Part 11

Cartier had already made numerous and surprising discoveries; but the great object of his expedition had not been certainly attained, although he had strong hopes of ultimate success. Stadacona neither satisfied his curiosity, nor limited his progress. The Indians informed him that there was a town of much greater importance farther up the river; but when he intimated his intention of visiting it, they were displeased, and resorted to every artifice to divert him from his project. One of them was very curious. The savages were themselves superstitious, and imagined their visitors to be so likewise. They dressed up three men in black masks and white dog-skins, with their faces blackened and great horns on their heads. They were put into a canoe, with oars, in such a situation as to be carried near the ships by the flowing of the tide. Their appearance was awaited by the Indians, who lay concealed in the woods. When the canoe neared the ships, the white men were harangued by one of the three ugly creatures, who stood up in the boat; and as soon as they reached the land, they fell down, as if dead, and were carried off by the Indians into concealment. Some of the Indians immediately came on board to Cartier, and, feigning the greatest consternation, explained to him the meaning of what he had seen. Their god had sent these three emissaries to signify that there was so much ice and snow, in the far country, that whoever ventured there would surely perish.

Notwithstanding their predictions, Cartier determined to explore the river farther, and, equipping two long-boats for the purpose, he commenced his voyage. He was delighted with the scenery on both sides of the river, and the natives cheerfully furnished him with what they could procure to supply his necessities. At Lake St. Peter, the French were much perplexed by the shallowness of the water, and their ignorance of the channel. On the 2nd of October, 1535, Cartier effected a landing, six miles from the town, below the rapids of St. Mary's, which were becoming difficult and dangerous. Here they were met by more than a thousand of the natives, who received them with every demonstration of joy and hospitality, in return for which Cartier made them many simple presents.

The next day, having engaged three Indians as guides, Cartier, with a number of his own people, entered for the first time the Indian village of Hochelega, which stood on the site of the present city of Montreal. Cartier remained among these people for a short time, when the cold of a Canadian winter began to approach, and he returned in his boats to St. Croix, and afterwards to France. He came again to Canada, in the course of a few years, with Roberval, but did not stay long, and returned to France, where he soon after died.

ANSELMO'S ESCAPE;

OR, THE DOG SAINT BERNARD.

In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a rich farmer, named Pierre, with his wife Mary, and son Anselmo. When Pierre was very young, he had been found, almost dead, in the snow, by one of the monks of St. Bernard, and his dog; and he felt so grateful that, now he was rich, he had sent to the Convent of St. Bernard for one of those large dogs which are so famous for saving people that are lost in the snow; for Pierre was a good man, and he wanted to have one of the dogs himself, so as to be able to save any traveller who might have lost his way. So one of the monks who had taken care of him brought him a little puppy, and he trained it so well, that even in the first year he had brought home several travellers; but the first life he saved was Pierre's own son, Anselmo.

The little fellow had been sent across the hill to a distant village; it was a clear, frosty day, and if he had minded what his mother had said, and come home quickly, he might have been home long before dark; but Anselmo did not think of this;--now he stopped to make snow-balls, and roll them before him, till they were larger and higher than himself; then he would push them over the rocks, and watch them, as they bounded from one part to another, breaking to a thousand pieces on their way; now he wandered from the path to follow the track of an Izard, that perhaps had passed hours before, and that he well knew would never allow him to come within sight of it. And so the time passed on, and when he ought to have been there, he was not even half-way. When he did reach the village, there were too many little boys ready to play with him, for Anselmo to leave it soon; so that it was already getting dark when he stood alone on the top of one of the highest hills between him and his home.

The wind had begun to blow, and the snow was drifting around him; he grew cold and frightened, and at last sat down and burst into tears. Now, for the first time, he thought of all his kind mother had told him, and remembered that in disobeying her, he had offended God. The longer little Anselmo sat in the snow the more cold he became, until at last he seemed to fall asleep--a sleep from which he would never more awake, had not God, from whom he had asked forgiveness for his disobedience, watched over him in the hour of danger.

Many hours before this, his mother had gone, again and again, to look for his return, and now when the wind began to blow, and the grey light of evening come on, she trembled to think that her child was alone on the hills, with snow on every side.

Pierre had been away from home two days; he was to return that night. And oh! how she feared it might be to find Anselmo gone, his little boy lost to him for ever; for she thought that if he should miss the path in the drifting snow, he would never find it again.

"Here, St. Bernard," said she to the dog, "go and find Anselmo; go and seek for my child, my brave dog!" and she burst into tears, and threw her arms round his neck. Well did St. Bernard understand her words; he sprang from her hold, and darting through the door, was out of sight in a moment.

The poor woman smiled. "It will be a comfort to him," she said, "to see his good dog, and will cheer his heart and give him strength for the rest of the way." Poor Mary! little did she think that already her boy was stretched upon the snow, stiff and cold, and almost without life.

An hour had passed; but neither Pierre, Anselmo, or St. Bernard, had yet returned. Again and again she wandered round the house and looked down the path. At last a figure was seen, and as it came nearer, she saw it was Pierre, and that he had his child in his arms, and that St. Bernard was at his side. "Thank God! thank God!" she said; and she ran down the hill to meet them. Anselmo is tired with his long walk, thought she, and no wonder. Pierre must be tired too; I'll carry the boy myself. But as she came near, she stopped; for a sudden fear seemed to have struck her, and she covered her face with her hands.

"He is not dead, Mary," shouted Pierre; "he is better already; see, he looks up to you," and the child tried to raise his hand, but it fell by his side.

Anselmo was laid in a warm bed--they rubbed his hands and feet; and soon he began to revive, and to look about him, and then to thank his father and mother, and to tell them that he felt better.

After Pierre and Mary had knelt by the bedside of their child, and thanked God for his mercy in restoring him to them, his mother for the first time asked how it had all happened, and where he had been found.

Anselmo turned his face away, and for a moment did not answer; then he said: "Mother had sent me to the village, and I staid too long there; I had played by the way too as I went. So it was getting dark, and I lost my way, and was cold long before I could reach home; so I sat down, meaning to rest a little, and began to cry, but I do not know anything after that. I think I remember feeling very sleepy, and I suppose I did fall asleep, but I do not know; my father can tell you best, mother, for he found me."

"No," said Pierre, "I did not find you, my dear boy; I was close to the foot of the hill, thinking that I should meet you all well, and at home, when I saw something moving on the snow; it stopped; and then I heard St. Bernard's bark; it seemed wanting my help, and I hastened up the hill. He was coming to meet me, his head high in the air; his step through all the drifting snow was firm and sure, and I saw that he carried a child in his mouth; but when he laid the child at my feet, I saw it was Anselmo, my own son!"

"Then it was St. Bernard, good, kind, St. Bernard," cried the boy, "who carried me all the way from the top of that high hill, for I am quite sure it was there I sat down."

Whether this lesson cured the little boy of _loitering_ on his way, I cannot tell. I hope and think it must have done so, but this I know, St. Bernard became more than ever a favourite,--more than ever loved and valued by the whole neighbourhood, and he continued showing his wonderful instinct and bravery, in many ways.

TO MY BOY TOM,

ON GIVING HIM HIS FIRST SPELLING-BOOK.

Poor Tom, they're heathen Greek to you-- Those curiously-formed letters; But you must learn them all, my boy, And break the dunce's fetters.

Ay, there they stand, from A to Z, Like prophets sent on mission, To point the way in Wisdom's path With accurate precision.

Or rather, they are like old nurse, Aiding the first gradation, The Alpha-_Bet_ and leading-strings To better education.

And having totter'd, step by step, Till stronger grown in knowledge, Why, then, my boy, you'll run alone Through this, your infant's college.

Ay, puzzle on--that's A, this B; Ne'er mind a few erratics: The big round O, and upright I, Will lead to mathematics.

Your little book is just like life In its progressive stages; You'll find the spelling harder grow, As you turn o'er the pages.

Two letters--three--and then comes four Then syllables united, Till six or seven in columns stand, To render you affrighted.

But, having conn'd your lesson o'er, With true pronunciation, The task's performed, and you will gain A parent's approbation.

Just so in life our troubles rise, Getting from rough to rougher, For man is like the grammar verbs, _To be, or do, or suffer_.

SECOND STORY OF THE SEA.

The tea-table was cleared away, the shutters were closed, a bright wood fire blazed on the hearth, and Captain Albert, with his family, were seated round it.

"Now, father," said Edward, "tell us another story of the sea, if you please. How did you get your ship out of the ice?"

"It was brought out without much exertion of mine," said his father. "If you had been there, my son, you would have felt that all the power of man could have done little to relieve us. The ice gathered around us thicker and closer, the wind died away, and it was a dead, freezing calm. The ship did not move an inch, and the thoughts of my mind troubled me by continually bringing up an account I had read in my youth, of a vessel which had been caught in the ice near the south pole and all the crew frozen, where they stood on duty--

"To the cordage glued the sailor, And the steersman to the helm!

"I began to feel as if we had little prospect of escaping a similar fate, and looked about to see what part of the ship could be spared for fuel, in case of necessity. I also examined the provisions and water, and calculated how long they would last. My faithful crew were sensible of the danger we were in, but uttered no complaint. The whales appeared to understand our helpless condition, and came around us, as if in mockery, dashing about the ice with their powerful flooks, and exulting as it were, in showing us how much more they could do for themselves than we could. One of them even ventured to rub his monstrous sides against our ship.

"In this melancholy situation, Robert (spoken of in our first story) was a valuable addition to our ship's company. He was a young man of bright natural talents, and possessed a good share of wit and power of imitation. Besides which, he had received an education much superior to that of sailors generally. He was a fine singer, and had a great share of good songs, so that he became the life of the whole ship. We had very little to do, and the men were very fond of sitting down on the berth-deck, among the hammocks, with a lantern in the centre, to hear Robert give an account of himself, and relate the wonderful adventures he had met with.

"After we had been some time in the helpless situation I have described, one morning, about day-break, I was awakened from a troubled sleep by the sound of a rushing wind, and rushing up, I went on deck. A violent rain was falling, and the wind was rising at the same time, which is a very uncommon circumstance. It blew in a direction to favour our escape; and think, my dear ones, what was my joy and thankfulness, when I saw the ice dividing before us, and leaving a broad, clear path, as far as the eye could reach. The rain loosened the ice from the sails, and it fell on the deck in thin sheets; the sails filled, and we began to move rapidly toward home. Did I not tell you right, when I said Divine Providence helped us out without much aid from us?

"We had prepared to tow the schooner (to which Robert belonged) behind us, but considering that she would check the speed of our ship, and feeling the necessity of making all possible haste to escape from the regions of ice, I put three of our most capable hands into her, with Robert, and directed them to follow my ship as near as they could. When we were in the open sea, it was a pleasure to look back and see the little craft clipping along through the waves, following on like a greyhound in the chase, leaving ice and icebergs far behind.

"Our voyage home was prosperous and pleasant. The remembrance of dangers and sufferings, made every blessing more thankfully acceptable, and I hope we all returned better and wiser men."

THE CHILD AT PRAYER.

As the Lady of Lindorf entered the chapel, she beheld a little girl, of about eight years old, alone, and dressed entirely in black, kneeling upon the steps of the altar. The child prayed so fervently, that she paid no attention to what was passing by her. Tears were streaming down her blooming cheeks, and her beautiful and innocent countenance had an expression of melancholy resignation and pious fervor beyond description.

The lady felt the sincerest pity and greatest good-will towards the praying child. She would not disturb her in her devotions; and only when the little girl arose did the lady approach her:--"You are very sorrowful, dear child," she said softly; "why do you thus cry?"

"Alas!" answered the child, and tears flowed afresh down her cheeks; "a year ago this very day I lost my father, and this day last week they buried my mother."

"And for what have you prayed to God?" asked the lady.

"That he would take pity upon me," answered the child; "I have no refuge but Him. True, I am still with the people with whom my parents lodged, but I cannot stay there; the master has told me again that I must go to-morrow. I have a few relatives in the town, and wish very much that one or the other would take charge of me. The good priest, also, who often visited my mother in her illness, and showed her a deal of kindness, told them plainly that it was their duty to do so, but they cannot agree among themselves which of them is to take the care of bringing me up: nor can I complain, for they have many children, and nothing but what they earn by their daily labour."

"Poor child! it is no wonder that you are sorrowful."

"I came here very sorrowful," replied the child; "but God has suddenly removed all grief from my heart. I now feel comforted. I have no further anxiety than to live ever after His will, so that He may take pleasure in me."

The words of that innocent child, and the sincerity that appeared through her tearful eyes, went to the heart of the noble lady. She looked at her with the tenderness of a mother, and said "I think that God has heard your prayer, dear little one; keep to your resolution--remain ever pious and good, and be comforted, and you will find help. Come with me."

The good child looked at the lady with astonishment:--"But where?" asked she. "I must not; I must go home."

"I know the good priest who you said had been so kind to your mother," said the lady. "We will go to him, and I will arrange with him how to help you."

Saying this, she took the child by the hand, who went joyfully with her.

The excellent curate, a man rather advanced in years, and of a venerable aspect, rose from his writing-table on the approach of the lady. She told him how she had just become acquainted with the child; and then desired the little one to leave her with the curate, and amuse herself in the garden awhile, as she wished to speak to him privately.

"My dear sir," said she, "I have a great desire to take this child, and supply to her the place of a mother. My own children all died at a tender age, and my heart tells me that I can love this little one. Still, I wished to know whether you, who knew the parents well, would advise me to do so. What do you say to it? I wish to mark my short course on earth by some benevolent action. Do you think that the benefits I mean to bestow on that child will be well conferred?"

The good man lifted his eyes to heaven, and tears of joy were glistening in them, as, folding his hands, he said, "The holy providence of God be ever praised! You could not, lady, do a greater act of mercy; neither could you easily find a more pious, well-behaved, and intelligent child, than the little Sophy. Both her parents were honest people, and true Christians. They begun to give this, their only one, a good education, but, alas! they did not live to finish it. I shall never forget with what grief the dying mother looked upon this dearly beloved child, who was sobbing upon her death-bed; with what confidence, nevertheless, she looked towards heaven, and said; 'Thou Father in heaven wilt also be a father on earth, and wilt give my daughter another mother: I know this, and die comforted.' The words of the good parent are now come to pass, and it is obvious that the Divine Providence has selected you, gracious and worthy lady, to be this child's second mother: for this you were called to this town--for this, God put it in your mind to visit His temple before your departure. It is evidently his work; let his holy providence be gratefully acknowledged!"

The worthy curate now called in the poor orphan, and said, "See, Sophy, this kind and devout lady wishes to be thy mother:--this is a great happiness that God bestows upon thee. Wilt thou go with her, and be to her a good daughter?"

"Yes," answered Sophy gladly, and tears of joy prevented her saying more. She thanked her benefactress with her looks, and kissed her hand in silence.

"See, my child," continued the curate, "how God cares for thee: when thy late mother was lying on her death-bed He had already conducted thy second mother here, unknown to us, nor has He allowed her to depart without having first found thee, and adopted thee. Know, in this, His fatherly care;--love with all thy heart the good and merciful God, who so evidently takes care of thee--trust in him, and keep his commandments. Be as good and obedient a child towards this thy new mother, which He has given thee, as thou wast towards thy mother which is now dead, and then this kind lady will rejoice in thee, and thou shalt prosper. One thing remember especially,--in thy future life, sorrow and misfortune cannot be kept entirely aloof; but when it does come, pray with the same child-like trust with which thou hast been taught; and as God has helped thee now, he will help thee again."

The child's relatives were now summoned, and made no sort of objection to the arrangement; on the contrary, they were well pleased. Their satisfaction was still more increased by the Lady of Lindorf's declaring she would take Sophy as she was, and leave her mother's little legacy, together with her own clothes, to them and to their children. Sophy only wished for a few religious books as a remembrance of her mother, and these were willingly granted to her.

Early the next morning the Lady of Lindorf departed for her castle, accompanied by Sophy.

THE CHILD ANGEL.

"Come, come," said the bright angel, In a whisper sweet and low, "To yonder stream so lonely Together let us go."

And the child made haste to follow The guide she could not see, For she said, "A sweet child angel Is whispering to me."

The morning sun shone brightly Through the branches overhead, And summer leaves upon the ground Their dancing shadows spread.

And still, upon the cool, green earth The trembling dew-drops lay, And fell in showers, beneath her touch, From every leaf and spray.

Yet onward, onward went the child Without a thought of fear, For the voice of the sweet angel Still sounded in her ear.

And now the path is hidden By branches bending low, And, pausing there, she listens To hear the waters flow;

And from the opening blossoms, That smile beside her feet, She twines, with ready fingers, A wreath, for angel meet.

The deep and waveless river Spread out before her lies, And she sees the fair child angel Look fondly in her eyes.

One cry of joy she utters, Her arms extending wide To clasp the lovely phantom Beneath that treacherous tide.

Weep not, thou childless mother, Above that beauteous clay, For the voice of blessed angels Has called the soul away.

Think, when thy lips are pressing That pure and marble brow, In heaven thy own child angel Is living for thee now.

THE STORM.

You have heard of Switzerland, my dear young readers. You have heard of its high mountains--its lovely streams--its pretty flowers--and bright sunshine in summer. You have heard, too, of its deep snows in winter--its frozen waters--and its fearful storms;--its beautiful lakes--one moment calm, soft and bright--the next changed into furious commotion, throwing its angry waters high into the air. There, many a little boat, that had gone out upon its smooth waters, confident that there could be no danger, has been lost, after struggling long and fearlessly with the waves, and sunk to rise no more.

One night I stood alone upon a high rock, which projected over the Lake of Lucerne, and saw what I have imperfectly described to you.

I had been on the mountains all day--a bright, beautiful day. I had climbed the hills, where nothing was to be seen but grey stone; I had passed on to others, and found them covered with lovely flowers--growing in every spot where they could find any soil--and some large trees, that, spreading wide their branches, allowed me often to sit down in the cool shade to watch the gay butterflies around me, and to contemplate that glorious and almighty Parent--the Creator of all that is beautiful and good, and the Author of all good feelings and affections, and who enables us to enjoy all which He has made.

The sun was setting, and there was a bright red glow over the lake, that lay like a large sheet of glass, smooth and bright; and that was only stirred when the trout leaped high in the air--as if to look once more upon the sun before it went to rest; and then sinking down, they left a bright round ring on the lake, that soon passed away, leaving all smooth again.