he came to Chestnut Street. He now knew where he
was, and, fifteen minutes later, he was standing before his uncle's
door.
Meanwhile, Abel Crump had been suffering great anxiety on account of
Jack's protracted absence. Several days had now elapsed, and still
he was missing. He had been unable to find the slightest trace of
him.
"I am afraid of the worst," he said to his wife, on the afternoon of
the day on which Jack made his escape. "I think Jack was probably
rash and imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the
death of him."
"Don't you think there is any hope? He may be confined."
"It is possible; but, at all events, I don't think it right to keep
it from Timothy any longer. I've put off writing as long as I could,
hoping Jack would come back, but I don't feel as if I ought to hold
it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy
to come right on. It'll be a dreadful blow to him."
"Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from
Jack before that time?"
The baker shook his head.
"If we'd been going to hear, we'd have heard before this time," he
said.
He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the
thought of his brother's affliction, kept him awake.
About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by
a knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, "Who's there?"
"A friend," was the answer.
"What friend?" asked the baker, suspiciously. Friends are not very
apt to come at this time of night."
"Don't you know me, Uncle Abel?" asked a cheery voice.
"Why, it's Jack, I verily believe," said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he
hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.
"Where in the name of wonder have you been, Jack?" he asked,
surveying his nephew by the light of the candle.
"I've been shut up, uncle,--boarded and lodged for nothing,--by some
people who liked my company better than I liked theirs. But to-night
I made out to escape, and hero I am. I'll tell you all about it in
the morning. Just now I'm confoundedly hungry, and if there's
anything in the pantry, I'll ask permission to go in there a few
minutes."
"I guess you'll find something, Jack. Take the candle with you.
Thank God, you're back alive. We've been very anxious about you."
CHAPTER XXII.
MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE.
PEG had been thinking.
This was the substance of her reflections. Ida, whom she had
kidnapped for certain purposes of her own, was likely to prove an
(sic) incumbrance rather than a source of profit. The child, her
suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had
been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose.
So firmly resolved was she not to do what was wrong, that threats
and persuasions were alike unavailing. Added to this was the danger
of her encountering some one sent in search of her by the Crumps.
Under these circumstances, Peg bethought herself of the ultimate
object which she had proposed to herself in kidnapping Ida--that of
extorting money from a man who is now to be introduced to the
reader.
John Somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome
lodging-house on Walnut Street. A man wanting yet several years of
forty, he looked a greater age. Late hours and dissipation, though
kept within respectable limits, had left their traces on his face.
At twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined
with some professional practice (for he was a lawyer, and not
without ability), was quite sufficient to support him handsomely,
and leave a considerable surplus every year. But, latterly, he had
contracted a passion for gaming, and however shrewd he might be
naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily
habitues of the gaming-table, who had marked him as their prey.
The evening before he is introduced to the reader's notice he had,
passed till a late hour at a fashionable gambling-house, where he
had lost heavily. His reflections, on awakening, were not of the
pleasantest. For the first time, within fifteen years, he realized
the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. The evening
previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his
I O U. Where to raise this money, he did not know. He bathed his
aching head, and cursed his ill luck, in no measured terms. After
making his toilet, he rang the bell, and ordered breakfast.
For this he had but scanty appetite. Scarcely had he finished, and
directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to
announce a visitor.
"Is it a gentleman?" he inquired, hastily, fearing it might be a
creditor. He occasionally had such visitors.
"No, sir."
"A lady?"
"No, sir."
"A child? But what could a child want of me?"
"If it's neither a gentleman, lady, nor child," said Somerville,
somewhat surprised, "will you have the goodness to inform me who it
is?"
"It's a woman, sir," said the servant, grinning.
"Why didn't you say so when I asked you?" said his employer,
irritably.
"Because you asked if it was a lady, and this isn't--at least she
don't look like one."
"You can send her up, whoever she is," said Mr. Somerville.
A moment afterwards Peg entered the apartment.
John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that
she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for
charity. So many years had passed since he had met with this woman,
that she had passed out of his remembrance.
"Do you wish to see me about anything?" he asked, indifferently. "If
so, you must be quick, for I am just going out."
"You don't seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville," said Peg, fixing
her keen black eyes upon his face.
"I can't say I do," he replied, carelessly. "Perhaps you used to
wash for me once."
"I am not in the habit of acting as laundress," said the woman,
proudly. It is worth noticing that she was not above passing
spurious coin, and doing other things which are stamped as
disreputable by the laws of the land, but her pride revolted at the
imputation that she was a washer-woman.
"In that case," said Somerville, carelessly, "you will have to tell
me who you are, for it is out of my power to conjecture."
"Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection," said Peg,
composedly.
"Ida!" repeated John Somerville, changing color, and gazing now with
attention at the woman's features.
"Yes."
"I have known several persons of that name," he said, evasively. "Of
course, I can't tell which of them you refer to."
"The Ida I mean was and is a child," said Peg. "But, Mr. Somerville,
there's no use in beating about the bush, when I can come straight
to the point. It is now about eight years since my husband and
myself were employed in carrying off a child--a female child of
about a year old--named Ida. We placed it, according to your
directions, on the door-step of a poor family in New York, and they
have since cared for it as their own. I suppose you have not
forgotten that."
John Somerville deliberated. Should he deny it or not? He decided to
put a bold face on the matter.
"I remember it," said he, "and now recall your features. How have
you fared since the time I employed you? Have you found your
business profitable?"
"Far from it," answered Peg. "We are not yet able to retire on a
competence."
"One of your youthful appearance," said Solmerville, banteringly,
"ought not to think of retiring under ten years."
Peg smiled. She knew how to appreciate this speech.
"I don't care for compliments," said she, "even when they are
sincere. As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have
reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into
my second childhood."
"Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business has
brought you here?"
"I want a thousand dollars."
"A thousand dollars!" repeated John Somerville. "Very likely, I
should like that amount myself. You have not come here to tell me
that?"
"I have come here to ask that amount of you."
"Suppose I should say that your husband is the proper person for you
to apply to in such a case."
"I think I am more likely to get it out of you," answered Peg,
coolly. "My husband couldn't supply me with a thousand cents, even
if he were willing, which is not likely."
"Much as I am flattered by your application," said Somerville,
"since it would seem to place me next in your estimation to your
husband, I cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow
such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent
rendered."
"I am ready to give you an equivalent."
"Of what value?"
"I am willing to be silent."
"And how can your silence benefit me?"
John Somerville asked this question with an assumption of
indifference, but his fingers twitched nervously.
"That _you_ will be best able to estimate," said Peg.
"Explain yourself."
"I can do that in a few words. You employed me to kidnap a child. I
believe the law has something to say about that. At any rate, the
child's mother may have."
"What do you know about the child's mother?" demanded Somerville,
hastily.
"All about her!" returned Peg, emphatically.
"How am I to know that? It is easy to claim the knowledge."
"Shall I tell you all? In the first place she married your cousin,
_after rejecting you_. You never forgave her for this. When a year
after marriage her husband died, you renewed your proposals. They
were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain
of forfeiting her friendship forever. You left her presence,
determined to be revenged. With this object you sought Dick and
myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. There is the whole
story, briefly told."
John Somerville listened, with compressed lips and pale face.
"Woman, how came this within your knowledge?" he demanded, coarsely.
"That is of no consequence," said Peg. "It was for my interest to
find out, and I did so."
"Well?"
"I know one thing more--the residence of the child's mother. I
hesitated this morning whether to come here, or carry Ida to her
mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what I demand from
you, because it is your interest to comply with my request."
"You speak of carrying the child to her mother. She is in New York."
"You are mistaken," said Peg, coolly. "She is in Philadelphia."
"With you?"
"With me."
"How long has this been?"
"Nearly a fortnight."
John Somerville paced the room with hurried steps. Peg watched him
carelessly. She felt that she had succeeded. He paused after awhile,
and stood before her.
"You demand a thousand dollars," he said.
"I do."
"I have not that amount with me. I have recently lost a heavy sum,
no matter how. But I can probably get it to-day. Call to-morrow at
this time,--no, in the afternoon, and I will see what I can do for
you."
"Very well," said Peg.
Left to himself, John Somerville spent some time in reflection.
Difficulties encompassed him--difficulties from which he found it
hard to find a way of escape. He knew how impossible it would be to
meet this woman's demand. Something must be done. Gradually his
countenance lightened. He had decided what that something should be.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAW STEPS IN.
WHEN Peg left Mr. John Somerville's apartment, it was with a high
degree of satisfaction at the result of her interview. She looked
upon the thousand dollars as sure to be hers. The considerations
which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to make every
effort to secure her silence. With a thousand dollars, what might
not be done? She would withdraw from the coining-business, for one
thing. It was too hazardous. Why might not Dick and she retire to
the country, lease a country-inn, and live an honest life hereafter.
There were times when she grew tired of the life she lived at
present. It would be pleasant to go to some place where she was not
known, and enrol herself among the respectable members of the
community. She was growing old; she wanted rest and a quiet home.
Her early years had been passed in the country. She remembered still
the green fields in which she played as a child, and to this woman,
old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life return.
It occurred to her to look in upon Jack, whom she had left in
captivity four days before. She had a curiosity to see how he bore
his confinement.
She knocked at the door, and was admitted by the old man who kept
the house. Mr. Foley was looking older and more wrinkled than ever.
He had been disturbed of his rest the night previous, he said.
"Well," said Peg, "and how is our prisoner?"
"Bless my soul," said Mr. Foley, "I haven't been to give him his
breakfast this morning. He must be hungry. But my head is in such a
state. However, I think I've secured him."
"What do you mean?"
"I have asked him to become one of us,--he's a bold lad,--and he has
promised to think of it."
"He is not to be trusted," said Peg, hastily,
"You think not?"
"I know it."
"Well," said the old man, "I suppose you know him better than I do.
But he's a bold lad."
"I should like to go up and see him," said Peg.
"Wait a minute, and I will carry up his breakfast."
The old man soon reappeared from the basement with some cold meat
and bread and butter.
"You may go up first," he said; "you are younger than I am."
They reached the landing.
"What's all this?" demanded Peg, her quick eyes detecting the
aperture in the door.
"What's what?" asked Foley.
"Is this the care you take of your prisoners?" demanded Peg,
sharply. "It looks as if he had escaped."
"Escaped! Impossible!"
"I hope so. Open the door quick."
The door was opened, and the two hastily entered.
"The bird is flown," said Peg.
"I--I don't understand it," said the old man, turning pale.
"I do. He has cut a hole in the door, slipped back the bolt, and
escaped. When could this have happened?"
"I don't know. Yes, I do remember, now, being disturbed last night
by a noise in the entry. I got out of bed, and looked out, but could
see no one."
"Did you come up-stairs?"
"Part way."
"When was this?"
"Past midnight."
"No doubt that was the time he escaped."
"That accounts for the door being locked," said the old man,
thoughtfully.
"What door?"
"The outer door. When I got up this morning, I found the key had
disappeared, and the door was locked. Luckily we had an extra key,
and so opened it."
"Probably he carried off the other in his pocket."
"Ah, he is a bold lad,--a bold lad," said Foley.
"You may find that out to your cost. He'll be likely to bring the
police about your ears."
"Do you think so?" said the old man, in alarm.
"I think it more than probable."
"But he don't know the house," said Foley, in a tone of reassurance.
"It was dark when he left here, and he will not be apt to find it
again."
"Perhaps not, but lie will be likely to know you when he sees you
again. I advise you to keep pretty close."
"I certainly shall," said the old man, evidently alarmed by this
suggestion. "What a pity that such a bold lad shouldn't be in our
business!"
"Perhaps you'll wish yourself out of it before long," muttered Peg.
As if in corroboration of her words, there was a sharp ring at the
door-bell.
The old man, who was constitutionally timid, turned pale, and looked
helplessly at his companion.
"What is it?" he asked, apprehensively.
"Go and see."
"I don't dare to."
"You're a coward," said Peg, contemptuously. "Then I'll go."
She went down stairs, followed by the old man. She threw open the
street door, but even her courage was somewhat daunted by the sight
of two police officers, accompanied by Jack.
"That's the man," said Jack, pointing out Foley, who tried to
conceal himself behind Mrs. Hardwick's more ample proportions.
"I have a warrant for your arrest," said one of the officers,
advancing to Foley.
"Gentlemen, spare me," he said, clasping his hands. "What have I
done?"
"You are charged with uttering counterfeit coin.
"I am innocent."
"If you are, that will come out on your trial."
"Shall I have to be tried?" he asked, piteously.
"Of course. If you are innocent, no harm will come to you."
Peg had been standing still, irresolute what to do. Determined upon
a bold step, she made a movement to pass the officers.
"Stop!" said Jack. "I call upon you to arrest that woman. She is the
Mrs. Hardwick against whom you have a warrant."
"What is all this for?" demanded Peg, haughtily. "What right have
you to interfere with me?"
"That will be made known to you in due time. You are suspected of
being implicated with this man."
"I suppose I must yield," said Peg, sulkily. "But perhaps you, young
sir," turning to Jack, "may not be the gainer by it."
"Where is Ida?" asked Jack, anxiously.
"She is safe," said Peg, sententiously.
"You won't tell me where she is?"
"No. Why should I? I am indebted to you, I suppose, for this arrest.
She shall be kept out of your way as long as it is in my power to do
so."
Jack's countenance fell.
"At least you will tell me whether she is well?"
"I shall answer no questions whatever," said Mrs. Hardwick.
"Then I will find her," he said, gaining courage. "She is somewhere
in the city, and sooner or later I shall find her."
Peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great
disappointment to her. Apart from the consequences which might
result from it, it would prevent her meeting with John Somerville,
and obtaining from him the thousand dollars of which she had
regarded herself certain. Yet even from her prison-cell she might
hold over him _in terrorem_ the threat of making known to Ida's
mother the secret of her child's existence. All was not lost. She
walked quietly to the carriage in waiting, while her companions, in
an ecstasy of terror, seemed to have lost the power of locomotion,
and had to be supported on either side.
CHAPTER XXIV.
"THE FLOWER-GIRL."
"BY gracious, if that isn't Ida!" exclaimed Jack, in profound
surprise.
He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly, troubled
by the thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody,
he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his foster-sister than
before. What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide.
In his perplexity he came suddenly upon the print of the
"Flower-Girl."
"Yes," said he, "that is Ida, plain enough. Perhaps they will know
in the store where she is to be found."
He at once entered the store.
"Can you tell me anything about the girl that picture was taken
for?" he asked, abruptly of the nearest clerk.
The clerk smiled.
"It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think it would take you a long
time to find the original."
"It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. It is
the picture of my sister."
"Of your sister!" repeated the clerk, with surprise, half
incredulous.
There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout,
good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida's beauty was of a
delicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,--her skin of a
brilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,--exhibiting a
physical perfection, which it requires several generations of
refined habits and exemptions from the coarser burdens of life to
produce. The perfection of human development is not wholly a matter
of chance, but is dependent, in no small degree, upon outward
conditions. We frequently see families who have sprung from poverty
to wealth exhibiting, in the younger branches, marked improvement in
this respect.
"Yes;" said Jack, "my sister."
"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she
is."
Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a
surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her
eyes, also, were fixed upon "The Flower-Girl."
"Who is this?" she asked, hurriedly. "Is it taken from life?"
"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.
"Your sister!" said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack.
In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as
it seemed, disappointment.
"Yes, madam," said Jack, respectfully.
"Pardon me," she said, "there is so little family resemblance, I
should hardly have supposed it."
"She is not my own sister," said Jack, "but I love her just the
same."
"Do you live in (sic) Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the
lady, eagerly.
"I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from us
nearly a fortnight since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I
have not been able to find her yet."
"Did you say her name was Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange
agitation.
"Yes, madam."
"My young friend," said the lady, rapidly, "I have been much
interested in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more,
but not here. Would you have any objection to coming home with me,
and telling me the rest? Then we will, together, concert measures
for discovering her."
"You are very kind, madam," said Jack, somewhat bashfully; for the
lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to
converse with many ladies of her rank; "I shall be very much obliged
to you for your advice and assistance."
"Then we will drive home at once."
Jack followed her to the street, where he saw an elegant carriage,
and a coachman in livery.
With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage,
and, at her bidding, got in himself.
"Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as
possible."
"Yes, madam."
"How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked Mrs.
Clifton. Jack afterwards ascertained that this was her name.
"About a year old, madam."
"And how long since was it?" asked the lady, bending forward with
breathless interest.
"Eight years since. She is now nine."
"It must be," said the lady, in a low voice. "If it is indeed so,
how will my life be blessed!"
"Did you speak, madam?"
"Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted Ida."
Jack related, briefly, the circumstances, which are already familiar
to the reader.
"And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"
"It was at the close of December, the night before New Years."
"It is--it must be she!" ejaculated the lady, clasping her hands
while tears of happy joy welled from her eyes.
"I--I do not understand," said Jack.
"My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential. I
have every reason to believe that this child--your adopted
sister--is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the
time of which you speak. From that day to this I have never been
able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery.
I have long taught myself to look upon her as dead."
"It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside
him. She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened
into the maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling
complexion--the same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were
wonderfully like Ida's. Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.
"You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."
"You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.
"Yes, madam."
"I had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of Ida just before I lost
her. I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you."
The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet
street. The driver dismounted, and opened the door. Jack assisted
Mrs. Clifton to alight.
Bashfully, he followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding,
seated himself in an elegant apartment, furnished with a splendor
which excited his wonder. He had little time to look about him, for
Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to take off her street-attire,
hastened down stairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.
"Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?" she
asked. "Did she look like this?"
"It is her image," said Jack, decidedly. "I should know it
anywhere."
"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my
child whom you have cared for so long. Oh, why could I not have
known it? How many sleepless nights and lonely days would it have
spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! Pardon me, I
have not yet asked your name."
"My name is Crump--Jack Crump."
"Jack?" said the lady, smiling.
"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to
be called by another."
"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's
heart at once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful
than Ida; "as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in
some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Crump, for that would
seem too formal. I will call you Jack."
To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of her
life was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not be
exceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero. Had Mrs.
Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a
profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.
"Now Jack," said Mrs. Clifton, "we must take measures immediately to
discover Ida. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from
your house, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding
her out."
Jack began at the beginning, and described the appearance of Mrs.
Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false
representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to
Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate
refusal to impart any information as to Ida's whereabouts.
Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more
difficulties in the way than she had supposed.
"Do you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, at length.
"Yes, madam," said our hero. "The man who painted the picture of Ida
may know where she is to be found."
"You are right," said the lady. "I should have thought of it before.
I will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go
back to the print-store."
An hour later, Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant
lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of eighteen.
"I think you are the artist who designed 'The Flower-Girl,'" said
Mrs. Clifton.
"I am, madam."
"It was taken from life?"
"You are right."
"I am anxious to find out the little girl whose face you copied. Can
you give me any directions that will enable me to find her out?"
"I will accompany you to the place, if you desire it, madam," said
the young man. "It is a strange neighborhood to look for so much
beauty."
"I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far,"
said the lady. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your
orders."
Once more they were on the move. A few minutes later, and the
carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite
scandalized at the idea of bringing his lady to such a place.
"This can't be the place, madam," he said.
"Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, madam. I will go in, and
find out all that is needful."
Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.
"We are too late," he said. "An hour since a gentleman called, and
took away the child."
Mrs. Clifton sank back, in keen disappointment.
"My child, my child!" she murmured. "Shall I ever see thee again?"
Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to
acknowledge. He could not conjecture who this gentleman could be who
had carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and more complicated
than ever.
CHAPTER XXV.
IDA IS FOUND.
IDA was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now
obliged to call home. Peg had gone out, and not feeling quite
certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had
left some work for the child,--some handkerchiefs to hem for
Dick,--with strict orders to keep steadily at work.
While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a
knock at the, door.
"Who's there?" asked Ida.
"A friend," was the reply.
"Mrs. Hardwick--Peg isn't at home," returned Ida. "I don't know when
she will be back."
"Then I will come in and wait till she comes back," said the voice
outside.
"I can't open the door," said Ida. "It's fastened on the outside."
"Yes, I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt."
Mr. John Somerville entered the room, and for the first time in
eight years his glance fell upon the child whom, for so long a time,
he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness.
Ida returned to the window.
"How beautiful she is!" thought Somerville, with surprise. "She
inherits all her mother's rare beauty."
On the table beside Ida was a drawing.
"Whose is this?" he inquired.
"Mine," answered Ida.
"So you have learned to draw?"
"A little," answered the child, modestly.
"Who taught you? Not the woman you live with?"
"No;" said Ida.
"You have not always lived with her, I am sure."
Ida admitted that she had not.
"You lived in New York with a family named Crump, did you not?"
"Do you know father and mother?" asked Ida, with sudden hope. "Did
they send you for me?"
"I will tell you that by and by, my child; but I want to ask you a
few questions first. Why does this woman Peg lock you in whenever
she goes away?"
"I suppose," said Ida, "she is afraid I will run away."
"Then she knows you don't want to live with her?"
"Oh, yes, she knows that," said the child, frankly. "I have asked
her to send me home, but she says she won't for a year."
"And how long have you been with her?"
"About a fortnight."
"What does she make you do?"
"I can't tell what she made me do first."
"Why not?"
"Because she would be very angry."
"Suppose I should tell you that I would deliver you from her. Would
you be willing to go with me?"
"And you would carry me back to my mother and father?"
"Certainly, I would restore you to your mother," said he, evasively.
"Then I will go with you."
Ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl.
"We had better go at once," said Somerville. "Peg might return, and
give us trouble."
"O yes, let us go quickly," said Ida, turning pale at the remembered
threats of Peg.
Neither knew yet that Peg could not return if she would; that, at
this very moment, she was in legal custody on a charge of a serious
nature. Still less did Ida know that, in going, she was losing the
chance of seeing Jack and her mother, of whose existence, even, she
was not yet aware; and that he, to whose care she consigned herself
so gladly, had been her worst enemy.
"I will carry you to my room, in the first place," said her
companion. "You must remain in concealment for a day or two, as Peg
will, undoubtedly, be on the lookout for you, and we want to avoid
all trouble."
Ida was delighted with her escape, and, with the hope of soon seeing
her friends in New York, She put implicit faith in her guide, and
was willing to submit to any conditions which he might impose.
On emerging into the street, her companion summoned a cab. He had
reasons for not wishing to encounter any one whom he knew.
At length they reached his lodgings.
They were furnished more richly than any room Ida had yet seen; and
formed, indeed, a luxurious contrast to the dark and
scantily-furnished apartment which she had occupied for the last
fortnight.
"Well, are you glad to get away from Peg?" asked John Somerville,
giving Ida a seat at the fire.
"Oh, _so_ glad!" said Ida.
"And you wouldn't care about going back?"
The child shuddered.
"I suppose," said she, "that Peg will be very angry. She would beat
me, if she should get me back again."
"But she sha'n't. I will take good care of that."
Ida looked her gratitude. Her heart went out to those who appeared
to deal kindly with her, and she felt very grateful to her companion
for his instrumentality in effecting her deliverance from Peg.
"Now," said Somerville, "perhaps you will be willing to tell me what
it was you were required to do."
"Yes," said Ida; "but she must never know that I told. It was to
pass bad money."
"Ha!" exclaimed her companion. "Do you mean bad bills, or spurious
coin?"
"It was silver dollars."
"Does she do much in that way?"
"A good deal. She goes out every day to buy things with the money."
"I am glad to learn this," said John Somerville, thoughtfully.
"Ida," said he, after a pause, "I am going out for a time. You will
find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading; I won't
make you sew, as Peg did," he said, smiling.
Ida laughed.
"Oh, yes," said she, "I like reading. I shall amuse myself very
well."
Mr. Somerville went out, and Ida, as he recommended, read awhile.
Then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. A
carriage was passing slowly, on account of a press of carriages. Ida
saw a face that she knew. Forgetting her bonnet in her sudden joy,
she ran down the stairs, into the street, and up to the carriage
window.
"O Jack!" she exclaimed; "have you come for me?"
It was Mrs. Clifton's carriage, returning from Peg's lodgings.
"Why, it's Ida!" exclaimed Jack, almost springing through the window
of the carriage. "Where did you come from, and where have you been
all the time?"
He opened the door of the carriage, and drew Ida in.
Till then she had not seen the lady who sat at Jack's side.
"My child, my child! Thank God, you are restored to me," exclaimed
Mrs. Clifton.
She drew the astonished child to her bosom. Ida looked up into her
face. Was it Nature that prompted her to return the lady's embrace?
"My God, I thank thee!" murmured Mrs. Clifton; "for this, my child,
was lost and is found."
"Ida," said Jack, "this lady is your mother."
"My mother!" said the child, bewildered. "Have I two mothers?"
"Yes, but this is your real mother. You were brought to our house
when you were an infant, and we have always taken care of you; but
this lady is your real mother."
Ida hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry.
"And you are not my brother?"
"You shall still consider him your brother, Ida," said Mrs. Clifton.
"Heaven forbid that I should wean your heart from the friends who
have cared so kindly for you! You shall keep all your old friends,
and love them as dearly as ever. You will only have one friend the
more."
"Where are we going?" asked Ida, suddenly.
"We are going home."
"What will the gentleman say?"
"What gentleman?"
"The one that took me away from Peg's. Why, there he is now!"
Mrs. Clifton followed the direction of Ida's finger, as she pointed
to a gentleman passing.
"Is he the one?"
"Yes, mamma," said Ida, shyly.
Mrs. Clifton pressed Ida to her breast. It was the first time she
had ever been called mamma. It made her realize, more fully, her
present happiness.
Arrived at the house, Jack's bashfulness returned. He hung back, and
hesitated about going in.
Mrs. Clifton observed this.
"Jack," said she, "this house is to be your home while you remain in
Philadelphia. Come in, and Thomas shall go for your baggage."
"Perhaps I had better go with him," said Jack. "Uncle Abel will be
glad to know that Ida is found."
"Very well; only return soon."
"Well!" thought Jack, as he re-entered the (sic) carraige, and gave
the direction to the coachman; "won't Uncle Abel be a little
surprised when he sees me coming home in such style!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
"NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."
MEANWHILE, Peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. It was
certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was
likely to make it most profitable. After some reflection, she
determined to send for Mrs. Clifton, and reveal to her all she knew,
trusting to her generosity for a recompense.
To one of the officers of the prison she communicated the
intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to Mrs.
Clifton, and absolutely refused to make it unless the lady would
visit her in prison.
Scarcely had Mrs. Clifton returned home, after recovering her child,
than the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced.
"Is this Mrs. Clifton?" he inquired.
"It is."
"Then I have a message for you."
The lady inclined her head.
"You must know, madam, that I am one of the officers connected with
the City Prison. A woman was placed in confinement this morning, who
says she has a most important communication to make to you, but
declines to make it except to you in person."
"Can you bring her here, sir?"
"That is impossible. We will give you every facility, however, for
visiting her in prison."
"It must be Peg," whispered Ida; "the woman that carried me off."
Such a request Mrs. Clifton could not refuse. She at once made ready
to accompany the officer. She resolved to carry Ida with her,
fearful that, unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she
might disappear again as before.
As Jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they
proceeded at once to the prison. Ida shuddered as she passed beneath
the gloomy portal which shut out hope and the world from so many.
"This way, madam!"
They followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came
to the cell in which Peg was confined.
The tenant of the cell looked surprised to find Mrs. Clifton
accompanied by Ida.
"How do you do, Ida?" she said, smiling grimly; "you see I've moved.
Just tell your mother she can sit down on the bed. I'm sorry I
haven't any rocking-chair or sofa to offer you."
"O Peg," said Ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's
misfortunes; "how sorry I am to find you here!"
"Are you sorry?" asked Peg, looking at her in surprise.
"You haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy, or one of
the worst."
"I can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine
compassion; "it must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able
to go out into the bright sunshine. I do pity you."
Peg's heart was not wholly hardened. Few are. But it was long since
it had been touched as it was now by this great pity on the part of
one she had injured.
"You're a good girl, Ida," she said; "and I'm sorry I've injured
you. I didn't think I should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but I
do ask your forgiveness."
The child rose, and advancing towards Peg, took her large hand in
(sic) her's and said, "I forgive you, Peg."
"From your heart?"
"With all my heart."
"Thank you, child. I feel better now. There have been times when I
thought I should like to lead a better life."
"It is not too late now, Peg."
Peg shook her head.
"Who will trust me after I have come from here?"
"I will," said Mrs. Clifton, speaking for the first time.
"You will?"
"Yes."
"And yet you have much to forgive. But it was not my plan to steal
your daughter from you. I was poor, and money tempted me."
"Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?"
"One whom you know well,--Mr. John Somerville."
"Surely, you are wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, in unbounded
astonishment. "It cannot be. What object could he have had?"
"Can you think of none?" queried Peg, looking at her shrewdly.
Mrs. Clifton changed color. "Perhaps so," she said. "Go on."
Peg told the whole story, so circumstantially, that there was no
room left for doubt.
"I did not believe him capable of such wickedness," she ejaculated.
"It was a base, unmanly revenge. How could you lend yourself to it?"
"How could I?" repeated Peg. "Madam, you are rich. You have always
had whatever wealth could procure. How can you understand the
temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face,
we have not the strength to resist that you have in your luxurious
homes."
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Clifton, touched by these words, half bitter,
half pathetic; "let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you
have done me now. When you are released from your confinement, come
to me. If you wish to change your mode of life and live honestly
henceforth, I will give you the chance."
"You will!" said Peg, eagerly.
"I will."
"After all the injury I have done you, you will trust me still?"
"Who am I that I should condemn you? Yes, I will trust you, and
forgive you."
"I never expected to hear such words," said Peg, her heart softened,
and her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion, "least of all from
you. I should like to ask one thing."
"What is it?"
"Will you let her come and see me sometimes?" she pointed to Ida as
she spoke; "it will remind me that this is not all a dream--these
words which you have spoken."
"She shall come," said Mrs. Clifton, "and I will come too,
sometimes."
"Thank you," said Peg.
They left the prison behind them, and returned home.
"Mr. Somerville is in the drawing-room," said the servant. "He
wishes to see you."
Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.
"I will go down," she said. "Ida, you will remain here."
She descended to the drawing-room, and met the man who had injured
her. He had come with the resolve to stake his all upon a single
cast. His fortunes were desperate. Through the mother's love for the
daughter whom she had mourned so long, whom, as he believed he had
it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to
a marriage, which would retrieve his fortunes, and gratify his
ambition.
Mrs. Clifton seated herself quietly. She did not, as usual, offer
him her hand. Full of his own plans, he did not notice this
omission.
"How long is it since Ida was lost?" inquired Somerville.
Mrs. Clifton started in some surprise. She had not expected him to
introduce this subject.
"Eight years," she said.
"And you believe she yet lives?"
"Yes, I am certain of it."
John Somerville did not understand her aright. He felt only that a
mother never gives up hope.
"Yet it is a long time," he said.
"It is--a long time to suffer," she said. "How could any one have
the heart to work me this great injury? For eight years I have led a
sad and solitary life,--years that might have been made glad by
Ida's presence."
There was something in her tone which puzzled John Somerville, but
he was far enough from suspecting the truth.
"Rose," he said, after a pause. "Do you love your child well enough
to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?"
"What sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.
"A sacrifice of your feelings."
"Explain. You talk in enigmas."
"Listen, then. I, too, believe Ida to be living. Withdraw the
opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will
reward my affection by your land if I succeed, and I will devote
myself to the search for Ida, resting day nor night till I am able
to place her in your arms. Then, if I succeed, may I claim my
reward?"
"What reason have you for thinking you should find her?" asked Mrs.
Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.
"I think I have got a clew."
"And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding
of me this sacrifice?"
"No, Rose," he said, "I am not unselfish enough."
"But, consider a moment. Will not even that be poor atonement enough
for the wrong you have done me,"--she spoke rapidly now,--"for the
grief and loneliness and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty
have wrought?"
"I do not understand you," he said, turning pale.
"It is enough to say that I have seen the woman who is now in
prison,--your paid agent,--and that I need no assistance to recover
Ida. She is in my house."
What more could be said?
John Somerville rose, and left the room. His grand scheme had
failed.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CONCLUSION.
I AM beginning to feel anxious about Jack," said Mrs. Crump. "It's
almost a week since we heard from him. I'm afraid he's got into some
trouble."
"Probably he's too busy to write," said the cooper.
"I told you so," said Rachel, in one of her usual fits of
depression. "I told you Jack wasn't fit to be sent on such an
errand. If you'd only taken my advice, you wouldn't have had so much
worry and trouble about him now. Most likely he's got into the House
of Reformation, or somewhere. I knew a young man once who went away
from home, and never came back again. Nobody ever knew what became
of him till his body was found in the river, half-eaten by fishes."
"How can you talk so, Rachel?" said Mrs. Crump, indignantly; "and of
your own nephew, too!"
"This is a world of trial and disappointment," said Rachel; "and we
might as well expect the worst, because it's sure to come."
"At that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said the cooper.
"No, Rachel, you are wrong. God didn't send us into the world to be
melancholy. He wants us to enjoy ourselves. Now I have no idea that
Jack has jumped into the river. Then again, if he has, he can swim."
"I suppose," said Rachel, "you expect him to come home in a coach
and four, bringing Ida with him."
"Well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "I don't know but that is
as probable as your anticipations."
Rachel shook her head dismally.
"Bless me!" said Mrs. Crump, in a tone of excitement; "there's a
carriage just stopped at our door, and--yes, it is Jack, and Ida
too!"
The strange (sic) fulfilment of the cooper's suggestion struck even
Aunt Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome
carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two elegant bays,
standing before the door. Jack had already jumped out, and was now
assisting Ida to alight. No sooner was Ida on firm ground than she
ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her
adopted mother.
"O mother!" she exclaimed; "how glad I am to see you once more."
"Haven't you a kiss for me too, Ida?" said the cooper, his face
radiant with joy. "You don't know how much we've missed you."
"And I'm so glad to sec you all, and Aunt Rachel, too."
To her astonishment, Aunt Rachel, for the first time in the child's
remembrance, kissed her. There was nothing wanting to her welcome
home.
Scarcely had the spinster done so than her observant eyes detected
what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy.
"Where did you get this dress, Ida?" she asked.
Then, for the first time, all observed that Ida was more elegantly
dressed than when she went away. She looked like a young princess.
"That Mrs. Hardwick didn't give you this gown, I'll be bound," said
she.
"Oh, I've so much to tell you," said Ida, breathlessly. "I've found
my mother,--my other mother!"
A pang struck to the honest hearts of Timothy Crump and his wife.
Ida must leave them. After all the happy years during which they had
watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length.
Just then, an elegantly-dressed lady appeared at the threshold.
Smiling, radiant with happiness, Mrs. Clifton seemed, to the
cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere.
"Mother," said Ida, taking her hand, and leading her to Mrs. Crump,
"this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me
and loved me so well."
"Mrs. Crump," said Mrs. Clifton, "how can I ever thank you for your
care of my child?"
My child!
It was hard for Mrs. Crump to hear another speak of Ida in this way.
"I have tried to do my duty by her," she said, simply; "I love her
so much."
"Yes," said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little
huskily, "we all love her as if she was our own. She has been so
long with us that we have come to think of her as our own, and--and
it won't be easy at first to give her up."
"My friend," said Mrs. Clifton, "think not that I shall ever ask you
to make that sacrifice. I shall always think of Ida as only a little
less yours than mine."
"But you live in Philadelphia. We shall lose sight of her."
"Not unless you refuse to come to Philadelphia, too."
"I am not sure whether I could find work there."
"That shall be my care. I have another inducement. God has bestowed
upon me a large share of this world's goods. I am thankful for it,
since it will enable me in some slight way to express my sense of
your great services to Ida. I own a neat brick house in a quiet
street, which you will find more comfortable than this. Just before
I left Philadelphia my lawyer drew up a deed of gift, conveying the
house to you. It is Ida's gift, not mine. Ida, give this to Mr.
Crump."
The child took the parchment, and handed it to the cooper, who was
bewildered by his sudden good fortune.
"This for me?" he said.
"It is the first installment of my debt of gratitude; it shall not
be the last," said Mrs. Clifton.
"How shall I thank you, madam?" said the cooper. "To a poor man this
is, indeed, an acceptable gift."
"By accepting it," said Mrs. Clifton. "Let me add, for I know it
will enhance the value of the gift in your eyes, that it is only
five minutes' walk from my own house, and Ida will come and see you
every day."
"Yes, mamma," said Ida; "I couldn't be happy away from father and
mother and Jack, and Aunt Rachel."
"You must introduce me to your Aunt Rachel," said Mrs. Clifton, with
a grace all her own.
Ida did so.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Rachel," said Mrs.
Clifton. "I need not say that I shall be glad to see you, as well as
Mr. and Mrs. Crump, at my house very frequently."
"I'm much obleeged to you," said Aunt Rachel; "but I don't think I
shall live long to go anywhere. The feelin's I have, sometimes warn
me that I'm not long for this world."
"You see, Mrs. Clifton," said Jack, his eyes dancing with mischief,
"we come of a short-lived family. Grandmother died at eighty-two,
and that wouldn't give Aunt Rachel long to live."
"You impudent boy!" exclaimed Miss Rachel, in great indignation.
Then relapsing into melancholy, "I'm a poor afflicted creetur, and
the sooner I leave this scene of trial the better."
"Let us hope," said Mrs. Clifton, politely, "that you will find the
air of Philadelphia beneficial to your health. Change of air
sometimes works wonders."
In the course of a few weeks the whole family removed to
Philadelphia. The house which Mrs. Clifton had given them, (sic)
excceeded their anticipations. It was so much better and larger than
their present dwelling, that their furniture would have shown to
great disadvantage in it. But Mrs. Clifton had foreseen this, and
they found the house already furnished for their reception. Through
Mrs. Clifton's influence the cooper was enabled to establish himself
in business on a larger scale, and employ others, instead of working
himself, for hire. Ida was such a frequent visitor, that it was hard
to tell which she considered her home--her mother's elegant
dwelling, or Mrs. Cooper's comfortable home.
For Jack, a situation was found in a merchant's counting-room, and
he became a thriving young merchant, being eventually taken into
partnership. Ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare
beauty caused her to be sought after. If she does not marry well and
happily, it will not be for want of an opportunity.
Dear reader, you who deem that all stories should end with a
marriage, shall not be disappointed.
One day Aunt Rachel was missing from her room. It was remembered
that she had appeared singularly for some days previous, and the
knowledge of her constitutional low spirits, led to the apprehension
that she had made way with herself. The cooper was about to notify
the police, when the front door opened and Rachel walked in. She was
accompanied by a short man, stout and freckled.
"Why, Aunt Rachel," exclaimed Mrs. Crump, "where _have_ you been? We
have been so anxious about you."
A faint flush came to Aunt Rachel's sallow cheek.
"Sister Mary," said she, "you will be surprised, perhaps, but--but
this is my consort. Mr. Smith, let me introduce you to my sister."
"Then you are married, Rachel," said Mrs. Crump, quite confounded.
"Yes," said Rachel; "I--I don't expect to live long, and it won't
make much difference."
"I congratulate you, _Mrs. Smith_," said Mary Crump, heartily; "and
I wish you a long and happy life, I am sure."
It is observed that, since her marriage, Aunt Rachel's fits of
depression are less numerous than before. She has even been seen to
smile repeatedly, and has come to bear, with philosophical
equanimity, her nephew Jack's sly allusions to her elopement.
One word more. At the close of her term of confinement, Peg came to
Mrs. Clifton, and reminded her of her promise. Dick was dead, and
she was left alone in the world. Imprisonment had not hardened her
as it so often does. She had been redeemed by the kindness of those
she had injured. Mrs. Clifton secured her a position in which her
energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she
leads a laborious and useful life, in a community where her
antecedents are not known.
*** END. ***
- Details
- Written by: Administrator
- Category: Books
- Hits: 623
VERSE AND PROSE FOR BEGINNERS IN READING
_SELECTED FROM ENGLISH AND AMERICAN LITERATURE_
1893
PREFACE.
The attentive reader of this little book will be apt to notice very soon
that though its title is _Verse and Prose for Beginners in Reading_,
the verse occupies nine tenths, the prose being confined to about two
hundred proverbs and familiar sayings--some of them, indeed, in
rhyme--scattered in groups throughout the book. The reason for this will
be apparent as soon as one considers the end in view in the preparation
of this compilation.
The _Riverside Primer and Reader_, as stated in its Introduction, "is
designed to serve as the sole text-book in reading required by a pupil.
When he has mastered it he is ready to make the acquaintance of the
world's literature in the English tongue." In that book, therefore, the
pupil was led by easy exercises to an intelligent reading of pieces of
literature, both verse and prose, so that he might become in a slight
degree familiar with literature before he parted with his sole
text-book. But the largest space had, of necessity, to be given to
practice work, which led straight to literature, indeed, though to a
small quantity only. The verse offered in that book was drawn from
nursery rhymes and from a few of the great masters of poetical form; the
prose was furnished by a selection of proverbs, some of the simplest
folk stories, and two passages, closing the book, from the Old and New
Testaments.
The pupil, upon laying down his _Primer and Reader_ and proposing to
enter the promised land of literature, could find a volume of prose
consisting of _Fables and Folk Stories_, into the pleasures of which he
had already been initiated; but until now he could find no volume of
poetry especially prepared for him which should fulfill the promise of
the verse offered to him in his _Primer and Reader_. Be it remembered
that he was not so much to read verse written expressly for him, as to
overhear the great poets when they sang so simply, so directly, and yet
with so penetrating a note that the burden of their song, full, it may
be, to the child's elders, would have an awakening power for the child
himself. As so often said, a child can receive and delight in a poem
through the ear long before he is able to attain the same pleasure
through the eye; and there are many poems in such a book, for example,
as Miss Agnes Repplier's _A Book of Famous Verse_, wholly delightful for
a child to listen to which yet it would be impossible for him to read to
himself.
The agreeable task of the editor, therefore, was to search English and
American literature for those poems which had fallen from the lips of
poets with so sweet a cadence and in such simple notes that they would
offer but slight difficulties to a child who had mastered the rudiments
of reading. It was by no means necessary that such poems should have had
an audience of children in mind nor have taken childhood for a subject,
though it was natural that a few of the verses should prove to be
suggested by some aspect of child-life. The selection must be its own
advocate, but it may be worth while to point out that the plan of the
book supposes an easy approach to the more serious poems by means of the
light ditties of the nursery; that there is no more reason for depriving
a child of honest fun in his verse than there is for condemning the
child's elders to grave poetry exclusively; and that it is not necessary
or even desirable for a poem to come at once within the reader's
comprehension. To take an extreme case, Tennyson's lines "Break, Break,
Break!" would no doubt be ruled out of such a book as this by many in
sympathy with children; yet the unexplainable power of the poem is not
beyond the apprehension of sensitive natures at an early age.
The contents have been gleaned from a number of sources, and the editor
is glad to mingle with the names of the secure dwellers on Parnassus
those of some living Americans and Englishmen. He does not pretend that
he has made an exhaustive collection, but he hopes the book may be
regarded as the nucleus for an anthology which cannot, in the nature of
things, be very large.
The prose, as already intimated, is confined to groups of proverbs and
familiar sayings. In one aspect these single lines of prose present
difficulties to the young reader: they are condensed forms of
expression, even though the words may be simple; but they offer the
convenient small change of intellectual currency which it is well for
one to be supplied with at an early stage of one's journey, and they
afford to the teacher a capital opportunity for conversational and other
exercises.
The order of this book is in a general way from the easy to the more
difficult, with an attempt, also, at an agreeable variety. The editor
has purposely avoided breaking up the book into lesson portions or
giving it the air of a text-book. There is no reason why children should
not read books as older people read them, for pleasure, and dissociate
them from a too persistent notion of tasks. It is entirely possible that
some teachers may find it out of the question to lead their classes
straight through this book, but there is nothing to forbid them from
judicious skipping, or, what is perhaps more to the point, from helping
pupils over a difficult word or phrase when it is encountered; the
interest which the child takes will carry him over most hard places. It
would be a capital use of the book also if teachers were to draw upon it
for poems which their pupils should, in the suggestive phrase, learn by
heart. To this purpose the contents are singularly well adapted; for,
from the single line proverb to a poem by Wordsworth, there is
such a wide range of choice that the teacher need not resort to the
questionable device of giving children fragments and bits of verse and
prose to commit to memory. One of the greatest services we can do the
young mind is to accustom it to the perception of _wholes_, and whether
this whole be a lyric or a narrative poem like Evangeline, it is almost
equally important that the young reader should learn to hold it as such
in his mind. To treat a poem as a mere quarry out of which a
particularly smooth stone can be chipped is to misinterpret poetry. A
poem is a statue, not a quarry.
H.E.S.
BOSTON, _October_, 1893.
CONTENTS.
ALPHABET _Mother Goose_
A DEWDROP _Frank Dempster Sherman_
BEES _Frank Dempster Sherman_
RHYMES.
Baa, baa, black sheep
Bless you, bless you, burnie bee
Bow, wow, wow
Bye, baby bunting _Mother Goose_
STAR LIGHT _Unknown_
THE LITTLE MOON _A.B. White_
TO A HONEY-BEE _Alice Gary_
RHYMES.
A cat came fiddling
A dillar, a dollar
As I was going to St. Ives
As I was going up Pippen Hill
A swarm of bees in May _Mother Goose_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
NONSENSE ALPHABET _Edward Lear_
THE EGG IN THE NEST _Unknown_
RHYMES
Hey! diddle diddle
Pussy sits beside the fire
Ding dong bell _Mother Goose_
DAISIES _Frank Dempster Sherman_
SPINNING TOP _Frank Dempster Sherman_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
RHYMES.
Bobby Shafto's gone to sea
Every lady in this land
Great A, little a
Hark, hark
Sing a song of sixpence
Hickory, dickory dock
Hot-cross buns!
How does my lady's garden grow?
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top
Some little mice sat in a barn to spin
If all the world were apple-pie
If wishes were horses
I have a little sister _Mother Goose_
WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST? _Lydia Maria Child_
RHYMES.
I saw a ship a-sailing
Jack and Jill went up the hill
Little Bo-peep
Little boy blue
Little girl, little girl
Little Jack Horner sat in the corner
Little Johnny Pringle had a little pig
Little Miss Muffet
There was a little man
Little Tommy Tacker _Mother Goose_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
HAPPY THOUGHT _Robert Louis Stevenson_
THE SUN'S TRAVELS _Robert Louis Stevenson_
MY BED IS A BOAT _Robert Louis Stevenson_
THE SWING _Robert Louis Stevenson_
RHYMES
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Mistress Mary, quite contrary
Old King Cole
Old Mother Hubbard _Mother Goose_
RUNAWAY BROOK _Eliza Lee Fallen_
BED IN SUMMER _Robert Louis Stevenson_
AT THE SEASIDE _Robert Louis Stevenson_
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS _Thomas Moore_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
Three little kittens
Once I saw a little bird
One misty, moisty morning
Peter Piper
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross
Three wise men of Gotham
See, saw, sacradown
Simple Simon met a pieman _Mother Goose_
PRETTY COW _Jane Taylor_
THE STAR _Jane Taylor_
MARY'S LAMB _Sara Josepha Hale_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
RHYMES
Solomon Grundy
The King of France
The man in the wilderness
There was a crooked man
Tom, Tom, the piper's son
There was a little boy
There was a man of our town
This pig went to market
Tom, Tom, of Islington _Mother Goose_
WEE WILLIE WINKIE _William Miller_
SINGING _Robert Louis Stevenson_
THE COW _Robert Louis Stevenson_
GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING _Richard Monckton Milnes_
MOTHER'S EYES _Mary D.B.Hull_
THE LAND OF NOD _Robert Louis Stevenson_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
RHYMES
When I was a little boy
Where are you going, my pretty maid?
Who killed Cock Robin _Mother Goose_
EPITAPH FOR ROBIN REDBREAST _Edith Matilda Thomas_
PLAY WITH ME _Edith Matilda Thomas_
THE PIPER _William Blake_
INFANT JOY _William Blake_
THE LAMB _William Blake_
THE LITTLE BOY LOST _William Blake_
THE LITTLE BOY FOUND _William Blake_
ON THE VOWELS _Jonathan Swift_
LETTERS _Ralph Waldo Emerson_
ON A CIRCLE _Jonathan Swift_
ARIEL'S SONG _William Shakespeare_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
SONG _Thomas Hood_
YOUTH AND AGE _Thomas Hood_
UPON SUSANNA'S FEET _Robert Herrick_
UPON A CHILD THAT DIED _Robert Herrick_
CHERRY-RIPE _Robert Herrick_
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
"ONE, TWO, THREE!" _Henry Cuyler Bunner_
THE BIRD AND ITS NEST _Alfred Tennyson_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
WINDY NIGHTS _Robert Louis Stevenson_
NONSENSE VERSES _Edward Lear_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
SONG _Robert Burns_
SWEET AND LOW _Alfred Tennyson_
AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF _Isaac Watts_
"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK" _Alfred Tennyson_
THE ARROW AND THE SONG _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR _Edward Lear_
THE OWL _Alfred Tennyson_
THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT _Edward Lear_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
FABLE _Ralph Waldo Emerson_
WRITTEN IN MARCH _William Wordsworth_
THOSE EVENING BELLS _Thomas Moore_
TO A BUTTERFLY _William Wordsworth_
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS
LUCY _William Wordsworth_
LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE _William Wordsworth_
POOR SUSAN _William Wordsworth_
VERSE AND PROSE FOR BEGINNERS IN READING.
ALPHABET.
A was an apple-pie;
B bit it;
C cut it;
D dealt it;
E ate it;
F fought for it;
G got it;
H had it;
J joined it;
K kept it;
L longed for it:
M mourned for it;
N nodded at it;
O opened it;
P peeped into it;
Q quartered it;
R ran for it;
S stole it;
T took it;
V viewed it;
W wanted it;
X, Y, Z, and amperse-and,
All wished for a piece in hand.
A DEWDROP.
Little drop of dew,
Like a gem you are;
I believe that you
Must have been a star.
When the day is bright,
On the grass you lie;
Tell me then, at night
Are you in the sky?
BEES.
Bees don't care about the snow;
I can tell you why that's so:
Once I caught a little bee
Who was much too warm for me!
* * * * *
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I,
Three bags full;
One for my master,
And one for my dame,
But none for the little boy
Who cries in the lane.
* * * * *
Bless you, bless you, burnie bee;
Say, when will your wedding be?
If it be to-morrow day,
Take your wings and fly away.
* * * * *
Bow, wow, wow,
Whose dog art thou?
Little Tom Tinker's dog,
Bow, wow, wow.
* * * * *
Bye, baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a-hunting,
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap the baby bunting in.
* * * * *
Star light, star bright,
First star I see to-night;
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish to-night.
* * * * *
The little moon came out too soon,
And in her fright looked thin and white,
The stars then shone,
And every one
Twinkled and winked and laughed and blinked.
The great sun now rolled forth in might
And drove them all quite out of sight.
TO A HONEY-BEE.
"Busy-body, busy-body,
Always on the wing,
Wait a bit, where you have lit,
And tell me why you sing."
Up, and in the air again,
Flap, flap, flap!
And now she stops, and now she drops
Into the rose's lap.
"Come, just a minute come,
From your rose so red."
Hum, hum, hum, hum--
That was all she said.
"Busy-body, busy-body,
Always light and gay,
It seems to me, for all I see,
Your work is only play."
And now the day is sinking to
The goldenest of eves,
And she doth creep for quiet sleep
Among the lily-leaves.
"Come, just a moment come,
From your snowy bed."
Hum, hum, hum, hum--
That was all she said.
But, the while I mused, I learned
The secret of her way:
Do my part with cheerful heart,
And turn my work to play.
* * * * *
A cat came fiddling out of a barn,
With a pair of bag-pipes under her arm;
She could sing nothing but fiddle-de-dee,
The mouse has married the bumble-bee;
Pipe, cat,--dance, mouse,--
We'll have a wedding at our good house.
* * * * *
A dillar, a dollar,
A ten o'clock scholar,
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o'clock,
But now you come at noon.
* * * * *
As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives;
Every wife had seven sacks,
Every sack had seven cats,
Every cat had seven kits:
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were there going to St. Ives?
* * * * *
As I was going up Pippen Hill,--
Pippen Hill was dirty,--
There I met a pretty miss,
And she dropped me a curtsy.
Little miss, pretty miss,
Blessings light upon you;
If I had half-a-crown a day,
I'd spend it all upon you.
* * * * *
A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July
Is not worth a fly.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
As blind as a bat.
As broad as it is long.
As cross as two sticks.
As dark as pitch.
As dead as a door nail.
As dead as a herring.
As full as an egg is of meat.
As hot as toast.
As like as two peas.
As merry as a cricket.
As plain as the nose on a man's face.
As quiet as a mouse.
As sharp as a razor.
As straight as an arrow.
As sweet as honey.
As true as steel.
As weak as water.
NONSENSE ALPHABET.
A was an ant
Who seldom stood still,
And who made a nice house
In the side of a hill.
Nice little ant!
B was a bat,
Who slept all the day,
And fluttered about
When the sun went away.
Brown little bat!
C was a camel:
You rode on his hump;
And if you fell off,
You came down such a bump!
What a high camel!
D was a duck
With spots on his back,
Who lived in the water,
And always said "Quack!"
Dear little duck!
E was an elephant,
Stately and wise:
He had tusks and a trunk,
And two queer little eyes.
Oh, what funny small eyes!
F was a fish
Who was caught in a net;
But he got out again,
And is quite alive yet.
Lively young fish!
G was a goat
Who was spotted with brown:
When he did not lie still
He walked up and down.
Good little goat!
H was a hat
Which was all on one side;
Its crown was too high,
And its brim was too wide.
Oh, what a hat!
I was some ice
So white and so nice,
But which nobody tasted;
And so it was wasted.
All that good ice!
J was a jug,
So pretty and white,
With fresh water in it
At morning and night.
Nice little jug!
K was a kite
Which flew out of sight,
Above houses so high,
Quite into the sky.
Fly away, kite!
L was a lily,
So white and so sweet!
To see it and smell it
Was quite a nice treat.
Beautiful lily!
M was a man,
Who walked round and round;
And he wore a long coat
That came down to the ground.
Funny old man!
N was a net
Which was thrown In the sea
To catch fish for dinner
For you and for me.
Nice little net!
O was an orange
So yellow and round:
When it fell off the tree,
It fell down to the ground.
Down to the ground!
P was a polly.
All red, blue, and green,--
The most beautiful polly
That ever was seen.
Poor little polly!
Q was a quail
With a very short tail;
And he fed upon corn
In the evening and morn.
Quaint little quail!
R was a rabbit,
Who had a bad habit
Of eating the flowers
In gardens and bowers.
Naughty fat rabbit!
S was the sugar-tongs,
Nippity-nee,
To take up the sugar
To put in our tea.
Nippity-nee!
T was a tortoise,
All yellow and black:
He walked slowly away,
And he never came back.
Torty never came back!
U was an urn
All polished and bright,
And full of hot water
At noon and at night.
Useful old urn!
V was a veil
With a border upon it,
And a ribbon to tie it
All round a pink bonnet.
Pretty green veil!
W was a watch,
Where, in letters of gold,
The hour of the day
You might always behold.
Beautiful watch!
Y was a yew,
Which flourished and grew
By a quiet abode
Near the side of a road.
Dark little yew!
Z was a zebra,
All striped white and black;
And if he were tame,
You might ride on his back.
Pretty striped zebra!
THE EGG IN THE NEST.
There was a tree stood in the ground,
The prettiest tree you ever did see;
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.
And on this tree there was a limb,
The prettiest limb you ever did see;
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.
And on this limb there was a bough,
The prettiest bough you ever did see;
The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.
Now on this bough there was a nest,
And in this nest there were some eggs,
The prettiest eggs you ever did see;
Eggs in the nest, and the nest on the bough,
The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around,
And the green grass growing all around.
* * * * *
Hey! diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
* * * * *
Pussy sits beside the fire,
How can she be fair?
In comes the little dog,
"Pussy, are you there?
So, so, dear Mistress Pussy,
Pray tell me how do you do?"
"Thank you, thank you, little dog,
I'm very well just now."
* * * * *
Ding dong bell,
The cat's in the well!
Who put her in?--
Little Johnny Green.
Who pulled her out?--
Big Johnny Stout.
What a naughty boy was that
To drown poor pussy cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But killed the mice in his father's barn!
DAISIES.
At evening when I go to bed
I see the stars shine overhead;
They are the little daisies white
That dot the meadow of the Night.
And often while I'm dreaming so,
Across the sky the Moon will go;
It is a lady, sweet and fair,
Who comes to gather daisies there.
For, when at morning I arise,
There's not a star left in the skies;
She's picked them all and dropped them down
Into the meadows of the town.
SPINNING TOP.
When I spin round without a stop
And keep my balance like the top,
I find that soon the floor will swim
Before my eyes; and then, like him,
I lie all dizzy on the floor
Until I feel like spinning more.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
Every dog has its day.
Every horse thinks his own pack heaviest.
Every little helps.
Every man for himself, and God for us all.
Faint heart never won fair lady.
Fair words butter no parsnips.
Fine feathers make fine birds.
Follow the river and you will get to the sea.
Fools build houses, and wise men live in them.
For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy, or there is none;
If there be one, try and find It; if there be none, never mind it.
For want of a nail the shoe is lost; for want of a shoe the horse is lost;
for want of a horse the rider is lost.
* * * * *
Bobby Shafto's gone to sea,
With silver buckles at his knee;
He'll come back and marry me,--
Pretty Bobby Shafto!
Bobby Shafto's fat and fair,
Combing out his yellow hair,
He's my love for evermore,--
Pretty Bobby Shafto!
* * * * *
Every lady in this land
Has twenty nails upon each hand
Five and twenty on hands and feet.
All this is true without deceit.
* * * * *
Great A, little a,
Bouncing B!
The cat's in the cupboard,
And she can't see.
* * * * *
Hark, hark,
The dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town;
Some in rags,
Some in jags,
And some in velvet gowns.
* * * * *
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie;
When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing;
Was not that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in the parlor,
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the kitchen,
Eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes;
There came a little blackbird,
And snipped off her nose.
Jenny was so mad,
She didn't know what to do;
She put her finger in her ear,
And cracked it right in two.
* * * * *
Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down;
Hickory, dickory, dock.
* * * * *
Hot-cross buns!
Hot-cross buns!
One a penny, two a penny.
Hot-cross buns!
Hot-cross buns!
Hot-cross buns!
If ye have no daughters,
Give them to your sons.
* * * * *
How does my lady's garden grow?
How does my lady's garden grow?
With cockle shells, and silver bells,
And pretty maids all of a row.
* * * * *
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
Threescore men and threescore more
Cannot place Humpty Dumpty as he was before.
* * * * *
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bough bends, the cradle will fall,
Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all.
* * * * *
Some little mice sat in a barn to spin;
Pussy came by, and popped her head in;
"Shall I come in, and cut your threads off?"
"Oh, no, kind sir, you would snap our heads off."
* * * * *
If all the world were apple-pie?
And all the sea were ink.
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we have for drink?
* * * * *
If wishes were horses,
Beggars might ride;
If turnips were watches,
I would wear one by my side.
* * * * *
I have a little sister, they call her peep, peep;
She wades the waters deep, deep, deep;
She climbs the mountains high, high, high;
Poor little creature, she has but one eye.
WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away.
Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean, any how!
I gave the hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I'm not so mean, anyhow."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree? to-day?"
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"
"Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no,
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"
"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;
"I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's nest to-day?"
"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen;
"Don't ask me again,
Why, I haven't a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together.
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,
"Don't ask me again."
"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
All the birds make a stir!
Let us find out his name,
And all cry 'for shame!'"
"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."
"It is very cruel, too,"
Said little Alice Neal;
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel?"
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.
* * * * *
I saw a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing on the sea;
And oh, it was all laden
With pretty things for thee!
There were comfits in the cabin,
And apples in the hold;
The sails were made of silk,
And the masts were made of gold!
The four and twenty sailors,
That stood between the decks,
Were four and twenty white mice,
With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck,
With a packet on his back;
And when the ship began to move.
The captain said, "Quack! Quack!"
* * * * *
Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down, and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
* * * * *
Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them.
Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamed she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For they were still a-fleeting.
Then up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left all their tails behind 'em.
* * * * *
Little boy blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn;
Where's the little boy that tends the sheep?
He's under the haycock, fast asleep.
Go wake him, go wake him. Oh, no, not I;
For if I awake him, he'll certainly cry.
* * * * *
Little girl, little girl, where have you been?
Gathering roses to give to the queen.
Little girl, little girl, what gave she you?
She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe.
* * * * *
Little Jack Horner sat in the corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum,
And said, "What a good boy am I!"
* * * * *
Little Johnny Pringle had a little pig;
It was very little, so was not very big.
As it was playing beneath the shed,
In half a minute poor Piggie was dead.
So Johnny Pringle he sat down and cried,
And Betty Pringle she lay down and died.
There is the history of one, two, and three,
Johnny Pringle, Betty Pringle, and Piggie Wiggie.
* * * * *
Little Miss Muffet
She sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a black spider,
And sat down beside her,
Which frightened Miss Muffet away.
* * * * *
There was a little man,
And he had a little gun,
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;
He went to the brook.
And he saw a little duck,
And shot it through the head, head, head.
He carried it home
To his wife Joan,
And bade her a fire to make, make, make,
To roast the little duck,
He had shot in the brook,
And he'd go and fetch the drake, drake, drake.
* * * * *
Little Tommy Tucker
Sing for your supper.
What shall I sing?
White bread and butter.
How shall I cut it
Without any knife?
How shall I marry
Without any wife?
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
At sixes and sevens.
Beauty is but skin deep.
Half a loaf is better than no bread.
Better late than never.
Better live well than long.
Beware of no man more than thyself.
Birds of a feather will flock together.
Christmas comes but once a year;
And when it comes, it brings good cheer;
But when it's gone, it's never the near.
Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better.
By fits and starts.
By and by is easily said.
Care will kill a cat.
Cats hide their claws.
Constant dropping wears the stone.
Count not your chickens before they are hatched.
Debt is the worst poverty.
Do not spur a free horse.
Don't cry till you are out of the wood.
Drive thy business; let not that drive thee.
Early to bed, and early to rise,
Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
East or west, home is best.
Enough is as good as a feast.
Everybody's business is nobody's business.
HAPPY THOUGHT.
The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
THE SUN'S TRAVELS.
The sun is not abed, when I
At night upon my pillow lie;
Still round the earth his way he takes,
And morning after morning makes.
While here at home, in shining day,
We round the sunny garden play,
Each little Indian sleepy-head
Is being kissed and put to bed.
And when at eve I rise from tea,
Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea;
And all the children in the West
Are getting up and being dressed.
MY BED IS A BOAT.
My bed is like a little boat;
Nurse helps me in when I embark;
She girds me in my sailor's coat
And starts me in the dark.
At night, I go on board and say
Good-night to all my friends on shore;
I shut my eyes and sail away
And see and hear no more.
And sometimes things to bed I take,
As prudent sailors have to do;
Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake,
Perhaps a toy or two.
All night across the dark we steer;
But when the day returns at last,
Safe in my room, beside the pier,
I find my vessel fast.
THE SWING.
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
* * * * *
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Guard the bed that I lie on!
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head;
One to watch, one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away.
* * * * *
Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With cockle-shells, and silver bells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
* * * * *
Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe,
And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler, he had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he;
Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers.
Oh, there's none so rare,
As can compare
With old King Cole and his fiddlers three!
MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone;
But when she came there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread;
But when she came back,
The poor dog was dead.
She went to the joiner's
To buy him a coffin;
But when she came back.
The poor dog was laughing.
She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe;
But when she came back,
He was smoking his pipe.
She went to the fishmonger's
To buy him some fish;
And when she came back,
He was licking the dish.
She went to the ale-house
To get him some beer;
But when she came back,
The dog sat in a chair.
She went to the tavern
For white wine and red;
But when she came back,
The dog stood on his head.
She went to the hatter's
To buy him a hat;
But when she came back,
He was feeding the cat.
She went to the barber's
To buy him a wig;
But when she came back,
He was dancing a jig.
She went to the fruiterer's
To buy him some fruit;
But when she came back,
He was playing the flute.
She went to the tailor's
To buy him a coat;
But when she came back,
He was riding a goat.
She went to the cobbler's
To buy him some shoes;
But when she came back,
He was reading the news.
She went to the seamstress
To buy him some linen;
But when she came back,
The dog was spinning.
She went to the hosiers
To buy him some hose;
But when she came back,
He was dressed in his clothes.
The dame made a curtsy,
The dog made a bow;
The dame said, Your servant,
The dog said; Bow, wow.
RUNAWAY BROOK.
"Stop, stop, pretty water!"
Said Mary one day,
To a frolicsome brook,
That was running away.
"You run on so fast!
I wish you would stay;
My boat and my flowers
You will carry away.
"But I will run after:
Mother says that I may;
For I would know where
You are running away."
So Mary ran on;
But I have heard say,
That she never could find
Where the brook ran away.
BED IN SUMMER.
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
AT THE SEASIDE
When I was down beside the sea
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.
My holes were empty like a cup,
In every hole the sea came up,
Till it could come no more.
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
When o'er the silent seas alone,
For days and nights we've cheerless gone,
Oh, they who've felt it know how sweet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet.
Sparkling at once is ev'ry eye,
"Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!" our joyful cry;
While answering back the sounds we hear,
"Ship ahoy! ship ahoy! what cheer? what cheer?"
Then sails are back'd, we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends and home;
And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o'er silent seas again.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
A barking dog seldom bites.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
A cat may look at a king.
A chip of the old block.
A day after the fair.
A fool and his money are soon parted.
A fool may ask more questions in an hour than a wise man can answer in
seven years.
A fool may make money, but it needs a wise man to spend it.
A friend in need is a friend indeed.
A good garden may have some weeds.
A good workman is known by his chips.
A hard beginning makes a good ending.
* * * * *
Three little kittens lost their mittens,
And they began to cry:
"O mother dear, we very much fear
That we have lost our mittens."
"Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie."
"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!
And we can have no pie.
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow!"
* * * * *
Once I saw a little bird
Come hop, hop, hop;
So I cried, "Little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?"
And was going to the window
To say, "How do you do?"
But he shook his little tail,
And far away he flew.
* * * * *
One misty, moisty morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old man
Clothed all in leather;
He began to compliment,
And I began to grin,--
"How do you do," and "How do you do,"
And "How do you do" again!
* * * * *
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked;
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?
* * * * *
Rid a cock-horse to Banbury-cross
To see an old lady upon a white horse,
Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes,
And so she makes music wherever she goes.
* * * * *
Three wise men of Gotham
Went to sea in a bowl;
If the bowl had been stronger,
My song would have been longer.
* * * * *
See, saw, sacradown,
Which is the way to London town?
One foot up, the other foot down,
And that is the way to London town.
* * * * *
Simple Simon met a pieman
Going to the fair;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
"Let me taste your ware."
Says the pieman to Simple Simon,
"Show me first your penny;"
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
"Indeed, I have not any."
Simple Simon went a-fishing
For to catch a whale;
All the water he had got
Was in his mother's pail.
Simple Simon went to look
If plums grew on a thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much,
Which made poor Simon whistle.
PRETTY COW.
Thank you? pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Every day and every night,
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.
Do not chew the hemlock rank,
Growing on the weedy bank;
But the yellow cowslips eat,
That will make it very sweet.
Where the purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the grass is fresh and fine.
Pretty cow, go there and dine.
THE STAR.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star;
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the glorious sun is set,
When the grass with dew is wet,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep;
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark,
Lights the traveller in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
MARY'S LAMB.
Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.
He followed her to school one day,--
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play,
To see a lamb at school.
So the teacher turned him out,
But still he lingered near,
And waited patiently about,
Till Mary did appear.
Then he ran to her, and laid
His head upon her arm,
As if he said, "I'm not afraid,--
You'll keep me from all harm."
"What makes the lamb love Mary so?"
The eager children cry.
"Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"
The teacher did reply.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
A watched pot never boils.
After dinner sit awhile; after supper walk a mile.
All his fingers are thumbs.
All is fish that comes to the net.
All is not gold that glitters.
All's well that ends well.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All your geese are swans.
Always taking out of the meal tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the
bottom.
An inch on a man's nose is much.
An old bird is not caught with chaff.
An old dog will learn no new tricks.
As bare as the back of my hand.
* * * * *
Solomon Grundy,
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday:
This is the end
Of Solomon Grundy.
* * * * *
The King of France went up the hill,
With twenty thousand men;
The King of France came down the hill,
And ne'er went up again.
* * * * *
The man in the wilderness asked me,
How many strawberries grew in the sea.
I answered him, as I thought good,
As many red herrings as grew in the wood.
* * * * *
There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile:
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.
* * * * *
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away he run!
The pig was eat, and Tom was beat,
And Tom went roaring down the street.
* * * * *
There was a little boy went into a barn,
And lay down on some hay;
An owl came out and flew about,
And the little boy ran away.
* * * * *
There was a man of our town,
And he was wondrous wise;
He jumped into a bramble bush,
And scratched out both his eyes:
And when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush,
And scratched 'em in again.
* * * * *
1. This pig went to market;
2. This pig stayed at home;
3. This pig had a bit of meat;
4. And this pig had none;
5. This pig said, "Wee, wee, wee! I can't find my way home."
* * * * *
Tom, Tom, of Islington,
Married a wife on Sunday;
Brought her home on Monday;
Hired a house on Tuesday;
Fed her well on Wednesday;
Sick was she on Thursday;
Dead was she on Friday;
Sad was Tom on Saturday,
To bury his wife on Sunday.
WEE WILLIE WINKIE.
Wee Willie Winkie
Runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs,
In his night-gown;
Tapping at the window,
Crying at the lock,
"Are the babes in their bed?
For it's now ten o'clock."
SINGING.
Of speckled eggs the birdie sings
And nests among the trees;
The sailor sings of ropes and things
In ships upon the seas.
The children sing in far Japan,
The children sing in Spain;
The organ with the organ man
Is singing in the rain.
THE COW.
The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart;
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.
She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;
And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers.
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.
GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING.
A fair little girl sat under a tree,
Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right
And said, "Dear work, good-night, good-night!"
Such a number of rooks came over her head,
Crying "Caw! Caw!" on their way to bed,
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
"Little black things, good-night, good-night!"
The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,
The sheep's "Bleat! Bleat!" came over the road;
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,
"Good little girl, good-night, good-night!"
She did not say to the sun, "Good-night!"
Though she saw him there like a ball of light;
For she knew he had God's time to keep
All over the world and never could sleep.
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;
The violets curtsied, and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
And while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
"Good-morning, good-morning! our work is begun."
MOTHER'S EYES.
What are the songs the mother sings?
Of birds and flowers and pretty things;
Baby lies in her arms and spies
All his world in the mother's eyes.
What are the tales the mother tells?
Of gems and jewels and silver bells;
Baby lies in her arms and spies
All his wealth in the mother's eyes.
What are the thoughts in the mother's mind?
Of the gentle Saviour, loving and kind;
Baby lies in her arms and spies
All his heaven in the mother's eyes.
THE LAND OF NOD.
From breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.
All by myself I have to go,
With, none to tell me what to do--
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain sides of dreams.
The strangest things are there for me,
Both things to eat and things to see,
And many frightening sights abroad,
Till morning in the land of Nod.
Try as I like to find the way,
I never can get back by day,
Nor can remember plain and clear
The curious music that I hear.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
A lass that has many wooers oft fares the worst.
A lazy sheep thinks its wool heavy.
A little leak will sink a great ship.
A living dog is better than a dead lion.
A man of words, and not of deeds, is like a garden full of weeds.
A man's house is his castle.
A miss is as good as a mile.
A penny for your thought.
A penny saved is a penny got.
A rolling stone will gather no moss.
A small spark makes a great fire.
A stitch in time saves nine.
A tree is known by its fruit.
* * * * *
When I was a little boy, I lived by myself,
And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon the shelf;
The rats and the mice did lead me such a life,
I was forced to go to London to buy me a wife.
The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so narrow,
I could not get my wife home without a wheelbarrow;
The wheelbarrow broke, my wife got a fall,
Down tumbled wheelbarrow, little wife, and all.
* * * * *
Where are you going, my pretty maid?
"I'm going a-milking, sir," she said.
May I go with you, my pretty maid?
"You're kindly welcome, sir," she said.
What is your father, my pretty maid?
"My father's a farmer, sir," she said.
Say, will you marry me, my pretty maid?
"Yes, if you please, kind sir," she said.
Will you be constant, my pretty maid?
"That I can't promise you, sir," she said.
Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid!
"Nobody asked you, sir!" she said.
* * * * *
Who killed Cock Robin?
"I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin."
Who saw him die?
"I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye,
And I saw him die."
Who caught his blood?
"I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish,
And I caught his blood."
Who made his shroud?
"I," said the Beadle,
"With my little needle,
And I made his shroud."
Who shall dig his grave?
"I," said the Owl,
"With my spade and showl [shovel],
And I'll dig his grave."
Who'll be the parson?
"I," said the Rook,
"With my little book,
And I'll be the parson"
Who'll be the clerk?
"I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark,
And I'll be the clerk."
Who'll carry him to the grave?
"I," said the Kite,
"If 't is not in the night,
And I'll carry him to his grave."
Who'll carry the link?
"I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute,
And I'll carry the link."
Who'll be the chief mourner?
"I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love,
And I'll be chief mourner."
Who'll bear the pall?
"We," said the Wren,
Both the cock and the hen,
"And we'll bear the pall."
Who'll sing a psalm?
"I," said the Thrush,
As she sat in a bush,
"And I'll sing a psalm."
And who'll toll the bell?
"I," said the Bull,
"Because I can pull;"
And so, Cock Robin, farewell.
EPITAPH FOR ROBIN REDBREAST.
Thou shalt have a little bed
Made for thee, and overspread
With brown leaves for coverlet,
Which the tearful dew has wet.
I, among the songs of Spring,
Will miss the song thou didst not sing.
"PLAY WITH ME!"
The kitten came this morning, and said,
With a touch of her paw and a turn of her head?
"Play, play with me!"
And Skye, the terrier, caught my hand,
And tried to make me understand,--
"Play, play with me!"
And Nelly nipped my shoulder quite hard,
And then she went prancing around the yard--
"Play, play with me!"
I played with them all! Now, wouldn't you play,
If a little child, like me, should say,
"Play, play with me?"
THE PIPER.
Piping down the valleys wild.
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:--
"Pipe a song about a lamb:"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again:"
So I piped; he wept to hear.
"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:"
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read."
So he vanish'd from my sight;
And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
INFANT JOY.
I have no name--
I am but two days old.
What shall I call thee?
I happy am,
Joy is my name.--
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old.
Sweet joy I call thee,
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while,
Sweet joy befall thee!
THE LAMB.
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest cloth, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice
Making all the vales rejoice;
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek and he is mild,
He became a little child,
I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee,
Little lamb, God bless thee.
THE LITTLE BOY LOST.
Father! father! where are you going?
Oh, do not walk so fast.
Speak, father speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost.
The night was dark, no father was there;
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep and the child did weep,
And away the vapor flew.
THE LITTLE BOY FOUND.
The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wandering light,
Began to cry; but God, ever nigh,
Appeared like his father in white;
He kissed the child, and by the hand led,
And to his mother brought,
Who, in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,
Her little boy weeping sought.
ON THE VOWELS.
We are little airy creatures,
All of different voice and features;
One of us in glass is set,
One of us you'll find in jet.
T' other you may see in tin,
And the fourth a box within.
If the fifth you should pursue,
It can never fly from you.
LETTERS.
Every day brings a ship,
Every ship brings a word;
Well for those who have no fear,
Looking seaward well assured
That the word the vessel brings
Is the word they wish to hear.
ON A CIRCLE.
I'm up and down, and round about,
Yet all the world can't find me out;
Though hundreds have employed their leisure,
They never yet could find my measure.
I'm found almost in every garden,
Nay, in the compass of a farthing.
There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
Can move an inch except I will.
ARIEL'S SONG.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie:
There I couch, when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly,
After summer, merrily:
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom, that hangs on the bough.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
Forgive and forget.
Fortune helps them that help themselves.
Give a thief rope enough, and he'll hang himself.
Give him an inch, and he'll take an ell.
Go farther and fare worse.
Good wine needs no bush.
Handsome is that handsome does.
Happy as a king.
Haste makes waste, and waste makes want, and want makes strife between the
good-man and his wife.
He cannot say boo to a goose.
He knows on which side his bread is buttered.
SONG.
There is dew for the floweret,
And honey for the bee,
And bowers for the wild bird,
And love for you and me.
There are tears for the many,
And pleasure for the few;
But let the world pass on, dear,
There's love for me and you.
YOUTH AND AGE.
Impatient of his childhood,
"Ah me!" exclaims young Arthur,
Whilst roving in the wild wood,
"I wish I were my father!"
Meanwhile, to see his Arthur
So skip, and play, and run,
"Ah me!" exclaims the father,
"I wish I were my son!"
UPON SUSANNA'S FEET.
Her pretty feet
Like snails did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they played at bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.
UPON A CHILD THAT DIED.
Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who as soon fell fast asleep,
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.
CHERRY-RIPE.
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy!
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer, There,
Where my Julia's lips do smile;
There's the land, or cherry-isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love!"
In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don't know; but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving--all come back together,
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and forever sings he--
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
He sees an inch afore his nose.
He takes the bull by the horns.
He that fights and runs away may live to fight another day.
He that goes a borrowing, goes a sorrowing.
He that has but four and spends five has no need of a purse.
He that knows not how to hold his tongue knows not how to talk.
He that lives on hope has but a slender diet.
He that plants trees loves others besides himself.
He that will steal a pin will steal a better thing.
He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
He's in clover.
His bread is buttered on both sides.
His room is better than his company.
Hunger is the best sauce.
I have other fish to fry.
"ONE, TWO, THREE!"
It was an old, old, old, old lady,
And a boy that was half past three;
And the way that they played together
Was beautiful to see.
She couldn't go running and jumping,
And the boy, no more could he;
For he was a thin little fellow,
With a thin little twisted knee.
They sat in the yellow sunlight,
Out under the maple-tree;
And the game that they played I'll tell you,
Just as it was told to me.
It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing,
Though you'd never have known it to be--
With an old, old, old, old lady,
And a boy with a twisted knee.
The boy would bend his face down
On his one little sound right knee,
And he'd guess where she was hiding,
In guesses One, Two, Three!
"You are in the china-closet!"
He would cry, and laugh with glee--
It wasn't the china-closet;
But he still had Two and Three.
"You are up in Papa's big bedroom,
In the chest with the queer old key!"
And she said: "You are _warm_ and _warmer_;
But you're not quite right," said she.
"It can't be the little cupboard
Where Mamma's things used to be--
So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!"
And he found her with his Three.
Then she covered her face with her fingers,
That were wrinkled and white and wee,
And she guessed where the boy was hiding,
With a One and a Two and a Three.
And they never had stirred from their places,
Right under the maple-tree--
This old, old, old, old lady,
And the boy with the lame little knee--
This dear, dear, dear old lady,
And the boy who was half past three.
THE BIRD AND ITS NEST.
What does little birdie say,
In her nest at peep of day?
"Let me fly," says little birdie;
"Mother, let me fly away."
"Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger."
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
"Let me rise and fly away."
"Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger."
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
Tell no tales out of school.
The bird that can sing, and won't sing, must be made to sing.
You have put the cart before the horse.
It is the early bird that catches the worm.
There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.
The more haste, the less speed.
They who make the best use of their time have none to spare.
Those who play with edge tools must expect to be cut.
Three removes are as bad as a fire.
Through thick and thin.
Time and tide wait for no man.
To beat about the bush.
To break the ice.
To buy a pig in a poke.
To find a mare's nest.
WINDY NIGHTS.
Whenever the Moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By, at the gallop goes he.
By, at the gallop he goes, and then
By, he comes back at the gallop again.
NONSENSE VERSES.
There was an Old Man with a nose,
Who said, "If you choose to suppose
That my nose is too long, you are certainly wrong!"
That remarkable Man with a nose.
There was an Old Man on a hill,
Who seldom, if ever, stood still;
He ran up and down in his Grandmother's gown,
Which adorned that Old Man on a hill.
There was an Old Person of Dover,
Who rushed through a field of blue clover;
But some very large Bees stung his nose and his knees,
So he very soon went back to Dover.
There was an Old Man who said, "Hush!
I perceive a young bird in this bush!"
When they said, "Is it small?" he replied, "Not at all;
It is four times as big as the bush!"
There was an Old Man of the West,
Who never could get any rest;
So they set him to spin on his nose and his chin,
Which cured that Old Man of the West.
There was an Old Man who said, "Well!
Will nobody answer this bell?
I have pulled day and night, till my hair has grown white,
But nobody answers this bell!"
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!--
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard."
There was an Old Person of Dean
Who dined on one pea and one bean;
For he said, "More than that would make me too fat,"
That cautious Old Person of Dean.
There was an Old Man of El Hums,
Who lived upon nothing but crumbs,
Which he picked off the ground, with the other birds round,
In the roads and the lanes of El Hums.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
If wishes were horses beggars would ride.
Ill news travels fast.
It never rains but it pours.
It is a long lane that has no turning.
It is an ill wind that blows no man good.
It is easier to pull down than to build.
It is never too late to mend.
Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee.
Leave well enough alone.
Let every tub stand on its own bottom.
Let them laugh that win.
Like father, like son.
Little and often fills the purse.
Look ere you leap.
SONG.
Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,
With purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there.
When wearied on my little wing!
How I would mourn, when it was torn,
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I would sing, on wanton wing,
When youthful May its bloom renewed.
SWEET AND LOW.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Best, rest on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF.
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK!"
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
Oh, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
THE ARROW AND THE SONG.
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song.
Many a true word is spoken in jest.
Many hands make light work.
Money is a good servant, but a bad master.
My mind to me a kingdom is.
Never be weary of well doing.
No cross, no crown.
No man can serve two masters.
No news is good news.
No smoke without some fire.
Not worth a pin.
Of two ills choose the least.
One cannot be in two places at once.
One good turn demands another.
THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR.
Said the Table to the Chair,
"You can hardly be aware
How I suffer from the heat
And from chilblains on my feet.
If we took a little walk,
We might have a little talk;
Pray let us take the air,"
Said the Table to the Chair.
Said the Chair unto the Table,
"Now, you know we are not able:
How foolishly you talk,
When you know we cannot walk!"
Said the Table with a sigh,
"It can do no harm to try.
I've as many legs as you:
Why can't we walk on two?"
So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
With a cheerful bumpy sound
As they toddled round and round;
And everybody cried,
As they hastened to their side,
"See! the Table and the Chair
Have come out to take the air!"
But in going down an alley,
To a castle in a valley,
They completely lost their way,
And wandered all the day;
Till, to see them safely back,
They paid a Ducky-quack,
And a Beetle, and a Mouse,
Who took them to their house.
Then they whispered to each other.
"O delightful little brother,
What a lovely walk we've taken!
Let us dine on beans and bacon."
So the Ducky and the leetle
Browny-Mousy and the Beetle
Dined, and danced upon their heads
Till they toddled to their beds.
THE OWL.
I.
When cats run home and the light is come
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
II.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
THE OWL THE PUSSY-CAT.
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey and plenty of money
Wrapped up In a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
One man's meat is another man's poison.
Out of debt out of danger.
Out of the frying-pan into the fire.
Penny wise and pound foolish.
Riches have wings.
Robin Hood's choice: this or nothing.
Rome was not built in a day.
Save at the spiggot, and lose at the bung.
Second thoughts are best.
Set a thief to take a thief.
A short horse is soon curried.
Take the will for the deed.
Take away my good name, take away my life.
Take time by the forelock.
FABLE.
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little Prig;"
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
WRITTEN IN MARCH
WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER.
The Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing.
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 't will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
TO A BUTTERFLY.
I've watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!--not frozen seas
More motionless!--and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers:
Here rest your wings when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
PROVERBS AND POPULAR SAYINGS.
To follow one's nose.
To have a finger in the pie.
To hit the nail on the head.
To kill two birds with one stone.
To make a spoon, or spoil a horn.
To pour oil into the fire is not the way to quench it.
Two heads are better than one.
Waste not, want not.
We easily forget our faults when nobody knows them.
We never know the worth of water till the well is dry.
When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?
When the cat is away, the mice will play.
Strike when the iron is hot.
Where there's a will, there's a way.
You cannot eat your cake and have it too.
You must take the fat with the lean.
LUCY.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!--
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me.
LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,--
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will nevermore be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,--
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'T is scarcely afternoon,--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a fagot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time,
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on the hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet;"--
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall.
And then an open field they crossed,
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank:
And further there were none!
--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child,
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
There's a thrush that sings loud,--it has sung for three years;
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven; but they fade,--
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colors all have all passed away from her eyes.
*** END ***
- Details
- Written by: Administrator
- Category: Books
- Hits: 291
50 BC
ON THE NATURE OF THINGS
by Titus Lucretius Carus Translated by William Ellery Leonard BOOK I
PROEM Mother of Rome, delight of Gods and men,
Dear Venus that beneath the gliding stars Makest to teem the many-voyaged main And fruitful lands- for all of living things Through thee alone are evermore conceived, Through thee are risen to visit the great sun- Before thee, Goddess, and thy coming on, Flee stormy wind and massy cloud away, For thee the daedal Earth bears scented flowers, For thee waters of the unvexed deep Smile, and the hollows of the serene sky Glow with diffused radiance for thee! For soon as comes the springtime face of day, And procreant gales blow from the West unbarred, First fowls of air, smit to the heart by thee, Foretoken thy approach, O thou Divine, And leap the wild herds round the happy fields Or swim the bounding torrents. Thus amain, Seized with the spell, all creatures follow thee Whithersoever thou walkest forth to lead, And thence through seas and mountains and swift streams, Through leafy homes of birds and greening plains, Kindling the lure of love in every breast, Thou bringest the eternal generations forth, Kind after kind. And since 'tis thou alone Guidest the Cosmos, and without thee naught Is risen to reach the shining shores of light, Nor aught of joyful or of lovely born, Thee do I crave co-partner in that verse Which I presume on Nature to compose For Memmius mine, whom thou hast willed to be Peerless in every grace at every hour- Wherefore indeed, Divine one, give my words Immortal charm. Lull to a timely rest O'er sea and land the savage works of war, For thou alone hast power with public peace To aid mortality; since he who rules The savage works of battle, puissant Mars, How often to thy bosom flings his strength O'ermastered by the eternal wound of love- And there, with eyes and full throat backward thrown, Gazing, my Goddess, open-mouthed at thee, Pastures on love his greedy sight, his breath Hanging upon thy lips. Him thus reclined Fill with thy holy body, round, above! Pour from those lips soft syllables to win Peace for the Romans, glorious Lady, peace! For in a season troublous to the state Neither may I attend this task of mine With thought untroubled, nor mid such events The illustrious scion of the Memmian house Neglect the civic cause. Whilst human kind Throughout the lands lay miserably crushed Before all eyes beneath Religion- who Would show her head along the region skies, Glowering on mortals with her hideous face- A Greek it was who first opposing dared Raise mortal eyes that terror to withstand, Whom nor the fame of Gods nor lightning's stroke Nor threatening thunder of the ominous sky Abashed; but rather chafed to angry zest His dauntless heart to be the first to rend The crossbars at the gates of Nature old. And thus his will and hardy wisdom won; And forward thus he fared afar, beyond The flaming ramparts of the world, until He wandered the unmeasurable All. Whence he to us, a conqueror, reports What things can rise to being, what cannot, And by what law to each its scope prescribed, Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time. Wherefore Religion now is under foot, And us his victory now exalts to heaven. I know how hard it is in Latian verse To tell the dark discoveries of the Greeks, Chiefly because our pauper-speech must find Strange terms to fit the strangeness of the thing; Yet worth of thine and the expected joy Of thy sweet friendship do persuade me on To bear all toil and wake the clear nights through, Seeking with what of words and what of song I may at last most gloriously uncloud For thee the light beyond, wherewith to view The core of being at the centre hid. And for the rest, summon to judgments true, Unbusied ears and singleness of mind Withdrawn from cares; lest these my gifts, arranged For thee with eager service, thou disdain Before thou comprehendest: since for thee I prove the supreme law of Gods and sky, And the primordial germs of things unfold, Whence Nature all creates, and multiplies And fosters all, and whither she resolves Each in the end when each is overthrown. This ultimate stock we have devised to name Procreant atoms, matter, seeds of things, Or primal bodies, as primal to the world. I fear perhaps thou deemest that we fare An impious road to realms of thought profane; But 'tis that same religion oftener far Hath bred the foul impieties of men: As once at Aulis, the elected chiefs, Foremost of heroes, Danaan counsellors, Defiled Diana's altar, virgin queen, With Agamemnon's daughter, foully slain. She felt the chaplet round her maiden locks And fillets, fluttering down on either cheek, And at the altar marked her grieving sire, The priests beside him who concealed the knife, And all the folk in tears at sight of her. With a dumb terror and a sinking knee She dropped; nor might avail her now that first 'Twas she who gave the king a father's name. They raised her up, they bore the trembling girl On to the altar- hither led not now With solemn rites and hymeneal choir, But sinless woman, sinfully foredone, A parent felled her on her bridal day, Making his child a sacrificial beast To give the ships auspicious winds for Troy: Such are the crimes to which Religion leads. And there shall come the time when even thou, Forced by the soothsayer's terror-tales, shalt seek To break from us. Ah, many a dream even now Can they concoct to rout thy plans of life, And trouble all thy fortunes with base fears. I own with reason: for, if men but knew Some fixed end to ills, they would be strong By some device unconquered to withstand Religions and the menacings of seers. But now nor skill nor instrument is theirs, Since men must dread eternal pains in death. For what the soul may be they do not know, Whether 'tis born, or enter in at birth, And whether, snatched by death, it die with us, Or visit the shadows and the vasty caves Of Orcus, or by some divine decree Enter the brute herds, as our Ennius sang, Who first from lovely Helicon brought down A laurel wreath of bright perennial leaves, Renowned forever among the Italian clans. Yet Ennius too in everlasting verse Proclaims those vaults of Acheron to be, Though thence, he said, nor souls nor bodies fare, But only phantom figures, strangely wan, And tells how once from out those regions rose Old Homer's ghost to him and shed salt tears And with his words unfolded Nature's source. Then be it ours with steady mind to clasp The purport of the skies- the law behind The wandering courses of the sun and moon; To scan the powers that speed all life below; But most to see with reasonable eyes Of what the mind, of what the soul is made, And what it is so terrible that breaks On us asleep, or waking in disease, Until we seem to mark and hear at hand Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago. SUBSTANCE IS ETERNAL This terror, then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse, But only Nature's aspect and her law, Which, teaching us, hath this exordium: Nothing from nothing ever yet was born. Fear holds dominion over mortality Only because, seeing in land and sky So much the cause whereof no wise they know, Men think Divinities are working there. Meantime, when once we know from nothing still Nothing can be create, we shall divine More clearly what we seek: those elements From which alone all things created are, And how accomplished by no tool of Gods. Suppose all sprang from all things: any kind Might take its origin from any thing, No fixed seed required. Men from the sea Might rise, and from the land the scaly breed, And, fowl full fledged come bursting from the sky; The horned cattle, the herds and all the wild Would haunt with varying offspring tilth and waste; Nor would the same fruits keep their olden trees, But each might grow from any stock or limb By chance and change. Indeed, and were there not For each its procreant atoms, could things have Each its unalterable mother old? But, since produced from fixed seeds are all, Each birth goes forth upon the shores of light From its own stuff, from its own primal bodies. And all from all cannot become, because In each resides a secret power its own. Again, why see we lavished o'er the lands At spring the rose, at summer heat the corn, The vines that mellow when the autumn lures, If not because the fixed seeds of things At their own season must together stream, And new creations only be revealed When the due times arrive and pregnant earth Safely may give unto the shores of light Her tender progenies? But if from naught Were their becoming, they would spring abroad Suddenly, unforeseen, in alien months, With no primordial germs, to be preserved From procreant unions at an adverse hour. Nor on the mingling of the living seeds Would space be needed for the growth of things Were life an increment of nothing: then The tiny babe forthwith would walk a man, And from the turf would leap a branching tree- Wonders unheard of; for, by Nature, each Slowly increases from its lawful seed, And through that increase shall conserve its kind. Whence take the proof that things enlarge and feed From out their proper matter. Thus it comes That earth, without her seasons of fixed rains, Could bear no produce such as makes us glad, And whatsoever lives, if shut from food, Prolongs its kind and guards its life no more. Thus easier 'tis to hold that many things Have primal bodies in common (as we see The single letters common to many words) Than aught exists without its origins. Moreover, why should Nature not prepare Men of a bulk to ford the seas afoot, Or rend the mighty mountains with their hands, Or conquer Time with length of days, if not Because for all begotten things abides The changeless stuff, and what from that may spring Is fixed forevermore? Lastly we see How far the tilled surpass the fields untilled And to the labour of our hands return Their more abounding crops; there are indeed Within the earth primordial germs of things, Which, as the ploughshare turns the fruitful clods And kneads the mould, we quicken into birth. Else would ye mark, without all toil of ours, Spontaneous generations, fairer forms. Confess then, naught from nothing can become, Since all must have their seeds, wherefrom to grow, Wherefrom to reach the gentle fields of air. Hence too it comes that Nature all dissolves Into their primal bodies again, and naught Perishes ever to annihilation. For, were aught mortal in its every part, Before our eyes it might be snatched away Unto destruction; since no force were needed To sunder its members and undo its bands. Whereas, of truth, because all things exist, With seed imperishable, Nature allows Destruction nor collapse of aught, until Some outward force may shatter by a blow, Or inward craft, entering its hollow cells, Dissolve it down. And more than this, if Time, That wastes with eld the works along the world, Destroy entire, consuming matter all, Whence then may Venus back to light of life Restore the generations kind by kind? Or how, when thus restored, may daedal Earth Foster and plenish with her ancient food, Which, kind by kind, she offers unto each? Whence may the water-springs, beneath the sea, Or inland rivers, far and wide away, Keep the unfathomable ocean full? And out of what does Ether feed the stars? For lapsed years and infinite age must else Have eat all shapes of mortal stock away: But be it the Long Ago contained those germs, By which this sum of things recruited lives, Those same infallibly can never die, Nor nothing to nothing evermore return. And, too, the selfsame power might end alike All things, were they not still together held By matter eternal, shackled through its parts, Now more, now less. A touch might be enough To cause destruction. For the slightest force Would loose the weft of things wherein no part Were of imperishable stock. But now Because the fastenings of primordial parts Are put together diversely and stuff Is everlasting, things abide the same Unhurt and sure, until some power comes on Strong to destroy the warp and woof of each: Nothing returns to naught; but all return At their collapse to primal forms of stuff. Lo, the rains perish which Ether-father throws Down to the bosom of Earth-mother; but then Upsprings the shining grain, and boughs are green Amid the trees, and trees themselves wax big And lade themselves with fruits; and hence in turn The race of man and all the wild are fed; Hence joyful cities thrive with boys and girls; And leafy woodlands echo with new birds; Hence cattle, fat and drowsy, lay their bulk Along the joyous pastures whilst the drops Of white ooze trickle from distended bags; Hence the young scamper on their weakling joints Along the tender herbs, fresh hearts afrisk With warm new milk. Thus naught of what so seems Perishes utterly, since Nature ever Upbuilds one thing from other, suffering naught To come to birth but through some other's death. And now, since I have taught that things cannot Be born from nothing, nor the same, when born, To nothing be recalled, doubt not my words, Because our eyes no primal germs perceive; For mark those bodies which, though known to be In this our world, are yet invisible: The winds infuriate lash our face and frame, Unseen, and swamp huge ships and rend the clouds, Or, eddying wildly down, bestrew the plains With mighty trees, or scour the mountain tops With forest-crackling blasts. Thus on they rave With uproar shrill and ominous moan. The winds, 'Tis clear, are sightless bodies sweeping through The sea, the lands, the clouds along the sky, Vexing and whirling and seizing all amain; And forth they flow and pile destruction round, Even as the water's soft and supple bulk Becoming a river of abounding floods, Which a wide downpour from the lofty hills Swells with big showers, dashes headlong down Fragments of woodland and whole branching trees; Nor can the solid bridges bide the shock As on the waters whelm: the turbulent stream, Strong with a hundred rains, beats round the piers, Crashes with havoc, and rolls beneath its waves Down-toppled masonry and ponderous stone, Hurling away whatever would oppose. Even so must move the blasts of all the winds, Which, when they spread, like to a mighty flood, Hither or thither, drive things on before And hurl to ground with still renewed assault, Or sometimes in their circling vortex seize And bear in cones of whirlwind down the world: The winds are sightless bodies and naught else- Since both in works and ways they rival well The mighty rivers, the visible in form. Then too we know the varied smells of things Yet never to our nostrils see them come; With eyes we view not burning heats, nor cold, Nor are we wont men's voices to behold. Yet these must be corporeal at the base, Since thus they smite the senses: naught there is Save body, having property of touch. And raiment, hung by surf-beat shore, grows moist, The same, spread out before the sun, will dry; Yet no one saw how sank the moisture in, Nor how by heat off-driven. Thus we know, That moisture is dispersed about in bits Too small for eyes to see. Another case: A ring upon the finger thins away Along the under side, with years and suns; The drippings from the eaves will scoop the stone; The hooked ploughshare, though of iron, wastes Amid the fields insidiously. We view The rock-paved highways worn by many feet; And at the gates the brazen statues show Their right hands leaner from the frequent touch Of wayfarers innumerable who greet. We see how wearing-down hath minished these, But just what motes depart at any time, The envious nature of vision bars our sight. Lastly whatever days and nature add Little by little, constraining things to grow In due proportion, no gaze however keen Of these our eyes hath watched and known. No more Can we observe what's lost at any time, When things wax old with eld and foul decay, Or when salt seas eat under beetling crags. Thus Nature ever by unseen bodies works. THE VOID But yet creation's neither crammed nor blocked About by body: there's in things a void- Which to have known will serve thee many a turn, Nor will not leave thee wandering in doubt, Forever searching in the sum of all, And losing faith in these pronouncements mine. There's place intangible, a void and room. For were it not, things could in nowise move; Since body's property to block and check Would work on all and at an times the same. Thus naught could evermore push forth and go, Since naught elsewhere would yield a starting place. But now through oceans, lands, and heights of heaven By divers causes and in divers modes, Before our eyes we mark how much may move, Which, finding not a void, would fail deprived Of stir and motion; nay, would then have been Nowise begot at all, since matter, then, Had staid at rest, its parts together crammed. Then too, however solid objects seem, They yet are formed of matter mixed with void: In rocks and caves the watery moisture seeps, And beady drops stand out like plenteous tears; And food finds way through every frame that lives; The trees increase and yield the season's fruit Because their food throughout the whole is poured, Even from the deepest roots, through trunks and boughs; And voices pass the solid walls and fly Reverberant through shut doorways of a house; And stiffening frost seeps inward to our bones. Which but for voids for bodies to go through 'Tis clear could happen in nowise at all. Again, why see we among objects some Of heavier weight, but of no bulkier size: Indeed, if in a ball of wool there be As much of body as in lump of lead, The two should weigh alike, since body tends To load things downward, while the void abides, By contrary nature, the imponderable. Therefore, an object just as large but lighter Declares infallibly its more of void; Even as the heavier more of matter shows, And how much less of vacant room inside. That which we're seeking with sagacious quest Exists, infallibly, commixed with things- The void, the invisible inane. Right here I am compelled a question to expound, Forestalling something certain folk suppose, Lest it avail to lead thee off from truth: Waters (they say) before the shining breed Of the swift scaly creatures somehow give, And straightway open sudden liquid paths, Because the fishes leave behind them room To which at once the yielding billows stream. Thus things among themselves can yet be moved, And change their place, however full the Sum- Received opinion, wholly false forsooth. For where can scaly creatures forward dart, Save where the waters give them room? Again, Where can the billows yield a way, so long As ever the fish are powerless to go? Thus either all bodies of motion are deprived, Or things contain admixture of a void Where each thing gets its start in moving on. Lastly, where after impact two broad bodies Suddenly spring apart, the air must crowd The whole new void between those bodies formed; But air, however it stream with hastening gusts, Can yet not fill the gap at once- for first It makes for one place, ere diffused through all. And then, if haply any think this comes, When bodies spring apart, because the air Somehow condenses, wander they from truth: For then a void is formed, where none before; And, too, a void is filled which was before. Nor can air be condensed in such a wise; Nor, granting it could, without a void, I hold, It still could not contract upon itself And draw its parts together into one. Wherefore, despite demur and counter-speech, Confess thou must there is a void in things. And still I might by many an argument Here scrape together credence for my words. But for the keen eye these mere footprints serve, Whereby thou mayest know the rest thyself. As dogs full oft with noses on the ground, Find out the silent lairs, though hid in brush, Of beasts, the mountain-rangers, when but once They scent the certain footsteps of the way, Thus thou thyself in themes like these alone Can hunt from thought to thought, and keenly wind Along even onward to the secret places And drag out truth. But, if thou loiter loth Or veer, however little, from the point, This I can promise, Memmius, for a fact: Such copious drafts my singing tongue shall pour From the large well-springs of my plenished breast That much I dread slow age will steal and coil Along our members, and unloose the gates Of life within us, ere for thee my verse Hath put within thine ears the stores of proofs At hand for one soever question broached. NOTHING EXISTS per se EXCEPT ATOMS AND THE VOID But, now again to weave the tale begun, All nature, then, as self-sustained, consists Of twain of things: of bodies and of void In which they're set, and where they're moved around. For common instinct of our race declares That body of itself exists: unless This primal faith, deep-founded, fail us not, Naught will there be whereunto to appeal On things occult when seeking aught to prove By reasonings of mind. Again, without That place and room, which we do call the inane, Nowhere could bodies then be set, nor go Hither or thither at all- as shown before. Besides, there's naught of which thou canst declare It lives disjoined from body, shut from void- A kind of third in nature. For whatever Exists must be a somewhat; and the same, If tangible, however fight and slight, Will yet increase the count of body's sum, With its own augmentation big or small; But, if intangible and powerless ever To keep a thing from passing through itself On any side, 'twill be naught else but that Which we do call the empty, the inane. Again, whate'er exists, as of itself, Must either act or suffer action on it. Or else be that wherein things move and be: Naught, saving body, acts, is acted on; Naught but the inane can furnish room. And thus, Beside the inane and bodies, is no third Nature amid the number of all things- Remainder none to fall at any time Under our senses, nor be seized and seen By any man through reasonings of mind. Name o'er creation with what names thou wilt, Thou'lt find but properties of those first twain, Or see but accidents those twain produce. A property is that which not at all Can be disjoined and severed from a thing Without a fatal dissolution: such, Weight to the rocks, heat to the fire, and flow To the wide waters, touch to corporal things, Intangibility to the viewless void. But state of slavery, pauperhood, and wealth, Freedom, and war, and concord, and all else Which come and go whilst Nature stands the same, We're wont, and rightly, to call accidents. Even time exists not of itself; but sense Reads out of things what happened long ago, What presses now, and what shall follow after: No man, we must admit, feels time itself, Disjoined from motion and repose of things. Thus, when they say there "is" the ravishment Of Princess Helen, "is" the siege and sack Of Trojan Town, look out, they force us not To admit these acts existent by themselves, Merely because those races of mankind (Of whom these acts were accidents) long since Irrevocable age has borne away: For all past actions may be said to be But accidents, in one way, of mankind,- In other, of some region of the world. Add, too, had been no matter, and no room Wherein all things go on, the fire of love Upblown by that fair form, the glowing coal Under the Phrygian Alexander's breast, Had ne'er enkindled that renowned strife Of savage war, nor had the wooden horse Involved in flames old Pergama, by a birth At midnight of a brood of the Hellenes. And thus thou canst remark that every act At bottom exists not of itself, nor is As body is, nor has like name with void; But rather of sort more fitly to be called An accident of body, and of place Wherein all things go on. CHARACTER OF THE ATOMS Bodies, again, Are partly primal germs of things, and partly Unions deriving from the primal germs. And those which are the primal germs of things No power can quench; for in the end they conquer By their own solidness; though hard it be To think that aught in things has solid frame; For lightnings pass, no less than voice and shout, Through hedging walls of houses, and the iron White-dazzles in the fire, and rocks will burn With exhalations fierce and burst asunder. Totters the rigid gold dissolved in heat; The ice of bronze melts conquered in the flame; Warmth and the piercing cold through silver seep, Since, with the cups held rightly in the hand, We oft feel both, as from above is poured The dew of waters between their shining sides: So true it is no solid form is found. But yet because true reason and nature of things Constrain us, come, whilst in few verses now I disentangle how there still exist Bodies of solid, everlasting frame- The seeds of things, the primal germs we teach, Whence all creation around us came to be. First since we know a twofold nature exists, Of things, both twain and utterly unlike- Body, and place in which an things go on- Then each must be both for and through itself, And all unmixed: where'er be empty space, There body's not; and so where body bides, There not at an exists the void inane. Thus primal bodies are solid, without a void. But since there's void in all begotten things, All solid matter must be round the same; Nor, by true reason canst thou prove aught hides And holds a void within its body, unless Thou grant what holds it be a solid. Know, That which can hold a void of things within Can be naught else than matter in union knit. Thus matter, consisting of a solid frame, Hath power to be eternal, though all else, Though all creation, be dissolved away. Again, were naught of empty and inane, The world were then a solid; as, without Some certain bodies to fill the places held, The world that is were but a vacant void. And so, infallibly, alternate-wise Body and void are still distinguished, Since nature knows no wholly full nor void. There are, then, certain bodies, possessed of power To vary forever the empty and the full; And these can nor be sundered from without By beats and blows, nor from within be torn By penetration, nor be overthrown By any assault soever through the world- For without void, naught can be crushed, it seems, Nor broken, nor severed by a cut in twain, Nor can it take the damp, or seeping cold Or piercing fire, those old destroyers three; But the more void within a thing, the more Entirely it totters at their sure assault. Thus if first bodies be, as I have taught, Solid, without a void, they must be then Eternal; and, if matter ne'er had been Eternal, long ere now had all things gone Back into nothing utterly, and all We see around from nothing had been born- But since I taught above that naught can be From naught created, nor the once begotten To naught be summoned back, these primal germs Must have an immortality of frame. And into these must each thing be resolved, When comes its supreme hour, that thus there be At hand the stuff for plenishing the world. So primal germs have solid singleness Nor otherwise could they have been conserved Through aeons and infinity of time For the replenishment of wasted worlds. Once more, if Nature had given a scope for things To be forever broken more and more, By now the bodies of matter would have been So far reduced by breakings in old days That from them nothing could, at season fixed, Be born, and arrive its prime and of life. For, lo, each thing is quicker marred than made; And so what'er the long infinitude Of days and all fore-passed time would now By this have broken and ruined and dissolved, That same could ne'er in all remaining time Be builded up for plenishing the world. But mark: infallibly a fixed bound Remaineth stablished 'gainst their breaking down; Since we behold each thing soever renewed, And unto all, their seasons, after their kind, Wherein they arrive the flower of their age. Again, if bounds have not been set against The breaking down of this corporeal world, Yet must all bodies of whatever things Have still endured from everlasting time Unto this present, as not yet assailed By shocks of peril. But because the same Are, to thy thinking, of a nature frail, It ill accords that thus they could remain (As thus they do) through everlasting time, Vexed through the ages (as indeed they are) By the innumerable blows of chance. So in our programme of creation, mark How 'tis that, though the bodies of all stuff The ways whereby some things are fashioned soft- Air, water, earth, and fiery exhalations- And by what force they function and go on: The fact is founded in the void of things. But if the primal germs themselves be soft, Reason cannot be brought to bear to show The ways whereby may be created these Great crags of basalt and the during iron; For their whole nature will profoundly lack The first foundations of a solid frame. But powerful in old simplicity, Abide the solid, the primeval germs; And by their combinations more condensed, All objects can be tightly knit and bound And made to show unconquerable strength. Again, since all things kind by kind obtain Fixed bounds of growing and conserving life; Since Nature hath inviolably decreed What each can do, what each can never do; Since naught is changed, but all things so abide That ever the variegated birds reveal The spots or stripes peculiar to their kind, Spring after spring: thus surely all that is Must be composed of matter immutable. For if the primal germs in any wise Were open to conquest and to change, 'twould be Uncertain also what could come to birth And what could not, and by what law to each Its scope prescribed, its boundary stone that clings So deep in Time. Nor could the generations Kind after kind so often reproduce The nature, habits, motions, ways of life, Of their progenitors. And then again, Since there is ever an extreme bounding point Of that first body which our senses now Cannot perceive: That bounding point indeed Exists without all parts, a minimum Of nature, nor was e'er a thing apart, As of itself,- nor shall hereafter be, Since 'tis itself still parcel of another, A first and single part, whence other parts And others similar in order lie In a packed phalanx, filling to the full The nature of first body: being thus Not self-existent, they must cleave to that From which in nowise they can sundered be. So primal germs have solid singleness, Which tightly packed and closely joined cohere By virtue of their minim particles- No compound by mere union of the same; But strong in their eternal singleness, Nature, reserving them as seeds for things, Permitteth naught of rupture or decrease. Moreover, were there not a minimum, The smallest bodies would have infinites, Since then a half-of-half could still be halved, With limitless division less and less. Then what the difference 'twixt the sum and least? None: for however infinite the sum, Yet even the smallest would consist the same Of infinite parts. But since true reason here Protests, denying that the mind can think it, Convinced thou must confess such things there are As have no parts, the minimums of nature. And since these are, likewise confess thou must That primal bodies are solid and eterne. Again, if Nature, creatress of all things, Were wont to force all things to be resolved Unto least parts, then would she not avail To reproduce from out them anything; Because whate'er is not endowed with parts Cannot possess those properties required Of generative stuff- divers connections, Weights, blows, encounters, motions, whereby things Forevermore have being and go on. CONFUTATION OF OTHER PHILOSOPHERS And on such grounds it is that those who held The stuff of things is fire, and out of fire Alone the cosmic sum is formed, are seen Mightily from true reason to have lapsed. Of whom, chief leader to do battle, comes That Heraclitus, famous for dark speech Among the silly, not the serious Greeks Who search for truth. For dolts are ever prone That to bewonder and adore which hides Beneath distorted words, holding that true Which sweetly tickles in their stupid ears, Or which is rouged in finely finished phrase. For how, I ask, can things so varied be, If formed of fire, single and pure? No whit 'Twould help for fire to be condensed or thinned, If all the parts of fire did still preserve But fire's own nature, seen before in gross. The heat were keener with the parts compressed, Milder, again when severed or dispersed- And more than this thou canst conceive of naught That from such causes could become; much less Might earth's variety of things be born From any fires soever, dense or rare. This too: if they suppose a void in things, Then fires can be condensed and still left rare; But since they see such opposites of thought Rising against them, and are loath to leave An unmixed void in things, they fear the steep And lose the road of truth. Nor do they see, That, if from things we take away the void, All things are then condensed, and out of all One body made, which has no power to dart Swiftly from out itself not anything- As throws the fire its light and warmth around, Giving thee proof its parts are not compact. But if perhaps they think, in other wise, Fires through their combinations can be quenched And change their substance, very well: behold, If fire shall spare to do so in no part, Then heat will perish utterly and all, And out of nothing would the world be formed. For change in anything from out its bounds Means instant death of that which was before; And thus a somewhat must persist unharmed Amid the world, lest all return to naught, And, born from naught, abundance thrive anew. Now since indeed there are those surest bodies Which keep their nature evermore the same, Upon whose going out and coming in And changed order things their nature change, And all corporeal substances transformed, 'Tis thine to know those primal bodies, then, Are not of fire. For 'twere of no avail Should some depart and go away, and some Be added new, and some be changed in order, If still all kept their nature of old heat: For whatsoever they created then Would still in any case be only fire. The truth, I fancy, this: bodies there are Whose clashings, motions, order, posture, shapes Produce the fire and which, by order changed, Do change the nature of the thing produced, And are thereafter nothing like to fire Nor whatso else has power to send its bodies With impact touching on the senses' touch. Again, to say that all things are but fire And no true thing in number of all things Exists but fire, as this same fellow says, Seems crazed folly. For the man himself Against the senses by the senses fights, And hews at that through which is all belief, Through which indeed unto himself is known The thing he calls the fire. For, though he thinks The senses truly can perceive the fire, He thinks they cannot as regards all else, Which still are palpably as clear to sense- To me a thought inept and crazy too. For whither shall we make appeal? for what More certain than our senses can there be Whereby to mark asunder error and truth? Besides, why rather do away with all, And wish to allow heat only, then deny The fire and still allow all else to be?- Alike the madness either way it seems. Thus whosoe'er have held the stuff of things To be but fire, and out of fire the sum, And whosoever have constituted air As first beginning of begotten things, And all whoever have held that of itself Water alone contrives things, or that earth Createth all and changes things anew To divers natures, mightily they seem A long way to have wandered from the truth. Add, too, whoever make the primal stuff Twofold, by joining air to fire, and earth To water; add who deem that things can grow Out of the four- fire, earth, and breath, and rain; As first Empedocles of Acragas, Whom that three-cornered isle of all the lands Bore on her coasts, around which flows and flows In mighty bend and bay the Ionic seas, Splashing the brine from off their gray-green waves. Here, billowing onward through the narrow straits, Swift ocean cuts her boundaries from the shores Of the Italic mainland. Here the waste Charybdis; and here Aetna rumbles threats To gather anew such furies of its flames As with its force anew to vomit fires, Belched from its throat, and skyward bear anew Its lightnings' flash. And though for much she seem The mighty and the wondrous isle to men, Most rich in all good things, and fortified With generous strength of heroes, she hath ne'er Possessed within her aught of more renown, Nor aught more holy, wonderful, and dear Than this true man. Nay, ever so far and pure The lofty music of his breast divine Lifts up its voice and tells of glories found, That scarce he seems of human stock create. Yet he and those forementioned (known to be So far beneath him, less than he in all), Though, as discoverers of much goodly truth, They gave, as 'twere from out of the heart's own shrine, Responses holier and soundlier based Than ever the Pythia pronounced for men From out the tripod and the Delphian laurel, Have still in matter of first-elements Made ruin of themselves, and, great men, great Indeed and heavy there for them the fall: First, because, banishing the void from things, They yet assign them motion, and allow Things soft and loosely textured to exist, As air, dew, fire, earth, animals, and grains, Without admixture of void amid their frame. Next, because, thinking there can be no end In cutting bodies down to less and less Nor pause established to their breaking up, They hold there is no minimum in things; Albeit we see the boundary point of aught Is that which to our senses seems its least, Whereby thou mayst conjecture, that, because The things thou canst not mark have boundary points, They surely have their minimums. Then, too, Since these philosophers ascribe to things Soft primal germs, which we behold to be Of birth and body mortal, thus, throughout, The sum of things must be returned to naught, And, born from naught, abundance thrive anew- Thou seest how far each doctrine stands from truth. And, next, these bodies are among themselves In many ways poisons and foes to each, Wherefore their congress will destroy them quite Or drive asunder as we see in storms Rains, winds, and lightnings all asunder fly. Thus too, if all things are create of four, And all again dissolved into the four, How can the four be called the primal germs Of things, more than all things themselves be thought, By retroversion, primal germs of them? For ever alternately are both begot, With interchange of nature and aspect From immemorial time. But if percase Thou think'st the frame of fire and earth, the air, The dew of water can in such wise meet As not by mingling to resign their nature, From them for thee no world can be create- No thing of breath, no stock or stalk of tree: In the wild congress of this varied heap Each thing its proper nature will display, And air will palpably be seen mixed up With earth together, unquenched heat with water. But primal germs in bringing things to birth Must have a latent, unseen quality, Lest some outstanding alien element Confuse and minish in the thing create Its proper being. But these men begin From heaven, and from its fires; and first they feign That fire will turn into the winds of air, Next, that from air the rain begotten is, And earth created out of rain, and then That all, reversely, are returned from earth- The moisture first, then air thereafter heat- And that these same ne'er cease in interchange, To go their ways from heaven to earth, from earth Unto the stars of the ethereal world- Which in no wise at all the germs can do. Since an immutable somewhat still must be, Lest all things utterly be sped to naught; For change in anything from out its bounds Means instant death of that which was before. Wherefore, since those things, mentioned heretofore, Suffer a changed state, they must derive From others ever unconvertible, Lest an things utterly return to naught. Then why not rather presuppose there be Bodies with such a nature furnished forth That, if perchance they have created fire, Can still (by virtue of a few withdrawn, Or added few, and motion and order changed) Fashion the winds of air, and thus all things Forevermore be interchanged with all? "But facts in proof are manifest;" thou sayest, "That all things grow into the winds of air And forth from earth are nourished, and unless The season favour at propitious hour With rains enough to set the trees a-reel Under the soak of bulking thunderheads, And sun, for its share, foster and give heat, No grains, nor trees, nor breathing things can grow." True- and unless hard food and moisture soft Recruited man, his frame would waste away, And life dissolve from out his thews and bones; For out of doubt recruited and fed are we By certain things, as other things by others. Because in many ways the many germs Common to many things are mixed in things, No wonder 'tis that therefore divers things By divers things are nourished. And, again, Often it matters vastly with what others, In what positions the primordial germs Are bound together, and what motions, too, They give and get among themselves; for these Same germs do put together sky, sea, lands, Rivers, and sun, grains, trees, and breathing things, But yet commixed they are in divers modes With divers things, forever as they move. Nay, thou beholdest in our verses here Elements many, common to many worlds, Albeit thou must confess each verse, each word From one another differs both in sense And ring of sound- so much the elements Can bring about by change of order alone. But those which are the primal germs of things Have power to work more combinations still, Whence divers things can be produced in turn. Now let us also take for scrutiny The homeomeria of Anaxagoras, So called by Greeks, for which our pauper-speech Yieldeth no name in the Italian tongue, Although the thing itself is not o'erhard For explanation. First, then, when he speaks Of this homeomeria of things, he thinks Bones to be sprung from littlest bones minute, And from minute and littlest flesh all flesh, And blood created out of drops of blood, Conceiving gold compact of grains of gold, And earth concreted out of bits of earth, Fire made of fires, and water out of waters, Feigning the like with all the rest of stuff. Yet he concedes not an void in things, Nor any limit to cutting bodies down. Wherefore to me he seems on both accounts To err no less than those we named before. Add too: these germs he feigns are far too frail- If they be germs primordial furnished forth With but same nature as the things themselves, And travail and perish equally with those, And no rein curbs therm from annihilation. For which will last against the grip and crush Under the teeth of death? the fire? the moist? Or else the air? which then? the blood? the bones? No one, methinks, when every thing will be At bottom as mortal as whate'er we mark To perish by force before our gazing eyes. But my appeal is to the proofs above That things cannot fall back to naught, nor yet From naught increase. And now again, since food Augments and nourishes the human frame, 'Tis thine to know our veins and blood and bones And thews are formed of particles unlike To them in kind; or if they say all foods Are of mixed substance having in themselves Small bodies of thews, and bones, and also veins And particles of blood, then every food, Solid or liquid, must itself be thought As made and mixed of things unlike in kind- Of bones, of thews, of ichor and of blood. Again, if all the bodies which upgrow From earth, are first within the earth, then earth Must be compound of alien substances earth. Which spring and bloom abroad from out the earth. Transfer the argument, and thou may'st use The selfsame words: if flame and smoke and ash Still lurk unseen within the wood, the wood Must be compound of alien substances Which spring from out the wood. Right here remains A certain slender means to skulk from truth, Which Anaxagoras takes unto himself, Who holds that all things lurk commixed with all While that one only comes to view, of which The bodies exceed in number all the rest, And lie more close to hand and at the fore- A notion banished from true reason far. For then 'twere meet that kernels of the grains Should oft, when crunched between the might of stones, Give forth a sign of blood, or of aught else Which in our human frame is fed; and that Rock rubbed on rock should yield a gory ooze. Likewise the herbs ought oft to give forth drops Of sweet milk, flavoured like the uddered sheep's; Indeed we ought to find, when crumbling up The earthy clods, there herbs, and grains, and leaves, All sorts dispersed minutely in the soil; Lastly we ought to find in cloven wood Ashes and smoke and bits of fire there hid. But since fact teaches this is not the case, 'Tis thine to know things are not mixed with things Thuswise; but seeds, common to many things, Commixed in many ways, must lurk in things. "But often it happens on skiey hills" thou sayest, "That neighbouring tops of lofty trees are rubbed One against other, smote by the blustering south, Till all ablaze with bursting flower of flame." Good sooth- yet fire is not ingraft in wood, But many are the seeds of heat, and when Rubbing together they together flow, They start the conflagrations in the forests. Whereas if flame, already fashioned, lay Stored up within the forests, then the fires Could not for any time be kept unseen, But would be laying all the wildwood waste And burning all the boscage. Now dost see (Even as we said a little space above) How mightily it matters with what others, In what positions these same primal germs Are bound together? And what motions, too, They give and get among themselves? how, hence, The same, if altered 'mongst themselves, can body Both igneous and ligneous objects forth- Precisely as these words themselves are made By somewhat altering their elements, Although we mark with name indeed distinct The igneous from the ligneous. Once again, If thou suppose whatever thou beholdest, Among all visible objects, cannot be, Unless thou feign bodies of matter endowed With a like nature,- by thy vain device For thee will perish all the germs of things: 'Twill come to pass they'll laugh aloud, like men, Shaken asunder by a spasm of mirth, Or moisten with salty tear-drops cheeks and chins. THE INFINITY OF THE UNIVERSE Now learn of what remains! More keenly hear! And for myself, my mind is not deceived How dark it is: But the large hope of praise Hath strook with pointed thyrsus through my heart; On the same hour hath strook into my breast Sweet love of the Muses, wherewith now instinct, I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought, Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides, Trodden by step of none before. I joy To come on undefiled fountains there, To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers, To seek for this my head a signal crown From regions where the Muses never yet Have garlanded the temples of a man: First, since I teach concerning mighty things, And go right on to loose from round the mind The tightened coils of dread religion; Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame Songs so pellucid, touching all throughout Even with the Muses' charm- which, as 'twould seem, Is not without a reasonable ground: But as physicians, when they seek to give Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch The brim around the cup with the sweet juice And yellow of the boney, in order that The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled As far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow down The wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled Be yet not merely duped, but rather thus Grow strong again with recreated health: So now I too (since this my doctrine seems In general somewhat woeful unto those Who've had it not in hand, and since the crowd Starts back from it in horror) have desired To expound our doctrine unto thee in song Soft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere, To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse- If by such method haply I might hold The mind of thee upon these lines of ours, Till thou see through the nature of all things, And how exists the interwoven frame. But since I've taught that bodies of matter, made Completely solid, hither and thither fly Forevermore unconquered through all time, Now come, and whether to the sum of them There be a limit or be none, for thee Let us unfold; likewise what has been found To be the wide inane, or room, or space Wherein all things soever do go on, Let us examine if it finite be All and entire, or reach unmeasured round And downward an illimitable profound. Thus, then, the All that is is limited In no one region of its onward paths, For then 'tmust have forever its beyond. And a beyond 'tis seen can never be For aught, unless still further on there be A somewhat somewhere that may bound the same- So that the thing be seen still on to where The nature of sensation of that thing Can follow it no longer. Now because Confess we must there's naught beside the sum, There's no beyond, and so it lacks all end. It matters nothing where thou post thyself, In whatsoever regions of the same; Even any place a man has set him down Still leaves about him the unbounded all Outward in all directions; or, supposing moment the all of space finite to be, If some one farthest traveller runs forth Unto the extreme coasts and throws ahead A flying spear, is't then thy wish to think It goes, hurled off amain, to where 'twas sent And shoots afar, or that some object there Can thwart and stop it? For the one or other Thou must admit; and take. Either of which Shuts off escape for thee, and does compel That thou concede the all spreads everywhere, Owning no confines. Since whether there be Aught that may block and check it so it comes Not where 'twas sent, nor lodges in its goal, Or whether borne along, in either view 'Thas started not from any end. And so I'll follow on, and whereso'er thou set The extreme coasts, I'll query, "what becomes Thereafter of thy spear?" 'Twill come to pass That nowhere can a world's-end be, and that The chance for further flight prolongs forever The flight itself. Besides, were all the space Of the totality and sum shut in With fixed coasts, and bounded everywhere, Then would the abundance of world's matter flow Together by solid weight from everywhere Still downward to the bottom of the world, Nor aught could happen under cope of sky, Nor could there be a sky at all or sun- Indeed, where matter all one heap would lie, By having settled during infinite time. But in reality, repose is given Unto no bodies 'mongst the elements, Because there is no bottom whereunto They might, as 'twere, together flow, and where They might take up their undisturbed abodes. In endless motion everything goes on Forevermore; out of all regions, even Out of the pit below, from forth the vast, Are hurtled bodies evermore supplied. The nature of room, the space of the abyss Is such that even the flashing thunderbolts Can neither speed upon their courses through, Gliding across eternal tracts of time, Nor, further, bring to pass, as on they run, That they may bate their journeying one whit: Such huge abundance spreads for things around- Room off to every quarter, without end. Lastly, before our very eyes is seen Thing to bound thing: air hedges hill from hill, And mountain walls hedge air; land ends the sea, And sea in turn all lands; but for the All Truly is nothing which outside may bound. That, too, the sum of things itself may not Have power to fix a measure of its own, Great Nature guards, she who compels the void To bound all body, as body all the void, Thus rendering by these alternates the whole An infinite; or else the one or other, Being unbounded by the other, spreads, Even by its single nature, ne'ertheless Immeasurably forth.... Nor sea, nor earth, nor shining vaults of sky, Nor breed of mortals, nor holy limbs of gods Could keep their place least portion of an hour: For, driven apart from out its meetings fit, The stock of stuff, dissolved, would be borne Along the illimitable inane afar, Or rather, in fact, would never have once combined And given a birth to aught, since, scattered wide, It could not be united. For of truth Neither by counsel did the primal germs 'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind, Each in its proper place; nor did they make, Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move; But since, being many and changed in many modes Along the All, they're driven abroad and vexed By blow on blow, even from all time of old, They thus at last, after attempting all The kinds of motion and conjoining, come Into those great arrangements out of which This sum of things established is create, By which, moreover, through the mighty years, It is preserved, when once it has been thrown Into the proper motions, bringing to pass That ever the streams refresh the greedy main With river-waves abounding, and that earth, Lapped in warm exhalations of the sun, Renews her broods, and that the lusty race Of breathing creatures bears and blooms, and that The gliding fires of ether are alive- What still the primal germs nowise could do, Unless from out the infinite of space Could come supply of matter, whence in season They're wont whatever losses to repair. For as the nature of breathing creatures wastes, Losing its body, when deprived of food: So all things have to be dissolved as soon As matter, diverted by what means soever From off its course, shall fail to be on hand. Nor can the blows from outward still conserve, On every side, whatever sum of a world Has been united in a whole. They can Indeed, by frequent beating, check a part, Till others arriving may fulfil the sum; But meanwhile often are they forced to spring Rebounding back, and, as they spring, to yield, Unto those elements whence a world derives, Room and a time for flight, permitting them To be from off the massy union borne Free and afar. Wherefore, again, again: Needs must there come a many for supply; And also, that the blows themselves shall be Unfailing ever, must there ever be An infinite force of matter all sides round. And in these problems, shrink, my Memmius, far From yielding faith to that notorious talk: That all things inward to the centre press; And thus the nature of the world stands firm With never blows from outward, nor can be Nowhere disparted- since all height and depth Have always inward to the centre pressed (If thou art ready to believe that aught Itself can rest upon itself ); or that The ponderous bodies which be under earth Do all press upwards and do come to rest Upon the earth, in some ways upside down, Like to those images of things we see At present through the waters. They contend, With like procedure, that all breathing things Head downward roam about, and yet cannot Tumble from earth to realms of sky below, No more than these our bodies wing away Spontaneously to vaults of sky above; That, when those creatures look upon the sun, We view the constellations of the night; And that with us the seasons of the sky They thus alternately divide, and thus Do pass the night coequal to our days, But a vain error has given these dreams to fools, What they've embraced with reasoning perverse For centre none can be where world is still Boundless, nor yet, if now a centre were, Could aught take there a fixed position more Than for some other cause 'tmight be dislodged. For all of room and space we call the void Must both through centre and non-centre yield Alike to weights where'er their motions tend. Nor is there any place, where, when they've come, Bodies can be at standstill in the void, Deprived of force of weight; nor yet may void Furnish support to any,- nay, it must, True to its bent of nature, still give way. Thus in such manner not all can things Be held in union, as if overcome By craving for a centre. But besides, Seeing they feign that not all bodies press To centre inward, rather only those Of earth and water (liquid of the sea, And the big billows from the mountain slopes, And whatsoever are encased, as 'twere, In earthen body), contrariwise, they teach How the thin air, and with it the hot fire, Is borne asunder from the centre, and how, For this all ether quivers with bright stars, And the sun's flame along the blue is fed (Because the heat, from out the centre flying, All gathers there), and how, again, the boughs Upon the tree-tops could not sprout their leaves, Unless, little by little, from out the earth For each were nutriment... Lest, after the manner of the winged flames, The ramparts of the world should flee away, Dissolved amain throughout the mighty void, And lest all else should likewise follow after, Aye, lest the thundering vaults of heaven should burst And splinter upward, and the earth forthwith Withdraw from under our feet, and all its bulk, Among its mingled wrecks and those of heaven, With slipping asunder of the primal seeds, Should pass, along the immeasurable inane, Away forever, and, that instant, naught Of wrack and remnant would be left, beside The desolate space, and germs invisible. For on whatever side thou deemest first The primal bodies lacking, lo, that side Will be for things the very door of death: Wherethrough the throng of matter all will dash, Out and abroad. These points, if thou wilt ponder, Then, with but paltry trouble led along... For one thing after other will grow clear, Nor shall the blind night rob thee of the road, To hinder thy gaze on Nature's Farthest-forth. Thus things for things shall kindle torches new. BOOK II PROEM 'Tis sweet, when, down the mighty main, the winds Roll up its waste of waters, from the land To watch another's labouring anguish far, Not that we joyously delight that man Should thus be smitten, but because 'tis sweet To mark what evils we ourselves be spared; 'Tis sweet, again, to view the mighty strife Of armies embattled yonder o'er the plains, Ourselves no sharers in the peril; but naught There is more goodly than to hold the high Serene plateaus, well fortressed by the wise, Whence thou may'st look below on other men And see them ev'rywhere wand'ring, all dispersed In their lone seeking for the road of life; Rivals in genius, or emulous in rank, Pressing through days and nights with hugest toil For summits of power and mastery of the world. O wretched minds of men! O blinded hearts! In how great perils, in what darks of life Are spent the human years, however brief!- O not to see that Nature for herself Barks after nothing, save that pain keep off, Disjoined from the body, and that mind enjoy Delightsome feeling, far from care and fear! Therefore we see that our corporeal life Needs little, altogether, and only such As takes the pain away, and can besides Strew underneath some number of delights. More grateful 'tis at times (for Nature craves No artifice nor luxury), if forsooth There be no golden images of boys Along the halls, with right hands holding out The lamps ablaze, the lights for evening feasts, And if the house doth glitter not with gold Nor gleam with silver, and to the lyre resound No fretted and gilded ceilings overhead, Yet still to lounge with friends in the soft grass Beside a river of water, underneath A big tree's boughs, and merrily to refresh Our frames, with no vast outlay- most of all If the weather is laughing and the times of the year Besprinkle the green of the grass around with flowers. Nor yet the quicker will hot fevers go, If on a pictured tapestry thou toss, Or purple robe, than if 'tis thine to lie Upon the poor man's bedding. Wherefore, since Treasure, nor rank, nor glory of a reign Avail us naught for this our body, thus Reckon them likewise nothing for the mind: Save then perchance, when thou beholdest forth Thy legions swarming round the Field of Mars, Rousing a mimic warfare- either side Strengthened with large auxiliaries and horse, Alike equipped with arms, alike inspired; Or save when also thou beholdest forth Thy fleets to swarm, deploying down the sea: For then, by such bright circumstance abashed, Religion pales and flees thy mind; O then The fears of death leave heart so free of care. But if we note how all this pomp at last Is but a drollery and a mocking sport, And of a truth man's dread, with cares at heels, Dreads not these sounds of arms, these savage swords But among kings and lords of all the world Mingles undaunted, nor is overawed By gleam of gold nor by the splendour bright Of purple robe, canst thou then doubt that this Is aught, but power of thinking?- when, besides The whole of life but labours in the dark. For just as children tremble and fear all In the viewless dark, so even we at times Dread in the light so many things that be No whit more fearsome than what children feign, Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark. This terror then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse, But only Nature's aspect and her law. ATOMIC MOTIONS Now come: I will untangle for thy steps Now by what motions the begetting bodies Of the world-stuff beget the varied world, And then forever resolve it when begot, And by what force they are constrained to this, And what the speed appointed unto them Wherewith to travel down the vast inane: Do thou remember to yield thee to my words. For truly matter coheres not, crowds not tight, Since we behold each thing to wane away, And we observe how all flows on and off, As 'twere, with age-old time, and from our eyes How eld withdraws each object at the end, Albeit the sum is seen to bide the same, Unharmed, because these motes that leave each thing Diminish what they part from, but endow With increase those to which in turn they come, Constraining these to wither in old age, And those to flower at the prime (and yet Biding not long among them). Thus the sum Forever is replenished, and we live As mortals by eternal give and take. The nations wax, the nations wane away; In a brief space the generations pass, And like to runners hand the lamp of life One unto other. But if thou believe That the primordial germs of things can stop, And in their stopping give new motions birth, Afar thou wanderest from the road of truth. For since they wander through the void inane, All the primordial germs of things must needs Be borne along, either by weight their own, Or haply by another's blow without. For, when, in their incessancy so oft They meet and clash, it comes to pass amain They leap asunder, face to face: not strange- Being most hard, and solid in their weights, And naught opposing motion, from behind. And that more clearly thou perceive how all These mites of matter are darted round about, Recall to mind how nowhere in the sum Of All exists a bottom,- nowhere is A realm of rest for primal bodies; since (As amply shown and proved by reason sure) Space has no bound nor measure, and extends Unmetered forth in all directions round. Since this stands certain, thus 'tis out of doubt No rest is rendered to the primal bodies Along the unfathomable inane; but rather, Inveterately plied by motions mixed, Some, at their jamming, bound aback and leave Huge gaps between, and some from off the blow Are hurried about with spaces small between. And all which, brought together with slight gaps, In more condensed union bound aback, Linked by their own all intertangled shapes,- These form the irrefragable roots of rocks And the brute bulks of iron, and what else Is of their kind... The rest leap far asunder, far recoil, Leaving huge gaps between: and these supply For us thin air and splendour-lights of the sun. And many besides wander the mighty void- Cast back from unions of existing things, Nowhere accepted in the universe, And nowise linked in motions to the rest. And of this fact (as I record it here) An image, a type goes on before our eyes Present each moment; for behold whenever The sun's light and the rays, let in, pour down Across dark halls of houses: thou wilt see The many mites in many a manner mixed Amid a void in the very light of the rays, And battling on, as in eternal strife, And in battalions contending without halt, In meetings, partings, harried up and down. From this thou mayest conjecture of what sort The ceaseless tossing of primordial seeds Amid the mightier void- at least so far As small affair can for a vaster serve, And by example put thee on the spoor Of knowledge. For this reason too 'tis fit Thou turn thy mind the more unto these bodies Which here are witnessed tumbling in the light: Namely, because such tumblings are a sign That motions also of the primal stuff Secret and viewless lurk beneath, behind. For thou wilt mark here many a speck, impelled By viewless blows, to change its little course, And beaten backwards to return again, Hither and thither in all directions round. Lo, all their shifting movement is of old, From the primeval atoms; for the same Primordial seeds of things first move of self, And then those bodies built of unions small And nearest, as it were, unto the powers Of the primeval atoms, are stirred up By impulse of those atoms' unseen blows, And these thereafter goad the next in size; Thus motion ascends from the primevals on, And stage by stage emerges to our sense, Until those objects also move which we Can mark in sunbeams, though it not appears What blows do urge them. Herein wonder not How 'tis that, while the seeds of things are all Moving forever, the sum yet seems to stand Supremely still, except in cases where A thing shows motion of its frame as whole. For far beneath the ken of senses lies The nature of those ultimates of the world; And so, since those themselves thou canst not see, Their motion also must they veil from men- For mark, indeed, how things we can see, oft Yet hide their motions, when afar from us Along the distant landscape. Often thus, Upon a hillside will the woolly flocks Be cropping their goodly food and creeping about Whither the summons of the grass, begemmed With the fresh dew, is calling, and the lambs Well filled, are frisking, locking horns in sport: Yet all for us seem blurred and blent afar- A glint of white at rest on a green hill. Again, when mighty legions, marching round, Fill all the quarters of the plains below, Rousing a mimic warfare, there the sheen Shoots up the sky, and all the fields about Glitter with brass, and from beneath, a sound Goes forth from feet of stalwart soldiery, And mountain walls, smote by the shouting, send The voices onward to the stars of heaven, And hither and thither darts the cavalry, And of a sudden down the midmost fields Charges with onset stout enough to rock The solid earth: and yet some post there is Up the high mountains, viewed from which they seem To stand- a gleam at rest along the plains. Now what the speed to matter's atoms given Thou mayest in few, my Memmius, learn from this: When first the dawn is sprinkling with new light The lands, and all the breed of birds abroad Flit round the trackless forests, with liquid notes Filling the regions along the mellow air, We see 'tis forthwith manifest to man How suddenly the risen sun is wont At such an hour to overspread and clothe The whole with its own splendour; but the sun's Warm exhalations and this serene light Travel not down an empty void; and thus They are compelled more slowly to advance, Whilst, as it were, they cleave the waves of air; Nor one by one travel these particles Of the warm exhalations, but are all Entangled and enmassed, whereby at once Each is restrained by each, and from without Checked, till compelled more slowly to advance. But the primordial atoms with their old Simple solidity, when forth they travel Along the empty void, all undelayed By aught outside them there, and they, each one Being one unit from nature of its parts, Are borne to that one place on which they strive Still to lay hold, must then, beyond a doubt, Outstrip in speed, and be more swiftly borne Than light of sun, and over regions rush, Of space much vaster, in the self-same time The sun's effulgence widens round the sky. Nor to pursue the atoms one by one, To see the law whereby each thing goes on. But some men, ignorant of matter, think, Opposing this, that not without the gods, In such adjustment to our human ways, Can Nature change the seasons of the years, And bring to birth the grains and all of else To which divine Delight, the guide of life, Persuades mortality and leads it on, That, through her artful blandishments of love, It propagate the generations still, Lest humankind should perish. When they feign That gods have stablished all things but for man, They seem in all ways mightily to lapse From reason's truth: for ev'n if ne'er I knew What seeds primordial are, yet would I dare This to affirm, ev'n from deep judgment based Upon the ways and conduct of the skies- This to maintain by many a fact besides- That in no wise the nature of the world For us was builded by a power divine- So great the faults it stands encumbered with: The which, my Memmius, later on, for thee We will clear up. Now as to what remains Concerning motions we'll unfold our thought. Now is the place, meseems, in these affairs To prove for thee this too: nothing corporeal Of its own force can e'er be upward borne, Or upward go- nor let the bodies of flames Deceive thee here: for they engendered are With urge to upwards, taking thus increase, Whereby grow upwards shining grains and trees, Though all the weight within them downward bears. Nor, when the fires will leap from under round The roofs of houses, and swift flame laps up Timber and beam, 'tis then to be supposed They act of own accord, no force beneath To urge them up. 'Tis thus that blood, discharged From out our bodies, spurts its jets aloft And spatters gore. And hast thou never marked With what a force the water will disgorge Timber and beam? The deeper, straight and down, We push them in, and, many though we be, The more we press with main and toil, the more The water vomits up and flings them back, That, more than half their length, they there emerge, Rebounding. Yet we never doubt, meseems, That all the weight within them downward bears Through empty void. Well, in like manner, flames Ought also to be able, when pressed out, Through winds of air to rise aloft, even though The weight within them strive to draw them down. Hast thou not seen, sweeping so far and high, The meteors, midnight flambeaus of the sky, How after them they draw long trails of flame Wherever Nature gives a thoroughfare? How stars and constellations drop to earth, Seest not? Nay, too, the sun from peak of heaven Sheds round to every quarter its large heat, And sows the new-ploughed intervales with light: Thus also sun's heat downward tends to earth. Athwart the rain thou seest the lightning fly; Now here, now there, bursting from out the clouds, The fires dash zig-zag- and that flaming power Falls likewise down to earth. In these affairs We wish thee also well aware of this: The atoms, as their own weight bears them down Plumb through the void, at scarce determined times, In scarce determined places, from their course Decline a little- call it, so to speak, Mere changed trend. For were it not their wont Thuswise to swerve, down would they fall, each one, Like drops of rain, through the unbottomed void; And then collisions ne'er could be nor blows Among the primal elements; and thus Nature would never have created aught. But, if perchance be any that believe The heavier bodies, as more swiftly borne Plumb down the void, are able from above To strike the lighter, thus engendering blows Able to cause those procreant motions, far From highways of true reason they retire. For whatsoever through the waters fall, Or through thin air, must their descent, Each after its weight- on this account, because Both bulk of water and the subtle air By no means can retard each thing alike, But give more quick before the heavier weight; But contrariwise the empty void cannot, On any side, at any time, to aught Oppose resistance, but will ever yield, True to its bent of nature. Wherefore all, With equal speed, though equal not in weight, Must rush, borne downward through the still inane. Thus ne'er at all have heavier from above Been swift to strike the lighter, gendering strokes Which cause those divers motions, by whose means Nature transacts her work. And so I say, The atoms must a little swerve at times- But only the least, lest we should seem to feign Motions oblique, and fact refute us there. For this we see forthwith is manifest: Whatever the weight, it can't obliquely go, Down on its headlong journey from above, At least so far as thou canst mark; but who Is there can mark by sense that naught can swerve At all aside from off its road's straight line? Again, if ev'r all motions are co-linked, And from the old ever arise the new In fixed order, and primordial seeds Produce not by their swerving some new start Of motion to sunder the covenants of fate, That cause succeed not cause from everlasting, Whence this free will for creatures o'er the lands, Whence is it wrested from the fates,- this will Whereby we step right forward where desire Leads each man on, whereby the same we swerve In motions, not as at some fixed time, Nor at some fixed line of space, but where The mind itself has urged? For out of doubt In these affairs 'tis each man's will itself That gives the start, and hence throughout our limbs Incipient motions are diffused. Again, Dost thou not see, when, at a point of time, The bars are opened, how the eager strength Of horses cannot forward break as soon As pants their mind to do? For it behooves That all the stock of matter, through the frame, Be roused, in order that, through every joint, Aroused, it press and follow mind's desire; So thus thou seest initial motion's gendered From out the heart, aye, verily, proceeds First from the spirit's will, whence at the last 'Tis given forth through joints and body entire. Quite otherwise it is, when forth we move, Impelled by a blow of another's mighty powers And mighty urge; for then 'tis clear enough All matter of our total body goes, Hurried along, against our own desire- Until the will has pulled upon the reins And checked it back, throughout our members all; At whose arbitrament indeed sometimes The stock of matter's forced to change its path, Throughout our members and throughout our joints, And, after being forward cast, to be Reined up, whereat it settles back again. So seest thou not, how, though external force Drive men before, and often make them move, Onward against desire, and headlong snatched, Yet is there something in these breasts of ours Strong to combat, strong to withstand the same?- Wherefore no less within the primal seeds Thou must admit, besides all blows and weight, Some other cause of motion, whence derives This power in us inborn, of some free act.- Since naught from nothing can become, we see. For weight prevents all things should come to pass Through blows, as 'twere, by some external force; But that man's mind itself in all it does Hath not a fixed necessity within, Nor is not, like a conquered thing, compelled To bear and suffer,- this state comes to man From that slight swervement of the elements In no fixed line of space, in no fixed time. Nor ever was the stock of stuff more crammed, Nor ever, again, sundered by bigger gaps: For naught gives increase and naught takes away; On which account, just as they move to-day, The elemental bodies moved of old And shall the same hereafter evermore. And what was wont to be begot of old Shall be begotten under selfsame terms And grow and thrive in power, so far as given To each by Nature's changeless, old decrees. The sum of things there is no power can change, For naught exists outside, to which can flee Out of the world matter of any kind, Nor forth from which a fresh supply can spring, Break in upon the founded world, and change Whole nature of things, and turn their motions about. ATOMIC FORMS AND THEIR COMBINATIONS Now come, and next hereafter apprehend What sorts, how vastly different in form, How varied in multitudinous shapes they are- These old beginnings of the universe; Not in the sense that only few are furnished With one like form, but rather not at all In general have they likeness each with each, No marvel: since the stock of them's so great That there's no end (as I have taught) nor sum, They must indeed not one and all be marked By equal outline and by shape the same. Moreover, humankind, and the mute flocks Of scaly creatures swimming in the streams, And joyous herds around, and all the wild, And all the breeds of birds- both those that teem In gladsome regions of the water-haunts, About the river-banks and springs and pools, And those that throng, flitting from tree to tree, Through trackless woods- Go, take which one thou wilt, In any kind: thou wilt discover still Each from the other still unlike in shape. Nor in no other wise could offspring know Mother, nor mother offspring- which we see They yet can do, distinguished one from other, No less than human beings, by clear signs. Thus oft before fair temples of the gods, Beside the incense-burning altars slain, Drops down the yearling calf, from out its breast Breathing warm streams of blood; the orphaned mother, Ranging meanwhile green woodland pastures round, Knows well the footprints, pressed by cloven hoofs, With eyes regarding every spot about, For sight somewhere of youngling gone from her; And, stopping short, filleth the leafy lanes With her complaints; and oft she seeks again Within the stall, pierced by her yearning still. Nor tender willows, nor dew-quickened grass, Nor the loved streams that glide along low banks, Can lure her mind and turn the sudden pain; Nor other shapes of calves that graze thereby Distract her mind or lighten pain the least- So keen her search for something known and hers. Moreover, tender kids with bleating throats Do know their horned dams, and butting lambs The flocks of sheep, and thus they patter on, Unfailingly each to its proper teat, As Nature intends. Lastly, with any grain, Thou'lt see that no one kernel in one kind Is so far like another, that there still Is not in shapes some difference running through. By a like law we see how earth is pied With shells and conchs, where, with soft waves, the sea Beats on the thirsty sands of curving shores. Wherefore again, again, since seeds of things Exist by nature, nor were wrought with hands After a fixed pattern of one other, They needs must flitter to and fro with shapes In types dissimilar to one another. Easy enough by thought of mind to solve Why fires of lightning more can penetrate Than these of ours from pitch-pine born on earth. For thou canst say lightning's celestial fire, So subtle, is formed of figures finer far, And passes thus through holes which this our fire, Born from the wood, created from the pine, Cannot. Again, light passes through the horn On the lantern's side, while rain is dashed away. And why?- unless those bodies of light should be Finer than those of water's genial showers. We see how quickly through a colander The wines will flow; how, on the other hand, The sluggish olive-oil delays: no doubt, Because 'tis wrought of elements more large, Or else more crook'd and intertangled. Thus It comes that the primordials cannot be So suddenly sundered one from other, and seep, One through each several hole of anything. And note, besides, that liquor of honey or milk Yields in the mouth agreeable taste to tongue, Whilst nauseous wormwood, pungent centaury, With their foul flavour set the lips awry; Thus simple 'tis to see that whatsoever Can touch the senses pleasingly are made Of smooth and rounded elements, whilst those Which seem the bitter and the sharp, are held Entwined by elements more crook'd, and so Are wont to tear their ways into our senses, And rend our body as they enter in. In short all good to sense, all bad to touch, Being up-built of figures so unlike, Are mutually at strife- lest thou suppose That the shrill rasping of a squeaking saw Consists of elements as smooth as song Which, waked by nimble fingers, on the strings The sweet musicians fashion; or suppose That same-shaped atoms through men's nostrils pierce When foul cadavers burn, as when the stage Is with Cilician saffron sprinkled fresh, And the altar near exhales Panchaean scent; Or hold as of like seed the goodly hues Of things which feast our eyes, as those which sting Against the smarting pupil and draw tears, Or show, with gruesome aspect, grim and vile. For never a shape which charms our sense was made Without some elemental smoothness; whilst Whate'er is harsh and irksome has been framed Still with some roughness in its elements. Some, too, there are which justly are supposed To be nor smooth nor altogether hooked, With bended barbs, but slightly angled-out, To tickle rather than to wound the sense- And of which sort is the salt tartar of wine And flavours of the gummed elecampane. Again, that glowing fire and icy rime Are fanged with teeth unlike whereby to sting Our body's sense, the touch of each gives proof. For touch- by sacred majesties of gods!- Touch is indeed the body's only sense- Be't that something in-from-outward works, Be't that something in the body born Wounds, or delighteth as it passes out Along the procreant paths of Aphrodite; Or be't the seeds by some collision whirl Disordered in the body and confound By tumult and confusion all the sense- As thou mayst find, if haply with the hand Thyself thou strike thy body's any part. On which account, the elemental forms Must differ widely, as enabled thus To cause diverse sensations. And, again, What seems to us the hardened and condensed Must be of atoms among themselves more hooked, Be held compacted deep within, as 'twere By branch-like atoms- of which sort the chief Are diamond stones, despisers of all blows, And stalwart flint and strength of solid iron, And brazen bars, which, budging hard in locks, Do grate and scream. But what are liquid, formed Of fluid body, they indeed must be Of elements more smooth and round- because Their globules severally will not cohere: To suck the poppy-seeds from palm of hand Is quite as easy as drinking water down, And they, once struck, roll like unto the same. But that thou seest among the things that flow Some bitter, as the brine of ocean is, Is not the least a marvel... For since 'tis fluid, smooth its atoms are And round, with painful rough ones mixed therein; Yet need not these be held together hooked: In fact, though rough, they're globular besides, Able at once to roll, and rasp the sense. And that the more thou mayst believe me here, That with smooth elements are mixed the rough (Whence Neptune's salt astringent body comes), There is a means to separate the twain, And thereupon dividedly to see How the sweet water, after filtering through So often underground, flows freshened forth Into some hollow; for it leaves above The primal germs of nauseating brine, Since cling the rough more readily in earth. Lastly, whatso thou markest to disperse Upon the instant- smoke, and cloud, and flame- Must not (even though not all of smooth and round) Be yet co-linked with atoms intertwined, That thus they can, without together cleaving, So pierce our body and so bore the rocks. Whatever we see... Given to senses, that thou must perceive They're not from linked but pointed elements. The which now having taught, I will go on To bind thereto a fact to this allied And drawing from this its proof: these primal germs Vary, yet only with finite tale of shapes. For were these shapes quite infinite, some seeds Would have a body of infinite increase. For in one seed, in one small frame of any, The shapes can't vary from one another much. Assume, we'll say, that of three minim parts Consist the primal bodies, or add a few: When, now, by placing all these parts of one At top and bottom, changing lefts and rights, Thou hast with every kind of shift found out What the aspect of shape of its whole body Each new arrangement gives, for what remains, If thou percase wouldst vary its old shapes, New parts must then be added; 'twill follow next, If thou percase wouldst vary still its shapes, That by like logic each arrangement still Requires its increment of other parts. Ergo, an augmentation of its frame Follows upon each novelty of forms. Wherefore, it cannot be thou'lt undertake That seeds have infinite differences in form, Lest thus thou forcest some indeed to be Of an immeasurable immensity- Which I have taught above cannot be proved. And now for thee barbaric robes, and gleam Of Meliboean purple, touched with dye Of the Thessalian shell... The peacock's golden generations, stained With spotted gaieties, would lie o'erthrown By some new colour of new things more bright; The odour of myrrh and savours of honey despised; The swan's old lyric, and Apollo's hymns, Once modulated on the many chords, Would likewise sink o'ermastered and be mute: For, lo, a somewhat, finer than the rest, Would be arising evermore. So, too, Into some baser part might all retire, Even as we said to better might they come: For, lo, a somewhat, loathlier than the rest To nostrils, ears, and eyes, and taste of tongue, Would then, by reasoning reversed, be there. Since 'tis not so, but unto things are given Their fixed limitations which do bound Their sum on either side, 'tmust be confessed That matter, too, by finite tale of shapes Does differ. Again, from earth's midsummer heats Unto the icy hoar-frosts of the year The forward path is fixed, and by like law O'ertravelled backwards at the dawn of spring. For each degree of hat, and each of cold, And the half-warm, all filling up the sum In due progression, lie, my Memmius, there Betwixt the two extremes: the things create Must differ, therefore, by a finite change, Since at each end marked off they ever are By fixed point- on one side plagued by flames And on the other by congealing frosts. The which now having taught, I will go on To bind thereto a fact to this allied And drawing from this its proof: those primal germs Which have been fashioned all of one like shape Are infinite in tale; for, since the forms Themselves are finite in divergences, Then those which are alike will have to be Infinite, else the sum of stuff remains A finite- what I've proved is not the fact, Showing in verse how corpuscles of stuff, From everlasting and to-day the same, Uphold the sum of things, all sides around By old succession of unending blows. For though thou view'st some beasts to be more rare, And mark'st in them a less prolific stock, Yet in another region, in lands remote, That kind abounding may make up the count; Even as we mark among the four-foot kind Snake-handed elephants, whose thousands wall With ivory ramparts India about, That her interiors cannot entered be- So big her count of brutes of which we see Such few examples. Or suppose, besides, We feign some thing, one of its kind and sole With body born, to which is nothing like In all the lands: yet now unless shall be An infinite count of matter out of which Thus to conceive and bring it forth to life, It cannot be created and- what's more- It cannot take its food and get increase. Yea, if through all the world in finite tale Be tossed the procreant bodies of one thing, Whence, then, and where in what mode, by what power, Shall they to meeting come together there, In such vast ocean of matter and tumult strange?- No means they have of joining into one. But, just as, after mighty shipwrecks piled, The mighty main is wont to scatter wide The rowers' banks, the ribs, the yards, the prow, The masts and swimming oars, so that afar Along all shores of lands are seen afloat The carven fragments of the rended poop, Giving a lesson to mortality To shun the ambush of the faithless main, The violence and the guile, and trust it not At any hour, however much may smile The crafty enticements of the placid deep: Exactly thus, if once thou holdest true That certain seeds are finite in their tale, The various tides of matter, then, must needs Scatter them flung throughout the ages all, So that not ever can they join, as driven Together into union, nor remain In union, nor with increment can grow- But facts in proof are manifest for each: Things can be both begotten and increase. 'Tis therefore manifest that primal germs, Are infinite in any class thou wilt- From whence is furnished matter for all things. Nor can those motions that bring death prevail Forever, nor eternally entomb The welfare of the world; nor, further, can Those motions that give birth to things and growth Keep them forever when created there. Thus the long war, from everlasting waged, With equal strife among the elements Goes on and on. Now here, now there, prevail The vital forces of the world- or fall. Mixed with the funeral is the wildered wail Of infants coming to the shores of light: No night a day, no dawn a night hath followed That heard not, mingling with the small birth-cries, The wild laments, companions old of death And the black rites. This, too, in these affairs 'Tis fit thou hold well sealed, and keep consigned With no forgetting brain: nothing there is Whose nature is apparent out of hand That of one kind of elements consists- Nothing there is that's not of mixed seed. And whatsoe'er possesses in itself More largely many powers and properties Shows thus that here within itself there are The largest number of kinds and differing shapes Of elements. And, chief of all, the earth Hath in herself first bodies whence the springs, Rolling chill waters, renew forevermore The unmeasured main; hath whence the fires arise- For burns in many a spot her flamed crust, Whilst the impetuous Aetna raves indeed From more profounder fires- and she, again, Hath in herself the seed whence she can raise The shining grains and gladsome trees for men; Whence, also, rivers, fronds, and gladsome pastures Can she supply for mountain-roaming beasts. Wherefore great mother of gods, and mother of beasts, And parent of man hath she alone been named. Her hymned the old and learned bards of Greece Seated in chariot o'er the realms of air To drive her team of lions, teaching thus That the great earth hangs poised and cannot lie Resting on other earth. Unto her car They've yoked the wild beasts, since a progeny, However savage, must be tamed and chid By care of parents. They have girt about With turret-crown the summit of her head, Since, fortressed in her goodly strongholds high, 'Tis she sustains the cities; now, adorned With that same token, to-day is carried forth, With solemn awe through many a mighty land, The image of that mother, the divine. Her the wide nations, after antique rite, Do name Idaean Mother, giving her Escort of Phrygian bands, since first, they say, From out those regions 'twas that grain began Through all the world. To her do they assign The Galli, the emasculate, since thus They wish to show that men who violate The majesty of the mother and have proved Ingrate to parents are to be adjudged Unfit to give unto the shores of light A living progeny. The Galli come: And hollow cymbals, tight-skinned tambourines Resound around to bangings of their hands; The fierce horns threaten with a raucous bray; The tubed pipe excites their maddened minds In Phrygian measures; they bear before them knives, Wild emblems of their frenzy, which have power The rabble's ingrate heads and impious hearts To panic with terror of the goddess' might. And so, when through the mighty cities borne, She blesses man with salutations mute, They strew the highway of her journeyings With coin of brass and silver, gifting her With alms and largesse, and shower her and shade With flowers of roses falling like the snow Upon the Mother and her companion-bands. Here is an armed troop, the which by Greeks Are called the Phrygian Curetes. Since Haply among themselves they use to play In games of arms and leap in measure round With bloody mirth and by their nodding shake The terrorizing crests upon their heads, This is the armed troop that represents The arm'd Dictaean Curetes, who, in Crete, As runs the story, whilom did out-drown That infant cry of Zeus, what time their band, Young boys, in a swift dance around the boy, To measured step beat with the brass on brass, That Saturn might not get him for his jaws, And give its mother an eternal wound Along her heart. And it is on this account That armed they escort the mighty Mother, Or else because they signify by this That she, the goddess, teaches men to be Eager with armed valour to defend Their motherland, and ready to stand forth, The guard and glory of their parents' years. A tale, however beautifully wrought, That's wide of reason by a long remove: For all the gods must of themselves enjoy Immortal aeons and supreme repose, Withdrawn from our affairs, detached, afar: Immune from peril and immune from pain, Themselves abounding in riches of their own, Needing not us, they are not touched by wrath They are not taken by service or by gift. Truly is earth insensate for all time; But, by obtaining germs of many things, In many a way she brings the many forth Into the light of sun. And here, whoso Decides to call the ocean Neptune, or The grain-crop Ceres, and prefers to abuse The name of Bacchus rather than pronounce The liquor's proper designation, him Let us permit to go on calling earth Mother of Gods, if only he will spare To taint his soul with foul religion. So, too, the wooly flocks, and horned kine, And brood of battle-eager horses, grazing Often together along one grassy plain, Under the cope of one blue sky, and slaking From out one stream of water each its thirst, All live their lives with face and form unlike, Keeping the parents' nature, parents' habits, Which, kind by kind, through ages they repeat. So great in any sort of herb thou wilt, So great again in any river of earth Are the distinct diversities of matter. Hence, further, every creature- any one From out them all- compounded is the same Of bones, blood, veins, heat, moisture, flesh, and thews- All differing vastly in their forms, and built Of elements dissimilar in shape. Again, all things by fire consumed ablaze, Within their frame lay up, if naught besides, At least those atoms whence derives their power To throw forth fire and send out light from under, To shoot the sparks and scatter embers wide. If, with like reasoning of mind, all else Thou traverse through, thou wilt discover thus That in their frame the seeds of many things They hide, and divers shapes of seeds contain. Further, thou markest much, to which are given Along together colour and flavour and smell, Among which, chief, are most burnt offerings. Thus must they be of divers shapes composed. A smell of scorching enters in our frame Where the bright colour from the dye goes not; And colour in one way, flavour in quite another Works inward to our senses- so mayst see They differ too in elemental shapes. Thus unlike forms into one mass combine, And things exist by intermixed seed. But still 'tmust not be thought that in all ways All things can be conjoined; for then wouldest view Portents begot about thee every side: Hulks of mankind half brute astarting up, At times big branches sprouting from man's trunk, Limbs of a sea-beast to a land-beast knit, And Nature along the all-producing earth Feeding those dire Chimaeras breathing flame From hideous jaws- Of which 'tis simple fact That none have been begot; because we see All are from fixed seed and fixed dam Engendered and so function as to keep Throughout their growth their own ancestral type. This happens surely by a fixed law: For from all food-stuff, when once eaten down, Go sundered atoms, suited to each creature, Throughout their bodies, and, conjoining there, Produce the proper motions; but we see How, contrariwise, Nature upon the ground Throws off those foreign to their frame; and many With viewless bodies from their bodies fly, By blows impelled- those impotent to join To any part, or, when inside, to accord And to take on the vital motions there. But think not, haply, living forms alone Are bound by these laws: they distinguished all. For just as all things of creation are, In their whole nature, each to each unlike, So must their atoms be in shape unlike- Not since few only are fashioned of like form, But since they all, as general rule, are not The same as all. Nay, here in these our verses, Elements many, common to many words, Thou seest, though yet 'tis needful to confess The words and verses differ, each from each, Compounded out of different elements- Not since few only, as common letters, run Through all the words, or no two words are made, One and the other, from all like elements, But since they all, as general rule, are not The same as all. Thus, too, in other things, Whilst many germs common to many things There are, yet they, combined among themselves, Can form new who to others quite unlike. Thus fairly one may say that humankind, The grains, the gladsome trees, are all made up Of different atoms. Further, since the seeds Are different, difference must there also be In intervening spaces, thoroughfares, Connections, weights, blows, clashings, motions, all Which not alone distinguish living forms, But sunder earth's whole ocean from the lands, And hold all heaven from the lands away. ABSENCE OF SECONDARY QUALITIES Now come, this wisdom by my sweet toil sought Look thou perceive, lest haply thou shouldst guess That the white objects shining to thine eyes Are gendered of white atoms, or the black Of a black seed; or yet believe that aught That's steeped in any hue should take its dye From bits of matter tinct with hue the same. For matter's bodies own no hue the least- Or like to objects or, again, unlike. But, if percase it seem to thee that mind Itself can dart no influence of its own Into these bodies, wide thou wand'rest off. For since the blind-born, who have ne'er surveyed The light of sun, yet recognise by touch Things that from birth had ne'er a hue for them, 'Tis thine to know that bodies can be brought No less unto the ken of our minds too, Though yet those bodies with no dye be smeared. Again, ourselves whatever in the dark We touch, the same we do not find to be Tinctured with any colour. Now that here I win the argument, I next will teach Now, every colour changes, none except, And every... Which the primordials ought nowise to do. Since an immutable somewhat must remain, Lest all things utterly be brought to naught. For change of anything from out its bounds Means instant death of that which was before. Wherefore be mindful not to stain with colour The seeds of things, lest things return for thee All utterly to naught. But now, if seeds Receive no property of colour, and yet Be still endowed with variable forms From which all kinds of colours they beget And vary (by reason that ever it matters much With, what seeds, and in what positions joined, And what the motions that they give and get), Forthwith most easily thou mayst devise Why what was black of hue an hour ago Can of a sudden like the marble gleam,- As ocean, when the high winds have upheaved Its level plains, is changed to hoary waves Of marble whiteness: for, thou mayst declare, That, when the thing we often see as black Is in its matter then commixed anew, Some atoms rearranged, and some withdrawn, And added some, 'tis seen forthwith to turn Glowing and white. But if of azure seeds Consist the level waters of the deep, They could in nowise whiten: for however Thou shakest azure seeds, the same can never Pass into marble hue. But, if the seeds- Which thus produce the ocean's one pure sheen- Be now with one hue, now another dyed, As oft from alien forms and divers shapes A cube's produced all uniform in shape, 'Twould be but natural, even as in the cube We see the forms to be dissimilar, That thus we'd see in brightness of the deep (Or in whatever one pure sheen thou wilt) Colours diverse and all dissimilar. Besides, the unlike shapes don't thwart the least The whole in being externally a cube; But differing hues of things do block and keep The whole from being of one resultant hue. Then, too, the reason which entices us At times to attribute colours to the seeds Falls quite to pieces, since white things are not Create from white things, nor are black from black, But evermore they are create from things Of divers colours. Verily, the white Will rise more readily, is sooner born Out of no colour, than of black or aught Which stands in hostile opposition thus. Besides, since colours cannot be, sans light, And the primordials come not forth to light, 'Tis thine to know they are not clothed with colour- Truly, what kind of colour could there be In the viewless dark? Nay, in the light itself A colour changes, gleaming variedly, When smote by vertical or slanting ray. Thus in the sunlight shows the down of doves That circles, garlanding, the nape and throat: Now it is ruddy with a bright gold-bronze, Now, by a strange sensation it becomes Green-emerald blended with the coral-red. The peacock's tail, filled with the copious light, Changes its colours likewise, when it turns. Wherefore, since by some blow of light begot, Without such blow these colours can't become. And since the pupil of the eye receives Within itself one kind of blow, when said To feel a white hue, then another kind, When feeling a black or any other hue, And since it matters nothing with what hue The things thou touchest be perchance endowed, But rather with what sort of shape equipped, 'Tis thine to know the atoms need not colour, But render forth sensations, as of touch, That vary with their varied forms. Besides, Since special shapes have not a special colour, And all formations of the primal germs Can be of any sheen thou wilt, why, then, Are not those objects which are of them made Suffused, each kind with colours of every kind? For then 'twere meet that ravens, as they fly, Should dartle from white pinions a white sheen, Or swans turn black from seed of black, or be Of any single varied dye thou wilt. Again, the more an object's rent to bits, The more thou see its colour fade away Little by little till 'tis quite extinct; As happens when the gaudy linen's picked Shred after shred away: the purple there, Phoenician red, most brilliant of all dyes, Is lost asunder, ravelled thread by thread; Hence canst perceive the fragments die away From out their colour, long ere they depart Back to the old primordials of things. And, last, since thou concedest not all bodies Send out a voice or smell, it happens thus That not to all thou givest sounds and smells. So, too, since we behold not all with eyes, 'Tis thine to know some things there are as much Orphaned of colour, as others without smell, And reft of sound; and those the mind alert No less can apprehend than it can mark The things that lack some other qualities. But think not haply that the primal bodies Remain despoiled alone of colour: so, Are they from warmth dissevered and from cold And from hot exhalations; and they move, Both sterile of sound and dry of juice; and throw Not any odour from their proper bodies. Just as, when undertaking to prepare A liquid balm of myrrh and marjoram, And flower of nard, which to our nostrils breathes Odour of nectar, first of all behooves Thou seek, as far as find thou may and can, The inodorous olive-oil (which never sends One whiff of scent to nostrils), that it may The least debauch and ruin with sharp tang The odorous essence with its body mixed And in it seethed. And on the same account The primal germs of things must not be thought To furnish colour in begetting things, Nor sound, since pow'rless they to send forth aught From out themselves, nor any flavour, too, Nor cold, nor exhalation hot or warm. The rest; yet since these things are mortal all- The pliant mortal, with a body soft; The brittle mortal, with a crumbling frame; The hollow with a porous-all must be Disjoined from the primal elements, If still we wish under the world to lay Immortal ground-works, whereupon may rest The sum of weal and safety, lest for thee All things return to nothing utterly. Now, too: whate'er we see possessing sense Must yet confessedly be stablished all From elements insensate. And those signs, So clear to all and witnessed out of hand, Do not refute this dictum nor oppose; But rather themselves do lead us by the hand, Compelling belief that living things are born Of elements insensate, as I say. Sooth, we may see from out the stinking dung Live worms spring up, when, after soaking rains, The drenched earth rots; and all things change the same: Lo, change the rivers, the fronds, the gladsome pastures Into the cattle, the cattle their nature change Into our bodies, and from our body, oft Grow strong the powers and bodies of wild beasts And mighty-winged birds. Thus Nature changes All foods to living frames, and procreates From them the senses of live creatures all, In manner about as she uncoils in flames Dry logs of wood and turns them all to fire. And seest not, therefore, how it matters much After what order are set the primal germs, And with what other germs they all are mixed, And what the motions that they give and get? But now, what is't that strikes thy sceptic mind, Constraining thee to sundry arguments Against belief that from insensate germs The sensible is gendered?- Verily, 'Tis this: that liquids, earth, and wood, though mixed, Are yet unable to gender vital sense. And, therefore, 'twill be well in these affairs This to remember: that I have not said Senses are born, under conditions all, From all things absolutely which create Objects that feel; but much it matters here Firstly, how small the seeds which thus compose The feeling thing, then, with what shapes endowed, And lastly what they in positions be, In motions, in arrangements. Of which facts Naught we perceive in logs of wood and clods; And yet even these, when sodden by the rains, Give birth to wormy grubs, because the bodies Of matter, from their old arrangements stirred By the new factor, then combine anew In such a way as genders living things. Next, they who deem that feeling objects can From feeling objects be create, and these, In turn, from others that are wont to feel When soft they make them; for all sense is linked With flesh, and thews, and veins- and such, we see, Are fashioned soft and of a mortal frame. Yet be't that these can last forever on: They'll have the sense that's proper to a part, Or else be judged to have a sense the same As that within live creatures as a whole. But of themselves those parts can never feel, For all the sense in every member back To something else refers- a severed hand, Or any other member of our frame, Itself alone cannot support sensation. It thus remains they must resemble, then, Live creatures as a whole, to have the power Of feeling sensation concordant in each part With the vital sense; and so they're bound to feel The things we feel exactly as do we. If such the case, how, then, can they be named The primal germs of things, and how avoid The highways of destruction?- since they be Mere living things and living things be all One and the same with mortal. Grant they could, Yet by their meetings and their unions all, Naught would result, indeed, besides a throng And hurly-burly all of living things- Precisely as men, and cattle, and wild beasts, By mere conglomeration each with each Can still beget not anything of new. But if by chance they lose, inside a body, Their own sense and another sense take on, What, then, avails it to assign them that Which is withdrawn thereafter? And besides, To touch on proof that we pronounced before, Just as we see the eggs of feathered fowls To change to living chicks, and swarming worms To bubble forth when from the soaking rains The earth is sodden, sure, sensations all Can out of non-sensations be begot. But if one say that sense can so far rise From non-sense by mutation, or because Brought forth as by a certain sort of birth, 'Twill serve to render plain to him and prove There is no birth, unless there be before Some formed union of the elements, Nor any change, unless they be unite. In first place, senses can't in body be Before its living nature's been begot,- Since all its stuff, in faith, is held dispersed About through rivers, air, and earth, and all That is from earth created, nor has met In combination, and, in proper mode, Conjoined into those vital motions which Kindle the all-perceiving senses- they That keep and guard each living thing soever. Again, a blow beyond its nature's strength Shatters forthwith each living thing soe'er, And on it goes confounding all the sense Of body and mind. For of the primal germs Are loosed their old arrangements, and, throughout, The vital motions blocked,- until the stuff, Shaken profoundly through the frame entire, Undoes the vital knots of soul from body And throws that soul, to outward wide-dispersed, Through all the pores. For what may we surmise A blow inflicted can achieve besides Shaking asunder and loosening all apart? It happens also, when less sharp the blow, The vital motions which are left are wont Oft to win out- win out, and stop and still The uncouth tumults gendered by the blow, And call each part to its own courses back, And shake away the motion of death which now Begins its own dominion in the body, And kindle anew the senses almost gone. For by what other means could they the more Collect their powers of thought and turn again From very doorways of destruction Back unto life, rather than pass whereto They be already well-nigh sped and so Pass quite away? Again, since pain is there Where bodies of matter, by some force stirred up, Through vitals and through joints, within their seats Quiver and quake inside, but soft delight, When they remove unto their place again: 'Tis thine to know the primal germs can be Assaulted by no pain, nor from themselves Take no delight; because indeed they are Not made of any bodies of first things, Under whose strange new motions they might ache Or pluck the fruit of any dear new sweet. And so they must be furnished with no sense. Once more, if thus, that every living thing May have sensation, needful 'tis to assign Sense also to its elements, what then Of those fixed elements from which mankind Hath been, by their peculiar virtue, formed? Of verity, they'll laugh aloud, like men, Shaken asunder by a spasm of mirth, Or sprinkle with dewy tear-drops cheeks and chins, And have the cunning hardihood to say Much on the composition of the world, And in their turn inquire what elements They have themselves,- since, thus the same in kind As a whole mortal creature, even they Must also be from other elements, And then those others from others evermore- So that thou darest nowhere make a stop. Oho, I'll follow thee until thou grant The seed (which here thou say'st speaks, laughs, and thinks) Is yet derived out of other seeds Which in their turn are doing just the same. But if we see what raving nonsense this, And that a man may laugh, though not, forsooth, Compounded out of laughing elements, And think and utter reason with learn'd speech, Though not himself compounded, for a fact, Of sapient seeds and eloquent, why, then, Cannot those things which we perceive to have Their own sensation be composed as well Of intermixed seeds quite void of sense? INFINITE WORLDS Once more, we all from seed celestial spring, To all is that same father, from whom earth, The fostering mother, as she takes the drops Of liquid moisture, pregnant bears her broods- The shining grains, and gladsome shrubs and trees, And bears the human race and of the wild The generations all, the while she yields The foods wherewith all feed their frames and lead The genial life and propagate their kind; Wherefore she owneth that maternal name, By old desert. What was before from earth, The same in earth sinks back, and what was sent From shores of ether, that, returning home, The vaults of sky receive. Nor thus doth death So far annihilate things that she destroys The bodies of matter; but she dissipates Their combinations, and conjoins anew One element with others; and contrives That all things vary forms and change their colours And get sensations and straight give them o'er. And thus may'st know it matters with what others And in what structure the primordial germs Are held together, and what motions they Among themselves do give and get; nor think That aught we see hither and thither afloat Upon the crest of things, and now a birth And straightway now a ruin, inheres at rest Deep in the eternal atoms of the world. Why, even in these our very verses here It matters much with what and in what order Each element is set: the same denote Sky, and the ocean, lands, and streams, and sun; The same, the grains, and trees, and living things. And if not all alike, at least the most- But what distinctions by positions wrought! And thus no less in things themselves, when once Around are changed the intervals between, The paths of matter, its connections, weights, Blows, clashings, motions, order, structure, shapes, The things themselves must likewise changed be. Now to true reason give thy mind for us. Since here strange truth is putting forth its might To hit thee in thine ears, a new aspect Of things to show its front. Yet naught there is So easy that it standeth not at first More hard to credit than it after is; And naught soe'er that's great to such degree, Nor wonderful so far, but all mankind Little by little abandon their surprise. Look upward yonder at the bright clear sky And what it holds- the stars that wander o'er, The moon, the radiance of the splendour-sun: Yet all, if now they first for mortals were, If unforeseen now first asudden shown, What might there be more wonderful to tell, What that the nations would before have dared Less to believe might be?- I fancy, naught- So strange had been the marvel of that sight. The which o'erwearied to behold, to-day None deigns look upward to those lucent realms. Then, spew not reason from thy mind away, Beside thyself because the matter's new, But rather with keen judgment nicely weigh; And if to thee it then appeareth true, Render thy hands, or, if 'tis false at last, Gird thee to combat. For my mind-of-man Now seeks the nature of the vast Beyond There on the other side, that boundless sum Which lies without the ramparts of the world, Toward which the spirit longs to peer afar, Toward which indeed the swift elan of thought Flies unencumbered forth. Firstly, we find, Off to all regions round, on either side, Above, beneath, throughout the universe End is there none- as I have taught, as too The very thing of itself declares aloud, And as from nature of the unbottomed deep Shines clearly forth. Nor can we once suppose In any way 'tis likely, (seeing that space To all sides stretches infinite and free, And seeds, innumerable in number, in sum Bottomless, there in many a manner fly, Bestirred in everlasting motion there), That only this one earth and sky of ours Hath been create and that those bodies of stuff, So many, perform no work outside the same; Seeing, moreover, this world too hath been By Nature fashioned, even as seeds of things By innate motion chanced to clash and cling- After they'd been in many a manner driven Together at random, without design, in vain- And at last those seeds together dwelt, Which, when together of a sudden thrown, Should alway furnish the commencements fit Of mighty things- the earth, the sea, the sky, And race of living creatures. Thus, I say, Again, again, 'tmust be confessed there are Such congregations of matter otherwhere, Like this our world which vasty ether holds In huge embrace. Besides, when matter abundant Is ready there, when space on hand, nor object Nor any cause retards, no marvel 'tis That things are carried on and made complete, Perforce. And now, if store of seeds there is So great that not whole life-times of the living Can count the tale... And if their force and nature abide the same, Able to throw the seeds of things together Into their places, even as here are thrown The seeds together in this world of ours, 'Tmust be confessed in other realms there are Still other worlds, still other breeds of men, And other generations of the wild. Hence too it happens in the sum there is No one thing single of its kind in birth, And single and sole in growth, but rather it is One member of some generated race, Among full many others of like kind. First, cast thy mind abroad upon the living: Thou'lt find the race of mountain-ranging wild Even thus to be, and thus the scions of men To be begot, and lastly the mute flocks Of scaled fish, and winged frames of birds. Wherefore confess we must on grounds the same That earth, sun, moon, and ocean, and all else, Exist not sole and single- rather in number Exceeding number. Since that deeply set Old boundary stone of life remains for them No less, and theirs a body of mortal birth No less, than every kind which hereon earth Is so abundant in its members found. Which well perceived if thou hold in mind, Then Nature, delivered from every haughty lord, And forthwith free, is seen to do all things Herself and through herself of own accord, Rid of all gods. For- by their holy hearts Which pass in long tranquillity of peace Untroubled ages and a serene life!- Who hath the power (I ask), who hath the power To rule the sum of the immeasurable, To hold with steady hand the giant reins Of the unfathomed deep? Who hath the power At once to rule a multitude of skies, At once to heat with fires ethereal all The fruitful lands of multitudes of worlds, To be at all times in all places near, To stablish darkness by his clouds, to shake The serene spaces of the sky with sound, And hurl his lightnings,- ha, and whelm how oft In ruins his own temples, and to rave, Retiring to the wildernesses, there At practice with that thunderbolt of his, Which yet how often shoots the guilty by, And slays the honourable blameless ones! Ere since the birth-time of the world, ere since The risen first-born day of sea, earth, sun, Have many germs been added from outside, Have many seeds been added round about, Which the great All, the while it flung them on, Brought hither, that from them the sea and lands Could grow more big, and that the house of heaven Might get more room and raise its lofty roofs Far over earth, and air arise around. For bodies all, from out all regions, are Divided by blows, each to its proper thing, And all retire to their own proper kinds: The moist to moist retires; earth gets increase From earthy body; and fires, as on a forge, Beat out new fire; and ether forges ether; Till Nature, author and ender of the world, Hath led all things to extreme bound of growth: As haps when that which hath been poured inside The vital veins of life is now no more Than that which ebbs within them and runs off. This is the point where life for each thing ends; This is the point where Nature with her powers Curbs all increase. For whatsoe'er thou seest Grow big with glad increase, and step by step Climb upward to ripe age, these to themselves Take in more bodies than they send from selves, Whilst still the food is easily infused Through all the veins, and whilst the things are not So far expanded that they cast away Such numerous atoms as to cause a waste Greater than nutriment whereby they wax. For 'tmust be granted, truly, that from things Many a body ebbeth and runs off; But yet still more must come, until the things Have touched development's top pinnacle; Then old age breaks their powers and ripe strength And falls away into a worser part. For ever the ampler and more wide a thing, As soon as ever its augmentation ends, It scatters abroad forthwith to all sides round More bodies, sending them from out itself. Nor easily now is food disseminate Through all its veins; nor is that food enough To equal with a new supply on hand Those plenteous exhalations it gives off. Thus, fairly, all things perish, when with ebbing They're made less dense and when from blows without They are laid low; since food at last will fail Extremest eld, and bodies from outside Cease not with thumping to undo a thing And overmaster by infesting blows. Thus, too, the ramparts of the mighty world On all sides round shall taken be by storm, And tumble to wrack and shivered fragments down. For food it is must keep things whole, renewing; 'Tis food must prop and give support to all,- But to no purpose, since nor veins suffice To hold enough, nor nature ministers As much as needful. And even now 'tis thus: Its age is broken and the earth, outworn With many parturitions, scarce creates The little lives- she who created erst All generations and gave forth at birth Enormous bodies of wild beasts of old. For never, I fancy, did a golden cord From off the firmament above let down The mortal generations to the fields; Nor sea, nor breakers pounding on the rocks Created them; but earth it was who bore- The same today who feeds them from herself. Besides, herself of own accord, she first The shining grains and vineyards of all joy Created for mortality; herself Gave the sweet fruitage and the pastures glad, Which now to-day yet scarcely wax in size, Even when aided by our toiling arms. We break the ox, and wear away the strength Of sturdy farm-hands; iron tools to-day Barely avail for tilling of the fields, So niggardly they grudge our harvestings, So much increase our labour. Now to-day The aged ploughman, shaking of his head, Sighs o'er and o'er that labours of his hands Have fallen out in vain, and, as he thinks How present times are not as times of old, Often he praises the fortunes of his sire, And crackles, prating, how the ancient race, Fulfilled with piety, supported life With simple comfort in a narrow plot, Since, man for man, the measure of each field Was smaller far i' the old days. And, again, The gloomy planter of the withered vine Rails at the season's change and wearies heaven, Nor grasps that all of things by sure degrees Are wasting away and going to the tomb, Outworn by venerable length of life. BOOK III PROEM O thou who first uplifted in such dark So clear a torch aloft, who first shed light Upon the profitable ends of man, O thee I follow, glory of the Greeks, And set my footsteps squarely planted now Even in the impress and the marks of thine- Less like one eager to dispute the palm, More as one craving out of very love That I may copy thee!- for how should swallow Contend with swans or what compare could be In a race between young kids with tumbling legs And the strong might of the horse? Our father thou, And finder-out of truth, and thou to us Suppliest a father's precepts; and from out Those scriven leaves of thine, renowned soul (Like bees that sip of all in flowery wolds), We feed upon thy golden sayings all- Golden, and ever worthiest endless life. For soon as ever thy planning thought that sprang From god-like mind begins its loud proclaim Of nature's courses, terrors of the brain Asunder flee, the ramparts of the world Dispart away, and through the void entire I see the movements of the universe. Rises to vision the majesty of gods, And their abodes of everlasting calm Which neither wind may shake nor rain-cloud splash, Nor snow, congealed by sharp frosts, may harm With its white downfall: ever, unclouded sky O'er roofs, and laughs with far-diffused light. And nature gives to them their all, nor aught May ever pluck their peace of mind away. But nowhere to my vision rise no more The vaults of Acheron, though the broad earth Bars me no more from gazing down o'er all Which under our feet is going on below Along the void. O, here in these affairs Some new divine delight and trembling awe Takes hold through me, that thus by power of thine Nature, so plain and manifest at last, Hath been on every side laid bare to man! And since I've taught already of what sort The seeds of all things are, and how, distinct In divers forms, they flit of own accord, Stirred with a motion everlasting on, And in what mode things be from them create, Now, after such matters, should my verse, meseems, Make clear the nature of the mind and soul, And drive that dread of Acheron without, Headlong, which so confounds our human life Unto its deeps, pouring o'er all that is The black of death, nor leaves not anything To prosper- a liquid and unsullied joy. For as to what men sometimes will affirm: That more than Tartarus (the realm of death) They fear diseases and a life of shame, And know the substance of the soul is blood, Or rather wind (if haply thus their whim), And so need naught of this our science, then Thou well may'st note from what's to follow now That more for glory do they braggart forth Than for belief. For mark these very same: Exiles from country, fugitives afar From sight of men, with charges foul attaint, Abased with every wretchedness, they yet Live, and where'er the wretches come, they yet Make the ancestral sacrifices there, Butcher the black sheep, and to gods below Offer the honours, and in bitter case Turn much more keenly to religion. Wherefore, it's surer testing of a man In doubtful perils- mark him as he is Amid adversities; for then alone Are the true voices conjured from his breast, The mask off-stripped, reality behind. And greed, again, and the blind lust of honours Which force poor wretches past the bounds of law, And, oft allies and ministers of crime, To push through nights and days of the hugest toil To rise untrammelled to the peaks of power- These wounds of life in no mean part are kept Festering and open by this fright of death. For ever we see fierce Want and foul Disgrace Dislodged afar from secure life and sweet, Like huddling Shapes before the doors of death. And whilst, from these, men wish to scape afar, Driven by false terror, and afar remove, With civic blood a fortune they amass, They double their riches, greedy, heapers-up Of corpse on corpse they have a cruel laugh For the sad burial of a brother-born, And hatred and fear of tables of their kin. Likewise, through this same terror, envy oft Makes them to peak because before their eyes That man is lordly, that man gazed upon Who walks begirt with honour glorious, Whilst they in filth and darkness roll around; Some perish away for statues and a name, And oft to that degree, from fright of death, Will hate of living and beholding light Take hold on humankind that they inflict Their own destruction with a gloomy heart- Forgetful that this fear is font of cares, This fear the plague upon their sense of shame, And this that breaks the ties of comradry And oversets all reverence and faith, Mid direst slaughter. For long ere to-day Often were traitors to country and dear parents Through quest to shun the realms of Acheron. For just as children tremble and fear all In the viewless dark, so even we at times Dread in the light so many things that be No whit more fearsome than what children feign, Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark. This terror, then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning sun disperse, But only Nature's aspect and her law. NATURE AND COMPOSITION OF THE MIND First, then, I say, the mind which oft we call The intellect, wherein is seated life's Counsel and regimen, is part no less Of man than hand and foot and eyes are parts Of one whole breathing creature. But some hold That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated, But is of body some one vital state,- Named "harmony" by Greeks, because thereby We live with sense, though intellect be not In any part: as oft the body is said To have good health (when health, however, 's not One part of him who has it), so they place The sense of mind in no fixed part of man. Mightily, diversly, meseems they err. Often the body palpable and seen Sickens, while yet in some invisible part We feel a pleasure; oft the other way, A miserable in mind feels pleasure still Throughout his body- quite the same as when A foot may pain without a pain in head. Besides, when these our limbs are given o'er To gentle sleep and lies the burdened frame At random void of sense, a something else Is yet within us, which upon that time Bestirs itself in many a wise, receiving All motions of joy and phantom cares of heart. Now, for to see that in man's members dwells Also the soul, and body ne'er is wont To feel sensation by a "harmony" Take this in chief: the fact that life remains Oft in our limbs, when much of body's gone; Yet that same life, when particles of heat, Though few, have scattered been, and through the mouth Air has been given forth abroad, forthwith Forever deserts the veins, and leaves the bones. Thus mayst thou know that not all particles Perform like parts, nor in like manner all Are props of weal and safety: rather those- The seeds of wind and exhalations warm- Take care that in our members life remains. Therefore a vital heat and wind there is Within the very body, which at death Deserts our frames. And so, since nature of mind And even of soul is found to be, as 'twere, A part of man, give over "harmony"- Name to musicians brought from Helicon,- Unless themselves they filched it otherwise, To serve for what was lacking name till then. Whate'er it be, they're welcome to it- thou, Hearken my other maxims. Mind and soul, I say, are held conjoined one with other, And form one single nature of themselves; But chief and regnant through the frame entire Is still that counsel which we call the mind, And that cleaves seated in the midmost breast. Here leap dismay and terror; round these haunts Be blandishments of joys; and therefore here The intellect, the mind. The rest of soul, Throughout the body scattered, but obeys- Moved by the nod and motion of the mind. This, for itself, sole through itself, hath thought; This for itself hath mirth, even when the thing That moves it, moves nor soul nor body at all. And as, when head or eye in us is smit By assailing pain, we are not tortured then Through all the body, so the mind alone Is sometimes smitten, or livens with a joy, Whilst yet the soul's remainder through the limbs And through the frame is stirred by nothing new. But when the mind is moved by shock more fierce, We mark the whole soul suffering all at once Along man's members: sweats and pallors spread Over the body, and the tongue is broken, And fails the voice away, and ring the ears, Mists blind the eyeballs, and the joints collapse,- Aye, men drop dead from terror of the mind. Hence, whoso will can readily remark That soul conjoined is with mind, and, when 'Tis strook by influence of the mind, forthwith In turn it hits and drives the body too. And this same argument establisheth That nature of mind and soul corporeal is: For when 'tis seen to drive the members on, To snatch from sleep the body, and to change The countenance, and the whole state of man To rule and turn,- what yet could never be Sans contact, and sans body contact fails- Must we not grant that mind and soul consist Of a corporeal nature?- And besides Thou markst that likewise with this body of ours Suffers the mind and with our body feels. If the dire speed of spear that cleaves the bones And bares the inner thews hits not the life, Yet follows a fainting and a foul collapse, And, on the ground, dazed tumult in the mind, And whiles a wavering will to rise afoot. So nature of mind must be corporeal, since From stroke and spear corporeal 'tis in throes. Now, of what body, what components formed Is this same mind I will go on to tell. First, I aver, 'tis superfine, composed Of tiniest particles- that such the fact Thou canst perceive, if thou attend, from this: Nothing is seen to happen with such speed As what the mind proposes and begins; Therefore the same bestirs itself more swiftly Than aught whose nature's palpable to eyes. But what's so agile must of seeds consist Most round, most tiny, that they may be moved, When hit by impulse slight. So water moves, In waves along, at impulse just the least- Being create of little shapes that roll; But, contrariwise, the quality of honey More stable is, its liquids more inert, More tardy its flow; for all its stock of matter Cleaves more together, since, indeed, 'tis made Of atoms not so smooth, so fine, and round. For the light breeze that hovers yet can blow High heaps of poppy-seed away for thee Downward from off the top; but, contrariwise, A pile of stones or spiny ears of wheat It can't at all. Thus, in so far as bodies Are small and smooth, is their mobility; But, contrariwise, the heavier and more rough, The more immovable they prove. Now, then, Since nature of mind is movable so much, Consist it must of seeds exceeding small And smooth and round. Which fact once known to thee, Good friend, will serve thee opportune in else. This also shows the nature of the same, How nice its texture, in how small a space 'Twould go, if once compacted as a pellet: When death's unvexed repose gets hold on man And mind and soul retire, thou markest there From the whole body nothing ta'en in form, Nothing in weight. Death grants ye everything, But vital sense and exhalation hot. Thus soul entire must be of smallmost seeds, Twined through the veins, the vitals, and the thews, Seeing that, when 'tis from whole body gone, The outward figuration of the limbs Is unimpaired and weight fails not a whit. Just so, when vanished the bouquet of wine, Or when an unguent's perfume delicate Into the winds away departs, or when From any body savour's gone, yet still The thing itself seems minished naught to eyes, Thereby, nor aught abstracted from its weight- No marvel, because seeds many and minute Produce the savours and the redolence In the whole body of the things. And so, Again, again, nature of mind and soul 'Tis thine to know created is of seeds The tiniest ever, since at flying-forth It beareth nothing of the weight away. Yet fancy not its nature simple so. For an impalpable aura, mixed with heat, Deserts the dying, and heat draws off the air; And heat there's none, unless commixed with air: For, since the nature of all heat is rare, Athrough it many seeds of air must move. Thus nature of mind is triple; yet those all Suffice not for creating sense- since mind Accepteth not that aught of these can cause Sense-bearing motions, and much less the thoughts A man revolves in mind. So unto these Must added be a somewhat, and a fourth; That somewhat's altogether void of name; Than which existeth naught more mobile, naught More an impalpable, of elements More small and smooth and round. That first transmits Sense-bearing motions through the frame, for that Is roused the first, composed of little shapes; Thence heat and viewless force of wind take up The motions, and thence air, and thence all things Are put in motion; the blood is strook, and then The vitals all begin to feel, and last To bones and marrow the sensation comes- Pleasure or torment. Nor will pain for naught Enter so far, nor a sharp ill seep through, But all things be perturbed to that degree That room for life will fail, and parts of soul Will scatter through the body's every pore. Yet as a rule, almost upon the skin These motion aIl are stopped, and this is why We have the power to retain our life. Now in my eagerness to tell thee how They are commixed, through what unions fit They function so, my country's pauper-speech Constrains me sadly. As I can, however, I'll touch some points and pass. In such a wise Course these primordials 'mongst one another With intermotions that no one can be From other sundered, nor its agency Perform, if once divided by a space; Like many powers in one body they work. As in the flesh of any creature still Is odour and savour and a certain warmth, And yet from an of these one bulk of body Is made complete, so, viewless force of wind And warmth and air, commingled, do create One nature, by that mobile energy Assisted which from out itself to them Imparts initial motion, whereby first Sense-bearing motion along the vitals springs. For lurks this essence far and deep and under, Nor in our body is aught more shut from view, And 'tis the very soul of all the soul. And as within our members and whole frame The energy of mind and power of soul Is mixed and latent, since create it is Of bodies small and few, so lurks this fourth, This essence void of name, composed of small, And seems the very soul of all the soul, And holds dominion o'er the body all. And by like reason wind and air and heat Must function so, commingled through the frame, And now the one subside and now another In interchange of dominance, that thus From all of them one nature be produced, Lest heat and wind apart, and air apart, Make sense to perish, by disseverment. There is indeed in mind that heat it gets When seething in rage, and flashes from the eyes More swiftly fire; there is, again, that wind, Much, and so cold, companion of all dread, Which rouses the shudder in the shaken frame; There is no less that state of air composed, Making the tranquil breast, the serene face. But more of hot have they whose restive hearts, Whose minds of passion quickly seethe in rage- Of which kind chief are fierce abounding lions, Who often with roaring burst the breast o'erwrought, Unable to hold the surging wrath within; But the cold mind of stags has more of wind, And speedier through their inwards rouses up The icy currents which make their members quake. But more the oxen live by tranquil air, Nor e'er doth smoky torch of wrath applied, O'erspreading with shadows of a darkling murk, Rouse them too far; nor will they stiffen stark, Pierced through by icy javelins of fear; But have their place half-way between the two- Stags and fierce lions. Thus the race of men: Though training make them equally refined, It leaves those pristine vestiges behind Of each mind's nature. Nor may we suppose Evil can e'er be rooted up so far That one man's not more given to fits of wrath, Another's not more quickly touched by fear, A third not more long-suffering than he should. And needs must differ in many things besides The varied natures and resulting habits Of humankind- of which not now can I Expound the hidden causes, nor find names Enough for all the divers shapes of those Primordials whence this variation springs. But this meseems I'm able to declare: Those vestiges of natures left behind Which reason cannot quite expel from us Are still so slight that naught prevents a man From living a life even worthy of the gods. So then this soul is kept by all the body, Itself the body's guard, and source of weal; For they with common roots cleave each to each, Nor can be torn asunder without death. Not easy 'tis from lumps of frankincense To tear their fragrance forth, without its nature Perishing likewise: so, not easy 'tis From all the body nature of mind and soul To draw away, without the whole dissolved. With seeds so intertwined even from birth, They're dowered conjointly with a partner-life; No energy of body or mind, apart, Each of itself without the other's power, Can have sensation; but our sense, enkindled Along the vitals, to flame is blown by both With mutual motions. Besides the body alone Is nor begot nor grows, nor after death Seen to endure. For not as water at times Gives off the alien heat, nor is thereby Itself destroyed, but unimpaired remains- Not thus, I say, can the deserted frame Bear the dissevering of its joined soul, But, rent and ruined, moulders all away. Thus the joint contact of the body and soul Learns from their earliest age the vital motions, Even when still buried in the mother's womb; So no dissevering can hap to them, Without their bane and ill. And thence mayst see That, as conjoined is their source of weal, Conjoined also must their nature be. If one, moreover, denies that body feel, And holds that soul, through all the body mixed, Takes on this motion which we title "sense" He battles in vain indubitable facts: For who'll explain what body's feeling is, Except by what the public fact itself Has given and taught us? "But when soul is parted, Body's without all sense." True!- loses what Was even in its life-time not its own; And much beside it loses, when soul's driven Forth from that life-time. Or, to say that eyes Themselves can see no thing, but through the same The mind looks forth, as out of opened doors, Is- a hard saying; since the feel in eyes Says the reverse. For this itself draws on And forces into the pupils of our eyes Our consciousness. And note the case when often We lack the power to see refulgent things, Because our eyes are hampered by their light- With a mere doorway this would happen not; For, since it is our very selves that see, No open portals undertake the toil. Besides, if eyes of ours but act as doors, Methinks that, were our sight removed, the mind Ought then still better to behold a thing- When even the door-posts have been cleared away. Herein in these affairs nowise take up What honoured sage, Democritus, lays down- That proposition, that primordials Of body and mind, each super-posed on each, Vary alternately and interweave The fabric of our members. For not only Are the soul-elements smaller far than those Which this our body and inward parts compose, But also are they in their number less, And scattered sparsely through our frame. And thus This canst thou guarantee: soul's primal germs Maintain between them intervals as large At least as are the smallest bodies, which, When thrown against us, in our body rouse Sense-bearing motions. Hence it comes that we Sometimes don't feel alighting on our frames The clinging dust, or chalk that settles soft; Nor mists of night, nor spider's gossamer We feel against us, when, upon our road, Its net entangles us, nor on our head The dropping of its withered garmentings; Nor bird-feathers, nor vegetable down, Flying about, so light they barely fall; Nor feel the steps of every crawling thing, Nor each of all those footprints on our skin Of midges and the like. To that degree Must many primal germs be stirred in us Ere once the seeds of soul that through our frame Are intermingled 'gin to feel that those Primordials of the body have been strook, And ere, in pounding with such gaps between, They clash, combine and leap apart in turn. But mind is more the keeper of the gates, Hath more dominion over life than soul. For without intellect and mind there's not One part of soul can rest within our frame Least part of time; companioning, it goes With mind into the winds away, and leaves The icy members in the cold of death. But he whose mind and intellect abide Himself abides in life. However much The trunk be mangled, with the limbs lopped off, The soul withdrawn and taken from the limbs, Still lives the trunk and draws the vital air. Even when deprived of all but all the soul, Yet will it linger on and cleave to life,- Just as the power of vision still is strong, If but the pupil shall abide unharmed, Even when the eye around it's sorely rent- Provided only thou destroyest not Wholly the ball, but, cutting round the pupil, Leavest that pupil by itself behind- For more would ruin sight. But if that centre, That tiny part of eye, be eaten through, Forthwith the vision fails and darkness comes, Though in all else the unblemished ball be clear. 'Tis by like compact that the soul and mind Are each to other bound forevermore. THE SOUL IS MORTAL Now come: that thou mayst able be to know That minds and the light souls of all that live Have mortal birth and death, I will go on Verses to build meet for thy rule of life, Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil. But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both; And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul, Teaching the same to be but mortal, think Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind- Since both are one, a substance interjoined. First, then, since I have taught how soul exists A subtle fabric, of particles minute, Made up from atoms smaller much than those Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke, So in mobility it far excels, More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause Even moved by images of smoke or fog- As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled, The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft- For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest, Their liquids depart, their waters flow away, When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke Depart into the winds away, believe The soul no less is shed abroad and dies More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn From out man's members it has gone away. For, sure, if body (container of the same Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause, And rarefied by loss of blood from veins, Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then Thinkst thou it can be held by any air- A stuff much rarer than our bodies be? Besides we feel that mind to being comes Along with body, with body grows and ages. For just as children totter round about With frames infirm and tender, so there follows A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then, Where years have ripened into robust powers, Counsel is also greater, more increased The power of mind; thereafter, where already The body's shattered by master-powers of eld, And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers, Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way; All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time. Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved, Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air; Since we behold the same to being come Along with body and grow, and, as I've taught, Crumble and crack, therewith outworn by eld. Then, too, we see, that, just as body takes Monstrous diseases and the dreadful pain, So mind its bitter cares, the grief, the fear; Wherefore it tallies that the mind no less Partaker is of death; for pain and disease Are both artificers of death,- as well We've learned by the passing of many a man ere now. Nay, too, in diseases of body, often the mind Wanders afield; for 'tis beside itself, And crazed it speaks, or many a time it sinks, With eyelids closing and a drooping nod, In heavy drowse, on to eternal sleep; From whence nor hears it any voices more, Nor able is to know the faces here Of those about him standing with wet cheeks Who vainly call him back to light and life. Wherefore mind too, confess we must, dissolves, Seeing, indeed, contagions of disease Enter into the same. Again, O why, When the strong wine has entered into man, And its diffused fire gone round the veins, Why follows then a heaviness of limbs, A tangle of the legs as round he reels, A stuttering tongue, an intellect besoaked, Eyes all aswim, and hiccups, shouts, and brawls And whatso else is of that ilk?- Why this?- If not that violent and impetuous wine Is wont to confound the soul within the body? But whatso can confounded be and balked, Gives proof, that if a hardier cause got in, 'Twould hap that it would perish then, bereaved Of any life thereafter. And, moreover, Often will some one in a sudden fit, As if by stroke of lightning, tumble down Before our eyes, and sputter foam, and grunt, Blither, and twist about with sinews taut, Gasp up in starts, and weary out his limbs With tossing round. No marvel, since distract Through frame by violence of disease. Confounds, he foams, as if to vomit soul, As on the salt sea boil the billows round Under the master might of winds. And now A groan's forced out, because his limbs are griped But, in the main, because the seeds of voice Are driven forth and carried in a mass Outwards by mouth, where they are wont to go, And have a builded highway. He becomes Mere fool, since energy of mind and soul Confounded is, and, as I've shown, to-riven, Asunder thrown, and torn to pieces all By the same venom. But, again, where cause Of that disease has faced about, and back Retreats sharp poison of corrupted frame Into its shadowy lairs, the man at first Arises reeling, and gradually comes back To all his senses and recovers soul. Thus, since within the body itself of man The mind and soul are by such great diseases Shaken, so miserably in labour distraught, Why, then, believe that in the open air, Without a body, they can pass their life, Immortal, battling with the master winds? And, since we mark the mind itself is cured, Like the sick body, and restored can be By medicine, this is forewarning to That mortal lives the mind. For proper it is That whosoe'er begins and undertakes To alter the mind, or meditates to change Any another nature soever, should add New parts, or readjust the order given, Or from the sum remove at least a bit. But what's immortal willeth for itself Its parts be nor increased, nor rearranged, Nor any bit soever flow away: For change of anything from out its bounds Means instant death of that which was before. Ergo, the mind, whether in sickness fallen, Or by the medicine restored, gives signs, As I have taught, of its mortality. So surely will a fact of truth make head 'Gainst errors' theories all, and so shut off All refuge from the adversary, and rout Error by two-edged confutation. And since the mind is of a man one part, Which in one fixed place remains, like ears, And eyes, and every sense which pilots life; And just as hand, or eye, or nose, apart, Severed from us, can neither feel nor be, But in the least of time is left to rot, Thus mind alone can never be, without The body and the man himself, which seems, As 'twere the vessel of the same- or aught Whate'er thou'lt feign as yet more closely joined: Since body cleaves to mind by surest bonds. Again, the body's and the mind's live powers Only in union prosper and enjoy; For neither can nature of mind, alone of itself Sans body, give the vital motions forth; Nor, then, can body, wanting soul, endure And use the senses. Verily, as the eye, Alone, up-rended from its roots, apart From all the body, can peer about at naught, So soul and mind it seems are nothing able, When by themselves. No marvel, because, commixed Through veins and inwards, and through bones and thews, Their elements primordial are confined By all the body, and own no power free To bound around through interspaces big, Thus, shut within these confines, they take on Motions of sense, which, after death, thrown out Beyond the body to the winds of air, Take on they cannot- and on this account, Because no more in such a way confined. For air will be a body, be alive, If in that air the soul can keep itself, And in that air enclose those motions all Which in the thews and in the body itself A while ago 'twas making. So for this, Again, again, I say confess we must, That, when the body's wrappings are unwound, And when the vital breath is forced without, The soul, the senses of the mind dissolve,- Since for the twain the cause and ground of life Is in the fact of their conjoined estate. Once more, since body's unable to sustain Division from the soul, without decay And obscene stench, how canst thou doubt but that The soul, uprisen from the body's deeps, Has filtered away, wide-drifted like a smoke, Or that the changed body crumbling fell With ruin so entire, because, indeed, Its deep foundations have been moved from place, The soul out-filtering even through the frame, And through the body's every winding way And orifice? And so by many means Thou'rt free to learn that nature of the soul Hath passed in fragments out along the frame, And that 'twas shivered in the very body Ere ever it slipped abroad and swam away Into the winds of air. For never a man Dying appears to feel the soul go forth As one sure whole from all his body at once, Nor first come up the throat and into mouth; But feels it failing in a certain spot, Even as he knows the senses too dissolve Each in its own location in the frame. But were this mind of ours immortal mind, Dying 'twould scarce bewail a dissolution, But rather the going, the leaving of its coat, Like to a snake. Wherefore, when once the body Hath passed away, admit we must that soul, Shivered in all that body, perished too. Nay, even when moving in the bounds of life, Often the soul, now tottering from some cause, Craves to go out, and from the frame entire Loosened to be; the countenance becomes Flaccid, as if the supreme hour were there; And flabbily collapse the members all Against the bloodless trunk- the kind of case We see when we remark in common phrase, "That man's quite gone," or "fainted dead away"; And where there's now a bustle of alarm, And all are eager to get some hold upon The man's last link of life. For then the mind And all the power of soul are shook so sore, And these so totter along with all the frame, That any cause a little stronger might Dissolve them altogether.- Why, then, doubt That soul, when once without the body thrust, There in the open, an enfeebled thing, Its wrappings stripped away, cannot endure Not only through no everlasting age, But even, indeed, through not the least of time? Then, too, why never is the intellect, The counselling mind, begotten in the head, The feet, the hands, instead of cleaving still To one sole seat, to one fixed haunt, the breast, If not that fixed places be assigned For each thing's birth, where each, when 'tis create, Is able to endure, and that our frames Have such complex adjustments that no shift In order of our members may appear? To that degree effect succeeds to cause, Nor is the flame once wont to be create In flowing streams, nor cold begot in fire. Besides, if nature of soul immortal be, And able to feel, when from our frame disjoined, The same, I fancy, must be thought to be Endowed with senses five,- nor is there way But this whereby to image to ourselves How under-souls may roam in Acheron. Thus painters and the elder race of bards Have pictured souls with senses so endowed. But neither eyes, nor nose, nor hand, alone Apart from body can exist for soul, Nor tongue nor ears apart. And hence indeed Alone by self they can nor feel nor be. And since we mark the vital sense to be In the whole body, all one living thing, If of a sudden a force with rapid stroke Should slice it down the middle and cleave in twain, Beyond a doubt likewise the soul itself, Divided, dissevered, asunder will be flung Along with body. But what severed is And into sundry parts divides, indeed Admits it owns no everlasting nature. We hear how chariots of war, areek With hurly slaughter, lop with flashing scythes The limbs away so suddenly that there, Fallen from the trunk, they quiver on the earth, The while the mind and powers of the man Can feel no pain, for swiftness of his hurt, And sheer abandon in the zest of battle: With the remainder of his frame he seeks Anew the battle and the slaughter, nor marks How the swift wheels and scythes of ravin have dragged Off with the horses his left arm and shield; Nor other how his right has dropped away, Mounting again and on. A third attempts With leg dismembered to arise and stand, Whilst, on the ground hard by, the dying foot Twitches its spreading toes. And even the head, When from the warm and living trunk lopped off, Keeps on the ground the vital countenance And open eyes, until 't has rendered up All remnants of the soul. Nay, once again: If, when a serpent's darting forth its tongue, And lashing its tail, thou gettest chance to hew With axe its length of trunk to many parts, Thou'lt see each severed fragment writhing round With its fresh wound, and spattering up the sod, And there the fore-part seeking with the jaws After the hinder, with bite to stop the pain. So shall we say that these be souls entire In all those fractions?- but from that 'twould follow One creature'd have in body many souls. Therefore, the soul, which was indeed but one, Has been divided with the body too: Each is but mortal, since alike is each Hewn into many parts. Again, how often We view our fellow going by degrees, And losing limb by limb the vital sense; First nails and fingers of the feet turn blue, Next die the feet and legs, then o'er the rest Slow crawl the certain footsteps of cold death. And since this nature of the soul is torn, Nor mounts away, as at one time, entire, We needs must hold it mortal. But perchance If thou supposest that the soul itself Can inward draw along the frame, and bring Its parts together to one place, and so From all the members draw the sense away, Why, then, that place in which such stock of soul Collected is, should greater seem in sense. But since such place is nowhere, for a fact, As said before, 'tis rent and scattered forth, And so goes under. Or again, if now I please to grant the false, and say that soul Can thus be lumped within the frames of those Who leave the sunshine, dying bit by bit, Still must the soul as mortal be confessed; Nor aught it matters whether to wrack it go, Dispersed in the winds, or, gathered in a mass From all its parts, sink down to brutish death, Since more and more in every region sense Fails the whole man, and less and less of life In every region lingers. And besides, If soul immortal is, and winds its way Into the body at the birth of man, Why can we not remember something, then, Of life-time spent before? why keep we not Some footprints of the things we did of, old? But if so changed hath been the power of mind, That every recollection of things done Is fallen away, at no o'erlong remove Is that, I trow, from what we mean by death. Wherefore 'tis sure that what hath been before Hath died, and what now is is now create. Moreover, if after the body hath been built Our mind's live powers are wont to be put in, Just at the moment that we come to birth, And cross the sills of life, 'twould scarcely fit For them to live as if they seemed to grow Along with limbs and frame, even in the blood, But rather as in a cavern all alone. (Yet all the body duly throngs with sense.) But public fact declares against all this: For soul is so entwined through the veins, The flesh, the thews, the bones, that even the teeth Share in sensation, as proven by dull ache, By twinge from icy water, or grating crunch Upon a stone that got in mouth with bread. Wherefore, again, again, souls must be thought Nor void of birth, nor free from law of death; Nor, if, from outward, in they wound their way, Could they be thought as able so to cleave To these our frames, nor, since so interwove, Appears it that they're able to go forth Unhurt and whole and loose themselves unscathed From all the thews, articulations, bones. But, if perchance thou thinkest that the soul, From outward winding in its way, is wont To seep and soak along these members ours, Then all the more 'twill perish, being thus With body fused- for what will seep and soak Will be dissolved and will therefore die. For just as food, dispersed through all the pores Of body, and passed through limbs and all the frame, Perishes, supplying from itself the stuff For other nature, thus the soul and mind, Though whole and new into a body going, Are yet, by seeping in, dissolved away, Whilst, as through pores, to all the frame there pass Those particles from which created is This nature of mind, now ruler of our body, Born from that soul which perished, when divided Along the frame. Wherefore it seems that soul Hath both a natal and funeral hour. Besides are seeds of soul there left behind In the breathless body, or not? If there they are, It cannot justly be immortal deemed, Since, shorn of some parts lost, 'thas gone away: But if, borne off with members uncorrupt, 'Thas fled so absolutely all away It leaves not one remainder of itself Behind in body, whence do cadavers, then, From out their putrid flesh exhale the worms, And whence does such a mass of living things, Boneless and bloodless, o'er the bloated frame Bubble and swarm? But if perchance thou thinkest That souls from outward into worms can wind, And each into a separate body come, And reckonest not why many thousand souls Collect where only one has gone away, Here is a point, in sooth, that seems to need Inquiry and a putting to the test: Whether the souls go on a hunt for seeds Of worms wherewith to build their dwelling places, Or enter bodies ready-made, as 'twere. But why themselves they thus should do and toil 'Tis hard to say, since, being free of body, They flit around, harassed by no disease, Nor cold nor famine; for the body labours By more of kinship to these flaws of life, And mind by contact with that body suffers So many ills. But grant it be for them However useful to construct a body To which to enter in, 'tis plain they can't. Then, souls for self no frames nor bodies make, Nor is there how they once might enter in To bodies ready-made- for they cannot Be nicely interwoven with the same, And there'll be formed no interplay of sense Common to each. Again, why is't there goes Impetuous rage with lion's breed morose, And cunning with foxes, and to deer why given The ancestral fear and tendency to flee, And why in short do all the rest of traits Engender from the very start of life In the members and mentality, if not Because one certain power of mind that came From its own seed and breed waxes the same Along with all the body? But were mind Immortal, were it wont to change its bodies, How topsy-turvy would earth's creatures act! The Hyrcan hound would flee the onset oft Of antlered stag, the scurrying hawk would quake Along the winds of air at the coming dove, And men would dote, and savage beasts be wise; For false the reasoning of those that say Immortal mind is changed by change of body- For what is changed dissolves, and therefore dies. For parts are re-disposed and leave their order; Wherefore they must be also capable Of dissolution through the frame at last, That they along with body perish all. But should some say that always souls of men Go into human bodies, I will ask: How can a wise become a dullard soul? And why is never a child's a prudent soul? And the mare's filly why not trained so well As sturdy strength of steed? We may be sure They'll take their refuge in the thought that mind Becomes a weakling in a weakling frame. Yet be this so, 'tis needful to confess The soul but mortal, since, so altered now Throughout the frame, it loses the life and sense It had before. Or how can mind wax strong Co-equally with body and attain The craved flower of life, unless it be The body's colleague in its origins? Or what's the purport of its going forth From aged limbs?- fears it, perhaps, to stay, Pent in a crumbled body? Or lest its house, Outworn by venerable length of days, May topple down upon it? But indeed For an immortal, perils are there none. Again, at parturitions of the wild And at the rites of Love, that souls should stand Ready hard by seems ludicrous enough- Immortals waiting for their mortal limbs In numbers innumerable, contending madly Which shall be first and chief to enter in!- Unless perchance among the souls there be Such treaties stablished that the first to come Flying along, shall enter in the first, And that they make no rivalries of strength! Again, in ether can't exist a tree, Nor clouds in ocean deeps, nor in the fields Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be, Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged Where everything may grow and have its place. Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone Without the body, nor exist afar From thews and blood. But if 'twere possible, Much rather might this very power of mind Be in the head, the shoulders or the heels, And, born in any part soever, yet In the same man, in the same vessel abide. But since within this body even of ours Stands fixed and appears arranged sure Where soul and mind can each exist and grow, Deny we must the more that they can have Duration and birth, wholly outside the frame. For, verily, the mortal to conjoin With the eternal, and to feign they feel Together, and can function each with each, Is but to dote: for what can be conceived Of more unlike, discrepant, ill-assorted, Than something mortal in a union joined With an immortal and a secular To bear the outrageous tempests? Then, again, Whatever abides eternal must indeed Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made Of solid body, and permit no entrance Of aught with power to sunder from within The parts compact- as are those seeds of stuff Whose nature we've exhibited before; Or else be able to endure through time For this: because they are from blows exempt, As is the void, the which abides untouched, Unsmit by any stroke; or else because There is no room around, whereto things can, As 'twere, depart in dissolution all,- Even as the sum of sums eternal is, Without or place beyond whereto things may Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite, And thus dissolve them by the blows of might. But if perchance the soul's to be adjudged Immortal, mainly on ground 'tis kept secure In vital forces- either because there come Never at all things hostile to its weal, Or else because what come somehow retire, Repelled or ere we feel the harm they work, For, lo, besides that, when the frame's diseased, Soul sickens too, there cometh, many a time, That which torments it with the things to be, Keeps it in dread, and wearies it with cares; And even when evil acts are of the past, Still gnaw the old transgressions bitterly. Add, too, that frenzy, peculiar to the mind, And that oblivion of the things that were; Add its submergence in the murky waves Of drowse and torpor. FOLLY OF THE FEAR OF DEATH Therefore death to us Is nothing, nor concerns us in the least, Since nature of mind is mortal evermore. And just as in the ages gone before We felt no touch of ill, when all sides round To battle came the Carthaginian host, And the times, shaken by tumultuous war, Under the aery coasts of arching heaven Shuddered and trembled, and all humankind Doubted to which the empery should fall By land and sea, thus when we are no more, When comes that sundering of our body and soul Through which we're fashioned to a single state, Verily naught to us, us then no more, Can come to pass, naught move our senses then- No, not if earth confounded were with sea, And sea with heaven. But if indeed do feel The nature of mind and energy of soul, After their severance from this body of ours, Yet nothing 'tis to us who in the bonds And wedlock of the soul and body live, Through which we're fashioned to a single state. And, even if time collected after death The matter of our frames and set it all Again in place as now, and if again To us the light of life were given, O yet That process too would not concern us aught, When once the self-succession of our sense Has been asunder broken. And now and here, Little enough we're busied with the selves We were aforetime, nor, concerning them, Suffer a sore distress. For shouldst thou gaze Backwards across all yesterdays of time The immeasurable, thinking how manifold The motions of matter are, then couldst thou well Credit this too: often these very seeds (From which we are to-day) of old were set In the same order as they are to-day- Yet this we can't to consciousness recall Through the remembering mind. For there hath been An interposed pause of life, and wide Have all the motions wandered everywhere From these our senses. For if woe and ail Perchance are toward, then the man to whom The bane can happen must himself be there At that same time. But death precludeth this, Forbidding life to him on whom might crowd Such irk and care; and granted 'tis to know: Nothing for us there is to dread in death, No wretchedness for him who is no more, The same estate as if ne'er born before, When death immortal hath ta'en the mortal life. Hence, where thou seest a man to grieve because When dead he rots with body laid away, Or perishes in flames or jaws of beasts, Know well: he rings not true, and that beneath Still works an unseen sting upon his heart, However he deny that he believes. His shall be aught of feeling after death. For he, I fancy, grants not what he says, Nor what that presupposes, and he fails To pluck himself with all his roots from life And cast that self away, quite unawares Feigning that some remainder's left behind. For when in life one pictures to oneself His body dead by beasts and vultures torn, He pities his state, dividing not himself Therefrom, removing not the self enough From the body flung away, imagining Himself that body, and projecting there His own sense, as he stands beside it: hence He grieves that he is mortal born, nor marks That in true death there is no second self Alive and able to sorrow for self destroyed, Or stand lamenting that the self lies there Mangled or burning. For if it an evil is Dead to be jerked about by jaw and fang Of the wild brutes, I see not why 'twere not Bitter to lie on fires and roast in flames, Or suffocate in honey, and, reclined On the smooth oblong of an icy slab, Grow stiff in cold, or sink with load of earth Down-crushing from above. "Thee now no more The joyful house and best of wives shall welcome, Nor little sons run up to snatch their kisses And touch with silent happiness thy heart. Thou shalt not speed in undertakings more, Nor be the warder of thine own no more. Poor wretch," they say, "one hostile hour hath ta'en Wretchedly from thee all life's many guerdons," But add not, "yet no longer unto thee Remains a remnant of desire for them" If this they only well perceived with mind And followed up with maxims, they would free Their state of man from anguish and from fear. "O even as here thou art, aslumber in death, So shalt thou slumber down the rest of time, Released from every harrying pang. But we, We have bewept thee with insatiate woe, Standing beside whilst on the awful pyre Thou wert made ashes; and no day shall take For us the eternal sorrow from the breast." But ask the mourner what's the bitterness That man should waste in an eternal grief, If, after all, the thing's but sleep and rest? For when the soul and frame together are sunk In slumber, no one then demands his self Or being. Well, this sleep may be forever, Without desire of any selfhood more, For all it matters unto us asleep. Yet not at all do those primordial germs Roam round our members, at that time, afar From their own motions that produce our senses- Since, when he's startled from his sleep, a man Collects his senses. Death is, then, to us Much less- if there can be a less than that Which is itself a nothing: for there comes Hard upon death a scattering more great Of the throng of matter, and no man wakes up On whom once falls the icy pause of life. This too, O often from the soul men say, Along their couches holding of the cups, With faces shaded by fresh wreaths awry: "Brief is this fruit of joy to paltry man, Soon, soon departed, and thereafter, no, It may not be recalled."- As if, forsooth, It were their prime of evils in great death To parch, poor tongues, with thirst and arid drought, Or chafe for any lack. Once more, if Nature Should of a sudden send a voice abroad, And her own self inveigh against us so: "Mortal, what hast thou of such grave concern That thou indulgest in too sickly plaints? Why this bemoaning and beweeping death? For if thy life aforetime and behind To thee was grateful, and not all thy good Was heaped as in sieve to flow away And perish unavailingly, why not, Even like a banqueter, depart the halls, Laden with life? why not with mind content Take now, thou fool, thy unafflicted rest? But if whatever thou enjoyed hath been Lavished and lost, and life is now offence, Why seekest more to add- which in its turn Will perish foully and fall out in vain? O why not rather make an end of life, Of labour? For all I may devise or find To pleasure thee is nothing: all things are The same forever. Though not yet thy body Wrinkles with years, nor yet the frame exhausts Outworn, still things abide the same, even if Thou goest on to conquer all of time With length of days, yea, if thou never diest"- What were our answer, but that Nature here Urges just suit and in her words lays down True cause of action? Yet should one complain, Riper in years and elder, and lament, Poor devil, his death more sorely than is fit, Then would she not, with greater right, on him Cry out, inveighing with a voice more shrill: "Off with thy tears, and choke thy whines, buffoon! Thou wrinklest- after thou hast had the sum Of the guerdons of life; yet, since thou cravest ever What's not at hand, contemning present good, That life has slipped away, unperfected And unavailing unto thee. And now, Or ere thou guessed it, death beside thy head Stands- and before thou canst be going home Sated and laden with the goodly feast. But now yield all that's alien to thine age,- Up, with good grace! make room for sons: thou must." Justly, I fancy, would she reason thus, Justly inveigh and gird: since ever the old Outcrowded by the new gives way, and ever The one thing from the others is repaired. Nor no man is consigned to the abyss Of Tartarus, the black. For stuff must be, That thus the after-generations grow,- Though these, their life completed, follow thee; And thus like thee are generations all- Already fallen, or some time to fall. So one thing from another rises ever; And in fee-simple life is given to none, But unto all mere usufruct. Look back: Nothing to us was all fore-passed eld Of time the eternal, ere we had a birth. And Nature holds this like a mirror up Of time-to-be when we are dead and gone. And what is there so horrible appears? Now what is there so sad about it all? Is't not serener far than any sleep? And, verily, those tortures said to be In Acheron, the deep, they all are ours Here in this life. No Tantalus, benumbed With baseless terror, as the fables tell, Fears the huge boulder hanging in the air: But, rather, in life an empty dread of gods Urges mortality, and each one fears Such fall of fortune as may chance to him. Nor eat the vultures into Tityus Prostrate in Acheron, nor can they find, Forsooth, throughout eternal ages, aught To pry around for in that mighty breast. However hugely he extend his bulk- Who hath for outspread limbs not acres nine, But the whole earth- he shall not able be To bear eternal pain nor furnish food From his own frame forever. But for us A Tityus is he whom vultures rend Prostrate in love, whom anxious anguish eats, Whom troubles of any unappeased desires Asunder rip. We have before our eyes Here in this life also a Sisyphus In him who seeketh of the populace The rods, the axes fell, and evermore Retires a beaten and a gloomy man. For to seek after power- an empty name, Nor given at all- and ever in the search To endure a world of toil, O this it is To shove with shoulder up the hill a stone Which yet comes rolling back from off the top, And headlong makes for levels of the plain. Then to be always feeding an ingrate mind, Filling with good things, satisfying never- As do the seasons of the year for us, When they return and bring their progenies And varied charms, and we are never filled With the fruits of life- O this, I fancy, 'tis To pour, like those young virgins in the tale, Waters into a sieve, unfilled forever. Cerberus and Furies, and that Lack of Light Tartarus, out-belching from his mouth the surge Of horrible heat- the which are nowhere, nor Indeed can be: but in this life is fear Of retributions just and expiations For evil acts: the dungeon and the leap From that dread rock of infamy, the stripes, The executioners, the oaken rack, The iron plates, bitumen, and the torch. And even though these are absent, yet the mind, With a fore-fearing conscience, plies its goads And burns beneath the lash, nor sees meanwhile What terminus of ills, what end of pine Can ever be, and feareth lest the same But grow more heavy after death. Of truth, The life of fools is Acheron on earth. This also to thy very self sometimes Repeat thou mayst: "Lo, even good Ancus left The sunshine with his eyes, in divers things A better man than thou, O worthless hind; And many other kings and lords of rule Thereafter have gone under, once who swayed O'er mighty peoples. And he also, he- Who whilom paved a highway down the sea, And gave his legionaries thoroughfare Along the deep, and taught them how to cross The pools of brine afoot, and did contemn, Trampling upon it with his cavalry, The bellowings of ocean- poured his soul From dying body, as his light was ta'en. And Scipio's son, the thunderbolt of war, Horror of Carthage, gave his bones to earth, Like to the lowliest villein in the house. Add finders-out of sciences and arts; Add comrades of the Heliconian dames, Among whom Homer, sceptered o'er them all Now lies in slumber sunken with the rest. Then, too, Democritus, when ripened eld Admonished him his memory waned away, Of own accord offered his head to death. Even Epicurus went, his light of life Run out, the man in genius who o'er-topped The human race, extinguishing all others, As sun, in ether arisen, all the stars. Wilt thou, then, dally, thou complain to go?- For whom already life's as good as dead, Whilst yet thou livest and lookest?- who in sleep Wastest thy life- time's major part, and snorest Even when awake, and ceasest not to see The stuff of dreams, and bearest a mind beset By baseless terror, nor discoverest oft What's wrong with thee, when, like a sotted wretch, Thou'rt jostled along by many crowding cares, And wanderest reeling round, with mind aswim." If men, in that same way as on the mind They feel the load that wearies with its weight, Could also know the causes whence it comes, And why so great the heap of ill on heart, O not in this sort would they live their life, As now so much we see them, knowing not What 'tis they want, and seeking ever and ever A change of place, as if to drop the burden. The man who sickens of his home goes out, Forth from his splendid halls, and straight- returns, Feeling i'faith no better off abroad. He races, driving his Gallic ponies along, Down to his villa, madly,- as in haste To hurry help to a house afire.- At once He yawns, as soon as foot has touched the threshold, Or drowsily goes off in sleep and seeks Forgetfulness, or maybe bustles about And makes for town again. In such a way Each human flees himself- a self in sooth, As happens, he by no means can escape; And willy-nilly he cleaves to it and loathes, Sick, sick, and guessing not the cause of ail. Yet should he see but that, O chiefly then, Leaving all else, he'd study to divine The nature of things, since here is in debate Eternal time and not the single hour, Mortal's estate in whatsoever remains After great death. And too, when all is said, What evil lust of life is this so great Subdues us to live, so dreadfully distraught In perils and alarms? one fixed end Of life abideth for mortality; Death's not to shun, and we must go to meet. Besides we're busied with the same devices, Ever and ever, and we are at them ever, And there's no new delight that may be forged By living on. But whilst the thing we long for Is lacking, that seems good above all else; Thereafter, when we've touched it, something else We long for; ever one equal thirst of life Grips us agape. And doubtful 'tis what fortune The future times may carry, or what be That chance may bring, or what the issue next Awaiting us. Nor by prolonging life Take we the least away from death's own time, Nor can we pluck one moment off, whereby To minish the aeons of our state of death. Therefore, O man, by living on, fulfil As many generations as thou may: Eternal death shall there be waiting still; And he who died with light of yesterday Shall be no briefer time in death's No-more Than he who perished months or years before. BOOK IV PROEM I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought, Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides, Trodden by step of none before. I joy To come on undefiled fountains there, To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers, To seek for this my head a signal crown From regions where the Muses never yet Have garlanded the temples of a man: First, since I teach concerning mighty things, And go right on to loose from round the mind The tightened coils of dread Religion; Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame Song so pellucid, touching all throughout Even with the Muses' charm- which, as 'twould seem, Is not without a reasonable ground: For as physicians, when they seek to give Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch The brim around the cup with the sweet juice And yellow of the honey, in order that The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled As far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow down The wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled, Be yet not merely duped, but rather thus Grow strong again with recreated health: So now I too (since this my doctrine seems In general somewhat woeful unto those Who've had it not in hand, and since the crowd Starts back from it in horror) have desired To expound our doctrine unto thee in song Soft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere, To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse- If by such method haply I might hold The mind of thee upon these lines of ours, Till thou dost learn the nature of all things And understandest their utility. EXISTENCE AND CHARACTER OF THE IMAGES But since I've taught already of what sort The seeds of all things are, and how distinct In divers forms they flit of own accord, Stirred with a motion everlasting on, And in what mode things be from them create, And since I've taught what the mind's nature is, And of what things 'tis with the body knit And thrives in strength, and by what mode uptorn That mind returns to its primordials, Now will I undertake an argument- One for these matters of supreme concern- That there exist those somewhats which we call The images of things: these, like to films Scaled off the utmost outside of the things, Flit hither and thither through the atmosphere, And the same terrify our intellects, Coming upon us waking or in sleep, When oft we peer at wonderful strange shapes And images of people lorn of light, Which oft have horribly roused us when we lay In slumber- that haply nevermore may we Suppose that souls get loose from Acheron, Or shades go floating in among the living, Or aught of us is left behind at death, When body and mind, destroyed together, each Back to its own primordials goes away. And thus I say that effigies of things, And tenuous shapes from off the things are sent, From off the utmost outside of the things, Which are like films or may be named a rind, Because the image bears like look and form With whatso body has shed it fluttering forth- A fact thou mayst, however dull thy wits, Well learn from this: mainly, because we see Even 'mongst visible objects many be That send forth bodies, loosely some diffused- Like smoke from oaken logs and heat from fires- And some more interwoven and condensed- As when the locusts in the summertime Put off their glossy tunics, or when calves At birth drop membranes from their body's surface, Or when, again, the slippery serpent doffs Its vestments 'mongst the thorns- for oft we see The breres augmented with their flying spoils: Since such takes place, 'tis likewise certain too That tenuous images from things are sent, From off the utmost outside of the things. For why those kinds should drop and part from things, Rather than others tenuous and thin, No power has man to open mouth to tell; Especially, since on outsides of things Are bodies many and minute which could, In the same order which they had before, And with the figure of their form preserved, Be thrown abroad, and much more swiftly too, Being less subject to impediments, As few in number and placed along the front. For truly many things we see discharge Their stuff at large, not only from their cores Deep-set within, as we have said above, But from their surfaces at times no less- Their very colours too. And commonly The awnings, saffron, red and dusky blue, Stretched overhead in mighty theatres, Upon their poles and cross-beams fluttering, Have such an action quite; for there they dye And make to undulate with their every hue The circled throng below, and all the stage, And rich attire in the patrician seats. And ever the more the theatre's dark walls Around them shut, the more all things within Laugh in the bright suffusion of strange glints, The daylight being withdrawn. And therefore, since The canvas hangings thus discharge their dye From off their surface, things in general must Likewise their tenuous effigies discharge, Because in either case they are off-thrown From off the surface. So there are indeed Such certain prints and vestiges of forms Which flit around, of subtlest texture made, Invisible, when separate, each and one. Again, all odour, smoke, and heat, and such Streams out of things diffusedly, because, Whilst coming from the deeps of body forth And rising out, along their bending path They're torn asunder, nor have gateways straight Wherethrough to mass themselves and struggle abroad. But contrariwise, when such a tenuous film Of outside colour is thrown off, there's naught Can rend it, since 'tis placed along the front Ready to hand. Lastly those images Which to our eyes in mirrors do appear, In water, or in any shining surface, Must be, since furnished with like look of things, Fashioned from images of things sent out. There are, then, tenuous effigies of forms, Like unto them, which no one can divine When taken singly, which do yet give back, When by continued and recurrent discharge Expelled, a picture from the mirrors' plane. Nor otherwise, it seems, can they be kept So well conserved that thus be given back Figures so like each object. Now then, learn How tenuous is the nature of an image. And in the first place, since primordials be So far beneath our senses, and much less E'en than those objects which begin to grow Too small for eyes to note, learn now in few How nice are the beginnings of all things- That this, too, I may yet confirm in proof: First, living creatures are sometimes so small That even their third part can nowise be seen; Judge, then, the size of any inward organ- What of their sphered heart, their eyes, their limbs, The skeleton?- How tiny thus they are! And what besides of those first particles Whence soul and mind must fashioned be?- Seest not How nice and how minute? Besides, whatever Exhales from out its body a sharp smell- The nauseous absinth, or the panacea, Strong southernwood, or bitter centaury- If never so lightly with thy [fingers] twain Perchance [thou touch] a one of them Then why not rather know that images Flit hither and thither, many, in many modes, Bodiless and invisible? But lest Haply thou holdest that those images Which come from objects are the sole that flit, Others indeed there be of own accord Begot, self-formed in earth's aery skies, Which, moulded to innumerable shapes, Are borne aloft, and, fluid as they are, Cease not to change appearance and to turn Into new outlines of all sorts of forms; As we behold the clouds grow thick on high And smirch the serene vision of the world, Stroking the air with motions. For oft are seen The giants' faces flying far along And trailing a spread of shadow; and at times The mighty mountains and mountain-sundered rocks Going before and crossing on the sun, Whereafter a monstrous beast dragging amain And leading in the other thunderheads. Now [hear] how easy and how swift they be Engendered, and perpetually flow off From things and gliding pass away.... For ever every outside streams away From off all objects, since discharge they may; And when this outside reaches other things, As chiefly glass, it passes through; but where It reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood, There 'tis so rent that it cannot give back An image. But when gleaming objects dense, As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it, Nothing of this sort happens. For it can't Go, as through glass, nor yet be rent- its safety, By virtue of that smoothness, being sure. 'Tis therefore that from them the images Stream back to us; and howso suddenly Thou place, at any instant, anything Before a mirror, there an image shows; Proving that ever from a body's surface Flow off thin textures and thin shapes of things. Thus many images in little time Are gendered; so their origin is named Rightly a speedy. And even as the sun Must send below, in little time, to earth So many beams to keep all things so full Of light incessant; thus, on grounds the same, From things there must be borne, in many modes, To every quarter round, upon the moment, The many images of things; because Unto whatever face of things we turn The mirror, things of form and hue the same Respond. Besides, though but a moment since Serenest was the weather of the sky, So fiercely sudden is it foully thick That ye might think that round about all murk Had parted forth from Acheron and filled The mighty vaults of sky- so grievously, As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome night, Do faces of black horror hang on high- Of which how small a part an image is There's none to tell or reckon out in words. Now come; with what swift motion they are borne, These images, and what the speed assigned To them across the breezes swimming on- So that o'er lengths of space a little hour Alone is wasted, toward whatever region Each with its divers impulse tends- I'll tell In verses sweeter than they many are; Even as the swan's slight note is better far Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes Among the southwind's aery clouds. And first, One oft may see that objects which are light And made of tiny bodies are the swift; In which class is the sun's light and his heat, Since made from small primordial elements Which, as it were, are forward knocked along And through the interspaces of the air To pass delay not, urged by blows behind; For light by light is instantly supplied And gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven. Thus likewise must the images have power Through unimaginable space to speed Within a point of time,- first, since a cause Exceeding small there is, which at their back Far forward drives them and propels, where, too, They're carried with such winged lightness on; And, secondly, since furnished, when sent off, With texture of such rareness that they can Through objects whatsoever penetrate And ooze, as 'twere, through intervening air. Besides, if those fine particles of things Which from so deep within are sent abroad, As light and heat of sun, are seen to glide And spread themselves through all the space of heaven Upon one instant of the day, and fly O'er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what then Of those which on the outside stand prepared, When they're hurled off with not a thing to check Their going out? Dost thou not see indeed How swifter and how farther must they go And speed through manifold the length of space In time the same that from the sun the rays O'erspread the heaven? This also seems to be Example chief and true with what swift speed The images of things are borne about: That soon as ever under open skies Is spread the shining water, all at once, If stars be out in heaven, upgleam from earth, Serene and radiant in the water there, The constellations of the universe- Now seest thou not in what a point of time An image from the shores of ether falls Unto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again, And yet again, 'tis needful to confess With wondrous... THE SENSES AND MENTAL PICTURES Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight. From certain things flow odours evermore, As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls Around the coasts. Nor ever cease to flit The varied voices, sounds athrough the air. Then too there comes into the mouth at times The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch The wormword being mixed, its bitter stings. To such degree from all things is each thing Borne streamingly along, and sent about To every region round; and Nature grants Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow, Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have, And all the time are suffered to descry And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound. Besides, since shape examined by our hands Within the dark is known to be the same As that by eyes perceived within the light And lustrous day, both touch and sight must be By one like cause aroused. So, if we test A square and get its stimulus on us Within the dark, within the light what square Can fall upon our sight, except a square That images the things? Wherefore it seems The source of seeing is in images, Nor without these can anything be viewed. Now these same films I name are borne about And tossed and scattered into regions all. But since we do perceive alone through eyes, It follows hence that whitherso we turn Our sight, all things do strike against it there With form and hue. And just how far from us Each thing may be away, the image yields To us the power to see and chance to tell: For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves ahead And drives along the air that's in the space Betwixt it and our eyes. And thus this air All glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere, Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswise Passes across. Therefore it comes we see How far from us each thing may be away, And the more air there be that's driven before, And too the longer be the brushing breeze Against our eyes, the farther off removed Each thing is seen to be: forsooth, this work With mightily swift order all goes on, So that upon one instant we may see What kind the object and how far away. Nor over-marvellous must this be deemed In these affairs that, though the films which strike Upon the eyes cannot be singly seen, The things themselves may be perceived. For thus When the wind beats upon us stroke by stroke And when the sharp cold streams, 'tis not our wont To feel each private particle of wind Or of that cold, but rather all at once; And so we see how blows affect our body, As if one thing were beating on the same And giving us the feel of its own body Outside of us. Again, whene'er we thump With finger-tip upon a stone, we touch But the rock's surface and the outer hue, Nor feel that hue by contact- rather feel The very hardness deep within the rock. Now come, and why beyond a looking-glass An image may be seen, perceive. For seen It soothly is, removed far within. 'Tis the same sort as objects peered upon Outside in their true shape, whene'er a door Yields through itself an open peering-place, And lets us see so many things outside Beyond the house. Also that sight is made By a twofold twin air: for first is seen The air inside the door-posts; next the doors, The twain to left and right; and afterwards A light beyond comes brushing through our eyes, Then other air, then objects peered upon Outside in their true shape. And thus, when first The image of the glass projects itself, As to our gaze it comes, it shoves ahead And drives along the air that's in the space Betwixt it and our eyes, and brings to pass That we perceive the air ere yet the glass. But when we've also seen the glass itself, Forthwith that image which from us is borne Reaches the glass, and there thrown back again Comes back unto our eyes, and driving rolls Ahead of itself another air, that then 'Tis this we see before itself, and thus It looks so far removed behind the glass. Wherefore again, again, there's naught for wonder In those which render from the mirror's plane A vision back, since each thing comes to pass By means of the two airs. Now, in the glass The right part of our members is observed Upon the left, because, when comes the image Hitting against the level of the glass, 'Tis not returned unshifted; but forced off Backwards in line direct and not oblique,- Exactly as whoso his plaster-mask Should dash, before 'twere dry, on post or beam, And it should straightway keep, at clinging there, Its shape, reversed, facing him who threw, And so remould the features it gives back: It comes that now the right eye is the left, The left the right. An image too may be From mirror into mirror handed on, Until of idol-films even five or six Have thus been gendered. For whatever things Shall hide back yonder in the house, the same, However far removed in twisting ways, May still be all brought forth through bending paths And by these several mirrors seen to be Within the house, since Nature so compels All things to be borne backward and spring off At equal angles from all other things. To such degree the image gleams across From mirror unto mirror; where 'twas left It comes to be the right, and then again Returns and changes round unto the left. Again, those little sides of mirrors curved Proportionate to the bulge of our own flank Send back to us their idols with the right Upon the right; and this is so because Either the image is passed on along From mirror unto mirror, and thereafter, When twice dashed off, flies back unto ourselves; Or else the image wheels itself around, When once unto the mirror it has come, Since the curved surface teaches it to turn To usward. Further, thou might'st well believe That these film-idols step along with us And set their feet in unison with ours And imitate our carriage, since from that Part of a mirror whence thou hast withdrawn Straightway no images can be returned. Further, our eye-balls tend to flee the bright And shun to gaze thereon; the sun even blinds, If thou goest on to strain them unto him, Because his strength is mighty, and the films Heavily downward from on high are borne Through the pure ether and the viewless winds, And strike the eyes, disordering their joints. So piecing lustre often burns the eyes, Because it holdeth many seeds of fire Which, working into eyes, engender pain. Again, whatever jaundiced people view Becomes wan-yellow, since from out their bodies Flow many seeds wan-yellow forth to meet The films of things, and many too are mixed Within their eye, which by contagion paint All things with sallowness. Again, we view From dark recesses things that stand in light, Because, when first has entered and possessed The open eyes this nearer darkling air, Swiftly the shining air and luminous Followeth in, which purges then the eyes And scatters asunder of that other air The sable shadows, for in large degrees This air is nimbler, nicer, and more strong. And soon as ever 'thas filled and oped with light The pathways of the eyeballs, which before Black air had blocked, there follow straightaway Those films of things out-standing in the light, Provoking vision- what we cannot do From out the light with objects in the dark, Because that denser darkling air behind Followeth in, and fills each aperture And thus blockades the pathways of the eyes That there no images of any things Can be thrown in and agitate the eyes. And when from far away we do behold The squared towers of a city, oft Rounded they seem,- on this account because Each distant angle is perceived obtuse, Or rather it is not perceived at all; And perishes its blow nor to our gaze Arrives its stroke, since through such length of air Are borne along the idols that the air Makes blunt the idol of the angle's point By numerous collidings. When thuswise The angles of the tower each and all Have quite escaped the sense, the stones appear As rubbed and rounded on a turner's wheel- Yet not like objects near and truly round, But with a semblance to them, shadowily. Likewise, our shadow in the sun appears To move along and follow our own steps And imitate our carriage- if thou thinkest Air that is thus bereft of light can walk, Following the gait and motion of mankind. For what we use to name a shadow, sure Is naught but air deprived of light. No marvel: Because the earth from spot to spot is reft Progressively of light of sun, whenever In moving round we get within its way, While any spot of earth by us abandoned Is filled with light again, on this account It comes to pass that what was body's shadow Seems still the same to follow after us In one straight course. Since, evermore pour in New lights of rays, and perish then the old, Just like the wool that's drawn into the flame. Therefore the earth is easily spoiled of light And easily refilled and from herself Washeth the black shadows quite away. And yet in this we don't at all concede That eyes be cheated. For their task it is To note in whatsoever place be light, In what be shadow: whether or no the gleams Be still the same, and whether the shadow which Just now was here is that one passing thither, Or whether the facts be what we said above, 'Tis after all the reasoning of mind That must decide; nor can our eyeballs know The nature of reality. And so Attach thou not this fault of mind to eyes, Nor lightly think our senses everywhere Are tottering. The ship in which we sail Is borne along, although it seems to stand; The ship that bides in roadstead is supposed There to be passing by. And hills and fields Seem fleeing fast astern, past which we urge The ship and fly under the bellying sails. The stars, each one, do seem to pause, affixed To the ethereal caverns, though they all Forever are in motion, rising out And thence revisiting their far descents When they have measured with their bodies bright The span of heaven. And likewise sun and moon Seem biding in a roadstead,- objects which, As plain fact proves, are really borne along. Between two mountains far away aloft From midst the whirl of waters open lies A gaping exit for the fleet, and yet They seem conjoined in a single isle. When boys themselves have stopped their spinning round, The halls still seem to whirl and posts to reel, Until they now must almost think the roofs Threaten to ruin down upon their heads. And now, when Nature begins to lift on high The sun's red splendour and the tremulous fires, And raise him o'er the mountain-tops, those mountains- O'er which he seemeth then to thee to be, His glowing self hard by atingeing them With his own fire- are yet away from us Scarcely two thousand arrow-shots, indeed Oft scarce five hundred courses of a dart; Although between those mountains and the sun Lie the huge plains of ocean spread beneath The vasty shores of ether, and intervene A thousand lands, possessed by many a folk And generations of wild beasts. Again, A pool of water of but a finger's depth, Which lies between the stones along the pave, Offers a vision downward into earth As far, as from the earth o'erspread on high The gulfs of heaven; that thus thou seemest to view Clouds down below and heavenly bodies plunged Wondrously in heaven under earth. Then too, when in the middle of the stream Sticks fast our dashing horse, and down we gaze Into the river's rapid waves, some force Seems then to bear the body of the horse, Though standing still, reversely from his course, And swiftly push up-stream. And wheresoe'er We cast our eyes across, all objects seem Thus to be onward borne and flow along In the same way as we. A portico, Albeit it stands well propped from end to end On equal columns, parallel and big, Contracts by stages in a narrow cone, When from one end the long, long whole is seen,- Until, conjoining ceiling with the floor, And the whole right side with the left, it draws Together to a cone's nigh-viewless point. To sailors on the main the sun he seems From out the waves to rise, and in the waves To set and bury his light- because indeed They gaze on naught but water and the sky. Again, to gazers ignorant of the sea, Vessels in port seem, as with broken poops, To lean upon the water, quite agog; For any portion of the oars that's raised Above the briny spray is straight, and straight The rudders from above. But other parts, Those sunk, immersed below the water-line, Seem broken all and bended and inclined Sloping to upwards, and turned back to float Almost atop the water. And when the winds Carry the scattered drifts along the sky In the night-time, then seem to glide along The radiant constellations 'gainst the clouds And there on high to take far other course From that whereon in truth they're borne. And then, If haply our hand be set beneath one eye And press below thereon, then to our gaze Each object which we gaze on seems to be, By some sensation twain- then twain the lights Of lampions burgeoning in flowers of flame, And twain the furniture in all the house, Two-fold the visages of fellow-men, And twain their bodies. And again, when sleep Has bound our members down in slumber soft And all the body lies in deep repose, Yet then we seem to self to be awake And move our members; and in night's blind gloom We think to mark the daylight and the sun; And, shut within a room, yet still we seem To change our skies, our oceans, rivers, hills, To cross the plains afoot, and hear new sounds, Though still the austere silence of the night Abides around us, and to speak replies, Though voiceless. Other cases of the sort Wondrously many do we see, which all Seek, so to say, to injure faith in sense- In vain, because the largest part of these Deceives through mere opinions of the mind, Which we do add ourselves, feigning to see What by the senses are not seen at all. For naught is harder than to separate Plain facts from dubious, which the mind forthwith Adds by itself. Again, if one suppose That naught is known, he knows not whether this Itself is able to be known, since he Confesses naught to know. Therefore with him I waive discussion- who has set his head Even where his feet should be. But let me grant That this he knows,- I question: whence he knows What 'tis to know and not-to-know in turn, And what created concept of the truth, And what device has proved the dubious To differ from the certain?- since in things He's heretofore seen naught of true. Thou'lt find That from the senses first hath been create Concept of truth, nor can the senses be Rebutted. For criterion must be found Worthy of greater trust, which shall defeat Through own authority the false by true; What, then, than these our senses must there be Worthy a greater trust? Shall reason, sprung From some false sense, prevail to contradict Those senses, sprung as reason wholly is From out of the senses?- For lest these be true, All reason also then is falsified. Or shall the ears have power to blame the eyes, Or yet the touch the ears? Again, shall taste Accuse this touch or shall the nose confute Or eyes defeat it? Methinks not so it is: For unto each has been divided of Its function quite apart, its power to each; And thus we're still constrained to perceive The soft, the cold, the hot apart, apart All divers hues and whatso things there be Conjoined with hues. Likewise the tasting tongue Has its own power apart, and smells apart And sounds apart are known. And thus it is That no one sense can e'er convict another. Nor shall one sense have power to blame itself, Because it always must be deemed the same, Worthy of equal trust. And therefore what At any time unto these senses showed, The same is true. And if the reason be Unable to unravel us the cause Why objects, which at hand were square, afar Seemed rounded, yet it more availeth us, Lacking the reason, to pretend a cause For each configuration, than to let From out our hands escape the obvious things And injure primal faith in sense, and wreck All those foundations upon which do rest Our life and safety. For not only reason Would topple down; but even our very life Would straightaway collapse, unless we dared To trust our senses and to keep away From headlong heights and places to be shunned Of a like peril, and to seek with speed Their opposites! Again, as in a building, If the first plumb-line be askew, and if The square deceiving swerve from lines exact, And if the level waver but the least In any part, the whole construction then Must turn out faulty- shelving and askew, Leaning to back and front, incongruous, That now some portions seem about to fall, And falls the whole ere long- betrayed indeed By first deceiving estimates: so too Thy calculations in affairs of life Must be askew and false, if sprung for thee From senses false. So all that troop of words Marshalled against the senses is quite vain. And now remains to demonstrate with ease How other senses each their things perceive. Firstly, a sound and every voice is heard, When, getting into ears, they strike the sense With their own body. For confess we must Even voice and sound to be corporeal, Because they're able on the sense to strike. Besides voice often scrapes against the throat, And screams in going out do make more rough The wind-pipe- naturally enough, methinks, When, through the narrow exit rising up In larger throng, these primal germs of voice Have thus begun to issue forth. In sooth, Also the door of the mouth is scraped against By air blown outward from distended cheeks. And thus no doubt there is, that voice and words Consist of elements corporeal, With power to pain. Nor art thou unaware Likewise how much of body's ta'en away, How much from very thews and powers of men May be withdrawn by steady talk, prolonged Even from the rising splendour of the morn To shadows of black evening,- above all If 't be outpoured with most exceeding shouts. Therefore the voice must be corporeal, Since the long talker loses from his frame A part. Moreover, roughness in the sound Comes from the roughness in the primal germs, As a smooth sound from smooth ones is create; Nor have these elements a form the same When the trump rumbles with a hollow roar, As when barbaric Berecynthian pipe Buzzes with raucous boomings, or when swans By night from icy shores of Helicon With wailing voices raise their liquid dirge. Thus, when from deep within our frame we force These voices, and at mouth expel them forth, The mobile tongue, artificer of words, Makes them articulate, and too the lips By their formations share in shaping them. Hence when the space is short from starting-point To where that voice arrives, the very words Must too be plainly heard, distinctly marked. For then the voice conserves its own formation, Conserves its shape. But if the space between Be longer than is fit, the words must be Through the much air confounded, and the voice Disordered in its flight across the winds- And so it haps, that thou canst sound perceive, Yet not determine what the words may mean; To such degree confounded and encumbered The voice approaches us. Again, one word, Sent from the crier's mouth, may rouse all ears Among the populace. And thus one voice Scatters asunder into many voices, Since it divides itself for separate ears, Imprinting form of word and a clear tone. But whatso part of voices fails to hit The ears themselves perishes, borne beyond, Idly diffused among the winds. A part, Beating on solid porticoes, tossed back Returns a sound; and sometimes mocks the ear With a mere phantom of a word. When this Thou well hast noted, thou canst render count Unto thyself and others why it is Along the lonely places that the rocks Give back like shapes of words in order like, When search we after comrades wandering Among the shady mountains, and aloud Call unto them, the scattered. I have seen Spots that gave back even voices six or seven For one thrown forth- for so the very hills, Dashing them back against the hills, kept on With their reverberations. And these spots The neighbouring country-side doth feign to be Haunts of the goat-foot satyrs and the nymphs; And tells ye there be fauns, by whose night noise And antic revels yonder they declare The voiceless silences are broken oft, And tones of strings are made and wailings sweet Which the pipe, beat by players' finger-tips, Pours out; and far and wide the farmer-race Begins to hear, when, shaking the garmentings Of pine upon his half-beast head, god-Pan With puckered lip oft runneth o'er and o'er The open reeds,- lest flute should cease to pour The woodland music! Other prodigies And wonders of this ilk they love to tell, Lest they be thought to dwell in lonely spots And even by gods deserted. This is why They boast of marvels in their story-tellings; Or by some other reason are led on- Greedy, as all mankind hath ever been, To prattle fables into ears. Again, One need not wonder how it comes about That through those places (through which eyes cannot View objects manifest) sounds yet may pass And assail the ears. For often we observe People conversing, though the doors be closed; No marvel either, since all voice unharmed Can wind through bended apertures of things, While idol-films decline to- for they're rent, Unless along straight apertures they swim, Like those in glass, through which all images Do fly across. And yet this voice itself, In passing through shut chambers of a house, Is dulled, and in a jumble enters ears, And sound we seem to hear far more than words. Moreover, a voice is into all directions Divided up, since off from one another New voices are engendered, when one voice Hath once leapt forth, outstarting into many- As oft a spark of fire is wont to sprinkle Itself into its several fires. And so, Voices do fill those places hid behind, Which all are in a hubbub round about, Astir with sound. But idol-films do tend, As once set forth, in straight directions all; Wherefore one can inside a wall see naught, Yet catch the voices from beyond the same. Nor tongue and palate, whereby we flavour feel, Present more problems for more work of thought. Firstly, we feel a flavour in the mouth, When forth we squeeze it, in chewing up our food,- As any one perchance begins to squeeze With hand and dry a sponge with water soaked. Next, all which forth we squeeze is spread about Along the pores and intertwined paths Of the loose-textured tongue. And so, when smooth The bodies of the oozy flavour, then Delightfully they touch, delightfully They treat all spots, around the wet and trickling Enclosures of the tongue. And contrariwise, They sting and pain the sense with their assault, According as with roughness they're supplied. Next, only up to palate is the pleasure Coming from flavour; for in truth when down 'Thas plunged along the throat, no pleasure is, Whilst into all the frame it spreads around; Nor aught it matters with what food is fed The body, if only what thou take thou canst Distribute well digested to the frame And keep the stomach in a moist career. Now, how it is we see some food for some, Others for others.... I will unfold, or wherefore what to some Is foul and bitter, yet the same to others Can seem delectable to eat,- why here So great the distance and the difference is That what is food to one to some becomes Fierce poison, as a certain snake there is Which, touched by spittle of a man, will waste And end itself by gnawing up its coil. Again, fierce poison is the hellebore To us, but puts the fat on goats and quails. That thou mayst know by what devices this Is brought about, in chief thou must recall What we have said before, that seeds are kept Commixed in things in divers modes. Again, As all the breathing creatures which take food Are outwardly unlike, and outer cut And contour of their members bounds them round, Each differing kind by kind, they thus consist Of seeds of varying shape. And furthermore, Since seeds do differ, divers too must be The interstices and paths (which we do call The apertures) in all the members, even In mouth and palate too. Thus some must be More small or yet more large, three-cornered some And others squared, and many others round, And certain of them many-angled too In many modes. For, as the combination And motion of their divers shapes demand, The shapes of apertures must be diverse And paths must vary according to their walls That bound them. Hence when what is sweet to some, Becomes to others bitter, for him to whom 'Tis sweet, the smoothest particles must needs Have entered caressingly the palate's pores. And, contrariwise, with those to whom that sweet Is sour within the mouth, beyond a doubt The rough and barbed particles have got Into the narrows of the apertures. Now easy it is from these affairs to know Whatever... Indeed, where one from o'er-abundant bile Is stricken with fever, or in other wise Feels the roused violence of some malady, There the whole frame is now upset, and there All the positions of the seeds are changed,- So that the bodies which before were fit To cause the savour, now are fit no more, And now more apt are others which be able To get within the pores and gender sour. Both sorts, in sooth, are intermixed in honey- What oft we've proved above to thee before. Now come, and I will indicate what wise Impact of odour on the nostrils touches. And first, 'tis needful there be many things From whence the streaming flow of varied odours May roll along, and we're constrained to think They stream and dart and sprinkle themselves about Impartially. But for some breathing creatures One odour is more apt, to others another- Because of differing forms of seeds and pores. Thus on and on along the zephyrs bees Are led by odour of honey, vultures too By carcasses. Again, the forward power Of scent in dogs doth lead the hunter on Whithersoever the splay-foot of wild beast Hath hastened its career; and the white goose, The saviour of the Roman citadel, Forescents afar the odour of mankind. Thus, diversely to divers ones is given Peculiar smell that leadeth each along To his own food or makes him start aback From loathsome poison, and in this wise are The generations of the wild preserved. Yet is this pungence not alone in odours Or in the class of flavours; but, likewise, The look of things and hues agree not all So well with senses unto all, but that Some unto some will be, to gaze upon, More keen and painful. Lo, the raving lions, They dare not face and gaze upon the cock Who's wont with wings to flap away the night From off the stage, and call the beaming morn With clarion voice- and lions straightway thus Bethink themselves of flight, because, ye see, Within the body of the cocks there be Some certain seeds, which, into lions' eyes Injected, bore into the pupils deep And yield such piercing pain they can't hold out Against the cocks, however fierce they be- Whilst yet these seeds can't hurt our gaze the least, Either because they do not penetrate, Or since they have free exit from the eyes As soon as penetrating, so that thus They cannot hurt our eyes in any part By there remaining. To speak once more of odour; Whatever assail the nostrils, some can travel A longer way than others. None of them, However, 's borne so far as sound or voice- While I omit all mention of such things As hit the eyesight and assail the vision. For slowly on a wandering course it comes And perishes sooner, by degrees absorbed Easily into all the winds of air; And first, because from deep inside the thing It is discharged with labour (for the fact That every object, when 'tis shivered, ground, Or crumbled by the fire, will smell the stronger Is sign that odours flow and part away From inner regions of the things). And next, Thou mayest see that odour is create Of larger primal germs than voice, because It enters not through stony walls, wherethrough Unfailingly the voice and sound are borne; Wherefore, besides, thou wilt observe 'tis not So easy to trace out in whatso place The smelling object is. For, dallying on Along the winds, the particles cool off, And then the scurrying messengers of things Arrive our senses, when no longer hot. So dogs oft wander astray, and hunt the scent. Now mark, and hear what objects move the mind, And learn, in few, whence unto intellect Do come what come. And first I tell thee this: That many images of objects rove In many modes to every region round- So thin that easily the one with other, When once they meet, uniteth in mid-air, Like gossamer or gold-leaf. For, indeed, Far thinner are they in their fabric than Those images which take a hold on eyes And smite the vision, since through body's pores They penetrate, and inwardly stir up The subtle nature of mind and smite the sense. Thus, Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, thus The Cerberus-visages of dogs we see, And images of people gone before- Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago; Because the images of every kind Are everywhere about us borne- in part Those which are gendered in the very air Of own accord, in part those others which From divers things do part away, and those Which are compounded, made from out their shapes. For soothly from no living Centaur is That phantom gendered, since no breed of beast Like him was ever; but, when images Of horse and man by chance have come together, They easily cohere, as aforesaid, At once, through subtle nature and fabric thin. In the same fashion others of this ilk Created are. And when they're quickly borne In their exceeding lightness, easily (As earlier I showed) one subtle image, Compounded, moves by its one blow the mind, Itself so subtle and so strangely quick. That these things come to pass as I record, From this thou easily canst understand: So far as one is unto other like, Seeing with mind as well as with the eyes Must come to pass in fashion not unlike. Well, now, since I have shown that I perceive Haply a lion through those idol-films Such as assail my eyes, 'tis thine to know Also the mind is in like manner moved, And sees, nor more nor less than eyes do see (Except that it perceives more subtle films) The lion and aught else through idol-films. And when the sleep has overset our frame, The mind's intelligence is now awake, Still for no other reason, save that these- The self-same films as when we are awake- Assail our minds, to such degree indeed That we do seem to see for sure the man Whom, void of life, now death and earth have gained Dominion over. And Nature forces this To come to pass because the body's senses Are resting, thwarted through the members all, Unable now to conquer false with true; And memory lies prone and languishes In slumber, nor protests that he, the man Whom the mind feigns to see alive, long since Hath been the gain of death and dissolution. And further, 'tis no marvel idols move And toss their arms and other members round In rhythmic time- and often in men's sleeps It haps an image this is seen to do; In sooth, when perishes the former image, And other is gendered of another pose, That former seemeth to have changed its gestures. Of course the change must be conceived as speedy; So great the swiftness and so great the store Of idol-things, and (in an instant brief As mind can mark) so great, again, the store Of separate idol-parts to bring supplies. It happens also that there is supplied Sometimes an image not of kind the same; But what before was woman, now at hand Is seen to stand there, altered into male; Or other visage, other age succeeds; But slumber and oblivion take care That we shall feel no wonder at the thing. And much in these affairs demands inquiry, And much, illumination- if we crave With plainness to exhibit facts. And first, Why doth the mind of one to whom the whim To think has come behold forthwith that thing? Or do the idols watch upon our will, And doth an image unto us occur, Directly we desire- if heart prefer The sea, the land, or after all the sky? Assemblies of the citizens, parades, Banquets, and battles, these and all doth she, Nature, create and furnish at our word? Maugre the fact that in same place and spot Another's mind is meditating things All far unlike. And what, again, of this: When we in sleep behold the idols step, In measure, forward, moving supple limbs, Whilst forth they put each supple arm in turn With speedy motion, and with eyeing heads Repeat the movement, as the foot keeps time? Forsooth, the idols they are steeped in art, And wander to and fro well taught indeed,- Thus to be able in the time of night To make such games! Or will the truth be this: Because in one least moment that we mark- That is, the uttering of a single sound- There lurk yet many moments, which the reason Discovers to exist, therefore it comes That, in a moment how so brief ye will, The divers idols are hard by, and ready Each in its place diverse? So great the swiftness, So great, again, the store of idol-things, And so, when perishes the former image, And other is gendered of another pose, The former seemeth to have changed its gestures. And since they be so tenuous, mind can mark Sharply alone the ones it strains to see; And thus the rest do perish one and all, Save those for which the mind prepares itself. Further, it doth prepare itself indeed, And hopes to see what follows after each- Hence this result. For hast thou not observed How eyes, essaying to perceive the fine, Will strain in preparation, otherwise Unable sharply to perceive at all? Yet know thou canst that, even in objects plain, If thou attendest not, 'tis just the same As if 'twere all the time removed and far. What marvel, then, that mind doth lose the rest, Save those to which 'thas given up itself? So 'tis that we conjecture from small signs Things wide and weighty, and involve ourselves In snarls of self-deceit. SOME VITAL FUNCTIONS In these affairs We crave that thou wilt passionately flee The one offence, and anxiously wilt shun The error of presuming the clear lights Of eyes created were that we might see; Or thighs and knees, aprop upon the feet, Thuswise can bended be, that we might step With goodly strides ahead; or forearms joined Unto the sturdy uppers, or serving hands On either side were given, that we might do Life's own demands. All such interpretation Is aft-for-fore with inverse reasoning, Since naught is born in body so that we May use the same, but birth engenders use: No seeing ere the lights of eyes were born, No speaking ere the tongue created was; But origin of tongue came long before Discourse of words, and ears created were Much earlier than any sound was heard; And all the members, so meseems, were there Before they got their use: and therefore, they Could not be gendered for the sake of use. But contrariwise, contending in the fight With hand to hand, and rending of the joints, And fouling of the limbs with gore, was there, O long before the gleaming spears ere flew; And Nature prompted man to shun a wound, Before the left arm by the aid of art Opposed the shielding targe. And, verily, Yielding the weary body to repose, Far ancienter than cushions of soft beds, And quenching thirst is earlier than cups. These objects, therefore, which for use and life Have been devised, can be conceived as found For sake of using. But apart from such Are all which first were born and afterwards Gave knowledge of their own utility- Chief in which sort we note the senses, limbs: Wherefore, again, 'tis quite beyond thy power To hold that these could thus have been create For office of utility. Likewise, 'Tis nothing strange that all the breathing creatures Seek, even by nature of their frame, their food. Yes, since I've taught thee that from off the things Stream and depart innumerable bodies In modes innumerable too; but most Must be the bodies streaming from the living- Which bodies, vexed by motion evermore, Are through the mouth exhaled innumerable, When weary creatures pant, or through the sweat Squeezed forth innumerable from deep within. Thus body rarefies, so undermined In all its nature, and pain attends its state. And so the food is taken to underprop The tottering joints, and by its interfusion To re-create their powers, and there stop up The longing, open-mouthed through limbs and veins, For eating. And the moist no less departs Into all regions that demand the moist; And many heaped-up particles of hot, Which cause such burnings in these bellies of ours, The liquid on arriving dissipates And quenches like a fire, that parching heat No longer now can scorch the frame. And so, Thou seest how panting thirst is washed away From off our body, how the hunger-pang It, too, appeased. Now, how it comes that we, Whene'er we wish, can step with strides ahead, And how 'tis given to move our limbs about, And what device is wont to push ahead This the big load of our corporeal frame, I'll say to thee- do thou attend what's said. I say that first some idol-films of walking Into our mind do fall and smite the mind, As said before. Thereafter will arises; For no one starts to do a thing, before The intellect previsions what it wills; And what it there pre-visioneth depends On what that image is. When, therefore, mind Doth so bestir itself that it doth will To go and step along, it strikes at once That energy of soul that's sown about In all the body through the limbs and frame- And this is easy of performance, since The soul is close conjoined with the mind. Next, soul in turn strikes body, and by degrees Thus the whole mass is pushed along and moved. Then too the body rarefies, and air, Forsooth as ever of such nimbleness, Comes on and penetrates aboundingly Through opened pores, and thus is sprinkled round Unto all smallest places in our frame. Thus then by these twain factors, severally, Body is borne like ship with oars and wind. Nor yet in these affairs is aught for wonder That particles so fine can whirl around So great a body and turn this weight of ours; For wind, so tenuous with its subtle body, Yet pushes, driving on the mighty ship Of mighty bulk; one hand directs the same, Whatever its momentum, and one helm Whirls it around, whither ye please; and loads, Many and huge, are moved and hoisted high By enginery of pulley-blocks and wheels, With but light strain. Now, by what modes this sleep Pours through our members waters of repose And frees the breast from cares of mind, I'll tell In verses sweeter than they many are; Even as the swan's slight note is better far Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes Among the south wind's aery clouds. Do thou Give me sharp ears and a sagacious mind,- That thou mayst not deny the things to be Whereof I'm speaking, nor depart away With bosom scorning these the spoken truths, Thyself at fault unable to perceive. Sleep chiefly comes when energy of soul Hath now been scattered through the frame, and part Expelled abroad and gone away, and part Crammed back and settling deep within the frame- Whereafter then our loosened members droop. For doubt is none that by the work of soul Exist in us this sense, and when by slumber That sense is thwarted, we are bound to think The soul confounded and expelled abroad- Yet not entirely, else the frame would lie Drenched in the everlasting cold of death. In sooth, where no one part of soul remained Lurking among the members, even as fire Lurks buried under many ashes, whence Could sense amain rekindled be in members, As flame can rise anew from unseen fire? By what devices this strange state and new May be occasioned, and by what the soul Can be confounded and the frame grow faint, I will untangle: see to it, thou, that I Pour forth my words not unto empty winds. In first place, body on its outer parts- Since these are touched by neighbouring aery gusts- Must there be thumped and strook by blows of air Repeatedly. And therefore almost all Are covered either with hides, or else with shells, Or with the horny callus, or with bark. Yet this same air lashes their inner parts, When creatures draw a breath or blow it out. Wherefore, since body thus is flogged alike Upon the inside and the out, and blows Come in upon us through the little pores Even inward to our body's primal parts And primal elements, there comes to pass By slow degrees, along our members then, A kind of overthrow; for then confounded Are those arrangements of the primal germs Of body and of mind. It comes to pass That next a part of soul's expelled abroad, A part retreateth in recesses hid, A part, too, scattered all about the frame, Cannot become united nor engage In interchange of motion. Nature now So hedges off approaches and the paths; And thus the sense, its motions all deranged, Retires down deep within; and since there's naught, As 'twere, to prop the frame, the body weakens, And all the members languish, and the arms And eyelids fall, and, as ye lie abed, Even there the houghs will sag and loose their powers. Again, sleep follows after food, because The food produces same result as air, Whilst being scattered round through all the veins; And much the heaviest is that slumber which, Full or fatigued, thou takest; since 'tis then That the most bodies disarrange themselves, Bruised by labours hard. And in same wise, This three-fold change: a forcing of the soul Down deeper, more a casting-forth of it, A moving more divided in its parts And scattered more. And to whate'er pursuit A man most clings absorbed, or what the affairs On which we theretofore have tarried much, And mind hath strained upon the more, we seem In sleep not rarely to go at the same. The lawyers seem to plead and cite decrees, Commanders they to fight and go at frays, Sailors to live in combat with the winds, And we ourselves indeed to make this book, And still to seek the nature of the world And set it down, when once discovered, here In these my country's leaves. Thus all pursuits, All arts in general seem in sleeps to mock And master the minds of men. And whosoever Day after day for long to games have given Attention undivided, still they keep (As oft we note), even when they've ceased to grasp Those games with their own senses, open paths Within the mind wherethrough the idol-films Of just those games can come. And thus it is For many a day thereafter those appear Floating before the eyes, that even awake They think they view the dancers moving round Their supple limbs, and catch with both the ears The liquid song of harp and speaking chords, And view the same assembly on the seats, And manifold bright glories of the stage- So great the influence of pursuit and zest, And of the affairs wherein 'thas been the wont Of men to be engaged-nor only men, But soothly all the animals. Behold, Thou'lt see the sturdy horses, though outstretched, Yet sweating in their sleep, and panting ever, And straining utmost strength, as if for prize, As if, with barriers opened now... And hounds of huntsmen oft in soft repose Yet toss asudden all their legs about, And growl and bark, and with their nostrils sniff The winds again, again, though indeed They'd caught the scented foot-prints of wild beasts, And, even when wakened, often they pursue The phantom images of stags, as though They did perceive them fleeing on before, Until the illusion's shaken off and dogs Come to themselves again. And fawning breed Of house-bred whelps do feel the sudden urge To shake their bodies and start from off the ground, As if beholding stranger-visages. And ever the fiercer be the stock, the more In sleep the same is ever bound to rage. But fleet the divers tribes of birds and vex With sudden wings by night the groves of gods, When in their gentle slumbers they have dreamed Of hawks in chase, aswooping on for fight. Again, the minds of mortals which perform With mighty motions mighty enterprises, Often in sleep will do and dare the same In manner like. Kings take the towns by storm, Succumb to capture, battle on the field, Raise a wild cry as if their throats were cut Even then and there. And many wrestle on And groan with pains, and fill all regions round With mighty cries and wild, as if then gnawed By fangs of panther or of lion fierce. Many amid their slumbers talk about Their mighty enterprises, and have often Enough become the proof of their own crimes. Many meet death; many, as if headlong From lofty mountains tumbling down to earth With all their frame, are frenzied in their fright; And after sleep, as if still mad in mind, They scarce come to, confounded as they are By ferment of their frame. The thirsty man, Likewise, he sits beside delightful spring Or river and gulpeth down with gaping throat Nigh the whole stream. And oft the innocent young, By sleep o'ermastered, think they lift their dress By pail or public jordan and then void The water filtered down their frame entire And drench the Babylonian coverlets, Magnificently bright. Again, those males Into the surging channels of whose years Now first has passed the seed (engendered Within their members by the ripened days) Are in their sleep confronted from without By idol-images of some fair form- Tidings of glorious face and lovely bloom, Which stir and goad the regions turgid now With seed abundant; so that, as it were With all the matter acted duly out, They pour the billows of a potent stream And stain their garment. And as said before, That seed is roused in us when once ripe age Has made our body strong... As divers causes give to divers things Impulse and irritation, so one force In human kind rouses the human seed To spurt from man. As soon as ever it issues, Forced from its first abodes, it passes down In the whole body through the limbs and frame, Meeting in certain regions of our thews, And stirs amain the genitals of man. The goaded regions swell with seed, and then Comes the delight to dart the same at what The mad desire so yearns, and body seeks That object, whence the mind by love is pierced. For well-nigh each man falleth toward his wound, And our blood spurts even toward the spot from whence The stroke wherewith we are strook, and if indeed The foe be close, the red jet reaches him. Thus, one who gets a stroke from Venus' shafts- Whether a boy with limbs effeminate Assault him, or a woman darting love From all her body- that one strains to get Even to the thing whereby he's hit, and longs To join with it and cast into its frame The fluid drawn even from within its own. For the mute craving doth presage delight. THE PASSION OF LOVE This craving 'tis that's Venus unto us: From this, engender all the lures of love, From this, O first hath into human hearts Trickled that drop of joyance which ere long Is by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed, Though she thou lovest now be far away, Yet idol-images of her are near And the sweet name is floating in thy ear. But it behooves to flee those images; And scare afar whatever feeds thy love; And turn elsewhere thy mind; and vent the sperm, Within thee gathered, into sundry bodies, Nor, with thy thoughts still busied with one love, Keep it for one delight, and so store up Care for thyself and pain inevitable. For, lo, the ulcer just by nourishing Grows to more life with deep inveteracy, And day by day the fury swells aflame, And the woe waxes heavier day by day- Unless thou dost destroy even by new blows The former wounds of love, and curest them While yet they're fresh, by wandering freely round After the freely-wandering Venus, or Canst lead elsewhere the tumults of thy mind. Nor doth that man who keeps away from love Yet lack the fruits of Venus; rather takes Those pleasures which are free of penalties. For the delights of Venus, verily, Are more unmixed for mortals sane-of-soul Than for those sick-at-heart with love-pining. Yea, in the very moment of possessing, Surges the heat of lovers to and fro, Restive, uncertain; and they cannot fix On what to first enjoy with eyes and hands. The parts they sought for, those they squeeze so tight, And pain the creature's body, close their teeth Often against her lips, and smite with kiss Mouth into mouth,- because this same delight Is not unmixed; and underneath are stings Which goad a man to hurt the very thing, Whate'er it be, from whence arise for him Those germs of madness. But with gentle touch Venus subdues the pangs in midst of love, And the admixture of a fondling joy Doth curb the bites of passion. For they hope That by the very body whence they caught The heats of love their flames can be put out. But Nature protests 'tis all quite otherwise; For this same love it is the one sole thing Of which, the more we have, the fiercer burns The breast with fell desire. For food and drink Are taken within our members; and, since they Can stop up certain parts, thus, easily Desire of water is glutted and of bread. But, lo, from human face and lovely bloom Naught penetrates our frame to be enjoyed Save flimsy idol-images and vain- A sorry hope which oft the winds disperse. As when the thirsty man in slumber seeks To drink, and water ne'er is granted him Wherewith to quench the heat within his members, But after idols of the liquids strives And toils in vain, and thirsts even whilst he gulps In middle of the torrent, thus in love Venus deludes with idol-images The lovers. Nor they cannot sate their lust By merely gazing on the bodies, nor They cannot with their palms and fingers rub Aught from each tender limb, the while they stray Uncertain over all the body. Then, At last, with members intertwined, when they Enjoy the flower of their age, when now Their bodies have sweet presage of keen joys, And Venus is about to sow the fields Of woman, greedily their frames they lock, And mingle the slaver of their mouths, and breathe Into each other, pressing teeth on mouths- Yet to no purpose, since they're powerless To rub off aught, or penetrate and pass With body entire into body- for oft They seem to strive and struggle thus to do; So eagerly they cling in Venus' bonds, Whilst melt away their members, overcome By violence of delight. But when at last Lust, gathered in the thews, hath spent itself, There come a brief pause in the raging heat- But then a madness just the same returns And that old fury visits them again, When once again they seek and crave to reach They know not what, all powerless to find The artifice to subjugate the bane. In such uncertain state they waste away With unseen wound. To which be added too, They squander powers and with the travail wane; Be added too, they spend their futile years Under another's beck and call; their duties Neglected languish and their honest name Reeleth sick, sick; and meantime their estates Are lost in Babylonian tapestries; And unguents and dainty Sicyonian shoes Laugh on their feet; and (as ye may be sure) Big emeralds of green light are set in gold; And rich sea-purple dress by constant wear Grows shabby and all soaked with Venus' sweat; And the well-earned ancestral property Becometh head-bands, coifs, and many a time The cloaks, or garments Alidensian Or of the Cean isle. And banquets, set With rarest cloth and viands, are prepared- And games of chance, and many a drinking cup, And unguents, crowns and garlands. All in vain, Since from amid the well-spring of delights Bubbles some drop of bitter to torment Among the very flowers- when haply mind Gnaws into self, now stricken with remorse For slothful years and ruin in bordels, Or else because she's left him all in doubt By launching some sly word, which still like fire Lives wildly, cleaving to his eager heart; Or else because he thinks she darts her eyes Too much about and gazes at another, And in her face sees traces of a laugh. These ills are found in prospering love and true; But in crossed love and helpless there be such As through shut eyelids thou canst still take in- Uncounted ills; so that 'tis better far To watch beforehand, in the way I've shown, And guard against enticements. For to shun A fall into the hunting-snares of love Is not so hard, as to get out again, When tangled in the very nets, and burst The stoutly-knotted cords of Aphrodite. Yet even when there enmeshed with tangled feet, Still canst thou scape the danger-lest indeed Thou standest in the way of thine own good, And overlookest first all blemishes Of mind and body of thy much preferred, Desirable dame. For so men do, Eyeless with passion, and assign to them Graces not theirs in fact. And thus we see Creatures in many a wise crooked and ugly The prosperous sweethearts in a high esteem; And lovers gird each other and advise To placate Venus, since their friends are smit With a base passion- miserable dupes Who seldom mark their own worst bane of all. The black-skinned girl is "tawny like the honey"; The filthy and the fetid's "negligee"; The cat-eyed she's "a little Pallas," she; The sinewy and wizened's "a gazelle"; The pudgy and the pigmy is "piquant, One of the Graces sure"; the big and bulky O she's "an Admiration, imposante"; The stuttering and tongue-tied "sweetly lisps"; The mute girl's "modest"; and the garrulous, The spiteful spit-fire, is "a sparkling wit"; And she who scarcely lives for scrawniness Becomes "a slender darling"; "delicate" Is she who's nearly dead of coughing-fit; The pursy female with protuberant breasts She is "like Ceres when the goddess gave Young Bacchus suck"; the pug-nosed lady-love "A Satyress, a feminine Silenus"; The blubber-lipped is "all one luscious kiss"- A weary while it were to tell the whole. But let her face possess what charm ye will, Let Venus' glory rise from all her limbs,- Forsooth there still are others; and forsooth We lived before without her; and forsooth She does the same things- and we know she does- All, as the ugly creature and she scents, Yes she, her wretched self with vile perfumes; Whom even her handmaids flee and giggle at Behind her back. But he, the lover, in tears Because shut out, covers her threshold o'er Often with flowers and garlands, and anoints Her haughty door-posts with the marjoram, And prints, poor fellow, kisses on the doors- Admitted at last, if haply but one whiff Got to him on approaching, he would seek Decent excuses to go out forthwith; And his lament, long pondered, then would fall Down at his heels; and there he'd damn himself For his fatuity, observing how He had assigned to that same lady more- Than it is proper to concede to mortals. And these our Venuses are 'ware of this. Wherefore the more are they at pains to hide All the-behind-the-scenes of life from those Whom they desire to keep in bonds of love- In vain, since ne'ertheless thou canst by thought Drag all the matter forth into the light And well search out the cause of all these smiles; And if of graceful mind she be and kind, Do thou, in thy turn, overlook the same, And thus allow for poor mortality. Nor sighs the woman always with feigned love, Who links her body round man's body locked And holds him fast, making his kisses wet With lips sucked into lips; for oft she acts Even from desire, and, seeking mutual joys, Incites him there to run love's race-course through. Nor otherwise can cattle, birds, wild beasts, And sheep and mares submit unto the males, Except that their own nature is in heat, And burns abounding and with gladness takes Once more the Venus of the mounting males. And seest thou not how those whom mutual pleasure Hath bound are tortured in their common bonds? How often in the cross-roads dogs that pant To get apart strain eagerly asunder With utmost might?- When all the while they're fast In the stout links of Venus. But they'd ne'er So pull, except they knew those mutual joys- So powerful to cast them unto snares And hold them bound. Wherefore again, again, Even as I say, there is a joint delight. And when perchance, in mingling seed with his, The female hath o'erpowered the force of male And by a sudden fling hath seized it fast, Then are the offspring, more from mothers' seed, More like their mothers; as, from fathers' seed, They're like to fathers. But whom seest to be Partakers of each shape, one equal blend Of parents' features, these are generate From fathers' body and from mothers' blood, When mutual and harmonious heat hath dashed Together seeds, aroused along their frames By Venus' goads, and neither of the twain Mastereth or is mastered. Happens too That sometimes offspring can to being come In likeness of their grandsires, and bring back Often the shapes of grandsires' sires, because Their parents in their bodies oft retain Concealed many primal germs, commixed In many modes, which, starting with the stock, Sire handeth down to son, himself a sire; Whence Venus by a variable chance Engenders shapes, and diversely brings back Ancestral features, voices too, and hair. A female generation rises forth From seed paternal, and from mother's body Exist created males: since sex proceeds No more from singleness of seed than faces Or bodies or limbs of ours: for every birth Is from a twofold seed; and what's created Hath, of that parent which it is more like, More than its equal share; as thou canst mark,- Whether the breed be male or female stock. Nor do the powers divine grudge any man The fruits of his seed-sowing, so that never He be called "father" by sweet children his, And end his days in sterile love forever. What many men suppose; and gloomily They sprinkle the altars with abundant blood, And make the high platforms odorous with burnt gifts, To render big by plenteous seed their wives- And plague in vain godheads and sacred lots. For sterile, are these men by seed too thick, Or else by far too watery and thin. Because the thin is powerless to cleave Fast to the proper places, straightaway It trickles from them, and, returned again, Retires abortively. And then since seed More gross and solid than will suit is spent By some men, either it flies not forth amain With spurt prolonged enough, or else it fails To enter suitably the proper places, Or, having entered, the seed is weakly mixed With seed of the woman: harmonies of Venus Are seen to matter vastly here; and some Impregnate some more readily, and from some Some women conceive more readily and become Pregnant. And many women, sterile before In several marriage-beds, have yet thereafter Obtained the mates from whom they could conceive The baby-boys, and with sweet progeny Grow rich. And even for husbands (whose own wives, Although of fertile wombs, have borne for them No babies in the house) are also found Concordant natures so that they at last Can bulwark their old age with goodly sons. A matter of great moment 'tis in truth, That seeds may mingle readily with seeds Suited for procreation, and that thick Should mix with fluid seeds, with thick the fluid. And in this business 'tis of some import Upon what diet life is nourished: For some foods thicken seeds within our members, And others thin them out and waste away. And in what modes the fond delight itself Is carried on- this too importeth vastly. For commonly 'tis thought that wives conceive More readily in manner of wild-beasts, After the custom of the four-foot breeds, Because so postured, with the breasts beneath And buttocks then upreared, the seeds can take Their proper places. Nor is need the least For wives to use the motions of blandishment; For thus the woman hinders and resists Her own conception, if too joyously Herself she treats the Venus of the man With haunches heaving, and with all her bosom Now yielding like the billows of the sea- Aye, from the ploughshare's even course and track She throws the furrow, and from proper places Deflects the spurt of seed. And courtesans Are thuswise wont to move for their own ends, To keep from pregnancy and lying in, And all the while to render Venus more A pleasure for the men- the which meseems Our wives have never need of. Sometimes too It happens- and through no divinity Nor arrows of Venus- that a sorry chit Of scanty grace will be beloved by man; For sometimes she herself by very deeds, By her complying ways, and tidy habits, Will easily accustom thee to pass With her thy life-time- and, moreover, lo, Long habitude can gender human love, Even as an object smitten o'er and o'er By blows, however lightly, yet at last Is overcome and wavers. Seest thou not, Besides, how drops of water falling down Against the stones at last bore through the stones? BOOK V PROEM O who can build with puissant breast a song Worthy the majesty of these great finds? Or who in words so strong that he can frame The fit laudations for deserts of him Who left us heritors of such vast prizes, By his own breast discovered and sought out?- There shall be none, methinks, of mortal stock. For if must needs be named for him the name Demanded by the now known majesty Of these high matters, then a god was he,- Hear me, illustrious Memmius- a god; Who first and chief found out that plan of life Which now is called philosophy, and who By cunning craft, out of such mighty waves, Out of such mighty darkness, moored life In havens so serene, in light so clear. Compare those old discoveries divine Of others: lo, according to the tale, Ceres established for mortality The grain, and Bacchus juice of vine-born grape, Though life might yet without these things abide, Even as report saith now some peoples live. But man's well-being was impossible Without a breast all free. Wherefore the more That man doth justly seem to us a god, From whom sweet solaces of life, afar Distributed o'er populous domains, Now soothe the minds of men. But if thou thinkest Labours of Hercules excel the same, Much farther from true reasoning thou farest. For what could hurt us now that mighty maw Of Nemeaean Lion, or what the Boar Who bristled in Arcadia? Or, again, O what could Cretan Bull, or Hydra, pest Of Lerna, fenced with vipers venomous? Or what the triple-breasted power of her The three-fold Geryon... The sojourners in the Stymphalian fens So dreadfully offend us, or the Steeds Of Thracian Diomedes breathing fire From out their nostrils off along the zones Bistonian and Ismarian? And the Snake, The dread fierce gazer, guardian of the golden And gleaming apples of the Hesperides, Coiled round the tree-trunk with tremendous bulk, O what, again, could he inflict on us Along the Atlantic shore and wastes of sea?- Where neither one of us approacheth nigh Nor no barbarian ventures. And the rest Of all those monsters slain, even if alive, Unconquered still, what injury could they do? None, as I guess. For so the glutted earth Swarms even now with savage beasts, even now Is filled with anxious terrors through the woods And mighty mountains and the forest deeps- Quarters 'tis ours in general to avoid. But lest the breast be purged, what conflicts then, What perils, must bosom, in our own despite! O then how great and keen the cares of lust That split the man distraught! How great the fears! And lo, the pride, grim greed, and wantonness- How great the slaughters in their train! and lo, Debaucheries and every breed of sloth! Therefore that man who subjugated these, And from the mind expelled, by words indeed, Not arms, O shall it not be seemly him To dignify by ranking with the gods?- And all the more since he was wont to give, Concerning the immortal gods themselves, Many pronouncements with a tongue divine, And to unfold by his pronouncements all The nature of the world. ARGUMENT OF THE BOOK AND NEW PROEM AGAINST TELEOLOGICAL CONCEPT And walking now In his own footprints, I do follow through His reasonings, and with pronouncements teach The covenant whereby all things are framed, How under that covenant they must abide Nor ever prevail to abrogate the aeons' Inexorable decrees- how (as we've found), In class of mortal objects, o'er all else, The mind exists of earth-born frame create And impotent unscathed to abide Across the mighty aeons, and how come In sleep those idol-apparitions That so befool intelligence when we Do seem to view a man whom life has left. Thus far we've gone; the order of my plan Hath brought me now unto the point where I Must make report how, too, the universe Consists of mortal body, born in time, And in what modes that congregated stuff Established itself as earth and sky, Ocean, and stars, and sun, and ball of moon; And then what living creatures rose from out The old telluric places, and what ones Were never born at all; and in what mode The human race began to name its things And use the varied speech from man to man; And in what modes hath bosomed in their breasts That awe of gods, which halloweth in all lands Fanes, altars, groves, lakes, idols of the gods. Also I shall untangle by what power The steersman Nature guides the sun's courses, And the meanderings of the moon, lest we, Percase, should fancy that of own free will They circle their perennial courses round, Timing their motions for increase of crops And living creatures, or lest we should think They roll along by any plan of gods. For even those men who have learned full well That godheads lead a long life free of care, If yet meanwhile they wonder by what plan Things can go on (and chiefly yon high things Observed o'erhead on the ethereal coasts), Again are hurried back unto the fears Of old religion and adopt again Harsh masters, deemed almighty- wretched men, Unwitting what can be and what cannot, And by what law to each its scope prescribed, Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time. But for the rest, lest we delay thee here Longer by empty promises- behold, Before all else, the seas, the lands, the sky: O Memmius, their threefold nature, lo, Their bodies three, three aspects so unlike, Three frames so vast, a single day shall give Unto annihilation! Then shall crash That massive form and fabric of the world Sustained so many aeons! Nor do I Fail to perceive how strange and marvellous This fact must strike the intellect of man,- Annihilation of the sky and earth That is to be,- and with what toil of words 'Tis mine to prove the same; as happens oft When once ye offer to man's listening ears Something before unheard of, but may not Subject it to the view of eyes for him Nor put it into hand- the sight and touch, Whereby the opened highways of belief Lead most directly into human breast And regions of intelligence. But yet I will speak out. The fact itself, perchance, Will force belief in these my words, and thou Mayst see, in little time, tremendously With risen commotions of the lands all things Quaking to pieces- which afar from us May she, the steersman Nature, guide: and may Reason, O rather than the fact itself, Persuade us that all things can be o'erthrown And sink with awful-sounding breakage down! But ere on this I take a step to utter Oracles holier and soundlier based Than ever the Pythian pronounced for men From out the tripod and the Delphian laurel, I will unfold for thee with learned words Many a consolation, lest perchance, Still bridled by religion, thou suppose Lands, sun, and sky, sea, constellations, moon, Must dure forever, as of frame divine- And so conclude that it is just that those, (After the manner of the Giants), should all Pay the huge penalties for monstrous crime, Who by their reasonings do overshake The ramparts of the universe and wish There to put out the splendid sun of heaven, Branding with mortal talk immortal things- Though these same things are even so far removed From any touch of deity and seem So far unworthy of numbering with the gods, That well they may be thought to furnish rather A goodly instance of the sort of things That lack the living motion, living sense. For sure 'tis quite beside the mark to think That judgment and the nature of the mind In any kind of body can exist- Just as in ether can't exist a tree, Nor clouds in the salt sea, nor in the fields Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be, Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged Where everything may grow and have its place. Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone Without the body, nor have its being far From thews and blood. Yet if 'twere possible?- Much rather might this very power of mind Be in the head, the shoulders, or the heels, And, born in any part soever, yet In the same man, in the same vessel abide But since within this body even of ours Stands fixed and appears arranged sure Where soul and mind can each exist and grow, Deny we must the more that they can dure Outside the body and the breathing form In rotting clods of earth, in the sun's fire, In water, or in ether's skiey coasts. Therefore these things no whit are furnished With sense divine, since never can they be With life-force quickened. Likewise, thou canst ne'er Believe the sacred seats of gods are here In any regions of this mundane world; Indeed, the nature of the gods, so subtle, So far removed from these our senses, scarce Is seen even by intelligence of mind. And since they've ever eluded touch and thrust Of human hands, they cannot reach to grasp Aught tangible to us. For what may not Itself be touched in turn can never touch. Wherefore, besides, also their seats must be Unlike these seats of ours,- even subtle too, As meet for subtle essence- as I'll prove Hereafter unto thee with large discourse. Further, to say that for the sake of men They willed to prepare this world's magnificence, And that 'tis therefore duty and behoof To praise the work of gods as worthy praise, And that 'tis sacrilege for men to shake Ever by any force from out their seats What hath been stablished by the Forethought old To everlasting for races of mankind, And that 'tis sacrilege to assault by words And overtopple all from base to beam,- Memmius, such notions to concoct and pile, Is verily- to dote. Our gratefulness, O what emoluments could it confer Upon Immortals and upon the Blessed That they should take a step to manage aught For sake of us? Or what new factor could, After so long a time, inveigle them- The hitherto reposeful- to desire To change their former life? For rather he Whom old things chafe seems likely to rejoice At new; but one that in fore-passed time Hath chanced upon no ill, through goodly years. O what could ever enkindle in such an one Passion for strange experiment? Or what The evil for us, if we had ne'er been born?- As though, forsooth, in darkling realms and woe Our life were lying till should dawn at last The day-spring of creation! Whosoever Hath been begotten wills perforce to stay In life, so long as fond delight detains; But whoso ne'er hath tasted love of life, And ne'er was in the count of living things, What hurts it him that he was never born? Whence, further, first was planted in the gods The archetype for gendering the world And the fore-notion of what man is like, So that they knew and pre-conceived with mind Just what they wished to make? Or how were known Ever the energies of primal germs, And what those germs, by interchange of place, Could thus produce, if nature's self had not Given example for creating all? For in such wise primordials of things, Many in many modes, astir by blows From immemorial aeons, in motion too By their own weights, have evermore been wont To be so borne along and in all modes To meet together and to try all sorts Which, by combining one with other, they Are powerful to create, that thus it is No marvel now, if they have also fallen Into arrangements such, and if they've passed Into vibrations such, as those whereby This sum of things is carried on to-day By fixed renewal. But knew I never what The seeds primordial were, yet would I dare This to affirm, even from deep judgments based Upon the ways and conduct of the skies- This to maintain by many a fact besides- That in no wise the nature of all things For us was fashioned by a power divine- So great the faults it stands encumbered with. First, mark all regions which are overarched By the prodigious reaches of the sky: One yawning part thereof the mountain-chains And forests of the beasts do have and hold; And cliffs, and desert fens, and wastes of sea (Which sunder afar the beaches of the lands) Possess it merely; and, again, thereof Well-nigh two-thirds intolerable heat And a perpetual fall of frost doth rob From mortal kind. And what is left to till, Even that the force of Nature would o'errun With brambles, did not human force oppose,- Long wont for livelihood to groan and sweat Over the two-pronged mattock and to cleave The soil in twain by pressing on the plough. Unless, by the ploughshare turning the fruitful clods And kneading the mould, we quicken into birth, The crops spontaneously could not come up Into the free bright air. Even then sometimes, When things acquired by the sternest toil Are now in leaf, are now in blossom all, Either the skiey sun with baneful heats Parches, or sudden rains or chilling rime Destroys, or flaws of winds with furious whirl Torment and twist. Beside these matters, why Doth Nature feed and foster on land and sea The dreadful breed of savage beasts, the foes Of the human clan? Why do the seasons bring Distempers with them? Wherefore stalks at large Death, so untimely? Then, again, the babe, Like to the castaway of the raging surf, Lies naked on the ground, speechless, in want Of every help for life, when Nature first Hath poured him forth upon the shores of light With birth-pangs from within the mother's womb, And with a plaintive wail he fills the place,- As well befitting one for whom remains In life a journey through so many ills. But all the flocks and herds and all wild beasts Come forth and grow, nor need the little rattles, Nor must be treated to the humouring nurse's Dear, broken chatter; nor seek they divers clothes To suit the changing skies; nor need, in fine, Nor arms, nor lofty ramparts, wherewithal Their own to guard- because the earth herself And Nature, artificer of the world, bring forth Aboundingly all things for all. THE WORLD IS NOT ETERNAL And first, Since body of earth and water, air's light breath, And fiery exhalations (of which four This sum of things is seen to be compact) So all have birth and perishable frame, Thus the whole nature of the world itself Must be conceived as perishable too. For, verily, those things of which we see The parts and members to have birth in time And perishable shapes, those same we mark To be invariably born in time And born to die. And therefore when I see The mightiest members and the parts of this Our world consumed and begot again, 'Tis mine to know that also sky above And earth beneath began of old in time And shall in time go under to disaster. And lest in these affairs thou deemest me To have seized upon this point by sleight to serve My own caprice- because I have assumed That earth and fire are mortal things indeed, And have not doubted water and the air Both perish too and have affirmed the same To be again begotten and wax big- Mark well the argument: in first place, lo, Some certain parts of earth, grievously parched By unremitting suns, and trampled on By a vast throng of feet, exhale abroad A powdery haze and flying clouds of dust, Which the stout winds disperse in the whole air. A part, moreover, of her sod and soil Is summoned to inundation by the rains; And rivers graze and gouge the banks away. Besides, whatever takes a part its own In fostering and increasing aught... Is rendered back; and since, beyond a doubt, Earth, the all-mother, is beheld to be Likewise the common sepulchre of things, Therefore thou seest her minished of her plenty, And then again augmented with new growth. And for the rest, that sea, and streams, and springs Forever with new waters overflow And that perennially the fluids well. Needeth no words- the mighty flux itself Of multitudinous waters round about Declareth this. But whatso water first Streams up is ever straightway carried off, And thus it comes to pass that all in all There is no overflow; in part because The burly winds (that over-sweep amain) And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves) Do minish the level seas; in part because The water is diffused underground Through all the lands. The brine is filtered off, And then the liquid stuff seeps back again And all re-gathers at the river-heads, Whence in fresh-water currents on it flows Over the lands, adown the channels which Were cleft erstwhile and erstwhile bore along The liquid-footed floods. Now, then, of air I'll speak, which hour by hour in all its body Is changed innumerably. For whatso'er Streams up in dust or vapour off of things, The same is all and always borne along Into the mighty ocean of the air; And did not air in turn restore to things Bodies, and thus recruit them as they stream, All things by this time had resolved been And changed into air. Therefore it never Ceases to be engendered off of things And to return to things, since verily In constant flux do all things stream. Likewise, The abounding well-spring of the liquid light, The ethereal sun, doth flood the heaven o'er With constant flux of radiance ever new, And with fresh light supplies the place of light, Upon the instant. For whatever effulgence Hath first streamed off, no matter where it falls, Is lost unto the sun. And this 'tis thine To know from these examples: soon as clouds Have first begun to under-pass the sun, And, as it were, to rend the days of light In twain, at once the lower part of them Is lost entire, and earth is overcast Where'er the thunderheads are rolled along- So know thou mayst that things forever need A fresh replenishment of gleam and glow, And each effulgence, foremost flashed forth, Perisheth one by one. Nor otherwise Can things be seen in sunlight, lest alway The fountain-head of light supply new light. Indeed your earthly beacons of the night, The hanging lampions and the torches, bright With darting gleams and dense with livid soot, Do hurry in like manner to supply With ministering heat new light amain; Are all alive to quiver with their fires,- Are so alive, that thus the light ne'er leaves The spots it shines on, as if rent in twain: So speedily is its destruction veiled By the swift birth of flame from all the fires. Thus, then, we must suppose that sun and moon And stars dart forth their light from under-births Ever and ever new, and whatso flames First rise do perish always one by one- Lest, haply, thou shouldst think they each endure Inviolable. Again, perceivest not How stones are also conquered by Time?- Not how the lofty towers ruin down, And boulders crumble?- Not how shrines of gods And idols crack outworn?- Nor how indeed The holy Influence hath yet no power There to postpone the Terminals of Fate, Or headway make 'gainst Nature's fixed decrees? Again, behold we not the monuments Of heroes, now in ruins, asking us, In their turn likewise, if we don't believe They also age with eld? Behold we not The rended basalt ruining amain Down from the lofty mountains, powerless To dure and dree the mighty forces there Of finite time?- for they would never fall Rended asudden, if from infinite Past They had prevailed against all engin'ries Of the assaulting aeons, with no crash. Again, now look at This, which round, above, Contains the whole earth in its one embrace: If from itself it procreates all things- As some men tell- and takes them to itself When once destroyed, entirely must it be Of mortal birth and body; for whate'er From out itself giveth to other things Increase and food, the same perforce must be Minished, and then recruited when it takes Things back into itself. Besides all this, If there had been no origin-in-birth Of lands and sky, and they had ever been The everlasting, why, ere Theban war And obsequies of Troy, have other bards Not also chanted other high affairs? Whither have sunk so oft so many deeds Of heroes? Why do those deeds live no more, Ingrafted in eternal monuments Of glory? Verily, I guess, because The Sum is new, and of a recent date The nature of our universe, and had Not long ago its own exordium. Wherefore, even now some arts are being still Refined, still increased: now unto ships Is being added many a new device; And but the other day musician-folk Gave birth to melic sounds of organing; And, then, this nature, this account of things Hath been discovered latterly, and I Myself have been discovered only now, As first among the first, able to turn The same into ancestral Roman speech. Yet if, percase, thou deemest that ere this Existed all things even the same, but that Perished the cycles of the human race In fiery exhalations, or cities fell By some tremendous quaking of the world, Or rivers in fury, after constant rains, Had plunged forth across the lands of earth And whelmed the towns- then, all the more must thou Confess, defeated by the argument, That there shall be annihilation too Of lands and sky. For at a time when things Were being taxed by maladies so great, And so great perils, if some cause more fell Had then assailed them, far and wide they would Have gone to disaster and supreme collapse. And by no other reasoning are we Seen to be mortal, save that all of us Sicken in turn with those same maladies With which have sickened in the past those men Whom Nature hath removed from life. Again, Whatever abides eternal must indeed Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made Of solid body, and permit no entrance Of aught with power to sunder from within The parts compact- as are those seeds of stuff Whose nature we've exhibited before; Or else be able to endure through time For this: because they are from blows exempt, As is the void, the which abides untouched, Unsmit by any stroke; or else because There is no room around, whereto things can, As 'twere, depart in dissolution all- Even as the sum of sums eternal is, Without or place beyond whereto things may Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite, And thus dissolve them by the blows of might. But not of solid body, as I've shown, Exists the nature of the world, because In things is intermingled there a void; Nor is the world yet as the void, nor are, Moreover, bodies lacking which, percase, Rising from out the infinite, can fell With fury-whirlwinds all this sum of things, Or bring upon them other cataclysm Of peril strange; and yonder, too, abides The infinite space and the profound abyss- Whereinto, lo, the ramparts of the world Can yet be shivered. Or some other power Can pound upon them till they perish all. Thus is the door of doom, O nowise barred Against the sky, against the sun and earth And deep-sea waters, but wide open stands And gloats upon them, monstrous and agape. Wherefore, again, 'tis needful to confess That these same things are born in time; for things Which are of mortal body could indeed Never from infinite past until to-day Have spurned the multitudinous assaults Of the immeasurable aeons old. Again, since battle so fiercely one with other The four most mighty members the world, Aroused in an all unholy war, Seest not that there may be for them an end Of the long strife?- Or when the skiey sun And all the heat have won dominion o'er The sucked-up waters all?- And this they try Still to accomplish, though as yet they fail,- For so aboundingly the streams supply New store of waters that 'tis rather they Who menace the world with inundations vast From forth the unplumbed chasms of the sea. But vain- since winds (that over-sweep amain) And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves) Do minish the level seas and trust their power To dry up all, before the waters can Arrive at the end of their endeavouring. Breathing such vasty warfare, they contend In balanced strife the one with other still Concerning mighty issues- though indeed The fire was once the more victorious, And once- as goes the tale- the water won A kingdom in the fields. For fire o'ermastered And licked up many things and burnt away, What time the impetuous horses of the Sun Snatched Phaethon headlong from his skiey road Down the whole ether and over all the lands. But the omnipotent Father in keen wrath Then with the sudden smite of thunderbolt Did hurl the mighty-minded hero off Those horses to the earth. And Sol, his sire, Meeting him as he fell, caught up in hand The ever-blazing lampion of the world, And drave together the pell-mell horses there And yoked them all a-tremble, and amain, Steering them over along their own old road, Restored the cosmos- as forsooth we hear From songs of ancient poets of the Greeks- A tale too far away from truth, meseems. For fire can win when from the infinite Has risen a larger throng of particles Of fiery stuff; and then its powers succumb, Somehow subdued again, or else at last It shrivels in torrid atmospheres the world. And whilom water too began to win- As goes the story- when it overwhelmed The lives of men with billows; and thereafter, When all that force of water-stuff which forth From out the infinite had risen up Did now retire, as somehow turned aside, The rain-storms stopped, and streams their fury checked. FORMATION OF THE WORLD AND ASTRONOMICAL QUESTIONS But in what modes that conflux of first-stuff Did found the multitudinous universe Of earth, and sky, and the unfathomed deeps Of ocean, and courses of the sun and moon, I'll now in order tell. For of a truth Neither by counsel did the primal germs 'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind, Each in its proper place; nor did they make, Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move; But, lo, because primordials of things, Many in many modes, astir by blows From immemorial aeons, in motion too By their own weights, have evermore been wont To be so borne along and in all modes To meet together and to try all sorts Which, by combining one with other, they Are powerful to create: because of this It comes to pass that those primordials, Diffused far and wide through mighty aeons, The while they unions try, and motions too, Of every kind, meet at the last amain, And so become oft the commencements fit Of mighty things- earth, sea, and sky, and race Of living creatures. In that long-ago The wheel of the sun could nowhere be discerned Flying far up with its abounding blaze, Nor constellations of the mighty world, Nor ocean, nor heaven, nor even earth nor air. Nor aught of things like unto things of ours Could then be seen- but only some strange storm And a prodigious hurly-burly mass Compounded of all kinds of primal germs, Whose battling discords in disorder kept Interstices, and paths, coherencies, And weights, and blows, encounterings, and motions, Because, by reason of their forms unlike And varied shapes, they could not all thuswise Remain conjoined nor harmoniously Have interplay of movements. But from there Portions began to fly asunder, and like With like to join, and to block out a world, And to divide its members and dispose Its mightier parts- that is, to set secure The lofty heavens from the lands, and cause The sea to spread with waters separate, And fires of ether separate and pure Likewise to congregate apart. For, lo, First came together the earthy particles (As being heavy and intertangled) there In the mid-region, and all began to take The lowest abodes; and ever the more they got One with another intertangled, the more They pressed from out their mass those particles Which were to form the sea, the stars, the sun, And moon, and ramparts of the mighty world- For these consist of seeds more smooth and round And of much smaller elements than earth. And thus it was that ether, fraught with fire, First broke away from out the earthen parts, Athrough the innumerable pores of earth, And raised itself aloft, and with itself Bore lightly off the many starry fires; And not far otherwise we often see And the still lakes and the perennial streams Exhale a mist, and even as earth herself Is seen at times to smoke, when first at dawn The light of the sun, the many-rayed, begins To redden into gold, over the grass Begemmed with dew. When all of these are brought Together overhead, the clouds on high With now concreted body weave a cover Beneath the heavens. And thuswise ether too, Light and diffusive, with concreted body On all sides spread, on all sides bent itself Into a dome, and, far and wide diffused On unto every region on all sides, Thus hedged all else within its greedy clasp. Hard upon ether came the origins Of sun and moon, whose globes revolve in air Midway between the earth and mightiest ether,- For neither took them, since they weighed too little To sink and settle, but too much to glide Along the upmost shores; and yet they are In such a wise midway between the twain As ever to whirl their living bodies round, And ever to dure as parts of the wide Whole; In the same fashion as certain members may In us remain at rest, whilst others move. When, then, these substances had been withdrawn, Amain the earth, where now extend the vast Cerulean zones of all the level seas, Caved in, and down along the hollows poured The whirlpools of her brine; and day by day The more the tides of ether and rays of sun On every side constrained into one mass The earth by lashing it again, again, Upon its outer edges (so that then, Being thus beat upon, 'twas all condensed About its proper centre), ever the more The salty sweat, from out its body squeezed, Augmented ocean and the fields of foam By seeping through its frame, and all the more Those many particles of heat and air Escaping, began to fly aloft, and form, By condensation there afar from earth, The high refulgent circuits of the heavens. The plains began to sink, and windy slopes Of the high mountains to increase; for rocks Could not subside, nor all the parts of ground Settle alike to one same level there. Thus, then, the massy weight of earth stood firm With now concreted body, when (as 'twere) All of the slime of the world, heavy and gross, Had run together and settled at the bottom, Like lees or bilge. Then ocean, then the air, Then ether herself, the fraught-with-fire, were all Left with their liquid bodies pure and free, And each more lighter than the next below; And ether, most light and liquid of the three, Floats on above the long aerial winds, Nor with the brawling of the winds of air Mingles its liquid body. It doth leave All there- those under-realms below her heights- There to be overset in whirlwinds wild,- Doth leave all there to brawl in wayward gusts, Whilst, gliding with a fixed impulse still, Itself it bears its fires along. For, lo, That ether can flow thus steadily on, on, With one unaltered urge, the Pontus proves- That sea which floweth forth with fixed tides, Keeping one onward tenor as it glides. And that the earth may there abide at rest In the mid-region of the world, it needs Must vanish bit by bit in weight and lessen, And have another substance underneath, Conjoined to it from its earliest age In linked unison with the vasty world's Realms of the air in which it roots and lives. On this account, the earth is not a load, Nor presses down on winds of air beneath; Even as unto a man his members be Without all weight- the head is not a load Unto the neck; nor do we feel the whole Weight of the body to centre in the feet. But whatso weights come on us from without, Weights laid upon us, these harass and chafe, Though often far lighter. For to such degree It matters always what the innate powers Of any given thing may be. The earth Was, then, no alien substance fetched amain, And from no alien firmament cast down On alien air; but was conceived, like air, In the first origin of this the world, As a fixed portion of the same, as now Our members are seen to be a part of us. Besides, the earth, when of a sudden shook By the big thunder, doth with her motion shake All that's above her- which she ne'er could do By any means, were earth not bounden fast Unto the great world's realms of air and sky: For they cohere together with common roots, Conjoined both, even from their earliest age, In linked unison. Aye, seest thou not That this most subtle energy of soul Supports our body, though so heavy a weight,- Because, indeed, 'tis with it so conjoined In linked unison? What power, in sum, Can raise with agile leap our body aloft, Save energy of mind which steers the limbs? Now seest thou not how powerful may be A subtle nature, when conjoined it is With heavy body, as air is with the earth Conjoined, and energy of mind with us? Now let's us sing what makes the stars to move. In first place, if the mighty sphere of heaven Revolveth round, then needs we must aver That on the upper and the under pole Presses a certain air, and from without Confines them and encloseth at each end; And that, moreover, another air above Streams on athwart the top of the sphere and tends In same direction as are rolled along The glittering stars of the eternal world; Or that another still streams on below To whirl the sphere from under up and on In opposite direction- as we see The rivers turn the wheels and water-scoops. It may be also that the heavens do all Remain at rest, whilst yet are borne along The lucid constellations; either because Swift tides of ether are by sky enclosed, And whirl around, seeking a passage out, And everywhere make roll the starry fires Through the Summanian regions of the sky; Or else because some air, streaming along From an eternal quarter off beyond, Whileth the driven fires, or, then, because The fires themselves have power to creep along, Going wherever their food invites and calls, And feeding their flaming bodies everywhere Throughout the sky. Yet which of these is cause In this our world 'tis hard to say for sure; But what can be throughout the universe, In divers worlds on divers plan create, This only do I show, and follow on To assign unto the motions of the stars Even several causes which 'tis possible Exist throughout the universal All; Of which yet one must be the cause even here Which maketh motion for our constellations. Yet to decide which one of them it be Is not the least the business of a man Advancing step by cautious step, as I. Nor can the sun's wheel larger be by much Nor its own blaze much less than either seems Unto our senses. For from whatso spaces Fires have the power on us to cast their beams And blow their scorching exhalations forth Against our members, those same distances Take nothing by those intervals away From bulk of flames; and to the sight the fire Is nothing shrunken. Therefore, since the heat And the outpoured light of skiey sun Arrive our senses and caress our limbs, Form too and bigness of the sun must look Even here from earth just as they really be, So that thou canst scarce nothing take or add. And whether the journeying moon illuminate The regions round with bastard beams, or throw From off her proper body her own light,- Whichever it be, she journeys with a form Naught larger than the form doth seem to be Which we with eyes of ours perceive. For all The far removed objects of our gaze Seem through much air confused in their look Ere minished in their bigness. Wherefore, moon, Since she presents bright look and clear-cut form, May there on high by us on earth be seen Just as she is with extreme bounds defined, And just of the size. And lastly, whatso fires Of ether thou from earth beholdest, these Thou mayst consider as possibly of size The least bit less, or larger by a hair Than they appear- since whatso fires we view Here in the lands of earth are seen to change From time to time their size to less or more Only the least, when more or less away, So long as still they bicker clear, and still Their glow's perceived. Nor need there be for men Astonishment that yonder sun so small Can yet send forth so great a light as fills Oceans and all the lands and sky aflood, And with its fiery exhalations steeps The world at large. For it may be, indeed, That one vast-flowing well-spring of the whole Wide world from here hath opened and out-gushed, And shot its light abroad; because thuswise The elements of fiery exhalations From all the world around together come, And thuswise flow into a bulk so big That from one single fountain-head may stream This heat and light. And seest thou not, indeed, How widely one small water-spring may wet The meadow-lands at times and flood the fields? 'Tis even possible, besides, that heat From forth the sun's own fire, albeit that fire Be not a great, may permeate the air With the fierce hot- if but, perchance, the air Be of condition and so tempered then As to be kindled, even when beat upon Only by little particles of heat- Just as we sometimes see the standing grain Or stubble straw in conflagration all From one lone spark. And possibly the sun, Agleam on high with rosy lampion, Possesses about him with invisible heats A plenteous fire, by no effulgence marked, So that he maketh, he, the Fraught-with-fire, Increase to such degree the force of rays. Nor is there one sure cause revealed to men How the sun journeys from his summer haunts On to the mid-most winter turning-points In Capricorn, the thence reverting veers Back to solstitial goals of Cancer; nor How 'tis the moon is seen each month to cross That very distance which in traversing The sun consumes the measure of a year. I say, no one clear reason hath been given For these affairs. Yet chief in likelihood Seemeth the doctrine which the holy thought Of great Democritus lays down: that ever The nearer the constellations be to earth The less can they by whirling of the sky Be borne along, because those skiey powers Of speed aloft do vanish and decrease In under-regions, and the sun is thus Left by degrees behind amongst those signs That follow after, since the sun he lies Far down below the starry signs that blaze; And the moon lags even tardier than the sun: In just so far as is her course removed From upper heaven and nigh unto the lands, In just so far she fails to keep the pace With starry signs above; for just so far As feebler is the whirl that bears her on, (Being, indeed, still lower than the sun), In just so far do all the starry signs, Circling around, o'ertake her and o'erpass. Therefore it happens that the moon appears More swiftly to return to any sign Along the Zodiac, than doth the sun, Because those signs do visit her again More swiftly than they visit the great sun. It can be also that two streams of air Alternately at fixed periods Blow out from transverse regions of the world, Of which the one may thrust the sun away From summer-signs to mid-most winter goals And rigors of the cold, and the other then May cast him back from icy shades of chill Even to the heat-fraught regions and the signs That blaze along the Zodiac. So, too, We must suppose the moon and all the stars, Which through the mighty and sidereal years Roll round in mighty orbits, may be sped By streams of air from regions alternate. Seest thou not also how the clouds be sped By contrary winds to regions contrary, The lower clouds diversely from the upper? Then, why may yonder stars in ether there Along their mighty orbits not be borne By currents opposite the one to other? But night o'erwhelms the lands with vasty murk Either when sun, after his diurnal course, Hath walked the ultimate regions of the sky And wearily hath panted forth his fires, Shivered by their long journeying and wasted By traversing the multitudinous air, Or else because the self-same force that drave His orb along above the lands compels Him then to turn his course beneath the lands. Matuta also at a fixed hour Spreadeth the roseate morning out along The coasts of heaven and deploys the light, Either because the self-same sun, returning Under the lands, aspires to seize the sky, Striving to set it blazing with his rays Ere he himself appear, or else because Fires then will congregate and many seeds Of heat are wont, even at a fixed time, To stream together- gendering evermore New suns and light. Just so the story goes That from the Idaean mountain-tops are seen Dispersed fires upon the break of day Which thence combine, as 'twere, into one ball And form an orb. Nor yet in these affairs Is aught for wonder that these seeds of fire Can thus together stream at time so fixed And shape anew the splendour of the sun. For many facts we see which come to pass At fixed time in all things: burgeon shrubs At fixed time, and at a fixed time They cast their flowers; and Eld commands the teeth, At time as surely fixed, to drop away, And Youth commands the growing boy to bloom With the soft down and let from both his cheeks The soft beard fall. And lastly, thunder-bolts, Snow, rains, clouds, winds, at seasons of the year Nowise unfixed, all do come to pass. For where, even from their old primordial start Causes have ever worked in such a way, And where, even from the world's first origin, Thuswise have things befallen, so even now After a fixed order they come round In sequence also. Likewise, days may wax Whilst the nights wane, and daylight minished be Whilst nights do take their augmentations, Either because the self-same sun, coursing Under the lands and over in two arcs, A longer and a briefer, doth dispart The coasts of ether and divides in twain His orbit all unequally, and adds, As round he's borne, unto the one half there As much as from the other half he's ta'en, Until he then arrives that sign of heaven Where the year's node renders the shades of night Equal unto the periods of light. For when the sun is midway on his course Between the blasts of north wind and of south, Heaven keeps his two goals parted equally, By virtue of the fixed position old Of the whole starry Zodiac, through which That sun, in winding onward, takes a year, Illumining the sky and all the lands With oblique light- as men declare to us Who by their diagrams have charted well Those regions of the sky which be adorned With the arranged signs of Zodiac. Or else, because in certain parts the air Under the lands is denser, the tremulous Bright beams of fire do waver tardily, Nor easily can penetrate that air Nor yet emerge unto their rising-place: For this it is that nights in winter time Do linger long, ere comes the many-rayed Round Badge of the day. Or else because, as said, In alternating seasons of the year Fires, now more quick, and now more slow, are wont To stream together- the fires which make the sun To rise in some one spot- therefore it is That those men seem to speak the truth who hold A new sun is with each new daybreak born. The moon she possibly doth shine because Strook by the rays of sun, and day by day May turn unto our gaze her light, the more She doth recede from orb of sun, until, Facing him opposite across the world, She hath with full effulgence gleamed abroad, And, at her rising as she soars above, Hath there observed his setting; thence likewise She needs must hide, as 'twere, her light behind By slow degrees, the nearer now she glides, Along the circle of the Zodiac, From her far place toward fires of yonder sun- As those men hold who feign the moon to be Just like a ball and to pursue a course Betwixt the sun and earth. There is, again, Some reason to suppose that moon may roll With light her very own, and thus display The varied shapes of her resplendence there. For near her is, percase, another body, Invisible, because devoid of light, Borne on and gliding all along with her, Which in three modes may block and blot her disk. Again, she may revolve upon herself, Like to a ball's sphere- if perchance that be- One half of her dyed o'er with glowing light, And by the revolution of that sphere She may beget for us her varying shapes, Until she turns that fiery part of her Full to the sight and open eyes of men; Thence by slow stages round and back she whirls, Withdrawing thus the luminiferous part Of her sphered mass and ball, as, verily, The Babylonian doctrine of Chaldees, Refuting the art of Greek astrologers, Labours, in opposition, to prove sure- As if, forsooth, the thing for which each fights, Might not alike be true- or aught there were Wherefore thou mightest risk embracing one More than the other notion. Then, again, Why a new moon might not forevermore Created be with fixed successions there Of shapes and with configurations fixed, And why each day that bright created moon Might not miscarry and another be, In its stead and place, engendered anew, 'Tis hard to show by reason, or by words To prove absurd- since, lo, so many things Can be create with fixed successions: Spring-time and Venus come, and Venus' boy, The winged harbinger, steps on before, And hard on Zephyr's foot-prints Mother Flora, Sprinkling the ways before them, filleth all With colours and with odours excellent; Whereafter follows arid Heat, and he Companioned is by Ceres, dusty one, And by the Etesian Breezes of the north At rising of the dog-star of the year; Then cometh Autumn on, and with him steps Lord Bacchus, and then other Seasons too And other Winds do follow- the high roar Of great Volturnus, and the Southwind strong With thunder-bolts. At last earth's Shortest-Day Bears on to men the snows and brings again The numbing cold. And Winter follows her, His teeth with chills a-chatter. Therefore, 'tis The less a marvel, if at fixed time A moon is thus begotten and again At fixed time destroyed, since things so many Can come to being thus at fixed time. Likewise, the sun's eclipses and the moon's Far occultations rightly thou mayst deem As due to several causes. For, indeed, Why should the moon be able to shut out Earth from the light of sun, and on the side To earthward thrust her high head under sun, Opposing dark orb to his glowing beams- And yet, at same time, one suppose the effect Could not result from some one other body Which glides devoid of light forevermore? Again, why could not sun, in weakened state, At fixed time for-lose his fires, and then, When he has passed on along the air Beyond the regions, hostile to his flames, That quench and kill his fires, why could not he Renew his light? And why should earth in turn Have power to rob the moon of light, and there, Herself on high, keep the sun hid beneath, Whilst the moon glideth in her monthly course Athrough the rigid shadows of the cone?- And yet, at same time, some one other body Not have the power to under-pass the moon, Or glide along above the orb of sun, Breaking his rays and outspread light asunder? And still, if moon herself refulgent be With her own sheen, why could she not at times In some one quarter of the mighty world Grow weak and weary, whilst she passeth through Regions unfriendly to the beams her own? ORIGINS OF VEGETABLE AND ANIMAL LIFE And now to what remains!- Since I've resolved By what arrangements all things come to pass Through the blue regions of the mighty world,- How we can know what energy and cause Started the various courses of the sun And the moon's goings, and by what far means They can succumb, the while with thwarted light, And veil with shade the unsuspecting lands, When, as it were, they blink, and then again With open eye survey all regions wide, Resplendent with white radiance- I do now Return unto the world's primeval age And tell what first the soft young fields of earth With earliest parturition had decreed To raise in air unto the shores of light And to entrust unto the wayward winds. In the beginning, earth gave forth, around The hills and over all the length of plains, The race of grasses and the shining green; The flowery meadows sparkled all aglow With greening colour, and thereafter, lo, Unto the divers kinds of trees was given An emulous impulse mightily to shoot, With a free rein, aloft into the air. As feathers and hairs and bristles are begot The first on members of the four-foot breeds And on the bodies of the strong-y-winged, Thus then the new Earth first of all put forth Grasses and shrubs, and afterward begat The mortal generations, there upsprung- Innumerable in modes innumerable- After diverging fashions. For from sky These breathing-creatures never can have dropped, Nor the land-dwellers ever have come up Out of sea-pools of salt. How true remains, How merited is that adopted name Of earth- "The Mother!"- since from out the earth Are all begotten. And even now arise From out the loams how many living things- Concreted by the rains and heat of the sun. Wherefore 'tis less a marvel, if they sprang In Long Ago more many, and more big, Matured of those days in the fresh young years Of earth and ether. First of all, the race Of the winged ones and parti-coloured birds, Hatched out in spring-time, left their eggs behind; As now-a-days in summer tree-crickets Do leave their shiny husks of own accord, Seeking their food and living. Then it was This earth of thine first gave unto the day The mortal generations; for prevailed Among the fields abounding hot and wet. And hence, where any fitting spot was given, There 'gan to grow womb-cavities, by roots Affixed to earth. And when in ripened time The age of the young within (that sought the air And fled earth's damps) had burst these wombs, O then Would Nature thither turn the pores of earth And make her spurt from open veins a juice Like unto milk; even as a woman now Is filled, at child-bearing, with the sweet milk, Because all that swift stream of aliment Is thither turned unto the mother-breasts. There earth would furnish to the children food; Warmth was their swaddling cloth, the grass their bed Abounding in soft down. Earth's newness then Would rouse no dour spells of the bitter cold, Nor extreme heats nor winds of mighty powers- For all things grow and gather strength through time In like proportions; and then earth was young. Wherefore, again, again, how merited Is that adopted name of Earth- The Mother!- Since she herself begat the human race, And at one well-nigh fixed time brought forth Each breast that ranges raving round about Upon the mighty mountains and all birds Aerial with many a varied shape. But, lo, because her bearing years must end, She ceased, like to a woman worn by eld. For lapsing aeons change the nature of The whole wide world, and all things needs must take One status after other, nor aught persists Forever like itself. All things depart; Nature she changeth all, compelleth all To transformation. Lo, this moulders down, A-slack with weary eld, and that, again, Prospers in glory, issuing from contempt. In suchwise, then, the lapsing aeons change The nature of the whole wide world, and earth Taketh one status after other. And what She bore of old, she now can bear no longer, And what she never bore, she can to-day. In those days also the telluric world Strove to beget the monsters that upsprung With their astounding visages and limbs- The Man-woman- a thing betwixt the twain, Yet neither, and from either sex remote- Some gruesome Boggles orphaned of the feet, Some widowed of the hands, dumb Horrors too Without a mouth, or blind Ones of no eye, Or Bulks all shackled by their legs and arms Cleaving unto the body fore and aft, Thuswise, that never could they do or go, Nor shun disaster, nor take the good they would. And other prodigies and monsters earth Was then begetting of this sort- in vain, Since Nature banned with horror their increase, And powerless were they to reach unto The coveted flower of fair maturity, Or to find aliment, or to intertwine In works of Venus. For we see there must Concur in life conditions manifold, If life is ever by begetting life To forge the generations one by one: First, foods must be; and, next, a path whereby The seeds of impregnation in the frame May ooze, released from the members all; Last, the possession of those instruments Whereby the male with female can unite, The one with other in mutual ravishments. And in the ages after monsters died, Perforce there perished many a stock, unable By propagation to forge a progeny. For whatsoever creatures thou beholdest Breathing the breath of life, the same have been Even from their earliest age preserved alive By cunning, or by valour, or at least By speed of foot or wing. And many a stock Remaineth yet, because of use to man, And so committed to man's guardianship. Valour hath saved alive fierce lion-breeds And many another terrorizing race, Cunning the foxes, flight the antlered stags. Light-sleeping dogs with faithful heart in breast, However, and every kind begot from seed Of beasts of draft, as, too, the woolly flocks And horned cattle, all, my Memmius, Have been committed to guardianship of men. For anxiously they fled the savage beasts, And peace they sought and their abundant foods, Obtained with never labours of their own, Which we secure to them as fit rewards For their good service. But those beasts to whom Nature has granted naught of these same things- Beasts quite unfit by own free will to thrive And vain for any service unto us In thanks for which we should permit their kind To feed and be in our protection safe- Those, of a truth, were wont to be exposed, Enshackled in the gruesome bonds of doom, As prey and booty for the rest, until Nature reduced that stock to utter death. But Centaurs ne'er have been, nor can there be Creatures of twofold stock and double frame, Compact of members alien in kind, Yet formed with equal function, equal force In every bodily part- a fact thou mayst, However dull thy wits, well learn from this: The horse, when his three years have rolled away, Flowers in his prime of vigour; but the boy Not so, for oft even then he gropes in sleep After the milky nipples of the breasts, An infant still. And later, when at last The lusty powers of horses and stout limbs, Now weak through lapsing life, do fail with age, Lo, only then doth youth with flowering years Begin for boys, and clothe their ruddy cheeks With the soft down. So never deem, percase, That from a man and from the seed of horse, The beast of draft, can Centaurs be composed Or e'er exist alive, nor Scyllas be- The half-fish bodies girdled with mad dogs- Nor others of this sort, in whom we mark Members discordant each with each; for ne'er At one same time they reach their flower of age Or gain and lose full vigour of their frame, And never burn with one same lust of love, And never in their habits they agree, Nor find the same foods equally delightsome- Sooth, as one oft may see the bearded goats Batten upon the hemlock which to man Is violent poison. Once again, since flame Is wont to scorch and burn the tawny bulks Of the great lions as much as other kinds Of flesh and blood existing in the lands, How could it be that she, Chimaera lone, With triple body- fore, a lion she; And aft, a dragon; and betwixt, a goat- Might at the mouth from out the body belch Infuriate flame? Wherefore, the man who feigns Such beings could have been engendered When earth was new and the young sky was fresh (Basing his empty argument on new) May babble with like reason many whims Into our ears: he'll say, perhaps, that then Rivers of gold through every landscape flowed, That trees were wont with precious stones to flower, Or that in those far aeons man was born With such gigantic length and lift of limbs As to be able, based upon his feet, Deep oceans to bestride; or with his hands To whirl the firmament around his head. For though in earth were many seeds of things In the old time when this telluric world First poured the breeds of animals abroad, Still that is nothing of a sign that then Such hybrid creatures could have been begot And limbs of all beasts heterogeneous Have been together knit; because, indeed, The divers kinds of grasses and the grains And the delightsome trees- which even now Spring up abounding from within the earth- Can still ne'er be begotten with their stems Begrafted into one; but each sole thing Proceeds according to its proper wont And all conserve their own distinctions based In Nature's fixed decree. ORIGINS AND SAVAGE PERIOD OF MANKIND But mortal man Was then far hardier in the old champaign, As well he should be, since a hardier earth Had him begotten; builded too was he Of bigger and more solid bones within, And knit with stalwart sinews through the flesh, Nor easily seized by either heat or cold, Or alien food or any ail or irk. And whilst so many lustrums of the sun Rolled on across the sky, men led a life After the roving habit of wild beasts. Not then were sturdy guiders of curved ploughs, And none knew then to work the fields with iron, Or plant young shoots in holes of delved loam, Or lop with hooked knives from off high trees The boughs of yester-year. What sun and rains To them had given, what earth of own accord Created then, was boon enough to glad Their simple hearts. Mid acorn-laden oaks Would they refresh their bodies for the nonce; And the wild berries of the arbute-tree, Which now thou seest to ripen purple-red In winter time, the old telluric soil Would bear then more abundant and more big. And many coarse foods, too, in long ago The blooming freshness of the rank young world Produced, enough for those poor wretches there. And rivers and springs would summon them of old To slake the thirst, as now from the great hills The water's down-rush calls aloud and far The thirsty generations of the wild. So, too, they sought the grottos of the Nymphs- The woodland haunts discovered as they ranged- From forth of which they knew that gliding rills With gush and splash abounding laved the rocks, The dripping rocks, and trickled from above Over the verdant moss; and here and there Welled up and burst across the open flats. As yet they knew not to enkindle fire Against the cold, nor hairy pelts to use And clothe their bodies with the spoils of beasts; But huddled in groves, and mountain-caves, and woods, And 'mongst the thickets hid their squalid backs, When driven to flee the lashings of the winds And the big rains. Nor could they then regard The general good, nor did they know to use In common any customs, any laws: Whatever of booty fortune unto each Had proffered, each alone would bear away, By instinct trained for self to thrive and live. And Venus in the forests then would link The lovers' bodies; for the woman yielded Either from mutual flame, or from the man's Impetuous fury and insatiate lust, Or from a bribe- as acorn-nuts, choice pears, Or the wild berries of the arbute-tree. And trusting wondrous strength of hands and legs, They'd chase the forest-wanderers, the beasts; And many they'd conquer, but some few they fled, A-skulk into their hiding-places... With the flung stones and with the ponderous heft Of gnarled branch. And by the time of night O'ertaken, they would throw, like bristly boars, Their wildman's limbs naked upon the earth, Rolling themselves in leaves and fronded boughs. Nor would they call with lamentations loud Around the fields for daylight and the sun, Quaking and wand'ring in shadows of the night; But, silent and buried in a sleep, they'd wait Until the sun with rosy flambeau brought The glory to the sky. From childhood wont Ever to see the dark and day begot In times alternate, never might they be Wildered by wild misgiving, lest a night Eternal should posses the lands, with light Of sun withdrawn forever. But their care Was rather that the clans of savage beasts Would often make their sleep-time horrible For those poor wretches; and, from home y-driven, They'd flee their rocky shelters at approach Of boar, the spumy-lipped, or lion strong, And in the midnight yield with terror up To those fierce guests their beds of out-spread leaves. And yet in those days not much more than now Would generations of mortality Leave the sweet light of fading life behind. Indeed, in those days here and there a man, More oftener snatched upon, and gulped by fangs, Afforded the beasts a food that roared alive, Echoing through groves and hills and forest trees, Even as he viewed his living flesh entombed Within a living grave; whilst those whom flight Had saved, with bone and body bitten, shrieked, Pressing their quivering palms to loathsome sores, With horrible voices for eternal death- Until, forlorn of help, and witless what Might medicine their wounds, the writhing pangs Took them from life. But not in those far times Would one lone day give over unto doom A soldiery in thousands marching on Beneath the battle-banners, nor would then The ramping breakers of the main seas dash Whole argosies and crews upon the rocks. But ocean uprisen would often rave in vain, Without all end or outcome, and give up Its empty menacings as lightly too; Nor soft seductions of a serene sea Could lure by laughing billows any man Out to disaster: for the science bold Of ship-sailing lay dark in those far times. Again, 'twas then that lack of food gave o'er Men's fainting limbs to dissolution: now 'Tis plenty overwhelms. Unwary, they Oft for themselves themselves would then outpour The poison; now, with nicer art, themselves They give the drafts to others. BEGINNINGS OF CIVILIZATION Afterwards, When huts they had procured and pelts and fire, And when the woman, joined unto the man, Withdrew with him into one dwelling place, Were known; and when they saw an offspring born From out themselves, then first the human race Began to soften. For 'twas now that fire Rendered their shivering frames less staunch to bear, Under the canopy of the sky, the cold; And Love reduced their shaggy hardiness; And children, with the prattle and the kiss, Soon broke the parents' haughty temper down. Then, too, did neighbours 'gin to league as friends, Eager to wrong no more or suffer wrong, And urged for children and the womankind Mercy, of fathers, whilst with cries and gestures They stammered hints how meet it was that all Should have compassion on the weak. And still, Though concord not in every wise could then Begotten be, a good, a goodly part Kept faith inviolate- or else mankind Long since had been unutterably cut off, And propagation never could have brought The species down the ages. Lest, perchance, Concerning these affairs thou ponderest In silent meditation, let me say 'Twas lightning brought primevally to earth The fire for mortals, and from thence hath spread O'er all the lands the flames of heat. For thus Even now we see so many objects, touched By the celestial flames, to flash aglow, When thunderbolt has dowered them with heat. Yet also when a many-branched tree, Beaten by winds, writhes swaying to and fro, Pressing 'gainst branches of a neighbour tree, There by the power of mighty rub and rub Is fire engendered; and at times out-flares The scorching heat of flame, when boughs do chafe Against the trunks. And of these causes, either May well have given to mortal men the fire. Next, food to cook and soften in the flame The sun instructed, since so oft they saw How objects mellowed, when subdued by warmth And by the raining blows of fiery beams, Through all the fields. And more and more each day Would men more strong in sense, more wise in heart, Teach them to change their earlier mode and life By fire and new devices. Kings began Cities to found and citadels to set, As strongholds and asylums for themselves, And flocks and fields to portion for each man After the beauty, strength, and sense of each- For beauty then imported much, and strength Had its own rights supreme. Thereafter, wealth Discovered was, and gold was brought to light, Which soon of honour stripped both strong and fair; For men, however beautiful in form Or valorous, will follow in the main The rich man's party. Yet were man to steer His life by sounder reasoning, he'd own Abounding riches, if with mind content He lived by thrift; for never, as I guess, Is there a lack of little in the world. But men wished glory for themselves and power Even that their fortunes on foundations firm Might rest forever, and that they themselves, The opulent, might pass a quiet life- In vain, in vain; since, in the strife to climb On to the heights of honour, men do make Their pathway terrible; and even when once They reach them, envy like the thunderbolt At times will smite, O hurling headlong down To murkiest Tartarus, in scorn; for, lo, All summits, all regions loftier than the rest, Smoke, blasted as by envy's thunderbolts; So better far in quiet to obey, Than to desire chief mastery of affairs And ownership of empires. Be it so; And let the weary sweat their life-blood out All to no end, battling in hate along The narrow path of man's ambition Since all their wisdom is from others' lips, And all they seek is known from what they've heard And less from what they've thought. Nor is this folly Greater to-day, nor greater soon to be, Than' twas of old. And therefore kings were slain, And pristine majesty of golden thrones And haughty sceptres lay o'erturned in dust; And crowns, so splendid on the sovereign heads, Soon bloody under the proletarian feet, Groaned for their glories gone- for erst o'er-much Dreaded, thereafter with more greedy zest Trampled beneath the rabble heel. Thus things Down to the vilest lees of brawling mobs Succumbed, whilst each man sought unto himself Dominion and supremacy. So next Some wiser heads instructed men to found The magisterial office, and did frame Codes that they might consent to follow laws. For humankind, o'er wearied with a life Fostered by force, was ailing from its feuds; And so the sooner of its own free will Yielded to laws and strictest codes. For since Each hand made ready in its wrath to take A vengeance fiercer than by man's fair laws Is now conceded, men on this account Loathed the old life fostered by force. 'Tis thence That fear of punishments defiles each prize Of wicked days; for force and fraud ensnare Each man around, and in the main recoil On him from whence they sprung. Not easy 'tis For one who violates by ugly deeds The bonds of common peace to pass a life Composed and tranquil. For albeit he 'scape The race of gods and men, he yet must dread 'Twill not be hid forever- since, indeed, So many, oft babbling on amid their dreams Or raving in sickness, have betrayed themselves (As stories tell) and published at last Old secrets and the sins. But Nature 'twas Urged men to utter various sounds of tongue And need and use did mould the names of things, About in same wise as the lack-speech years Compel young children unto gesturings, Making them point with finger here and there At what's before them. For each creature feels By instinct to what use to put his powers. Ere yet the bull-calf's scarce begotten horns Project above his brows, with them he 'gins Enraged to butt and savagely to thrust. But whelps of panthers and the lion's cubs With claws and paws and bites are at the fray Already, when their teeth and claws be scarce As yet engendered. So again, we see All breeds of winged creatures trust to wings And from their fledgling pinions seek to get A fluttering assistance. Thus, to think That in those days some man apportioned round To things their names, and that from him men learned Their first nomenclature, is foolery. For why could he mark everything by words And utter the various sounds of tongue, what time The rest may be supposed powerless To do the same? And, if the rest had not Already one with other used words, Whence was implanted in the teacher, then, Fore-knowledge of their use, and whence was given To him alone primordial faculty To know and see in mind what 'twas he willed? Besides, one only man could scarce subdue An overmastered multitude to choose To get by heart his names of things. A task Not easy 'tis in any wise to teach And to persuade the deaf concerning what 'Tis needful for to do. For ne'er would they Allow, nor ne'er in anywise endure Perpetual vain dingdong in their ears Of spoken sounds unheard before. And what, At last, in this affair so wondrous is, That human race (in whom a voice and tongue Were now in vigour) should by divers words Denote its objects, as each divers sense Might prompt?- since even the speechless herds, aye, since The very generations of wild beasts Are wont dissimilar and divers sounds To rouse from in them, when there's fear or pain, And when they burst with joys. And this, forsooth, 'Tis thine to know from plainest facts: when first Huge flabby jowls of mad Molossian hounds, Baring their hard white teeth, begin to snarl, They threaten, with infuriate lips peeled back, In sounds far other than with which they bark And fill with voices all the regions round. And when with fondling tongue they start to lick Their puppies, or do toss them round with paws, Feigning with gentle bites to gape and snap, They fawn with yelps of voice far other then Than when, alone within the house, they bay, Or whimpering slink with cringing sides from blows. Again the neighing of the horse, is that Not seen to differ likewise, when the stud In buoyant flower of his young years raves, Goaded by winged Love, amongst the mares, And when with widening nostrils out he snorts The call to battle, and when haply he Whinnies at times with terror-quaking limbs? Lastly, the flying race, the dappled birds, Hawks, ospreys, sea-gulls, searching food and life Amid the ocean billows in the brine, Utter at other times far other cries Then when they fight for food, or with their prey Struggle and strain. And birds there are which change With changing weather their own raucous songs- As long-lived generations of the crows Or flocks of rooks, when they be said to cry For rain and water and to call at times For winds and gales. Ergo, if divers moods Compel the brutes, though speechless evermore, To send forth divers sounds, O truly then How much more likely 'twere that mortal men In those days could with many a different sound Denote each separate thing. And now what cause Hath spread divinities of gods abroad Through mighty nations, and filled the cities full Of the high altars, and led to practices Of solemn rites in season- rites which still Flourish in midst of great affairs of state And midst great centres of man's civic life, The rites whence still a poor mortality Is grafted that quaking awe which rears aloft Still the new temples of gods from land to land And drives mankind to visit them in throngs On holy days- 'tis not so hard to give Reason thereof in speech. Because, in sooth, Even in those days would the race of man Be seeing excelling visages of gods With mind awake; and in his sleeps, yet more- Bodies of wondrous growth. And, thus, to these Would men attribute sense, because they seemed To move their limbs and speak pronouncements high, Befitting glorious visage and vast powers. And men would give them an eternal life, Because their visages forevermore Were there before them, and their shapes remained, And chiefly, however, because men would not think Beings augmented with such mighty powers Could well by any force o'ermastered be. And men would think them in their happiness Excelling far, because the fear of death Vexed no one of them at all, and since At same time in men's sleeps men saw them do So many wonders, and yet feel therefrom Themselves no weariness. Besides, men marked How in a fixed order rolled around The systems of the sky, and changed times On annual seasons, nor were able then To know thereof the causes. Therefore 'twas Men would take refuge in consigning all Unto divinities, and in feigning all Was guided by their nod. And in the sky They set the seats and vaults of gods, because Across the sky night and the moon are seen To roll along- moon, day, and night, and night's Old awesome constellations evermore, And the night-wandering fireballs of the sky, And flying flames, clouds, and the sun, the rains, Snow and the winds, the lightnings, and the hail, And the swift rumblings, and the hollow roar Of mighty menacings forevermore. O humankind unhappy!- when it ascribed Unto divinities such awesome deeds, And coupled thereto rigours of fierce wrath! What groans did men on that sad day beget Even for themselves, and O what wounds for us, What tears for our children's children! Nor, O man, Is thy true piety in this: with head Under the veil, still to be seen to turn Fronting a stone, and ever to approach Unto all altars; nor so prone on earth Forward to fall, to spread upturned palms Before the shrines of gods, nor yet to dew Altars with profuse blood of four-foot beasts, Nor vows with vows to link. But rather this: To look on all things with a master eye And mind at peace. For when we gaze aloft Upon the skiey vaults of yon great world And ether, fixed high o'er twinkling stars, And into our thought there come the journeyings Of sun and moon, O then into our breasts, O'erburdened already with their other ills, Begins forthwith to rear its sudden head One more misgiving: lest o'er us, percase, It be the gods' immeasurable power That rolls, with varied motion, round and round The far white constellations. For the lack Of aught of reasons tries the puzzled mind: Whether was ever a birth-time of the world, And whether, likewise, any end shall be. How far the ramparts of the world can still Outstand this strain of ever-roused motion, Or whether, divinely with eternal weal Endowed, they can through endless tracts of age Glide on, defying the o'er-mighty powers Of the immeasurable ages. Lo, What man is there whose mind with dread of gods Cringes not close, whose limbs with terror-spell Crouch not together, when the parched earth Quakes with the horrible thunderbolt amain, And across the mighty sky the rumblings run? Do not the peoples and the nations shake, And haughty kings do they not hug their limbs, Strook through with fear of the divinities, Lest for aught foully done or madly said The heavy time be now at hand to pay? When, too, fierce force of fury-winds at sea Sweepeth a navy's admiral down the main With his stout legions and his elephants, Doth he not seek the peace of gods with vows, And beg in prayer, a-tremble, lulled winds And friendly gales?- in vain, since, often up-caught In fury-cyclones, is he borne along, For all his mouthings, to the shoals of doom. Ah, so irrevocably some hidden power Betramples forevermore affairs of men, And visibly grindeth with its heel in mire The lictors' glorious rods and axes dire, Having them in derision! Again, when earth From end to end is rocking under foot, And shaken cities ruin down, or threaten Upon the verge, what wonder is it then That mortal generations abase themselves, And unto gods in all affairs of earth Assign as last resort almighty powers And wondrous energies to govern all? Now for the rest: copper and gold and iron Discovered were, and with them silver's weight And power of lead, when with prodigious heat The conflagrations burned the forest trees Among the mighty mountains, by a bolt Of lightning from the sky, or else because Men, warring in the woodlands, on their foes Had hurled fire to frighten and dismay, Or yet because, by goodness of the soil Invited, men desired to clear rich fields And turn the countryside to pasture-lands, Or slay the wild and thrive upon the spoils. (For hunting by pit-fall and by fire arose Before the art of hedging the covert round With net or stirring it with dogs of chase.) Howso the fact, and from what cause soever The flamy heat with awful crack and roar Had there devoured to their deepest roots The forest trees and baked the earth with fire, Then from the boiling veins began to ooze O rivulets of silver and of gold, Of lead and copper too, collecting soon Into the hollow places of the ground. And when men saw the cooled lumps anon To shine with splendour-sheen upon the ground, Much taken with that lustrous smooth delight, They 'gan to pry them out, and saw how each Had got a shape like to its earthy mould. Then would it enter their heads how these same lumps, If melted by heat, could into any form Or figure of things be run, and how, again, If hammered out, they could be nicely drawn To sharpest points or finest edge, and thus Yield to the forgers tools and give them power To chop the forest down, to hew the logs, To shave the beams and planks, besides to bore And punch and drill. And men began such work At first as much with tools of silver and gold As with the impetuous strength of the stout copper; But vainly- since their over-mastered power Would soon give way, unable to endure, Like copper, such hard labour. In those days Copper it was that was the thing of price; And gold lay useless, blunted with dull edge. Now lies the copper low, and gold hath come Unto the loftiest honours. Thus it is That rolling ages change the times of things: What erst was of a price, becomes at last A discard of no honour; whilst another Succeeds to glory, issuing from contempt, And day by day is sought for more and more, And, when 'tis found, doth flower in men's praise, Objects of wondrous honour. Now, Memmius, How nature of iron discovered was, thou mayst Of thine own self divine. Man's ancient arms Were hands, and nails and teeth, stones too and boughs- Breakage of forest trees- and flame and fire, As soon as known. Thereafter force of iron And copper discovered was; and copper's use Was known ere iron's, since more tractable Its nature is and its abundance more. With copper men to work the soil began, With copper to rouse the hurly waves of war, To straw the monstrous wounds, and seize away Another's flocks and fields. For unto them, Thus armed, all things naked of defence Readily yielded. Then by slow degrees The sword of iron succeeded, and the shape Of brazen sickle into scorn was turned: With iron to cleave the soil of earth they 'gan, And the contentions of uncertain war Were rendered equal. And, lo, man was wont Armed to mount upon the ribs of horse And guide him with the rein, and play about With right hand free, oft times before he tried Perils of war in yoked chariot; And yoked pairs abreast came earlier Than yokes of four, or scythed chariots Whereinto clomb the men-at-arms. And next The Punic folk did train the elephants- Those curst Lucanian oxen, hideous, The serpent-handed, with turrets on their bulks- To dure the wounds of war and panic-strike The mighty troops of Mars. Thus Discord sad Begat the one Thing after other, to be The terror of the nations under arms, And day by day to horrors of old war She added an increase. Bulls, too, they tried In war's grim business; and essayed to send Outrageous boars against the foes. And some Sent on before their ranks puissant lions With armed trainers and with masters fierce To guide and hold in chains- and yet in vain, Since fleshed with pell-mell slaughter, fierce they flew, And blindly through the squadrons havoc wrought, Shaking the frightful crests upon their heads, Now here, now there. Nor could the horsemen calm Their horses, panic-breasted at the roar, And rein them round to front the foe. With spring The infuriate she-lions would up-leap Now here, now there; and whoso came apace Against them, these they'd rend across the face; And others unwitting from behind they'd tear Down from their mounts, and twining round them, bring Tumbling to earth, o'ermastered by the wound, And with those powerful fangs and hooked claws Fasten upon them. Bulls would toss their friends, And trample under foot, and from beneath Rip flanks and bellies of horses with their horns, And with a threat'ning forehead jam the sod; And boars would gore with stout tusks their allies, Splashing in fury their own blood on spears Splintered in their own bodies, and would fell In rout and ruin infantry and horse. For there the beasts-of-saddle tried to scape The savage thrusts of tusk by shying off, Or rearing up with hoofs a-paw in air. In vain- since there thou mightest see them sink, Their sinews severed, and with heavy fall Bestrew the ground. And such of these as men Supposed well-trained long ago at home, Were in the thick of action seen to foam In fury, from the wounds, the shrieks, the flight, The panic, and the tumult; nor could men Aught of their numbers rally. For each breed And various of the wild beasts fled apart Hither or thither, as often in wars to-day Flee those Lucanian oxen, by the steel Grievously mangled, after they have wrought Upon their friends so many a dreadful doom. (If 'twas, indeed, that thus they did at all: But scarcely I'll believe that men could not With mind foreknow and see, as sure to come, Such foul and general disaster. This We, then, may hold as true in the great All, In divers worlds on divers plan create,- Somewhere afar more likely than upon One certain earth.) But men chose this to do Less in the hope of conquering than to give Their enemies a goodly cause of woe, Even though thereby they perished themselves, Since weak in numbers and since wanting arms. Now, clothes of roughly interplaited strands Were earlier than loom-wove coverings; The loom-wove later than man's iron is, Since iron is needful in the weaving art, Nor by no other means can there be wrought Such polished tools- the treadles, spindles, shuttles, And sounding yarn-beams. And Nature forced the men, Before the woman kind, to work the wool: For all the male kind far excels in skill, And cleverer is by much- until at last The rugged farmer folk jeered at such tasks, And so were eager soon to give them o'er To women's hands, and in more hardy toil To harden arms and hands. But Nature herself, Mother of things, was the first seed-sower And primal grafter; since the berries and acorns, Dropping from off the trees, would there beneath Put forth in season swarms of little shoots; Hence too men's fondness for ingrafting slips Upon the boughs and setting out in holes The young shrubs o'er the fields. Then would they try Ever new modes of tilling their loved crofts, And mark they would how earth improved the taste Of the wild fruits by fond and fostering care. And day by day they'd force the woods to move Still higher up the mountain, and to yield The place below for tilth, that there they might, On plains and uplands, have their meadow-plats, Cisterns and runnels, crops of standing grain, And happy vineyards, and that all along O'er hillocks, intervales, and plains might run The silvery-green belt of olive-trees, Marking the plotted landscape; even as now Thou seest so marked with varied loveliness All the terrain which men adorn and plant With rows of goodly fruit-trees and hedge round With thriving shrubberies sown. But by the mouth To imitate the liquid notes of birds Was earlier far 'mongst men than power to make, By measured song, melodious verse and give Delight to ears. And whistlings of the wind Athrough the hollows of the reeds first taught The peasantry to blow into the stalks Of hollow hemlock-herb. Then bit by bit They learned sweet plainings, such as pipe out-pours, Beaten by finger-tips of singing men, When heard through unpathed groves and forest deeps And woodsy meadows, through the untrod haunts Of shepherd folk and spots divinely still. Thus time draws forward each and everything Little by little unto the midst of men, And reason uplifts it to the shores of light. These tunes would sooth and glad the minds of mortals When sated with food- for songs are welcome then. And often, lounging with friends in the soft grass Beside a river of water, underneath A big tree's branches, merrily they'd refresh Their frames, with no vast outlay- most of all If the weather were smiling and the times of the year Were painting the green of the grass around with flowers. Then jokes, then talk, then peals of jollity Would circle round; for then the rustic muse Was in her glory; then would antic Mirth Prompt them to garland head and shoulders about With chaplets of intertwined flowers and leaves, And to dance onward, out of tune, with limbs Clownishly swaying, and with clownish foot To beat our Mother Earth- from whence arose Laughter and peals of jollity, for, lo, Such frolic acts were in their glory then, Being more new and strange. And wakeful men Found solaces for their unsleeping hours In drawing forth variety of notes, In modulating melodies, in running With puckered lips along the tuned reeds, Whence, even in our day do the watchmen guard These old traditions, and have learned well To keep true measure. And yet they no whit Do get a larger fruit of gladsomeness Than got the woodland aborigines In olden times. For what we have at hand- If theretofore naught sweeter we have known- That chiefly pleases and seems best of all; But then some later, likely better, find Destroys its worth and changes our desires Regarding good of yesterday. And thus Began the loathing of the acorn; thus Abandoned were those beds with grasses strewn And with the leaves beladen. Thus, again, Fell into new contempt the pelts of beasts- Erstwhile a robe of honour, which, I guess, Aroused in those days envy so malign That the first wearer went to woeful death By ambuscades- and yet that hairy prize, Rent into rags by greedy foemen there And splashed by blood, was ruined utterly Beyond all use or vantage. Thus of old 'Twas pelts, and of to-day 'tis purple and gold That cark men's lives with cares and weary with war. Wherefore, methinks, resides the greater blame With us vain men today: for cold would rack, Without their pelts, the naked sons of earth; But us it nothing hurts to do without The purple vestment, broidered with gold And with imposing figures, if we still Make shift with some mean garment of the Plebs. So man in vain futilities toils on Forever and wastes in idle cares his years- Because, of very truth, he hath not learnt What the true end of getting is, nor yet At all how far true pleasure may increase. And 'tis desire for better and for more Hath carried by degrees mortality Out onward to the deep, and roused up From the far bottom mighty waves of war. But sun and moon, those watchmen of the world, With their own lanterns traversing around The mighty, the revolving vault, have taught Unto mankind that seasons of the years Return again, and that the Thing takes place After a fixed plan and order fixed. Already would they pass their life, hedged round By the strong towers; and cultivate an earth All portioned out and boundaried; already, Would the sea flower and sail-winged ships; Already men had, under treaty pacts, Confederates and allies, when poets began To hand heroic actions down in verse; Nor long ere this had letters been devised- Hence is our age unable to look back On what has gone before, except where reason Shows us a footprint. Sailings on the seas, Tillings of fields, walls, laws, and arms, and roads, Dress and the like, all prizes, all delights Of finer life, poems, pictures, chiselled shapes Of polished sculptures- all these arts were learned By practice and the mind's experience, As men walked forward step by eager step. Thus time draws forward each and everything Little by little into the midst of men, And reason uplifts it to the shores of light. For one thing after other did men see Grow clear by intellect, till with their arts They've now achieved the supreme pinnacle. BOOK VI PROEM 'Twas Athens first, the glorious in name, That whilom gave to hapless sons of men The sheaves of harvest, and re-ordered life, And decreed laws; and she the first that gave Life its sweet solaces, when she begat A man of heart so wise, who whilom poured All wisdom forth from his truth-speaking mouth; The glory of whom, though dead, is yet to-day, Because of those discoveries divine Renowned of old, exalted to the sky. For when saw he that well-nigh everything Which needs of man most urgently require Was ready to hand for mortals, and that life, As far as might be, was established safe, That men were lords in riches, honour, praise, And eminent in goodly fame of sons, And that they yet, O yet, within the home, Still had the anxious heart which vexed life Unpausingly with torments of the mind, And raved perforce with angry plaints, then he, Then he, the master, did perceive that 'twas The vessel itself which worked the bane, and all, However wholesome, which from here or there Was gathered into it, was by that bane Spoilt from within- in part, because he saw The vessel so cracked and leaky that nowise 'Tcould ever be filled to brim; in part because He marked how it polluted with foul taste Whate'er it got within itself. So he, The master, then by his truth-speaking words, Purged the breasts of men, and set the bounds Of lust and terror, and exhibited The supreme good whither we all endeavour, And showed the path whereby we might arrive Thereunto by a little cross-cut straight, And what of ills in all affairs of mortals Upsprang and flitted deviously about (Whether by chance or force), since Nature thus Had destined; and from out what gates a man Should sally to each combat. And he proved That mostly vainly doth the human race Roll in its bosom the grim waves of care. For just as children tremble and fear all In the viewless dark, so even we at times Dread in the light so many things that be No whit more fearsome than what children feign, Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark. This terror then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse, But only Nature's aspect and her law. Wherefore the more will I go on to weave In verses this my undertaken task. And since I've taught thee that the world's great vaults Are mortal and that sky is fashioned Of frame e'en born in time, and whatsoe'er Therein go on and must perforce go on The most I have unravelled; what remains Do thou take in, besides; since once for all To climb into that chariot' renowned Of winds arise; and they appeased are So that all things again... Which were, are changed now, with fury stilled; All other movements through the earth and sky Which mortals gaze upon (O anxious oft In quaking thoughts!), and which abase their minds With dread of deities and press them crushed Down to the earth, because their ignorance Of cosmic causes forces them to yield All things unto the empery of gods And to concede the kingly rule to them. For even those men who have learned full well That godheads lead a long life free of care, If yet meanwhile they wonder by what plan Things can go on (and chiefly yon high things Observed o'erhead on the ethereal coasts), Again are hurried back unto the fears Of old religion and adopt again Harsh masters, deemed almighty,- wretched men, Unwitting what can be and what cannot, And by what law to each its scope prescribed, Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time. Wherefore the more are they borne wandering on By blindfold reason. And, Memmius, unless From out thy mind thou spewest all of this And casteth far from thee all thoughts which be Unworthy gods and alien to their peace, Then often will the holy majesties Of the high gods be harmful unto thee, As by thy thought degraded,- not, indeed, That essence supreme of gods could be by this So outraged as in wrath to thirst to seek Revenges keen; but even because thyself Thou plaguest with the notion that the gods, Even they, the Calm Ones in serene repose, Do roll the mighty waves of wrath on wrath; Nor wilt thou enter with a serene breast Shrines of the gods; nor wilt thou able be In tranquil peace of mind to take and know Those images which from their holy bodies Are carried into intellects of men, As the announcers of their form divine. What sort of life will follow after this 'Tis thine to see. But that afar from us Veriest reason may drive such life away, Much yet remains to be embellished yet In polished verses, albeit hath issued forth So much from me already; lo, there is The law and aspect of the sky to be By reason grasped; there are the tempest times And the bright lightnings to be hymned now- Even what they do and from what cause soe'er They're borne along- that thou mayst tremble not, Marking off regions of prophetic skies For auguries, O foolishly distraught, Even as to whence the flying flame hath come, Or to which half of heaven it turns, or how Through walled places it hath wound its way, Or, after proving its dominion there, How it hath speeded forth from thence amain- Whereof nowise the causes do men know, And think divinities are working there. Do thou, Calliope, ingenious Muse, Solace of mortals and delight of gods, Point out the course before me, as I race On to the white line of the utmost goal, That I may get with signal praise the crown, With thee my guide! GREAT METEOROLOGICAL PHENOMENA, ETC. And so in first place, then With thunder are shaken the blue deeps of heaven, Because the ethereal clouds, scudding aloft, Together clash, what time 'gainst one another The winds are battling. For never a sound there come From out the serene regions of the sky; But wheresoever in a host more dense The clouds foregather, thence more often comes A crash with mighty rumbling. And, again, Clouds cannot be of so condensed a frame As stones and timbers, nor again so fine As mists and flying smoke; for then perforce They'd either fall, borne down by their brute weight, Like stones, or, like the smoke, they'd powerless be To keep their mass, or to retain within Frore snows and storms of hail. And they give forth O'er skiey levels of the spreading world A sound on high, as linen-awning, stretched O'er mighty theatres, gives forth at times A cracking roar, when much 'tis beaten about Betwixt the poles and cross-beams. Sometimes, too, Asunder rent by wanton gusts, it raves And imitates the tearing sound of sheets Of paper- even this kind of noise thou mayst In thunder hear- or sound as when winds whirl With lashings and do buffet about in air A hanging cloth and flying paper-sheets. For sometimes, too, it chances that the clouds Cannot together crash head-on, but rather Move side-wise and with motions contrary Graze each the other's body without speed, From whence that dry sound grateth on our ears, So long drawn-out, until the clouds have passed From out their close positions. And, again, In following wise all things seem oft to quake At shock of heavy thunder, and mightiest walls Of the wide reaches of the upper world There on the instant to have sprung apart, Riven asunder, what time a gathered blast Of the fierce hurricane hath all at once Twisted its way into a mass of clouds, And, there enclosed, ever more and more Compelleth by its spinning whirl the cloud To grow all hollow with a thickened crust Surrounding; for thereafter, when the force And the keen onset of the wind have weakened That crust, lo, then the cloud, to-split in twain, Gives forth a hideous crash with bang and boom. No marvel this; since oft a bladder small, Filled up with air, will, when of sudden burst, Give forth a like large sound. There's reason, too, Why clouds make sounds, as through them blow the winds: We see, borne down the sky, oft shapes of clouds Rough-edged or branched many forky ways; And 'tis the same, as when the sudden flaws Of northwest wind through the dense forest blow, Making the leaves to sough and limbs to crash. It happens too at times that roused force Of the fierce hurricane to-rends the cloud, Breaking right through it by a front assault; For what a blast of wind may do up there Is manifest from facts when here on earth A blast more gentle yet uptwists tall trees And sucks them madly from their deepest roots. Besides, among the clouds are waves, and these Give, as they roughly break, a rumbling roar; As when along deep streams or the great sea Breaks the loud surf. It happens, too, whenever Out from one cloud into another falls The fiery energy of thunderbolt, That straightaway the cloud, if full of wet, Extinguishes the fire with mighty noise; As iron, white from the hot furnaces, Sizzles, when speedily we've plunged its glow Down the cold water. Further, if a cloud More dry receive the fire, 'twill suddenly Kindle to flame and burn with monstrous sound, As if a flame with whirl of winds should range Along the laurel-tressed mountains far, Upburning with its vast assault those trees; Nor is there aught that in the crackling flame Consumes with sound more terrible to man Than Delphic laurel of Apollo lord. Oft, too, the multitudinous crash of ice And down-pour of swift hail gives forth a sound Among the mighty clouds on high; for when The wind hath packed them close, each mountain mass Of rain-cloud, there congealed utterly And mixed with hail-stones, breaks and booms... Likewise, it lightens, when the clouds have struck, By their collision, forth the seeds of fire: As if a stone should smite a stone or steel, For light then too leaps forth and fire then scatters The shining sparks. But with our ears we get The thunder after eyes behold the flash, Because forever things arrive the ears More tardily than the eyes- as thou mayst see From this example too: when markest thou Some man far yonder felling a great tree With double-edged ax, it comes to pass Thine eye beholds the swinging stroke before The blow gives forth a sound athrough thine ears: Thus also we behold the flashing ere We hear the thunder, which discharged is At same time with the fire and by same cause, Born of the same collision. In following wise The clouds suffuse with leaping light the lands, And the storm flashes with tremulous elan: When the wind hath invaded a cloud, and, whirling there, Hath wrought (as I have shown above) the cloud Into a hollow with a thickened crust, It becomes hot of own velocity: Just as thou seest how motion will o'erheat And set ablaze all objects- verily A leaden ball, hurtling through length of space, Even melts. Therefore, when this same wind a-fire Hath split black cloud, it scatters the fire-seeds, Which, so to say, have been pressed out by force Of sudden from the cloud- and these do make The pulsing flashes of flame; thence followeth The detonation which attacks our ears More tardily than aught which comes along Unto the sight of eyeballs. This takes place- As know thou mayst- at times when clouds are dense And one upon the other piled aloft With wonderful upheavings- nor be thou Deceived because we see how broad their base From underneath, and not how high they tower. For make thine observations at a time When winds shall bear athwart the horizon's blue Clouds like to mountain-ranges moving on, Or when about the sides of mighty peaks Thou seest them one upon the other massed And burdening downward, anchored in high repose, With the winds sepulchred on all sides round: Then canst thou know their mighty masses, then Canst view their caverns, as if builded there Of beetling crags; which, when the hurricanes In gathered storm have filled utterly, Then, prisoned in clouds, they rave around With mighty roarings, and within those dens Bluster like savage beasts, and now from here, And now from there, send growlings through the clouds, And seeking an outlet, whirl themselves about, And roll from 'mid the clouds the seeds of fire, And heap them multitudinously there, And in the hollow furnaces within Wheel flame around, until from bursted cloud In forky flashes they have gleamed forth. Again, from following cause it comes to pass That yon swift golden hue of liquid fire Darts downward to the earth: because the clouds Themselves must hold abundant seeds of fire; For, when they be without all moisture, then They be for most part of a flamy hue And a resplendent. And, indeed, they must Even from the light of sun unto themselves Take multitudinous seeds, and so perforce Redden and pour their bright fires all abroad. And therefore, when the wind hath driven and thrust, Hath forced and squeezed into one spot these clouds, They pour abroad the seeds of fire pressed out, Which make to flash these colours of the flame. Likewise, it lightens also when the clouds Grow rare and thin along the sky; for, when The wind with gentle touch unravels them And breaketh asunder as they move, those seeds Which make the lightnings must by nature fall; At such an hour the horizon lightens round Without the hideous terror of dread noise And skiey uproar. To proceed apace, What sort of nature thunderbolts posses Is by their strokes made manifest and by The brand-marks of their searing heat on things, And by the scorched scars exhaling round The heavy fumes of sulphur. For all these Are marks, O not of wind or rain, but fire. Again, they often enkindle even the roofs Of houses and inside the very rooms With swift flame hold a fierce dominion. Know thou that Nature fashioned this fire Subtler than fires all other, with minute And dartling bodies- a fire 'gainst which there's naught Can in the least hold out: the thunderbolt, The mighty, passes through the hedging walls Of houses, like to voices or a shout- Through stones, through bronze it passes, and it melts Upon the instant bronze and gold; and makes, Likewise, the wines sudden to vanish forth, The wine-jars intact- because, ye see, Its heat arriving renders loose and porous Readily all the wine- jar's earthen sides, And winding its way within, it scattereth The elements primordial of the wine With speedy dissolution- process which Even in an age the fiery steam of sun Could not accomplish, however puissant he With his hot coruscations: so much more Agile and overpowering is this force. Now in what manner engendered are these things, How fashioned of such impetuous strength As to cleave towers asunder, and houses all To overtopple, and to wrench apart Timbers and beams, and heroes' monuments To pile in ruins and upheave amain, And to take breath forever out of men, And to o'erthrow the cattle everywhere,- Yes, by what force the lightnings do all this, All this and more, I will unfold to thee, Nor longer keep thee in mere promises. The bolts of thunder, then, must be conceived As all begotten in those crasser clouds Up-piled aloft; for, from the sky serene And from the clouds of lighter density, None are sent forth forever. That 'tis so Beyond a doubt, fact plain to sense declares: To wit, at such a time the densed clouds So mass themselves through all the upper air That we might think that round about all murk Had parted forth from Acheron and filled The mighty vaults of sky- so grievously, As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome might, Do faces of black horror hang on high- When tempest begins its thunderbolts to forge. Besides, full often also out at sea A blackest thunderhead, like cataract Of pitch hurled down from heaven, and far away Bulging with murkiness, down on the waves Falls with vast uproar, and draws on amain The darkling tempests big with thunderbolts And hurricanes, itself the while so crammed Tremendously with fires and winds, that even Back on the lands the people shudder round And seek for cover. Therefore, as I said, The storm must be conceived as o'er our head Towering most high; for never would the clouds O'erwhelm the lands with such a massy dark, Unless up-builded heap on lofty heap, To shut the round sun off. Nor could the clouds, As on they come, engulf with rain so vast As thus to make the rivers overflow And fields to float, if ether were not thus Furnished with lofty-piled clouds. Lo, then, Here be all things fulfilled with winds and fires- Hence the long lightnings and the thunders loud. For, verily, I've taught thee even now How cavernous clouds hold seeds innumerable Of fiery exhalations, and they must From off the sunbeams and the heat of these Take many still. And so, when that same wind (Which, haply, into one region of the sky Collects those clouds) hath pressed from out the same The many fiery seeds, and with that fire Hath at the same time intermixed itself, O then and there that wind, a whirlwind now, Deep in the belly of the cloud spins round In narrow confines, and sharpens there inside In glowing furnaces the thunderbolt. For in a two-fold manner is that wind Enkindled all: it trembles into heat Both by its own velocity and by Repeated touch of fire. Thereafter, when The energy of wind is heated through And the fierce impulse of the fire hath sped Deeply within, O then the thunderbolt, Now ripened, so to say, doth suddenly Splinter the cloud, and the aroused flash Leaps onward, lumining with forky light All places round. And followeth anon A clap so heavy that the skiey vaults, As if asunder burst, seem from on high To engulf the earth. Then fearfully a quake Pervades the lands, and 'long the lofty skies Run the far rumblings. For at such a time Nigh the whole tempest quakes, shook through and through, And roused are the roarings- from which shock Comes such resounding and abounding rain, That all the murky ether seems to turn Now into rain, and, as it tumbles down, To summon the fields back to primeval floods: So big the rains that be sent down on men By burst of cloud and by the hurricane, What time the thunder-clap, from burning bolt That cracks the cloud, flies forth along. At times The force of wind, excited from without, Smiteth into a cloud already hot With a ripe thunderbolt. And when that wind Hath splintered that cloud, then down there cleaves forthwith Yon fiery coil of flame which still we call, Even with our fathers' word, a thunderbolt. The same thing haps toward every other side Whither that force hath swept. It happens, too, That sometimes force of wind, though hurtled forth Without all fire, yet in its voyage through space Igniteth, whilst it comes along, along- Losing some larger bodies which cannot Pass, like the others, through the bulks of air- And, scraping together out of air itself Some smaller bodies, carries them along, And these, commingling, by their flight make fire: Much in the manner as oft a leaden ball Grows hot upon its aery course, the while It loseth many bodies of stark cold And taketh into itself along the air New particles of fire. It happens, too, That force of blow itself arouses fire, When force of wind, a-cold and hurtled forth Without all fire, hath strook somewhere amain- No marvel, because, when with terrific stroke 'Thas smitten, the elements of fiery-stuff Can stream together from out the very wind And, simultaneously, from out that thing Which then and there receives the stroke: as flies The fire when with the steel we hack the stone; Nor yet, because the force of steel's a-cold, Rush the less speedily together there Under the stroke its seeds of radiance hot. And therefore, thuswise must an object too Be kindled by a thunderbolt, if haply 'Thas been adapt and suited to the flames. Yet force of wind must not be rashly deemed As altogether and entirely cold- That force which is discharged from on high With such stupendous power; but if 'tis not Upon its course already kindled with fire, It yet arriveth warmed and mixed with heat. And, now, the speed and stroke of thunderbolt Is so tremendous, and with glide so swift Those thunderbolts rush on and down, because Their roused force itself collects itself First always in the clouds, and then prepares For the huge effort of their going-forth; Next, when the cloud no longer can retain The increment of their fierce impetus, Their force is pressed out, and therefore flies With impetus so wondrous, like to shots Hurled from the powerful Roman catapults. Note, too, this force consists of elements Both small and smooth, nor is there aught that can With ease resist such nature. For it darts Between and enters through the pores of things; And so it never falters in delay Despite innumerable collisions, but Flies shooting onward with a swift elan. Next, since by nature always every weight Bears downward, doubled is the swiftness then And that elan is still more wild and dread, When, verily, to weight are added blows, So that more madly and more fiercely then The thunderbolt shakes into shivers all That blocks its path, following on its way. Then, too, because it comes along, along With one continuing elan, it must Take on velocity anew, anew, Which still increases as it goes, and ever Augments the bolt's vast powers and to the blow Gives larger vigour; for it forces all, All of the thunder's seeds of fire, to sweep In a straight line unto one place, as 'twere,- Casting them one by other, as they roll, Into that onward course. Again, perchance, In coming along, it pulls from out the air Some certain bodies, which by their own blows Enkindle its velocity. And, lo, It comes through objects leaving them unharmed, It goes through many things and leaves them whole, Because the liquid fire flieth along Athrough their pores. And much it does transfix, When these primordial atoms of the bolt Have fallen upon the atoms of these things Precisely where the intertwined atoms Are held together. And, further, easily Brass it unbinds and quickly fuseth gold, Because its force is so minutely made Of tiny parts and elements so smooth That easily they wind their way within, And, when once in, quickly unbind all knots And loosen all the bonds of union there. And most in autumn is shaken the house of heaven, The house so studded with the glittering stars, And the whole earth around- most too in spring When flowery times unfold themselves: for, lo, In the cold season is there lack of fire, And winds are scanty in the hot, and clouds Have not so dense a bulk. But when, indeed, The seasons of heaven are betwixt these twain, The divers causes of the thunderbolt Then all concur; for then both cold and heat Are mixed in the cross-seas of the year, So that a discord rises among things And air in vast tumultuosity Billows, infuriate with the fires and winds- Of which the both are needed by the cloud For fabrication of the thunderbolt. For the first part of heat and last of cold Is the time of spring; wherefore must things unlike Do battle one with other, and, when mixed, Tumultuously rage. And when rolls round The latest heat mixed with the earliest chill- The time which bears the name of autumn- then Likewise fierce cold-spells wrestle with fierce heats. On this account these seasons of the year Are nominated "cross-seas."- And no marvel If in those times the thunderbolts prevail And storms are roused turbulent in heaven, Since then both sides in dubious warfare rage Tumultuously, the one with flames, the other With winds and with waters mixed with winds. This, this it is, O Memmius, to see through The very nature of fire-fraught thunderbolt; O this it is to mark by what blind force It maketh each effect, and not, O not To unwind Etrurian scrolls oracular, Inquiring tokens of occult will of gods, Even as to whence the flying flame hath come, Or to which half of heaven it turns, or how Through walled places it hath wound its way, Or, after proving its dominion there, How it hath speeded forth from thence amain, Or what the thunderstroke portends of ill From out high heaven. But if Jupiter And other gods shake those refulgent vaults With dread reverberations and hurl fire Whither it pleases each, why smite they not Mortals of reckless and revolting crimes, That such may pant from a transpierced breast Forth flames of the red levin- unto men A drastic lesson?- why is rather he- O he self-conscious of no foul offence- Involved in flames, though innocent, and clasped Up-caught in skiey whirlwind and in fire? Nay, why, then, aim they at eternal wastes, And spend themselves in vain?- perchance, even so To exercise their arms and strengthen shoulders? Why suffer they the Father's javelin To be so blunted on the earth? And why Doth he himself allow it, nor spare the same Even for his enemies? O why most oft Aims he at lofty places? Why behold we Marks of his lightnings most on mountain tops? Then for what reason shoots he at the sea?- What sacrilege have waves and bulk of brine And floating fields of foam been guilty of? Besides, if 'tis his will that we beware Against the lightning-stroke, why feareth he To grant us power for to behold the shot? And, contrariwise, if wills he to o'erwhelm us, Quite off our guard, with fire, why thunders he Off in yon quarter, so that we may shun? Why rouseth he beforehand darkling air And the far din and rumblings? And O how Canst thou believe he shoots at one same time Into diverse directions? Or darest thou Contend that never hath it come to pass That divers strokes have happened at one time? But oft and often hath it come to pass, And often still it must, that, even as showers And rains o'er many regions fall, so too Dart many thunderbolts at one same time. Again, why never hurtles Jupiter A bolt upon the lands nor pours abroad Clap upon clap, when skies are cloudless all? Or, say, doth he, so soon as ever the clouds Have come thereunder, then into the same Descend in person, and that from thence he may Near-by decide upon the stroke of shaft? And, lastly, why, with devastating bolt Shakes he asunder holy shrines of gods And his own thrones of splendour, and to-breaks The well-wrought idols of divinities, And robs of glory his own images By wound of violence? But to return apace, Easy it is from these same facts to know In just what wise those things (which from their sort The Greeks have named "bellows") do come down, Discharged from on high, upon the seas. For it haps that sometimes from the sky descends Upon the seas a column, as if pushed, Round which the surges seethe, tremendously Aroused by puffing gusts; and whatso'er Of ships are caught within that tumult then Come into extreme peril, dashed along. This haps when sometimes wind's aroused force Can't burst the cloud it tries to, but down-weighs That cloud, until 'tis like a column from sky Upon the seas pushed downward- gradually, As if a Somewhat from on high were shoved By fist and nether thrust of arm, and lengthened Far to the waves. And when the force of wind Hath rived this cloud, from out the cloud it rushes Down on the seas, and starts among the waves A wondrous seething, for the eddying whirl Descends and downward draws along with it That cloud of ductile body. And soon as ever 'Thas shoved unto the levels of the main That laden cloud, the whirl suddenly then Plunges its whole self into the waters there And rouses all the sea with monstrous roar, Constraining it to seethe. It happens too That very vortex of the wind involves Itself in clouds, scraping from out the air The seeds of cloud, and counterfeits, as 'twere, The "bellows" pushed from heaven. And when this shape Hath dropped upon the lands and burst apart, It belches forth immeasurable might Of whirlwind and of blast. Yet since 'tis formed At most but rarely, and on land the hills Must block its way, 'tis seen more oft out there On the broad prospect of the level main Along the free horizons. Into being The clouds condense, when in this upper space Of the high heaven have gathered suddenly, As round they flew, unnumbered particles- World's rougher ones, which can, though interlinked With scanty couplings, yet be fastened firm, The one on other caught. These particles First cause small clouds to form; and, thereupon, These catch the one on other and swarm in a flock And grow by their conjoining, and by winds Are borne along, along, until collects The tempest fury. Happens, too, the nearer The mountain summits neighbour to the sky, The more unceasingly their far crags smoke With the thick darkness of swart cloud, because When first the mists do form, ere ever the eyes Can there behold them (tenuous as they be), The carrier-winds will drive them up and on Unto the topmost summits of the mountain; And then at last it happens, when they be In vaster throng upgathered, that they can By this very condensation lie revealed, And that at same time they are seen to surge From very vertex of the mountain up Into far ether. For very fact and feeling, As we up-climb high mountains, proveth clear That windy are those upward regions free. Besides, the clothes hung-out along the shore, When in they take the clinging moisture, prove That Nature lifts from over all the sea Unnumbered particles. Whereby the more 'Tis manifest that many particles Even from the salt upheavings of the main Can rise together to augment the bulk Of massed clouds. For moistures in these twain Are near akin. Besides, from out all rivers, As well as from the land itself, we see Up-rising mists and steam, which like a breath Are forced out from them and borne aloft, To curtain heaven with their murk, and make, By slow foregathering, the skiey clouds. For, in addition, lo, the heat on high Of constellated ether burdens down Upon them, and by sort of condensation Weaveth beneath the azure firmament The reek of darkling cloud. It happens, too, That hither to the skies from the Beyond Do come those particles which make the clouds And flying thunderheads. For I have taught That this their number is innumerable And infinite the sum of the Abyss, And I have shown with what stupendous speed Those bodies fly and how they're wont to pass Amain through incommunicable space. Therefore, 'tis not exceeding strange, if oft In little time tempest and darkness cover With bulking thunderheads hanging on high The oceans and the lands, since everywhere Through all the narrow tubes of yonder ether, Yea, so to speak, through all the breathing-holes Of the great upper-world encompassing, There be for the primordial elements Exits and entrances. Now come, and how The rainy moisture thickens into being In the lofty clouds, and how upon the lands 'Tis then discharged in down-pour of large showers, I will unfold. And first triumphantly Will I persuade thee that up-rise together, With clouds themselves, full many seeds of water From out all things, and that they both increase- Both clouds and water which is in the clouds- In like proportion, as our frames increase In like proportion with our blood, as well As sweat or any moisture in our members. Besides, the clouds take in from time to time Much moisture risen from the broad marine,- Whilst the winds bear them o'er the mighty sea, Like hanging fleeces of white wool. Thuswise, Even from all rivers is there lifted up Moisture into the clouds. And when therein The seeds of water so many in many ways Have come together, augmented from all sides, The close-jammed clouds then struggle to discharge Their rain-storms for a two-fold reason: lo, The wind's force crowds them, and the very excess Of storm-clouds (massed in a vaster throng) Giveth an urge and pressure from above And makes the rains out-pour. Besides when, too, The clouds are winnowed by the winds, or scattered Smitten on top by heat of sun, they send Their rainy moisture, and distil their drops, Even as the wax, by fiery warmth on top, Wasteth and liquefies abundantly. But comes the violence of the bigger rains When violently the clouds are weighted down Both by their cumulated mass and by The onset of the wind. And rains are wont To endure awhile and to abide for long, When many seeds of waters are aroused, And clouds on clouds and racks on racks outstream In piled layers and are borne along From every quarter, and when all the earth Smoking exhales her moisture. At such a time When sun with beams amid the tempest-murk Hath shone against the showers of black rains, Then in the swart clouds there emerges bright The radiance of the bow. And as to things Not mentioned here which of themselves do grow Or of themselves are gendered, and all things Which in the clouds condense to being- all, Snow and the winds, hail and the hoar-frosts chill, And freezing, mighty force- of lakes and pools The mighty hardener, and mighty check Which in the winter curbeth everywhere The rivers as they go- 'tis easy still, Soon to discover and with mind to see How they all happen, whereby gendered, When once thou well hast understood just what Functions have been vouchsafed from of old Unto the procreant atoms of the world. Now come, and what the law of earthquakes is Hearken, and first of all take care to know That the under-earth, like to the earth around us, Is full of windy caverns all about; And many a pool and many a grim abyss She bears within her bosom, ay, and cliffs And jagged scarps; and many a river, hid Beneath her chine, rolls rapidly along Its billows and plunging boulders. For clear fact Requires that earth must be in every part Alike in constitution. Therefore, earth, With these things underneath affixed and set, Trembleth above, jarred by big down-tumblings, When time hath undermined the huge caves, The subterranean. Yea, whole mountains fall, And instantly from spot of that big jar There quiver the tremors far and wide abroad. And with good reason: since houses on the street Begin to quake throughout, when jarred by a cart Of no large weight; and, too, the furniture Within the house up-bounds, when a paving-block Gives either iron rim of the wheels a jolt. It happens, too, when some prodigious bulk Of age-worn soil is rolled from mountain slopes Into tremendous pools of water dark, That the reeling land itself is rocked about By the water's undulations; as a basin Sometimes won't come to rest until the fluid Within it ceases to be rocked about In random undulations. And besides, When subterranean winds, up-gathered there In the hollow deeps, bulk forward from one spot, And press with the big urge of mighty powers Against the lofty grottos, then the earth Bulks to that quarter whither push amain The headlong winds. Then all the builded houses Above ground- and the more, the higher up-reared Unto the sky- lean ominously, careening Into the same direction; and the beams, Wrenched forward, over-hang, ready to go. Yet dread men to believe that there awaits The nature of the mighty world a time Of doom and cataclysm, albeit they see So great a bulk of lands to bulge and break! And lest the winds blew back again, no force Could rein things in nor hold from sure career On to disaster. But now because those winds Blow back and forth in alternation strong, And, so to say, rallying charge again, And then repulsed retreat, on this account Earth oftener threatens than she brings to pass Collapses dire. For to one side she leans, Then back she sways; and after tottering Forward, recovers then her seats of poise. Thus, this is why whole houses rock, the roofs More than the middle stories, middle more Than lowest, and the lowest least of all. Arises, too, this same great earth-quaking, When wind and some prodigious force of air, Collected from without or down within The old telluric deeps, have hurled themselves Amain into those caverns sub-terrene, And there at first tumultuously chafe Among the vasty grottos, borne about In mad rotations, till their lashed force Aroused out-bursts abroad, and then and there, Riving the deep earth, makes a mighty chasm- What once in Syrian Sidon did befall, And once in Peloponnesian Aegium, Twain cities which such out-break of wild air And earth's convulsion, following hard upon, O'erthrew of old. And many a walled town, Besides, hath fall'n by such omnipotent Convulsions on the land, and in the sea Engulfed hath sunken many a city down With all its populace. But if, indeed, They burst not forth, yet is the very rush Of the wild air and fury-force of wind Then dissipated, like an ague-fit, Through the innumerable pores of earth, To set her all a-shake- even as a chill, When it hath gone into our marrow-bones, Sets us convulsively, despite ourselves, A-shivering and a-shaking. Therefore, men With two-fold terror bustle in alarm Through cities to and fro: they fear the roofs Above the head; and underfoot they dread The caverns, lest the nature of the earth Suddenly rend them open, and she gape, Herself asunder, with tremendous maw, And, all confounded, seek to chock it full With her own ruins. Let men, then, go on Feigning at will that heaven and earth shall be Inviolable, entrusted evermore To an eternal weal: and yet at times The very force of danger here at hand Prods them on some side with this goad of fear- This among others- that the earth, withdrawn Abruptly from under their feet, be hurried down, Down into the abyss, and the Sum-of-Things Be following after, utterly fordone, Till be but wrack and wreckage of a world. EXTRAORDINARY AND PARADOXICAL TELLURIC PHENOMENA In chief, men marvel Nature renders not Bigger and bigger the bulk of ocean, since So vast the down-rush of the waters be, And every river out of every realm Cometh thereto; and add the random rains And flying tempests, which spatter every sea And every land bedew; add their own springs: Yet all of these unto the ocean's sum Shall be but as the increase of a drop. Wherefore 'tis less a marvel that the sea, The mighty ocean, increaseth not. Besides, Sun with his heat draws off a mighty part: Yea, we behold that sun with burning beams To dry our garments dripping all with wet; And many a sea, and far out-spread beneath, Do we behold. Therefore, however slight The portion of wet that sun on any spot Culls from the level main, he still will take From off the waves in such a wide expanse Abundantly. Then, further, also winds, Sweeping the level waters, can bear off A mighty part of wet, since we behold Oft in a single night the highways dried By winds, and soft mud crusted o'er at dawn. Again, I've taught thee that the clouds bear off Much moisture too, up-taken from the reaches Of the mighty main, and sprinkle it about O'er all the zones, when rain is on the lands And winds convey the aery racks of vapour. Lastly, since earth is porous through her frame, And neighbours on the seas, girdling their shores, The water's wet must seep into the lands From briny ocean, as from lands it comes Into the seas. For brine is filtered off, And then the liquid stuff seeps back again And all re-poureth at the river-heads, Whence in fresh-water currents it returns Over the lands, adown the channels which Were cleft erstwhile and erstwhile bore along The liquid-footed floods. And now the cause Whereby athrough the throat of Aetna's Mount Such vast tornado-fires out-breathe at times, I will unfold: for with no middling might Of devastation the flamy tempest rose And held dominion in Sicilian fields: Drawing upon itself the upturned faces Of neighbouring clans, what time they saw afar The skiey vaults a-fume and sparkling all, And filled their bosoms with dread anxiety Of what new thing Nature were travailing at. In these affairs it much behooveth thee To look both wide and deep, and far abroad To peer to every quarter, that thou mayst Remember how boundless is the Sum-of-Things, And mark how infinitely small a part Of the whole Sum is this one sky of ours- O not so large a part as is one man Of the whole earth. And plainly if thou viewest This cosmic fact, placing it square in front, And plainly understandest, thou wilt leave Wondering at many things. For who of us Wondereth if some one gets into his joints A fever, gathering head with fiery heat, Or any other dolorous disease Along his members? For anon the foot Grows blue and bulbous; often the sharp twinge Seizes the teeth, attacks the very eyes; Out-breaks the sacred fire, and, crawling on Over the body, burneth every part It seizeth on, and works its hideous way Along the frame. No marvel this, since, lo, Of things innumerable be seeds enough, And this our earth and sky do bring to us Enough of bane from whence can grow the strength Of maladies uncounted. Thuswise, then, We must suppose to all the sky and earth Are ever supplied from out the infinite All things, O all in stores enough whereby The shaken earth can of a sudden move, And fierce typhoons can over sea and lands Go tearing on, and Aetna's fires o'erflow, And heaven become a flame-burst. For that, too, Happens at times, and the celestial vaults Glow into fire, and rainy tempests rise In heavier congregation, when, percase, The seeds of water have foregathered thus From out the infinite. "Aye, but passing huge The fiery turmoil of that conflagration!" So sayst thou; well, huge many a river seems To him that erstwhile ne'er a larger saw; Thus, huge seems tree or man; and everything Which mortal sees the biggest of each class, That he imagines to be "huge"; though yet All these, with sky and land and sea to boot, Are all as nothing to the sum entire Of the all-Sum. But now I will unfold At last how yonder suddenly angered flame Out-blows abroad from vasty furnaces Aetnaean. First, the mountain's nature is All under-hollow, propped about, about With caverns of basaltic piers. And, lo, In all its grottos be there wind and air- For wind is made when air hath been uproused By violent agitation. When this air Is heated through and through, and, raging round, Hath made the earth and all the rocks it touches Horribly hot, and hath struck off from them Fierce fire of swiftest flame, it lifts itself And hurtles thus straight upwards through its throat Into high heav'n, and thus bears on afar Its burning blasts and scattereth afar Its ashes, and rolls a smoke of pitchy murk And heaveth the while boulders of wondrous weight Leaving no doubt in thee that 'tis the air's Tumultuous power. Besides, in mighty part, The sea there at the roots of that same mount Breaks its old billows and sucks back its surf. And grottos from the sea pass in below Even to the bottom of the mountain's throat. Herethrough thou must admit there go... And the conditions force the water and air Deeply to penetrate from the open sea, And to out-blow abroad, and to up-bear Thereby the flame, and to up-cast from deeps The boulders, and to rear the clouds of sand. For at the top be "bowls," as people there Are wont to name what we at Rome do call The throats and mouths. There be, besides, some thing Of which 'tis not enough one only cause To state- but rather several, whereof one Will be the true: lo, if thou shouldst espy Lying afar some fellow's lifeless corse, 'Twere meet to name all causes of a death, That cause of his death might thereby be named: For prove thou mayst he perished not by steel, By cold, nor even by poison nor disease, Yet somewhat of this sort hath come to him We know- And thus we have to say the same In divers cases. Toward the summer, Nile Waxeth and overfloweth the champaign, Unique in all the landscape, river sole Of the Aegyptians. In mid-season heats Often and oft he waters Aegypt o'er, Either because in summer against his mouths Come those north winds which at that time of year Men name the Etesian blasts, and, blowing thus Upstream, retard, and, forcing back his waves, Fill him o'erfull and force his flow to stop. For out of doubt these blasts which driven be From icy constellations of the pole Are borne straight up the river. Comes that river From forth the sultry places down the south, Rising far up in midmost realm of day, Among black generations of strong men With sun-baked skins. 'Tis possible, besides, That a big bulk of piled sand may bar His mouths against his onward waves, when sea, Wild in the winds, tumbles the sand to inland; Whereby the river's outlet were less free, Likewise less headlong his descending floods. It may be, too, that in this season rains Are more abundant at its fountain head, Because the Etesian blasts of those north winds Then urge all clouds into those inland parts. And, soothly, when they're thus foregathered there. Urged yonder into midmost realm of day, Then, crowded against the lofty mountain sides, They're massed and powerfully pressed. Again, Perchance, his waters wax, O far away, Among the Aethiopians' lofty mountains, When the all-beholding sun with thawing beams Drives the white snows to flow into the vales. Now come; and unto thee I will unfold, As to the Birdless spots and Birdless tarns, What sort of nature they are furnished with. First, as to name of "birdless,"- that derives From very fact, because they noxious be Unto all birds. For when above those spots In horizontal flight the birds have come, Forgetting to oar with wings, they furl their sails, And, with down-drooping of their delicate necks, Fall headlong into earth, if haply such The nature of the spots, or into water, If haply spreads there under Birdless tarn. Such spot's at Cumae, where the mountains smoke, Charged with the pungent sulphur, and increased With steaming springs. And such a spot there is Within the walls of Athens, even there On summit of Acropolis, beside Fane of Tritonian Pallas bountiful, Where never cawing crows can wing their course, Not even when smoke the altars with good gifts- But evermore they flee- yet not from wrath Of Pallas, grieved at that espial old, As poets of the Greeks have sung the tale; But very nature of the place compels. In Syria also- as men say- a spot Is to be seen, where also four-foot kinds, As soon as ever they've set their steps within, Collapse, o'ercome by its essential power, As if there slaughtered to the under-gods. Lo, all these wonders work by natural law, And from what causes they are brought to pass The origin is manifest; so, haply, Let none believe that in these regions stands The gate of Orcus, nor us then suppose, Haply, that thence the under-gods draw down Souls to dark shores of Acheron- as stags, The wing-footed, are thought to draw to light, By sniffing nostrils, from their dusky lairs The wriggling generations of wild snakes. How far removed from true reason is this, Perceive thou straight; for now I'll try to say Somewhat about the very fact. And, first, This do I say, as oft I've said before: In earth are atoms of things of every sort; And know, these all thus rise from out the earth- Many life-giving which be good for food, And many which can generate disease And hasten death, O many primal seeds Of many things in many modes- since earth Contains them mingled and gives forth discrete. And we have shown before that certain things Be unto certain creatures suited more For ends of life, by virtue of a nature, A texture, and primordial shapes, unlike For kinds alike. Then too 'tis thine to see How many things oppressive be and foul To man, and to sensation most malign: Many meander miserably through ears; Many in-wind athrough the nostrils too, Malign and harsh when mortal draws a breath; Of not a few must one avoid the touch; Of not a few must one escape the sight; And some there be all loathsome to the taste; And many, besides, relax the languid limbs Along the frame, and undermine the soul In its abodes within. To certain trees There hath been given so dolorous a shade That often they gender achings of the head, If one but be beneath, outstretched on the sward. There is, again, on Helicon's high hills A tree that's wont to kill a man outright By fetid odour of its very flower. And when the pungent stench of the night-lamp, Extinguished but a moment since, assails The nostrils, then and there it puts to sleep A man afflicted with the falling sickness And foamings at the mouth. A woman, too, At the heavy castor drowses back in chair, And from her delicate fingers slips away Her gaudy handiwork, if haply she Hath got the whiff at menstruation-time. Once more, if thou delayest in hot baths, When thou art over-full, how readily From stool in middle of the steaming water Thou tumblest in a fit! How readily The heavy fumes of charcoal wind their way Into the brain, unless beforehand we Of water 've drunk. But when a burning fever, O'ermastering man, hath seized upon his limbs, Then odour of wine is like a hammer-blow. And seest thou not how in the very earth Sulphur is gendered and bitumen thickens With noisome stench. What direful stenches, too, Scaptensula out-breathes from down below, When men pursue the veins of silver and gold, With pick-axe probing round the hidden realms Deep in the earth?- Or what of deadly bane The mines of gold exhale? O what a look, And what a ghastly hue they give to men! And seest thou not, or hearest, how they're wont In little time to perish, and how fail The life-stores in those folk whom mighty power Of grim necessity confineth there In such a task? Thus, this telluric earth Out-streams with all these dread effluvia And breathes them out into the open world And into the visible regions under heaven. Thus, too, those Birdless places must up-send An essence bearing death to winged things, Which from the earth rises into the breezes To poison part of skiey space, and when Thither the winged is on pennons borne, There, seized by the unseen poison, 'tis ensnared, And from the horizontal of its flight Drops to the spot whence sprang the effluvium. And when 'thas there collapsed, then the same power Of that effluvium takes from all its limbs The relics of its life. That power first strikes The creatures with a wildering dizziness, And then thereafter, when they're once down-fallen Into the poison's very fountains, then Life, too, they vomit out perforce, because So thick the stores of bane around them fume. Again, at times it happens that this power, This exhalation of the Birdless places, Dispels the air betwixt the ground and birds, Leaving well-nigh a void. And thither when In horizontal flight the birds have come, Forthwith their buoyancy of pennons limps, All useless, and each effort of both wings Falls out in vain. Here, when without all power To buoy themselves and on their wings to lean, Lo, Nature constrains them by their weight to slip Down to the earth, and lying prostrate there Along the well-nigh empty void, they spend Their souls through all the openings of their frame. Further, the water of wells is colder then At summer time, because the earth by heat Is rarefied, and sends abroad in air Whatever seeds it peradventure have Of its own fiery exhalations. The more, then, the telluric ground is drained Of heat, the colder grows the water hid Within the earth. Further, when all the earth Is by the cold compressed, and thus contracts And, so to say, concretes, it happens, lo, That by contracting it expresses then Into the wells what heat it bears itself. 'Tis said at Hammon's fane a fountain is, In daylight cold and hot in time of night. This fountain men be-wonder over-much, And think that suddenly it seethes in heat By intense sun, the subterranean, when Night with her terrible murk hath cloaked the lands- What's not true reasoning by a long remove: I' faith when sun o'erhead, touching with beams An open body of water, had no power To render it hot upon its upper side, Though his high light possess such burning glare, How, then, can he, when under the gross earth, Make water boil and glut with fiery heat?- And, specially, since scarcely potent he Through hedging walls of houses to inject His exhalations hot, with ardent rays. What, then, the principle? Why, this, indeed: The earth about that spring is porous more Than elsewhere the telluric ground, and be Many the seeds of fire hard by the water; On this account, when night with dew-fraught shades Hath whelmed the earth, anon the earth deep down Grows chill, contracts; and thuswise squeezes out Into the spring what seeds she holds of fire (As one might squeeze with fist), which render hot The touch and steam of the fluid. Next, when sun, Up-risen, with his rays has split the soil And rarefied the earth with waxing heat, Again into their ancient abodes return The seeds of fire, and all the Hot of water Into the earth retires; and this is why The fountain in the daylight gets so cold. Besides, the water's wet is beat upon By rays of sun, and, with the dawn, becomes Rarer in texture under his pulsing blaze; And, therefore, whatso seeds it holds of fire It renders up, even as it renders oft The frost that it contains within itself And thaws its ice and looseneth the knots. There is, moreover, a fountain cold in kind That makes a bit of tow (above it held) Take fire forthwith and shoot a flame; so, too, A pitch-pine torch will kindle and flare round Along its waves, wherever 'tis impelled Afloat before the breeze. No marvel, this: Because full many seeds of heat there be Within the water; and, from earth itself Out of the deeps must particles of fire Athrough the entire fountain surge aloft, And speed in exhalations into air Forth and abroad (yet not in numbers enow As to make hot the fountain). And, moreo'er, Some force constrains them, scattered through the water, Forthwith to burst abroad, and to combine In flame above. Even as a fountain far There is at Aradus amid the sea, Which bubbles out sweet water and disparts From round itself the salt waves; and, behold, In many another region the broad main Yields to the thirsty mariners timely help, Belching sweet waters forth amid salt waves. Just so, then, can those seeds of fire burst forth Athrough that other fount, and bubble out Abroad against the bit of tow; and when They there collect or cleave unto the torch, Forthwith they readily flash aflame, because The tow and torches, also, in themselves Have many seeds of latent fire. Indeed, And seest thou not, when near the nightly lamps Thou bringest a flaxen wick, extinguished A moment since, it catches fire before 'Thas touched the flame, and in same wise a torch? And many another object flashes aflame When at a distance, touched by heat alone, Before 'tis steeped in veritable fire. This, then, we must suppose to come to pass In that spring also. Now to other things! And I'll begin to treat by what decree Of Nature it came to pass that iron can be By that stone drawn which Greeks the magnet call After the country's name (its origin Being in country of Magnesian folk). This stone men marvel at; and sure it oft Maketh a chain of rings, depending, lo, From off itself! Nay, thou mayest see at times Five or yet more in order dangling down And swaying in the delicate winds, whilst one Depends from other, cleaving to under-side, And ilk one feels the stone's own power and bonds- So over-masteringly its power flows down. In things of this sort, much must be made sure Ere thou account of the thing itself canst give, And the approaches roundabout must be; Wherefore the more do I exact of thee A mind and ears attent. First, from all things We see soever, evermore must flow, Must be discharged and strewn about, about, Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight. From certain things flow odours evermore, As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls Along the coasts. Nor ever cease to seep The varied echoings athrough the air. Then, too, there comes into the mouth at times The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch The wormwood being mixed, its bitter stings. To such degree from all things is each thing Borne streamingly along, and sent about To every region round; and Nature grants Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow, Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have, And all the time are suffered to descry And smell all things at hand and hear them sound. Now will I seek again to bring to mind How porous a body all things have- a fact Made manifest in my first canto, too. For truly, though to know this doth import For many things, yet for this very thing On which straightway I'm going to discourse, 'Tis needful most of all to make it sure That naught's at hand but body mixed with void. A first ensample: in grottos, rocks o'erhead Sweat moisture and distil the oozy drops; Likewise, from all our body seeps the sweat; There grows the beard, and along our members all And along our frame the hairs. Through all our veins Disseminates the foods, and gives increase And aliment down to the extreme parts, Even to the tiniest finger-nails. Likewise, Through solid bronze the cold and fiery heat We feel to pass; likewise, we feel them pass Through gold, through silver, when we clasp in hand The brimming goblets. And, again, there flit Voices through houses' hedging walls of stone; Odour seeps through, and cold, and heat of fire That's wont to penetrate even strength of iron. Again, where corselet of the sky girds round And at same time, some Influence of bane, When from Beyond 'thas stolen into our world. And tempests, gathering from the earth and sky, Back to the sky and earth absorbed retire- With reason, since there's naught that's fashioned not With body porous. Furthermore, not all The particles which be from things thrown off Are furnished with same qualities for sense, Nor be for all things equally adapt. A first ensample: the sun doth bake and parch The earth; but ice he thaws, and with his beams Compels the lofty snows, up-reared white Upon the lofty hills, to waste away; Then, wax, if set beneath the heat of him, Melts to a liquid. And the fire, likewise, Will melt the copper and will fuse the gold, But hides and flesh it shrivels up and shrinks. The water hardens the iron just off the fire, But hides and flesh (made hard by heat) it softens. The oleaster-tree as much delights The bearded she-goats, verily as though 'Twere nectar-steeped and shed ambrosia; Than which is naught that burgeons into leaf More bitter food for man. A hog draws back For marjoram oil, and every unguent fears Fierce poison these unto the bristled hogs, Yet unto us from time to time they seem, As 'twere, to give new life. But, contrariwise, Though unto us the mire be filth most foul, To hogs that mire doth so delightsome seem That they with wallowing from belly to back Are never cloyed. A point remains, besides, Which best it seems to tell of, ere I go To telling of the fact at hand itself. Since to the varied things assigned be The many pores, those pores must be diverse In nature one from other, and each have Its very shape, its own direction fixed. And so, indeed, in breathing creatures be The several senses, of which each takes in Unto itself, in its own fashion ever, Its own peculiar object. For we mark How sounds do into one place penetrate, Into another flavours of all juice, And savour of smell into a third. Moreover, One sort through rocks we see to seep, and, lo, One sort to pass through wood, another still Through gold, and others to go out and off Through silver and through glass. For we do see Through some pores form-and-look of things to flow, Through others heat to go, and some things still To speedier pass than others through same pores. Of verity, the nature of these same paths, Varying in many modes (as aforesaid) Because of unlike nature and warp and woof Of cosmic things, constrains it so to be. Wherefore, since all these matters now have been Established and settled well for us As premises prepared, for what remains 'Twill not be hard to render clear account By means of these, and the whole cause reveal Whereby the magnet lures the strength of iron. First, stream there must from off the lode-stone seeds Innumerable, a very tide, which smites By blows that air asunder lying betwixt The stone and iron. And when is emptied out This space, and a large place between the two Is made a void, forthwith the primal germs Of iron, headlong slipping, fall conjoined Into the vacuum, and the ring itself By reason thereof doth follow after and go Thuswise with all its body. And naught there is That of its own primordial elements More thoroughly knit or tighter linked coheres Than nature and cold roughness of stout iron. Wherefore, 'tis less a marvel what I said, That from such elements no bodies can From out the iron collect in larger throng And be into the vacuum borne along, Without the ring itself do follow after. And this it does, and followeth on until 'Thath reached the stone itself and cleaved to it By links invisible. Moreover, likewise, The motion's assisted by a thing of aid (Whereby the process easier becomes)- Namely, by this: as soon as rarer grows That air in front of the ring, and space between Is emptied more and made a void, forthwith It happens all the air that lies behind Conveys it onward, pushing from the rear. For ever doth the circumambient air Drub things unmoved, but here it pushes forth The iron, because upon one side the space Lies void and thus receives the iron in. This air, whereof I am reminding thee, Winding athrough the iron's abundant pores So subtly into the tiny parts thereof, Shoves it and pushes, as wind the ship and sails. The same doth happen in all directions forth: From whatso side a space is made a void, Whether from crosswise or above, forthwith The neighbour particles are borne along Into the vacuum; for of verity, They're set a-going by poundings from elsewhere, Nor by themselves of own accord can they Rise upwards into the air. Again, all things Must in their framework hold some air, because They are of framework porous, and the air Encompasses and borders on all things. Thus, then, this air in iron so deeply stored Is tossed evermore in vexed motion, And therefore drubs upon the ring sans doubt And shakes it up inside.... In sooth, that ring is thither borne along To where 'thas once plunged headlong- thither, lo, Unto the void whereto it took its start. It happens, too, at times that nature of iron Shrinks from this stone away, accustomed By turns to flee and follow. Yea, I've seen Those Samothracian iron rings leap up, And iron filings in the brazen bowls Seethe furiously, when underneath was set The magnet stone. So strongly iron seems To crave to flee that rock. Such discord great Is gendered by the interposed brass, Because, forsooth, when first the tide of brass Hath seized upon and held possession of The iron's open passage-ways, thereafter Cometh the tide of the stone, and in that iron Findeth all spaces full, nor now hath holes To swim through, as before. 'Tis thus constrained With its own current 'gainst the iron's fabric To dash and beat; by means whereof it spews Forth from itself- and through the brass stirs up- The things which otherwise without the brass It sucks into itself. In these affairs Marvel thou not that from this stone the tide Prevails not likewise other things to move With its own blows: for some stand firm by weight, As gold; and some cannot be moved forever, Because so porous in their framework they That there the tide streams through without a break, Of which sort stuff of wood is seen to be. Therefore, when iron (which lies between the two) Hath taken in some atoms of the brass, Then do the streams of that Magnesian rock Move iron by their smitings. Yet these things Are not so alien from others, that I Of this same sort am ill prepared to name Ensamples still of things exclusively To one another adapt. Thou seest, first, How lime alone cementeth stones: how wood Only by glue-of-bull with wood is joined- So firmly too that oftener the boards Crack open along the weakness of the grain Ere ever those taurine bonds will lax their hold. The vine-born juices with the water-springs Are bold to mix, though not the heavy pitch With the light oil-of-olive. And purple dye Of shell-fish so uniteth with the wool's Body alone that it cannot be ta'en Away forever- nay, though thou gavest toil To restore the same with the Neptunian flood, Nay, though all ocean willed to wash it out With all its waves. Again, gold unto gold Doth not one substance bind, and only one? And is not brass by tin joined unto brass? And other ensamples how many might one find! What then? Nor is there unto thee a need Of such long ways and roundabout, nor boots it For me much toil on this to spend. More fit It is in few words briefly to embrace Things many: things whose textures fall together So mutually adapt, that cavities To solids correspond, these cavities Of this thing to the solid parts of that, And those of that to solid parts of this- Such joinings are the best. Again, some things Can be the one with other coupled and held, Linked by hooks and eyes, as 'twere; and this Seems more the fact with iron and this stone. Now, of diseases what the law, and whence The Influence of bane upgathering can Upon the race of man and herds of cattle Kindle a devastation fraught with death, I will unfold. And, first, I've taught above That seeds there be of many things to us Life-giving, and that, contrariwise, there must Fly many round bringing disease and death. When these have, haply, chanced to collect And to derange the atmosphere of earth, The air becometh baneful. And, lo, all That Influence of bane, that pestilence, Or from Beyond down through our atmosphere, Like clouds and mists, descends, or else collects From earth herself and rises, when, a-soak And beat by rains unseasonable and suns, Our earth hath then contracted stench and rot. Seest thou not, also, that whoso arrive In region far from fatherland and home Are by the strangeness of the clime and waters Distempered?- since conditions vary much. For in what else may we suppose the clime Among the Britons to differ from Aegypt's own (Where totters awry the axis of the world), Or in what else to differ Pontic clime From Gades' and from climes adown the south, On to black generations of strong men With sun-baked skins? Even as we thus do see Four climes diverse under the four main-winds And under the four main-regions of the sky, So, too, are seen the colour and face of men Vastly to disagree, and fixed diseases To seize the generations, kind by kind: There is the elephant-disease which down In midmost Aegypt, hard by streams of Nile, Engendered is- and never otherwhere. In Attica the feet are oft attacked, And in Achaean lands the eyes. And so The divers spots to divers parts and limbs Are noxious; 'tis a variable air That causes this. Thus when an atmosphere, Alien by chance to us, begins to heave, And noxious airs begin to crawl along, They creep and wind like unto mist and cloud, Slowly, and everything upon their way They disarrange and force to change its state. It happens, too, that when they've come at last Into this atmosphere of ours, they taint And make it like themselves and alien. Therefore, asudden this devastation strange, This pestilence, upon the waters falls, Or settles on the very crops of grain Or other meat of men and feed of flocks. Or it remains a subtle force, suspense In the atmosphere itself; and when therefrom We draw our inhalations of mixed air, Into our body equally its bane Also we must suck in. In manner like, Oft comes the pestilence upon the kine, And sickness, too, upon the sluggish sheep. Nor aught it matters whether journey we To regions adverse to ourselves and change The atmospheric cloak, or whether Nature Herself import a tainted atmosphere To us or something strange to our own use Which can attack us soon as ever it come. THE PLAGUE ATHENS 'Twas such a manner of disease, 'twas such Mortal miasma in Cecropian lands Whilom reduced the plains to dead men's bones, Unpeopled the highways, drained of citizens The Athenian town. For coming from afar, Rising in lands of Aegypt, traversing Reaches of air and floating fields of foam, At last on all Pandion's folk it swooped; Whereat by troops unto disease and death Were they o'er-given. At first, they'd bear about A skull on fire with heat, and eyeballs twain Red with suffusion of blank glare. Their throats, Black on the inside, sweated oozy blood; And the walled pathway of the voice of man Was clogged with ulcers; and the very tongue, The mind's interpreter, would trickle gore, Weakened by torments, tardy, rough to touch. Next when that Influence of bane had chocked, Down through the throat, the breast, and streamed had E'en into sullen heart of those sick folk, Then, verily, all the fences of man's life Began to topple. From the mouth the breath Would roll a noisome stink, as stink to heaven Rotting cadavers flung unburied out. And, lo, thereafter, all the body's strength And every power of mind would languish, now In very doorway of destruction. And anxious anguish and ululation (mixed With many a groan) companioned alway The intolerable torments. Night and day, Recurrent spasms of vomiting would rack Alway their thews and members, breaking down With sheer exhaustion men already spent. And yet on no one's body couldst thou mark The skin with o'er-much heat to burn aglow, But rather the body unto touch of hands Would offer a warmish feeling, and thereby Show red all over, with ulcers, so to say, Inbranded, like the "sacred fires" o'erspread Along the members. The inward parts of men, In truth, would blaze unto the very bones; A flame, like flame in furnaces, would blaze Within the stomach. Nor couldst aught apply Unto their members light enough and thin For shift of aid- but coolness and a breeze Ever and ever. Some would plunge those limbs On fire with bane into the icy streams, Hurling the body naked into the waves; Many would headlong fling them deeply down The water-pits, tumbling with eager mouth Already agape. The insatiable thirst That whelmed their parched bodies, lo, would make A goodly shower seem like to scanty drops. Respite of torment was there none. Their frames Forspent lay prone. With silent lips of fear Would Medicine mumble low, the while she saw So many a time men roll their eyeballs round, Staring wide-open, unvisited of sleep, The heralds of old death. And in those months Was given many another sign of death: The intellect of mind by sorrow and dread Deranged, the sad brow, the countenance Fierce and delirious, the tormented ears Beset with ringings, the breath quick and short Or huge and intermittent, soaking sweat A-glisten on neck, the spittle in fine gouts Tainted with colour of crocus and so salt, The cough scarce wheezing through the rattling throat. Aye, and the sinews in the fingered hands Were sure to contract, and sure the jointed frame To shiver, and up from feet the cold to mount Inch after inch: and toward the supreme hour At last the pinched nostrils, nose's tip A very point, eyes sunken, temples hollow, Skin cold and hard, the shuddering grimace, The pulled and puffy flesh above the brows!- O not long after would their frames lie prone In rigid death. And by about the eighth Resplendent light of sun, or at the most On the ninth flaming of his flambeau, they Would render up the life. If any then Had 'scaped the doom of that destruction, yet Him there awaited in the after days A wasting and a death from ulcers vile And black discharges of the belly, or else Through the clogged nostrils would there ooze along Much fouled blood, oft with an aching head: Hither would stream a man's whole strength and flesh. And whoso had survived that virulent flow Of the vile blood, yet into thews of him And into his joints and very genitals Would pass the old disease. And some there were, Dreading the doorways of destruction So much, lived on, deprived by the knife Of the male member; not a few, though lopped Of hands and feet, would yet persist in life, And some there were who lost their eyeballs: O So fierce a fear of death had fallen on them! And some, besides, were by oblivion Of all things seized, that even themselves they know No longer. And though corpse on corpse lay piled Unburied on ground, the race of birds and beasts Would or spring back, scurrying to escape The virulent stench, or, if they'd tasted there, Would languish in approaching death. But yet Hardly at all during those many suns Appeared a fowl, nor from the woods went forth The sullen generations of wild beasts- They languished with disease and died and died. In chief, the faithful dogs, in all the streets Outstretched, would yield their breath distressfully For so that Influence of bane would twist Life from their members. Nor was found one sure And universal principle of cure: For what to one had given the power to take The vital winds of air into his mouth, And to gaze upward at the vaults of sky, The same to others was their death and doom. In those affairs, O awfullest of all, O pitiable most was this, was this: Whoso once saw himself in that disease Entangled, ay, as damned unto death, Would lie in wanhope, with a sullen heart, Would, in fore-vision of his funeral, Give up the ghost, O then and there. For, lo, At no time did they cease one from another To catch contagion of the greedy plague,- As though but woolly flocks and horned herds; And this in chief would heap the dead on dead: For who forbore to look to their own sick, O these (too eager of life, of death afeard) Would then, soon after, slaughtering Neglect Visit with vengeance of evil death and base- Themselves deserted and forlorn of help. But who had stayed at hand would perish there By that contagion and the toil which then A sense of honour and the pleading voice Of weary watchers, mixed with voice of wail Of dying folk, forced them to undergo. This kind of death each nobler soul would meet. The funerals, uncompanioned, forsaken, Like rivals contended to be hurried through. And men contending to ensepulchre Pile upon pile the throng of their own dead: And weary with woe and weeping wandered home; And then the most would take to bed from grief. Nor could be found not one, whom nor disease Nor death, nor woe had not in those dread times Attacked. By now the shepherds and neatherds all, Yea, even the sturdy guiders of curved ploughs, Began to sicken, and their bodies would lie Huddled within back-corners of their huts, Delivered by squalor and disease to death. O often and often couldst thou then have seen On lifeless children lifeless parents prone, Or offspring on their fathers', mothers' corpse Yielding the life. And into the city poured O not in least part from the countryside That tribulation, which the peasantry Sick, sick, brought thither, thronging from every quarter, Plague-stricken mob. All places would they crowd, All buildings too; whereby the more would death Up-pile a-heap the folk so crammed in town. Ah, many a body thirst had dragged and rolled Along the highways there was lying strewn Besides Silenus-headed water-fountains,- The life-breath choked from that too dear desire Of pleasant waters. Ah, everywhere along The open places of the populace, And along the highways, O thou mightest see Of many a half-dead body the sagged limbs, Rough with squalor, wrapped around with rags, Perish from very nastiness, with naught But skin upon the bones, well-nigh already Buried- in ulcers vile and obscene filth. All holy temples, too, of deities Had Death becrammed with the carcasses; And stood each fane of the Celestial Ones Laden with stark cadavers everywhere- Places which warders of the shrines had crowded With many a guest. For now no longer men Did mightily esteem the old Divine, The worship of the gods: the woe at hand Did over-master. Nor in the city then Remained those rites of sepulture, with which That pious folk had evermore been wont To buried be. For it was wildered all In wild alarms, and each and every one With sullen sorrow would bury his own dead, As present shift allowed. And sudden stress And poverty to many an awful act Impelled; and with a monstrous screaming they Would, on the frames of alien funeral pyres, Place their own kin, and thrust the torch beneath Oft brawling with much bloodshed round about Rather than quit dead bodies loved in life. -THE END-