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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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 “The natural columns of basalt, near the landing-place, lie in so many
different directions that I cannot give a clear notion of them—erect,
oblique, and horizontal; and sometimes in each of these positions they are
curved. In the first cave which occurs, the columns are bent in such a
manner as to have given rise to its name of the scollop; but I think they look
still more like the inside of the timbers of a ship. On the other side, the wall
which leads into the cave, is formed by ends of columns, which make it
appear something like a honeycomb; and immediately beyond this cave, the
broken ends form a sort of stairs to the causeway, and up to the great cave.
Beneath this part of the cliff is situated a single rock, called Buachaille, (the
herdsman) a name commonly applied in the Highlands to remarkable
mountains and rocks. There is a very striking coincidence between the
Gaëlic and the Greek languages, not only in this, but in other words; and
my companion, who is well acquainted with the Gaëlic, thinks that they
must have had a common origin.
“Of the three caves in the south-west side of the island, the westernmost
is called the cave of Mackinnon; who seems, from the number of places to
which he has given his name, to have been a hero of considerable celebrity.
Its height is 50 feet, and length 224 feet; but although grand and sublime in
general effect, it has not the beautiful regularity so remarkable in the cave
of Fingal; which I will now endeavour to describe.
“The opening into this celebrated cave finishes above, in a sort of Gothic
arch, which is 66 feet above the surface of the water. The breadth, at the
entrance, is 42 feet; the whole length of the cave, 227; and the height
within, from 40 to 50 feet. The sides, like the front, consist of groups of
columns; and the ceiling, at least towards the middle, is composed of the
sections, or broken ends of columns, which give it a very architectural
appearance. The sea never ebbs entirely out, and, therefore, forms the only
floor of the cave; but the broken range of columns which produces the
exterior causeway, is continued on each side within, and admits of access
over the broken summits to the farther end, if the water be not too high.
“After all, it is so impossible to describe this cave, that the very attempt
is presumptuous.—The more it is studied, the greater is the admiration of
the beholder. The richness arising from the multiplicity of the parts—the
great extent—the twilight gloom—the varying effects of the reflected light
—the transparent green of the water—the echo of the surge rising and
falling—and the profound solitude of the whole scene, must make a strong
impression on any mind at all sensible to beauty, in art or nature. I only
wish you could all have seen it, my dear friends.”

18th.—This has been a most charming day; the mild calm dry feel of the
air reminded me of the lovely weather that we are accustomed to at Rio.
Here the days are very changeable; but then the nights have not that
extreme chilliness that they have in Brazil.
It was resolved, at breakfast, in order to shew me a little of the country,
that we should take a long walk—visit a farmer who lives about a mile and
a-half from this—and then return by a different way, through a hamlet,
inhabited by some of the poorest class.
We were all ready at one o’clock, which was the appointed hour.—My
uncle dislikes very much that people should not be ready in time, and really
considers it a fault not to be punctual; he says, it shews a selfish disregard
of the wishes of others, and besides, that a great deal of time is wasted—
melted away by waiting for each other.—I hope I shall learn to be more
exact than I used to be, when with my indulgent mother.
We walked through several fields; but they all had a confined
appearance, from being so much more fenced than the open country to
which I have been accustomed. Some were all life and bustle; the reapers
cutting the corn with their sickles, and dexterously laying it in a line, so that
the binders who follow them can tie it up into sheaves without delay;
several of these are then made to stand endways, in a little tight group,
called a shock. In another place, horses and waggons were engaged in
drawing home the corn which had been reaped first, and was now dry
enough to preserve it, to the farmyard, where it was to be stacked; and they
were succeeded by many little girls, who were gleaning the scattered ears.
Farmer Moreland was in his farmyard, overseeing the stacking of his corn,
and I could not but admire the neatness and regularity with which the
sheaves were placed, with the tops pointing towards the centre, all being
made quite firm, and the outside of the stack kept perfectly even. My uncle
made me also observe that open passages, for the circulation of the air, were
left in the stack, to prevent its fermenting or heating, which would spoil the
grain. What a curious thing it is that decaying vegetables, when thus pressed
together, without a free passage of air should produce such a chemical
change, as to cause them to take fire!
 After we had rested ourselves in Farmer Moreland’s comfortable house,
we looked at his garden, where I observed several rows of large sunflowers,
with the seed of which he feeds his fowls; and we then left him and Dame
Moreland, as we saw they were very busy.
In the nice smooth green fields which we passed through, there are no
beautiful flowers, like those which spread a brilliant carpet over our plains;
nor is there any of that rank grass, nearly the height of a man, so common in
some parts of Brazil. The hay was all made up some weeks ago, so that I
cannot see the delicate flowers of the grasses, nor their slender stalks or
culms. My aunt says, that grass contains a great deal of very nourishing
sugary juice; and if the hay is cut and made up early, before that juice is
exhausted by maturing the seed, it becomes much more strengthening food
than when mowed late.
Nor are there any herds of wild cattle here, like those in parts of our
country; and, therefore, the Brazilian custom of catching the cattle by a
noose is not in use. I described to Wentworth the dexterity with which the
peons fling the noose, or lasso, over the head of any animal, even in full
gallop. Here the cattle are in small numbers, and submit readily to the
restraint of being confined in fields. The person who takes care of them has
comparatively little trouble; and though he does not live on beef for every
meal, like the peon, yet he is in fact more comfortable. We saw some very
poor people in the hamlet by which we returned home, and found them civil
in their manners, and contented with their employment. As to their houses,
they are very different, indeed, from the peon’s hovel of upright posts,
interwoven with branches of trees, and plastered with mud, thatched with
nothing but long grass, and a hide stretched on four sticks, by way of a
door.
I was surprised to see with what docility a number of cows allowed
themselves to be driven home by a little boy to Farmer Moreland’s. My
uncle told me, that it is a great relief to them to have their milk taken away;
and that were the fields open, they would go home at the regular hours to be
milked. I had imagined that cows had but a small portion of sense or
instinct; but my uncle told me several instances of their sagacity, and among
others, one which he read lately in travels in Norway and Lapland.
The author frequently saw cows feeding close to precipices several
hundred feet high, where an English cow would have but little chance of
escape; but the Norway cows, turned out amidst the mountains to procure
their subsistence, become as nimble as goats, and climb the rocky crags
with the greatest ease.
The manner in which instinct has taught them to descend the mountains
is curious. Sitting on their haunches, they place their fore-feet close
together, and in this way slide down places, which from their steepness
would appear quite impassable with safety.
We went into several cottages belonging to the poor labourers. They are
either built of brick, or of frame-work filled in with bricks and plaster, with
good doors and glass windows; and inside, every thing, though shewing
poverty, gave the idea of comfort. The walls papered, or nicely white-
washed, the floors scowered and sprinkled with sand; plates, cups, and
saucers displayed on shelves; beds with clean patchwork quilts; and in two
of the houses, wooden-clocks to call the people up to their business. And to
all of them there was a detached shed for the pig, unlike the filthy place left,
between the posts, that support the floor of the Brazilian huts. In the last
cottage we visited, we found that the hospitable people it belonged to had
contrived to make room for a poor traveller and her child. She had come
there on Saturday evening, when they gave her lodging for charity. On
Sunday, she begged permission to remain, because she did not think it right
to travel on that day; and on Monday she grew ill, and has been in bed ever
since. These good people seemed so kind and generous to her, though very
poor themselves, that my aunt is much interested for them.
How gratifying it is to see the poorest people assisting each other, even
when really distressed themselves, but the most delightful thing of all, dear
Mamma, is that there are no slaves here; every body is free, and may work
or be idle as they like; but if they prefer idleness, they must of course want
the comforts possessed by the industrious;—for industry, as you used to say,
brings comfort and happiness.

19th.—This forest of Deane is very extensive, I find, for it is nearly

twenty miles long, and ten broad. Here, at the south-east, it is bordered by
the Severn, and on the north-west it stretches to the Wye; so that it forms
the chief part of the western district of Gloucestershire. It was once the
chief support of the English navy; but the timber is much diminished in
consequence of the iron works in its neighbourhood, which it supplied a
long time with fuel. My uncle says, however, that it has more the
appearance of a forest than almost any other in England; and it still contains
many noble old oak and beech trees, besides birch, holly, and underwood.
Here and there a few acres, surrounding cottages, have been cleared and
cultivated, which make a beautiful variety. These cottages, and some farm-
houses which stand upon the forest land, are free from taxes, and belong to
no parish.
My aunt says, it is quite remarkable for the quantities of primroses and
lilac wood-sorrel that are every where found. There are a few deer in some
parts of the forest, but I have not yet seen them.

20th.—What a difference between this country, and that which I have

left! I scarcely know which to call my own: should it not be that where I
lived during my happy childhood with my dear Mamma? The kindness and
affection of all my friends here will, I am sure, soon make this country dear
to me also; but beautiful I can never think it, when I recollect Brazil, and all
its various charms, and all the innumerable flowers and trees that are at this
moment in brilliant beauty; while here, the principal flowers are all gone by,
and symptoms of the decay of autumn already appear.
It was just about this season that you used to take us to the cottage you
had on the Lagoa de Bodingo Freitas. What various amusements we had
there! The road along the slope of the mountain was so pretty, among
myrtles, begonias, and paullinias; and there we were always sure of finding
the diamond-beetle; and then when gradually descending from the hill, we
drove along the banks of the sea covered with lofty ferns; and when you
used to allow us to stop on the shore and search for sea-stars, urchins,
shells, and plants. Oh, those were happy times! Or when we used to go with
you to the low grounds near the lake, and lose ourselves in the thickets of
mangrove trees, while gathering their curious seeds, and wondering at the
long roots they shoot out to the ground, and while you were searching for
marsh plants and fern bushes. Indeed, I never, never can forget those days;
nor the still solitude of that valley, the beauty of the rock of Gavia, covered
with the blue gloxinia, and the wild mountain stream that came tumbling
down into the lake; nor the poor fishermen who used to look so happy when
you gave them a few reals.
Though we live here on the borders of a forest, it is quite unlike that
forest near which the Senhor Antonio Gomez lives, and where we used
sometimes to spend a few weeks so pleasantly. I miss several little things
that seemed to me to belong to a forest, and which used to amuse Marianne
and me so much—the howling of the monkeys in the wood, that wakened
us in the mornings, and the deep noises of the frogs and toads, with the
chirp of the grasshoppers and locusts, like a monotonous treble mixed with
that croaking bass.
And then when playing about in the wood after the mists of the night had
been dispelled by the rising sun, and when every creature seemed to be
rejoicing in the return of day, we had such delight in chasing the pretty
butterflies. Nothing at all here like those great butterflies that used to flutter
from flower to flower, and hover among the bushes under which we sat; or
that sometimes collected in separate companies on the sunny banks of the
little stream that ran through the valley near the Senhor’s house. None of
those great owl-moths sitting quietly on the trees waiting, with their wings
spread open, for the approach of evening. Alas! I see none of those beautiful
creatures here; nor the long nests of the wasps hanging from the trees; nor
the beetles sparkling brightly on the flowers and fresh leaves; nor the
beautiful little serpents, equal to flowers in splendour, gliding out of the
leaves and the hollows of trees, and creeping up the stem to catch insects.
I have just been describing to Mary those woods which seemed actually
alive, when the monkeys came leaping and chattering from tree to tree, and
enjoying the sun; as well as all our birds with their bright plumage, whose
various notes formed such extraordinary concerts. The urapong, which
makes the woods resound with a noise like the strokes of a hammer on the
anvil. The showy parrots of every colour, and the manakin, whose
melodious morning song you loved, because it was so like the warbling of
the nightingale; and which Mary tells me is called the organiste, in St.
Domingo, on account of the compass of its song, as it forms a complete
octave. And besides all these, the dear little busy orioles, that my sister and
I have so often watched creeping out of the little hole at one side of their
long bag-shaped nests, to visit the orange trees, while their sentinels gave
them notice by a loud scream of the approach of strangers.
Mary smiled when I told her, what I am sure Marianne remembers—how
we used to like to listen to the toucan rattling with his large hollow beak, as
he sat on the extreme branches, and calling, in plaintive notes, for rain; and
how sometimes, when he was sitting comfortably and almost hid in the nest
which he had scooped in the stem of a tree, we used to pretend to alarm
him, that we might see how instantly he prepared to attack the invader with
his bill.
But these are all passed away. Dear Mamma, forgive this list of pleasing
recollections: describing them to you makes me feel as if I was again
enjoying them in your company. There is such a glowing splendour, as I
told Mary, in the sunny days of Brazil, when the glittering humming-birds
dart about, and with their long bills extract the honey from the flowers, that
I cannot avoid perceiving how gloomy every thing appears here; but pray
do not think me discontented.
Mary, to whom I had been describing all these past delights, came back
to me just as I had written so far; and, seeing the tears in my eyes, she
seemed to feel with me, and to think it quite natural that I should every
moment perceive the difference between two countries so opposite in
climate and in every thing; though she laughed a little at my repeating to
you all that you see continually; but you know, Mamma, you desired me to
write all I thought, and you may well suppose how constantly my thoughts
turn towards the country in which you live.
Mary said she should have been surprised if I had not felt the change.
“But indeed, Bertha,” said she, “you must not forget how well balanced are
our blessings. If Brazil has a climate, and various beautiful productions
which England does not possess, England, on the other hand, has far more
substantial comforts; and, by her commerce, she has the means of enjoying
those of all other countries. We have not your brilliant flowers and birds,
but you will find that we have many which are more useful, and which will
interest you, who love natural history. Our birds have no pendent nests,
because they are in no danger from such depredators as your monkeys and
snakes, and therefore their instinct does not lead them to contrive such
means of defence; but you will see, amongst both our birds and insects,
many whose habits are equally curious.”
I said that I believed, as you, Mamma, have often told me, that there is
no country which does not possess much to attach its inhabitants to it, and
to interest an observant mind.
“And it is in the mind,” she replied, “that our real happiness will always
be found. It rests on our own disposition and thoughts, much more than on
those outward circumstances which appear coloured by our feelings; just as
objects appear the colour of the glass through which you look at them. But,”
added she, “I came not to moralise, but to beg of you to come out and
walk.”
Out we went; and my thoughts soon turned from the scenes I have been
lamenting, to the satisfactory feeling of having, in both my countries, such
dear and good friends.

21st. Sunday.—In the course of a conversation this morning about the

Sabbath day, a lady, who is here on a visit, remarked that it was the idea of
some people, that the Sabbath, having been instituted at the time that the
Israelites received the Ten Commandments, is not binding on Christians,
any more than the other Levitical institutions.
In order to show what a mistaken idea that is, my uncle read to us the
extract which I am going to copy here.
“It is a great mistake to consider the Sabbath as a mere festival of the
Jewish church, deriving its whole sanctity from the Levitical law. The
religious observation of the seventh day is included, in the Decalogue,
among our first duties; but the reason assigned for the injunction is general,
and has no relation to the particular circumstances of the Israelites, or to the
particular relation in which they stood to God as his chosen people. The
creation of the world was an event equally interesting to the whole human
race; and the acknowledgment of God as our Creator is a duty, in all ages
and countries, incumbent on mankind.
“The terms of the ordinance plainly describe it as an institution of an
earlier age—‘Wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day, and set it apart,’
which is the true meaning of hallowed it. These words express a past time.
It is not said, Wherefore the Lord now blesses the seventh day, and sets it
apart, but, Wherefore he did bless it, and set it apart in times past; and he
now requires that you, his chosen people, should be observant of that
ancient institution.
“In confirmation of this fact, we find, by the 16th chapter of Exodus, that
the Israelites were already acquainted with the Sabbath, and had been
accustomed to a strict observance of it, before Moses received the tables of
the law at Sinai. For, when the manna was first given for their nourishment
in the wilderness, they were commanded to lay by, on the sixth day, a
sufficient portion for the succeeding day. ‘To-morrow,’ said Moses, ‘is the
rest of the holy Sabbath unto the Lord: on that day ye shall not find it in the
field; for the Lord hath given you the Sabbath, therefore he giveth you on
the sixth day bread for two days.’ He mentions the Sabbath as a divine
command, with which the people were well acquainted; for he alleges the
well-known sanctity of the day, to account for the extraordinary supply of
manna on the preceding day. But the appointment of the Sabbath, to which
his words allude, must have been earlier than the appointment of the law, of
which no part had yet been given. For this first gathering of manna was in
the second month of the departure of the Israelites from Egypt; and they did
not arrive at Sinai, where the law was given, till the third month.
“An institution of this antiquity and importance could derive no part of
its sanctity from the authority of the Mosaic law; and the abrogation of that
law no more releases the worshippers of God from a due observation of the
Sabbath, than it cancels the injunction of filial piety, or the prohibition of
theft or murder.
“The worship of the Christian church is properly to be considered as a
restoration of the patriarchal church in its primitive simplicity and purity;
and of the patriarchal worship, the Sabbath was one of the noblest and
simplest rites. As the Sabbath was of earlier institution than the religion of
the Jews, so it necessarily survives the extinction of the Jewish law, and
makes a part of Christianity.
“It differs from all other ordinances, of similar antiquity, and is a part of
the rational religion of man, in every stage and state of his existence, till he
shall attain that happy rest of which the Sabbath is a type.
“Let us remember, always, that to mankind in general, and to us
Christians in particular, the proper business of that day is the worship of
God in public assemblies. Private devotion is the Christian’s daily duty; but
the peculiar duty of the Sabbath is public worship. Every man’s conscience
must direct him what portion of the remainder of the Sabbath should be
allotted to private devotion, useful duties, and sober recreation. And,
perhaps, a better general rule cannot be laid down than this—that the same
proportion of the Sabbath, on the whole, should be devoted to religious
exercises, public and private, as each individual would employ, on any
other day, in ordinary business.”

22d.—I have just been made very happy, dear Mamma. I was sitting in
my aunt’s dressing room, labouring through a difficult question in
arithmetic, which Mary had given me, when my uncle came in; and, after a
little conversation, he said to my aunt and cousins, “I am very much pleased
with this good girl. I have not judged of her hastily—I approve of her as a
companion for my daughters; and she has my free permission to be with
them in this room and every where, as much as she pleases.”
It is a great satisfaction to add, that my cousins looked as much pleased
at this as I did; but they could not feel the delight that I felt, when he
continued,—“Bertha, my dear, when you write to your mother, I desire that
you will say I am highly pleased with her education of her little daughter.
Separated from her friends and country by ill health, with little of good
society, and labouring under many disadvantages, she has not sunk into
indolence or indifference—she has preserved her good sense and energy,
and has made you a gentlewoman in mind and manners; and I rejoice to see
you so much what the child of my excellent sister ought to be.”
My beloved mother, this little message to you gave me such heartfelt
delight, that my eyes very nearly overflowed.
My kind uncle afterwards said, “But, Bertha, do not imagine that I think
you have no faults.”
“No, dear uncle,” said I, “that never came into my head; but I am sure
you and my aunt will be so good as to assist me in conquering them.”
“Most readily I will,” said he: “indeed I will write myself to your
mother, and tell her how much I like her Bertha, who deserves to be the
companion of my daughters; my sister knows how particular I am about
their intimacies and early friendships.”
Though I know his letter will be a most welcome one to you, I could not
resist the pleasure of telling you all this myself, dear Mamma. I shall feel
much more bright and cheerful now, than I have felt, since I left you.

23d.—I can walk much more here than I could in our own hot country,
so I am out a great deal every fine day.
Yesterday, we all set out on a ramble through the forest, that I might see
some of its wildest parts; and the morning was so fine, that we went much
farther than my cousins had been for a long time. There is but little of it that
answered to my ideas of a forest; some parts are quite cleared away, and in
others, the trees are spoiled by being copsed. I must confess, that some of
the oaks are fine trees; but how insignificant the best of them would appear
by the side of our noble bombax, or of our tall palms, which spread their
leaves like immense umbrellas. And besides, the green of the foliage is so
dull, when compared to the vivid tints of the trees in Brazil! We found,
however, some very nice and smooth grassy paths through the wood, of
which I might say—

All around seems verdure meet

For pressure of the fairies’ feet.

As we walked along one of these, we were surprised by the appearance of

smoke curling through the trees; and we soon after came to a little cottage,
in a very solitary part of the forest. Frederick ran on, “to discover,” he said,
“whether it contained a giant, ready to devour us with fee, fau, fum, or some
hermit who had retired to this sequestered spot, to expiate his crimes in
solitude and silence.”
We soon followed, and instead of either giant or hermit, there was a poor
man almost blind, employed in making a basket, while his daughter, a
pretty looking young woman about twenty, sat within, engaged in
needlework; and the house, though one of the poorest that I have seen,
looked clean and airy. But as it is built against a sloping bank, it must be
damp, I think—and his daughter has rather a delicate appearance, and looks
pensive, as if she was not in good health.
I was very much interested in observing the method by which he made
his basket. It was not made of willow, which I thought was always used; so
we inquired what the material was, and I was surprised to find that it was
oak. He splits the wood into long strips when it is quite fresh, or after it has
been soaking in water for some time; these strips are about an inch broad,
and being only a tenth of an inch thick, they are so pliable, that he weaves
them without difficulty. The shape of his basket was circular, with a flat
bottom. A sort of skeleton frame is made first, of stronger slips of wood;
then the long thin pieces are woven in and out, close together; and the ends
are neatly fastened under each other. It seemed a tedious work; he is to have
half a crown for the basket he is now making, for a washerwoman; and as it
is more than two days’ employment, his gain is but very small.
He lost his sight many years ago in the mines, and though never idle, he
cannot easily support himself. I believe his wife is dead. He says he has
lived in that place several years; and I understand that the inhabitants of the
Forest of Deane have certain privileges in regard to taxes, that make it a
very desirable residence to a poor man.
My uncle is to go in a few days to bespeak some of those baskets, and I
hope to walk there with him: it will have been very happy for this poor man
that we found him; for my uncle and aunt will certainly be of use to him.
They assist the industrious very much; and all they do for the poor, is done
in such a kind and cheerful manner, that it doubles the favour.

24th.—This morning brought another letter from Hertford—it has been

delayed on its road, for it was written several weeks ago. Here are some
extracts from it: perhaps they may entertain you, as he describes his visit to
the little island of North Rona.
“It is accessible in one spot only, and that with difficulty. The landing
place is on an irregular cliff, and you must watch for the moment to jump
out on the first ledge of rock to which the boat is lifted by the waves. It is a
perilous operation to remove sheep from this island; the animal being slung
by the legs round the neck of a man, and thus carried down the face of a
rock, where a false step exposes him to the risk of being either strangled or
drowned.
“The violence and height of the waves, which in winter break over the
island, are almost incredible. The dykes of the sheep-folds are often thrown
down; and stones of enormous bulk are removed from their places, at
elevations of 200 feet above the high-water mark. It is inhabited by one
family only, who cultivate it, and tend about fifty sheep. Twice in the year
that part of the crop which is not consumed on the farm, together with the
sheep’s wool, and the feathers obtained from the sea-fowl, which these poor
people are bound to procure, are taken away by the boat to Lewis, and thus
some little intercourse with the external world is preserved. But they are so
little accustomed to the appearance of any one but the proprietor of the
island, that when we appeared, the women and children were seen running
away to the cliffs to hide themselves, loaded with whatever moveable
property they possessed, while the man and his son began to drive away the
sheep. A few words of Gaëlic recalled the men, but it was sometime before
the females ventured from their retreat, and when they did, the impression
they made on us was not very favourable to the progress of civilization in
Rona; the mistress of the family would have ill stood a comparison with
Iliglaik, whose accomplishments are so well described by Captain Lyon.
 “Not even the solid Highland hut can withstand the violence of the wind
in this region. The dwelling is, therefore, excavated in the earth, the wall
requisite for the support of the roof scarcely rising two feet above the
surface, and the whole is surrounded with turf stacks to ward off the gales.
The entrance to this subterranean retreat is through a long winding passage,
like the gallery of a mine, commencing by an aperture not three feet high,
and very difficult to find. Were it not for the smoke, the existence of a house
could never be suspected; indeed, we had been talking to its possessor for
some time, before we discovered that we were actually standing on the top
of his castle. Like a Kamtschatkan hut, it receives no other light than that
from the smoke hole; it is floored with ashes, and festooned and
ornamented with strings of dried fish. Its inmates, however, appeared to be
contented and well fed, and little concerned about what the rest of the world
was doing; they seemed to know of no other world than North Rona, and
the chief seemed to wish for little that North Rona could not supply. The
great object of his wishes was to get his two younger children baptised, for
no people are more zealous in the observance of their religious duties than
the Highlanders; and even in that dreary solitude, this poor man had not
forgotten his.”
I am quite established now as one of the dressing-room party. A nice
little table has been allotted to my use, and I shall be very comfortable as
well as happy.
In the library, I was frequently interrupted in drawing or reading, by
morning visiters—but into this charming retired room no visiters are
admitted, and we shall seldom be disturbed. My aunt has given me just such
a nice little table as each of my cousins has: the top serves as a desk for
reading, or writing, or drawing, and can be raised to any slope, as it is
joined by hinges at one side; while on the other side there is a light frame,
which supports the book or drawing I am copying; and which, when not
wanted, folds in under the top. It has places for pens, ink, and knife, and
two drawers, besides many other conveniences. Indeed, I must be happy in
this room, where a variety of useful and agreeable things, and much gaiety
too, are always to be found.
I wish, Mamma, you could know your nieces. There is a nice mixture of
gaiety and steadiness in both. Mary would be almost perfect, if she were not
too timid. Caroline is the handsomest; she has such a fresh, bright
complexion, and such pretty waving ringlets; yet she never seems to think
of herself or her beauty. She is very active and very useful; always punctual,
and ever ready to oblige and assist others, to walk out or stay at home with
them—to search for a book, or to hunt out a passage in it—to converse or to
remain silent. Yet she contrives to have time for all her own employments,
and to lay up stores of knowledge, which are always ready when called for.
Her temper is so mild, and her feelings are so much under her own controul,
that one does not at first see exactly how much she enters into those of other
people; but every day, her character has opened more and more to my
observation.
Grace is a dear, little, animated creature—very obedient in general, very
intelligent, and my uncle’s play-fellow, but never spoiled. What a pity you
cannot see all these children of a brother you love so much. My aunt often
expresses her anxiety for your return; she says, that if my uncle and she had
their dear sister within reach of them, their family happiness would be
complete.
I told you before, I believe, that my uncle, and my aunt too, though she
does not say much, are not pleased, if we are not punctual—and must I
confess it?—yes, I must acknowledge, that several mornings I have been
rather late for breakfast; my uncle has been very patient however, and says
he will make allowance a little while for the indolent habits I have acquired
by living in a warm climate, and with “too indulgent a mother.”
So good night; I have been writing when I ought to have been in bed.

25th.—There was a good deal of conversation about salt and salt mines
to-day. My uncle asked me, if there were many such salt marshes in Brazil
as abound in North America, and of which cattle are so fond. I forgot at
first, and said very foolishly, that I could not tell—I was in a silly fit, till at
last I recollected myself, and told him I had heard that there were some,
though they are obliged to import a great deal of salt. What an extraordinary
appearance a salt plain must have, where the salt is open and uncovered!
When we went up stairs, Mary showed me Mr. Salt’s description of one in
Abyssinia.
He says, that some of his party and Mr. Coffin “stopped at the edge of an
extensive salt plain to refresh themselves, under the shade of a group of
acacias, near some wells of fresh water. At this place they were provided by
the natives with a sort of sandal, for walking on the salt, made of the leaves
of a dwarf palm.
 “The plain lies perfectly flat, and is said to be four days’ journey in
length. The first half mile was very slippery, and the feet sank at every step
into the mud. After this, the surface became strongly crusted, resembling, in
appearance, a rough coat of ice, covered with snow.
“On the Assa Durwa side of the plain, a number of Abyssinians were
engaged in cutting out the salt, which they accomplished by means of a
small adze. The salt lies in horizontal strata, so that when the edges are once
divided, it separates without any great difficulty: that which is immediately
under the surface is exceedingly hard, white, and pure; but as the workmen
advance deeper, it becomes of a coarser quality, and much softer. In some
places it continues tolerably pure to the depth of three feet, below which it
becomes mixed with the soil, and consequently unfit for use.
“This salt plain, from which the whole of Abyssinia is supplied, is
infested by a cruel race, who make it a practice to lie in wait for the
individuals engaged in cutting it. These poor fellows, in the absence of their
guards, lie down flat on the surface, when working, that they may escape
the observation of their barbarous enemies, and on the approach of a
stranger, they run in alarm to the mountains.”
When we had finished reading this extract, Mary said, that since I was so
much amused by it, she would find a description of some curious salt cliffs
on the banks of the Indus.
“Near Callabaugh, on the banks of the Indus, the road is cut out of the
solid salt, at the foot of salt cliffs, which in some places are more than 100
feet high above the river. The salt is hard, clear, and almost pure; and would
be like crystal, were it not a little streaked and tinged with red. Several salt
springs issue from the rocks, and leave the ground covered with a crust of
the most brilliant whiteness. The earth is blood red, and this, with the
beautiful spectacle of the salt rocks, and the Indus flowing in a deep and
clear stream, through lofty mountains, presented a most singular scene.”
I have copied these for Mamma, for I am sure you have neither of the
books.

26th.—I have been out till very late this lovely evening, which was so
calm, and still, and fragrant, that it made me think of some of our own
evenings; and the brightness of the stars, and the clear blue sky, increased
the resemblance. While walking, I described to Mary and Caroline the
country-house of the Condé de San Lourenço, on the slope of the hills
which extend from the city towards the south-west; and the fine view, from
that spot, of the city and part of the bay. I endeavoured to make them
understand the beauty of our evenings, after the sultry day, when the
mimosas, that have folded up their leaves to sleep, stand motionless beside
the dark manga, jaca, and other trees; or if a little breeze arises, how it
makes the stiff, dry leaves of the acaju[2] rustle, and the myrtles drop a
fragrant shower of blossoms; while the majestic palms slowly wave their
crowns over all.
My cousins appeared so much interested, that I endeavoured to complete
my picture of a Brazilian evening. I described to them the shrill cries of the
cicada, and the monotonous hum of the tree frog. The singular sound of the
little animal called the macue, which almost resembles a distant human
voice calling for help. The plaintive cries too of the sloth; and the various
noises of the capuira, the goat-sucker, and the bullfrog; along with the
incessant chattering of the monkey tribe; while myriads of fire-flies, like
moving stars, complete, as you used to say, the beauty of our evenings. I did
not forget to mention those palms, whose flowers suddenly burst out in the
evening, and join their fragrance to that of the orange groves. Indeed, all
these things were so strongly pictured in my mind, that I could almost have
thought myself walking amongst them.
Caroline, in her ardent manner, expressed a wish to visit this interesting
scene; but quiet Mary repeated a few stanzas of a poem supposed to be
written by a European in South America. Two of them are worth sending
you.

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,

Where savannahs in boundless magnificence spread;
And, bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The fern-tree waves o’er me—the fire-fly’s red light

With its quick glancing splendour illumines the night;
And I read, in each tint of the skies and the earth,
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.
 27th.—I do not wonder at the attachment you feel, Mamma, to this
place: it is, indeed, very pretty. These wooded banks, and green lawns and
fields that slope towards the Severn, and form such a lovely view from
some of the windows! But there is no view so pretty to my fancy, as that
from the little bedchamber which my aunt has been so kind as to allot to
me. I have a glimpse of the river and its woody banks; and very near my
window there is a group of laburnums, and an old fir-tree, in which there
are numbers of little birds, that I amuse myself in watching. I am very fond
of sitting in the projecting bow window, also, at the end of the library: I call
it the poetical window, for all that you see from it suits the feelings that
descriptive poetry excites.
By the way, I must say that I can read Thomson’s Seasons now, and
other descriptive poetry, with much more pleasure than I could before I
came to England, because so much of the scenery described was unknown
to me, and so many of the rural occupations I had scarcely seen.
I shall now remember, much better than I used to do, some of your
favourite descriptions, that I have learned over and over again. My aunt
says, that it has been remarked, by a philosopher who has written a most
interesting book on the human mind, that in descriptive poetry we always
remember best those scenes which we can picture to ourselves. I am sure
this is the case; for now, as I begin to understand the allusions, it requires
but little effort to recollect those beautiful lines of Thomson on harvest-
home.
When I came here, several of the fields were still unreaped: all is now
cut, dried, drawn home, and stacked; and the fields only show, by the
yellow stubble remaining in the ground, what treasures gilded the earth but
a short time since.
All the farmers in this neighbourhood have finished their harvest; and
my uncle took me again to Farmer Moreland’s, that I might see the whole of
the process. The stacks, I see, are placed on stands, supported by stone
pillars, with a projecting cap of flag-stone, so that the corn has a free
passage of air underneath, and is out of the reach of rats.
Farmer Moreland is one of the most comfortable farmers in this part of
the country; and, being an old, experienced man, and very much respected,
he seems to be considered at the head of the yeomanry.
 Every year, when his great harvest is well secured in his farmyard, he
gives a feast to all his labourers and the neighbouring farmers; and, when he
saw that we were so much interested, he very civilly said to my uncle, “If so
be the young ladies would like it, and if you have no objection to a little
mirth or so, they shall be heartily welcome to see my harvest home, on
Saturday, at three o’clock.”
We were all delighted to go, and have had a lovely day for it. We walked
through the little beech-grove and the pretty fields to the farmer’s; we found
all his labourers and their families assembled, dressed in their Sunday
clothes. The farmers’ wives and daughters amused me by the varieties in
their dress;—some in fine flourishing caps, with broad ribbons and borders,
and flounces in imitation of the Squire’s lady; and others, plain, clean, and
tidy.
There was a very plentiful dinner, set on tables under a clump of trees;
and the good farmer seemed to feel real delight in making his hard-working
labourers eat heartily. Two fiddlers were playing all the time, to enliven
them; and the ale and cider were abundantly circulated. When the repast
was finished, the more active sports began; and nothing could be prettier
than the different groups of dancers, or more laughable than the attempts to
jump through a ring, and hop in a sack.
Under the trees, most of the older people sat comfortably, talking;
though some, excited by the general joy, took part in the dance, and others
presided at a wrestling match. Each of those men who had been more
particularly engaged in getting in the harvest, had his hat ornamented with a
large bunch of wheat; but the leader, or captain of the sports, was actually
crowned with a whole sheaf. He was carried round the tables on the
shoulders of his comrades, and the sports began by dancing round him in a
general ring; at last he gave the signal, when they suddenly separated, and
each fixed on his favourite damsel.
Dame Moreland gave us some nice syllabub; and, highly gratified with
the whole scene, we left her and her happy guests, in the midst of their
merriment.
My uncle met there an old acquaintance, whom he had not seen or heard
of for several years. When he knew him, this gentleman was in the
fashionable world, but now he seems completely a farmer. He is much
altered: my uncle did not recollect him; but he had so much the look and
language of a gentleman, that my uncle’s attention was attracted. His
manner, to the inferior society he was with, was mild and good humoured,
without any appearance of proud condescension, or of too great familiarity.
My uncle spoke of him two or three times on our way home, as if he was
surprised at finding him in his present situation.

28th. Sunday.—My uncle was speaking, this morning, of the general

character of the Christian religion, as being so directly contrary to
fanaticism and imposture. This is particularly marked, he says, by the
manner in which it explains the obligations that arise from the different
relations of civil society. He remarked, that “the chief object of every
religious system, founded on imposture, has been to use its spiritual
influence in acquiring political authority, and to consecrate the legislator by
investing him with the sanctity of the priest or the prophet. But Christianity,
in this respect, in its original simplicity, stands totally free from all
suspicion. The kingdom of our Saviour and his apostles was, literally, ‘not
of this world;’ and in no instance whatever did they claim or exercise any
degree of political power, or encroach, in the least, on the authority of the
magistrate. Christianity released none from their duties, public or domestic;
—they were still to be discharged by all persons, and not only with equal
fidelity, but with more exalted views; no longer ‘as pleasers of men, but as
servants of God.’
“It seems almost surprising,” said my aunt, “that enthusiasm, or rather
bigotry, should ever have crept in amongst the professors of a religion that
is so mild and so moderate in all its doctrines.”
“Every line of the gospel,” said my uncle, “expresses the same calm and
merciful spirit, with which our Saviour checked the intemperate zeal of his
disciples, who would have called fire from heaven on the Samaritans, for
refusing to receive him. And take notice, that his heavenly wisdom not only
prohibits every species of persecution, but reprobates all those overbearing
feelings which leads to discord of every kind. How strongly do St. Paul’s
precepts enforce this forbearing principle! In the language of a heart
overflowing with benignity, he says, ‘Why dost thou judge thy brother; for
we shall all stand at the judgment-seat of God. We that are strong, ought to
bear the infirmities of the weak. Wherefore, receive ye one another as
Christ also received us.’ ”
 I am very careful, dear Mamma, to write down as much as I possibly can
of our Sunday morning conversations, because I know they will interest you
particularly; and it is very pleasant to me to trace in these opinions of my
uncle and aunt the very same sentiments which you have so often impressed
on your little Bertha.

Aug. 29.—My uncle went to-day to bespeak some baskets from the blind
man whom I mentioned before, and who I found out has a sick old wife,
who cannot get out of bed. We all begged of course to accompany him. We
found the old man sitting on a little bench at his door, talking earnestly to
his daughter. She looked disturbed, and when we spoke to her, I observed
that her colour rose and fell rapidly; my uncle asked if she was ill, or if we
came at an inconvenient time?
“No, no, sir,” said the old man. “Bessy, my dear, go in and stay awhile
with the old wife, perhaps she may want you.”
My uncle again said, “that he feared he interrupted them.”
“No, sir,” said the blind man, “you do not interrupt us—I must work,
happen what may; but as you speak so kindly, sir, I will tell you how it is:
Bessy Grimley, sir,” said he, “is not my daughter—I have none, sir; but I
will say no more of that. It was the will of God to take all my own from me,
and I won’t complain—but Bessy is as good a daughter to me as if she had
been my own. Some years ago, sir, her father was one of my neighbours; he
was Joe Grimley, that you may have heard of, who kept the carrier’s inn, at
the other side, near the town; I lived there at that time.—Well, he broke,
poor fellow, and had to go off in the night to hide from his creditors—his
wife was taken ill that same night, because of the fright, I believe. She was
put to bed, and had a fine little girl; but she never did any good afterwards,
and before a month was over she was gone. The poor woman asked my
wife to take care for a while of her infant, till her husband was no longer
under a cloud; and we promised it, sir, and have kept our promise through
all times, bad as well as good. While we were well to do, she had her share
of all that my own had—and then, when times changed, we never forsook
her. And now, sir, you see she is every thing to us. When I lost my sight,
poverty came fast upon us—my wife soon after lost her health with grief, I
believe, and can now do nothing. Our sons went away to the wars, and died
in the field of glory—our two daughters worked too hard, I believe—Alas!
sir, one after another declined away and died. About four years ago, while
Bessy was still a young creature, for she is only twenty-one now, a young
man, a farmer’s son, fancied her, and wished to marry her; but his father
could not give him sufficient maintenance, and the poor girl had nothing
you know. Young Franklin’s love for her was of the right sort; he got his
father’s consent, and he went off to America to make a fortune. He went to
the States, sir, and there he found plenty of work, and high wages; and
though he was not naturally a thrifty lad, he wisely laid by most of his
earnings till he had saved altogether a sufficient sum to buy a farm; and a
few months ago, sir, Bessy had a letter from him, long after, I believe, she
had begun to think he had forsaken her. He told her how he had prospered,
and that he was going to complete the purchase of his land, and that he
hoped, if she was still constant, she would go out to him—‘if you will not
come to me,’ said he, ‘I shall think that you never loved me, and I will try to
think of you no more—if I can help it; but if you will come and be my wife,
I will love and cherish you, and besides, you shall live like any lady in
England.’
“Well, sir, the dear child would not leave us—my last daughter, my poor
Jenny, had been taken a little before, and I knew not who to get to live with
us; but I pressed Bessy to go at any rate. ‘No, father,’ said she, ‘I owe every
thing to you and to mother—you have nursed me and bred me up, and you
have taught me all I know;—never, never will I forsake you, with your
infirmity, or leave poor helpless mother to the care of a stranger. No, no,
dear father, God would not send his blessing upon me, if I did so. Indeed, I
never should be right happy with James, if I forsook you:—and if James
Franklin loves me, he will say I have done right.’
“I will not take up your time, sir, repeating all the arguments I tried with
her; but I assure you, I did my best to make her take the offer. If you could
but know how for months and months she has tended us—patiently
assisting the poor old woman night and day, and bearing with the crossness
that a suffering creature will sometimes shew—often watching by her half
the night—always ready in the morning to prepare our meals—many a time
assisting me at my work—and besides, sharing our want of comfort, sir, for
often we be hard put to it for a meal. Sir, she does it all with cheerfulness
and kindness, and never did I hear a word of complaint from her. She works
hard with her needle, too, to help to support us, and never seems to think of
the riches offered to her. But now, sir, mark this—I have lived long, and I
never saw it happen, that people who acted with a hearty desire of pleasing
God, were left without reward. The religion that makes us do what is good,
that is, what I call true religion, sir, always brings happiness, somehow or
other, with it.
“But I was a going to say, that this day my poor Bessy had a letter from
James, telling her, that from some delay in the business, he had not bought
the farm he intended when he received her refusal to go out to him. He says,
‘he felt a little angry at first; but he found he could not help loving her the
better, and that he would bring his money to England, and be content with a
smaller farm, near her own friends, and only work the harder for his
excellent Bessy.’ He expected to be here about this time; and what between
this sudden news, and the hope of so soon seeing him, and her joy at his
constancy, she is a little unsettled, sir, to-day. But I pray God to give them
happiness together, and reward her with children that will be to her, what
she has been to me.”
I have tried to tell you this story in his own words, as well as I could. As
soon as my uncle had bespoken the baskets, we came away; but he desired
to be told when Franklin comes. He was very much touched with the poor
man’s account of all Bessy’s goodness, so much, indeed, that even in
repeating it to my aunt, when we came home, his voice quite faltered.

30th.—I have just chanced to discover that the bird which Dr. Buchanan
described as fastening the fire-fly to its nest, is the Bengal grossbeak. It is
very common in Hindostan, where its Hindu name is baya. It is remarkable
for its sagacity, its pendent nest, and its brilliant plumage[3].
It is described to be like a sparrow in shape, and in the colour of the
back; but the head and breast are yellow. These birds make a chirping noise;
but have no song. They associate in large communities, and cover extensive
clumps of acacia and Indian fig-trees with their nests; and also the
palmeira, or wild date, on the leaves of which the Bengalese children learn
to write. They prefer those trees which hang over a rivulet: the nest is made
of long grass, which they weave almost like cloth, in the form of a large
bottle. It is divided into three chambers, and is suspended firmly to a
flexible branch, with the neck downwards, so as to secure the eggs and
young from serpents, monkeys, squirrels, and birds of prey. The eggs of this
little bird resemble large pearls.
 The baya is wonderfully sensible, faithful, and docile, and never
voluntarily deserts the place where its young were hatched. It is easily
tamed, and taught to perch on the hand of its master; and may be taught to
fetch a piece of paper, or any small thing that he points out; and so great is
its quickness and dexterity, that if a ring be dropped into a deep well, the
bird will dart down, with such amazing celerity, as to catch the ring before
it touches the water, and bring it up with apparent exultation.
A singular instance of its docility was frequently witnessed by the writer
of this account. The young Hindu women, at Benares, wear thin plates of
gold, called ticas, slightly fixed, by way of ornament, between their eye-
brows. Mischievous young men train the bayas to go, at a signal given
them, and pluck the pieces of gold from the foreheads of the women, as
they pass through the streets, and bring them to their employers. They do
not sing, but when assembled together, on a tree, they make a lively din or
chirping; their want of musical talent, however, is compensated by their
sagacity, in which they are not excelled by any feathered inhabitant of the
forest.
There is another species of this family, found in Madagascar, which is
sometimes called the toddy bird; it is very like the one I have described, and
fastens its bag, or nest, which is made of straw and seeds, in the same
manner, to a branch, over a stream. Though it builds a fresh nest every year,
it does not abandon the old nest, but fastens the new one to the end of the
last; so that sometimes five may be seen hanging one from the other. They
build in society like rooks, five or six hundred nests being often found on
one tree.
Tell Marianne not to confound the tailor bird with these, as I did, for it is
quite different—of a different family, and very superior to the baya in
beauty; it even resembles some of our humming birds in shape and colour.
There is the prettiest mixture in the male bird, of blue, purple, green, and
gold. In order to conceal its nest, it first selects a plant, or bush, with large
leaves, then gathers cotton, spins it into a thread, by means of its long bill
and slender feet, and sews the leaves neatly together, as if with a needle; so
that its nest is joined to one leaf, and covered over by the other.

31st.—Mary has been a very patient arithmetical mistress; I have

endeavoured to be very diligent, and we are both now rewarded, she says,
by my progress. I begin to understand the reason of each process, and there
is some hope, therefore, of conquering my difficulties. My uncle said, I
ought to trample on them—and I resolved to do so—like the boy, without a
genius, in “Evenings at Home.”
My uncle frequently puts arithmetical questions to us, which we work in
our minds, without the aid of pencil or paper. This requires some exertion,
and was very difficult at first; but I already perceive that my attention is
much more under command than formerly. Clearness and quickness, in
arithmetic, he thinks, are not only useful for the management of our
common domestic affairs, but improve and strengthen our reasoning
powers.
We pass our time here in a delightful manner—there is such a nice
mixture of amusement and useful employment. My cousins read a great
deal, and have much real knowledge. Accomplishments are not neglected;
but my aunt thinks that most people make them of too much importance, as
they should be the ornament, not the object of our life. Mary says she
considers the various things she learns, not as tasks, but as the means of
enabling her to get through the business of life with pleasure and success;
and that were she to call them lessons, she should feel as if they were to be
laid aside with childhood.
That reminds me of what my uncle said just after I came here.—“At
your age, Bertha, all you learn must be voluntarily acquired, not hammered
into your head. Whether it be science, or history, or languages—whatever
you learn, try to feel an interest in it; you will then apply with energy, and
what is acquired in that way will always be liked. Music and drawing are
valuable pleasures; but they are only pleasures: never forget that your mind
is to be cultivated; and that if a part of each day be not employed on objects
of a higher and more useful nature, you are only preparing yourself for a
trifling, selfish life.”
I shall think of this advice every day, but I assure you, dear Mamma, that
I will not neglect any of those things you used to encourage me to learn.
My cousins have no governess, and yet my aunt says, she has never
found teaching them by any means laborious. She says, the chief part of
education is to make children comprehend the difference between right and
wrong—to teach them self-command—and to give them a love for rational
occupation; and then they do not require to be watched. You would be
surprised to see how much they accomplish in the course of the day; and yet
they always seem at liberty; every thing is done methodically. Besides their
regular employments, many things are done privately without any show;
such as visiting the poor—and attending a school for poor children, which
my aunt has established. It is in a small white cottage, about five minutes
walk from the shrubbery. My aunt, or my cousins, visit it frequently—and I
go there sometimes. I forgot to tell you in the right place, that I sing every
day. We are all three, just now, learning the glee of “Hark the Lark,” that we
may sing it on my uncle’s birth-day. Caroline takes the tenor—she has a
very good voice.

Sept. 1.—Last night, my uncle read a paragraph to us, from Ker Porter’s
travels, as a curious instance of the permanence of customs, in countries
where the indolence of the inhabitants and a despotic government are
continual obstacles to improvement.
“The Tigris is navigable for vessels of twenty tons burthen, only sixty
miles above Bagdad; but there is also a kind of float called a kelek, having
been in very ancient use, which carries both passengers and merchandise,
from Mosoul to Bagdad. Its construction is singular; consisting of a raft in
the form of a parallelogram. The trunks of two large trees, crossing each
other, are the foundation of its platform, which is composed of branches of
osier. To this light bottom are attached several sheepskins, filled with air,
and so arranged, that they can be replenished at will. The whole is wattled
and bound together with wicker work; and a raised parapet of the same
secures the passengers. It is moved by two large oars, one on each side, and
a third acts as the rudder.
“When these machines reach their place of destination, and the cargo is
disposed of, all the materials are sold, except the skins, which, being
previously exhausted of air, are laid on the backs of camels, and return to
Mosoul with their masters.
“But the kelek is not the only vessel on these rivers, which may be traced
to antiquity. The kufa, so named from an Arabic word that means basket, is
still used there as a ferry-boat. Its fabric is of close willow work, and a good
coat of bitumen completely secures it from sinking. Perfectly circular, it
resembles a large bowl on the surface of the stream; it holds about three or
four persons, though not very agreeably; and is paddled across with ease.
“Herodotus,” my uncle added, “exactly describes these boats; he notices
their circular form, the three oars, and their construction of willows and
skins, and he mentions, that on their arrival in Babylon, the owners sold all
the materials, except the skins, which were returned to Armenia by land.
And it is a very curious testimony to the truth of that historian, that after the
lapse of twenty-two centuries, we find the same customs and the same
implements that he described, still in use.”
“But is it not more extraordinary, uncle,” said I, “that the people of those
countries have not adopted boats like ours, which would convey themselves
and the rich merchandise of the east, so much more securely?”
“I do not think,” replied he, “that it is very extraordinary, for we must
consider, in the first place, that to build vessels like ours, would be too
hazardous an exertion for a people who are governed despotically, and who
can never feel secure of the possession of their property. And as to your
‘rich merchandise of the east,’ you will not find much of that in the
neighbourhood of Bagdad at present; you read of such in the Arabian tales
—but nothing remains now, but the misery, the decay, and the desolation,
which were so often foretold by the prophets.”

2d.—I now perceive the meaning of the last part of Thomson’s

description of happy Harvest Home—

———————— Thus they rejoice: nor think

That with to-morrow’s sun their annual toil
Begins again the never-ceasing round.

For no sooner is that event over, than the labourer begins the preparations
for a future harvest. The ploughs are all at work to-day, and I see the fields
which have but just yielded up their rich burden, again prepared to receive
the seeds of another crop. But this, my uncle says, is generally of a different
species from the last, in order to make a change in the nature of the
nourishment drawn from the soil. The ploughing in of the old stubble
enriches the ground, or some other manure is added; and, indeed, I see it is,
as he says, “a continual chain of production and reproduction.” In some
parts of the country, wheat is not sown till early in spring; but this depends
on the nature of the soil. Oats are always sown in spring, but that grain is
not commonly cultivated in this part of the country.
“The rich soil, then, of Gloucestershire, is better suited to the food of
man, than to the food of horses?” said I to my uncle. “Yes,” he replied, “if
you mean oats, by what you call the food of horses; but I assure you, that in
a considerable part of Great Britain, the oat is the chief food of man—and
most happily for him, he can live on it. In the cold hills of the Highlands of
Scotland—and in the poor soil of parts of England and Ireland, the oat
thrives better than wheat, and not being put into the ground till the depth of
winter is past, it is less liable to be injured by the effects of frost and damp.
Barley, too, has this merit of growing in poor or rather in light soils, and of
supplying food for numbers.”
I told my uncle that I was very desirous of learning something of
agriculture. He advised me to observe the various operations of husbandry
myself. “When you are interested in the progress of the work,” he said,
“you will find it easy to comprehend the principles; far better than if I were
to give you a lecture every day on the subject.
“Now is the time to begin. The harvest, you see, is safely lodged, and
that of the coming year is preparing. In the warmer regions of the earth, a
very slight degree of cultivation is sufficient; and the natural sloth of man is
encouraged by the small quantity of labour necessary to till the earth. Here,
however, that is not the case: our climate is so uncertain, that constant
labour is necessary to success; and in every season of the year, some
operations in husbandry are going on. The farmer must be at all times alert,
either to prepare for something that is to be done, or to watch his growing
crops, and help their progress by hoeing, weeding, earthing, and many other
processes; but then he has, at all times, the enjoyment that labour brings
with it, and the happiness which arises from industry. His best feelings, too,
are excited, for he receives, with a grateful heart, the success with which
Providence blesses his labours; or, if they fail—if the season is
unfavourable, and blights his hopes, he learns to bear with humble
submission, and sees that even the best human skill requires aid from Him
who is Lord over the elements.”

3d.—Another letter from Hertford rejoiced all our eyes yesterday. My

aunt is so pleased with his journal, that she is sure you will like it too; and I
have copied a large piece for you, dear mamma.
“The Isle of Sky has very much interested me. Sky is the Scandinavian
word for clouds. It is the Isle of Mist of the Gaëlic poet. The whole island is
extremely hilly, and in the north-east part of it the mountains are very
picturesque, the rocks and cliffs often assuming a variety of forms, like
castles and towers. One remarkable rock, which is said to be 160 feet high,
represents a spire so exactly, that it is so called by seamen, to whom it is a
well-known sea mark.
“The cliffs, on the eastern side of the promontory of Strathaird, contain a
number of caves, one of which has been celebrated in history for having
been amongst the places where Prince Charles concealed himself. We
visited another, which is called the Spar Cave. The entrance is formed by a
narrow fissure in the cliff, which, for the first hundred feet, is dark and wet:
then comes a steep acclivity; but that once surmounted, the whole interior
comes into view, covered with stalactites, disposed in a variety of grotesque
forms, and rising to the height of upwards of forty feet. In the floor there are
numerous little pools, which are filled with groups of crystals, in a state of
constant augmentation, and which afforded us a gratifying opportunity of
seeing the process by which calcareous spar is formed.
“The coast scenery is, in many parts, very sublime. A series of columnar
cliffs stretches to Loch Staffin, presenting the general features of the ranges
of Staffa, but on a scale of five or six times the magnitude. In one place,
these rocks represent a circular temple, of Greek architecture, so exactly,
that the artist, in sketching it, might be accused of forcing nature into the
forms of art. The detached state in which many slender groups remain, after
the surrounding parts have fallen away, is a singular circumstance, that
sometimes occurs among these columnar ranges. From their mode of
wasting, the summits of the cliffs are frequently crowned with pinnacles;
and, in some instances, single columns are seen, in front of the colonnade,
appearing like the remains of a ruined portico. One of the most remarkable
appears to be about 200 feet in height; its lower part clustered, and the
pillars terminating in succession upwards, till a single one remains standing
alone, for the height of thirty or forty feet, and apparently not more than
four or five in diameter.
“There is a cascade here, which is very striking, from the unbroken
manner in which it falls over a perpendicular cliff, not less than 300 feet in
height; but when the squalls, which blow from the mountains in this stormy
region, are violent, very little of the falling water reaches the waves below.
“We then visited Loch Scavig; and after passing the river which runs
foaming over a rock into the sea, a long valley suddenly opens, enclosing
the beautiful lake Cornisk, on the black surface of which a few islands,
covered with grass and juniper, form a striking contrast to the absence of all
verdure around.
“It is an exquisitely savage scene, and was to me particularly interesting,
because I had lately read again the Lord of the Isles; and here I beheld the
truth of its descriptions, and felt anew the sadness and horror of the death of
Allan. We often stopped, on our return, to admire the effects of the storms.
Stones, or rather large masses of rock, of a composite kind, quite different
from the strata of the lake, were scattered on the rocky beach. Some lay
loose, and tottering upon the ledges of the natural rock, so that the slightest
push moved them, though their weight might exceed many tons. The
opposite side of the lake is pathless and inaccessible, and the eye rests on
nothing but barren, naked crags, though of sublime grandeur. Indeed, our
favourite Scott says, truly—

For rarely human eye has known

A scene so stern as that dread lake,
With its dark ledge of barren stone.
The wildest glen, but this, can show
Some touch of Nature’s genial glow.
But here—above, around, below,
On mountain or in glen,
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,
Nor aught of vegetative power,
The weary eye may ken;
For all is rock, at random thrown,
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,
As if were here denied
The summer’s sun, the spring’s sweet dew,
That clothe, with many a varied hue,
The bleakest mountain-side[4].”

4th. Sunday.—My uncle read some parts to us, this morning, of a book
which he likes very much—“Sumner on the Ministerial Character of
Christ.” I intend soon to read it. There was a curious fact mentioned in the
part my uncle chose, which, however, must be well authenticated, or
Sumner would not have given it.
In speaking of the gradual manner by which converts were taught the
truths and mysteries of the Gospel, he says that the Catechumens were not
permitted to say the Lord’s Prayer till after they had been baptised, and had
therefore been thoroughly instructed in the Gospel. The Christian converts,
he says, were divided into the Catechumens, or learners, and the Fideles, or
believers; and there was a great distinction maintained between these
classes, in the primitive church. The Catechumens were allowed to hear the
Scriptures, as well as the popular discourses upon them, and upon points of
morality; but it was not till after baptism, when those converts became
Fideles, that they were allowed to partake of the Lord’s Supper. Another
privilege was, to join with the ministers in all the prayers of the church.
More particularly, the use of the Lord’s Prayer was only permitted to the
Fideles; it was considered an honour, to be conferred only on the most
perfect Christians, to be allowed to use it; and it was therefore called, by
some of the Fathers, “the prayer of the believers.”
After my uncle had finished reading what I have only written here from
memory, we had some conversation on the subject of early religious
instruction; for a lady was present who disapproved extremely of not
teaching the Lord’s Prayer to little children, as soon as they could speak, “It
is so pretty,” said she, “to hear them lisp out prayer and praise.”
“Yes,” said my aunt, “if they understand what they lisp; but if they do
not, I consider it as a sort of profanation.”
“And would you not teach children to pray while they are young?”
“I do teach them to pray,” replied my aunt, “but only in the most simple
manner, so that their little minds may accompany their words, and that they
may not acquire an early habit of inattention, from repeating phrases which
they do not comprehend.”
“You know, my dear Madam,” said my uncle, “that in education nothing
should be done without object. Let us consider the object of teaching a
young child to pray: is it not to give it an early feeling of devotion, and to
implant the seed of what we hope will grow and ripen with the child’s
increasing strength?”
“Oh! surely, that, you know, is what I mean,” said the lady.
“Therefore,” said my uncle, “I would endeavour to lead the little heart to
rational prayer, and to real piety, by teaching it only what suits its
comprehension, and never suffering it to repeat, by rote, what it cannot
distinctly follow.”
“Then I suppose,” said she, “that you would not take children to church.”
 “Certainly not, while their minds are still in an infantine state.”
“We have never taken any of our children to church,” said my aunt, “till
they had obtained a certain portion of religious knowledge. The
consequence has been what we expected; for I must say, that our children
are not only remarkably attentive to the service of the church, but do, I
believe, really join in it with their hearts.”
The lady appeared to be satisfied; and my uncle, turning to me, said,
“Bertha, my dear, pray tell your mother what we have just been saying.
Many years ago she convinced me of the justice of these ideas; your aunt
and I have adopted them from her; and you will judge for yourself as to our
success.”
I have written this conversation as well as I can remember it; and I may
add, dear Mamma, that nothing can be more just than what is said of my
cousins, for they are truly religious, but without any show or ostentation.
Some day I will send you the nice simple prayers which have been
composed for little Grace.

5th.—Besides the two species of the little bird that builds pendulous
nests, which I have already mentioned in my journal, my aunt has just told
me of another, the Sociable grossbeak. It is about the size of a bulfinch,
brown and yellow, and is found in the interior country at the Cape of Good
Hope. Its habits were thus described to my aunt:—
These birds live together in large societies, and build in a species of
acacia, which grows to an uncommon size; they seem to select it on account
of its strong branches, which are able to support their extensive buildings,
and also for its tall, smooth trunk, which their great enemies, the monkey
tribes, are unable to climb. In the tree described to my aunt, there could not
have been fewer than eight hundred birds residing under a single roof,
which appears like thatch, and projects over the nests, and is so smooth and
steep that no reptiles can approach them. The industry of these birds is
equal to that of the bee: throughout the day they appear to be busily
employed in carrying a fine species of grass, which is the principal material
they employ in the construction of this extraordinary work, as well as for
repairs and additions.
It appears that, as they increase annually in numbers, they join nest to
nest, till at last the bough on which they have built gives way under their
weight, and they are forced to seek for a new dwelling. One of these
deserted colonies was examined, and found to be as ingeniously contrived
within as without. The entrances formed a regular street, with nests on both
sides, at about two inches distance from each other; and it was evident,
from the appearance, that a part of it had been inhabited for many years.
The grass with which they build is called Boshman’s grass, and its seed is
their principal food; but the remains of insects, found in their nests, prove
that they prey on them also.

6th.—I wonder, dear Mamma, whether it is as difficult to others, as it is

to me, to lay aside old habits. I must acknowledge, that I have been of late
too much addicted to lying in bed, and have quite disgraced myself, after
having for some time made great efforts. It is a strange sort of indolence
that chains me down, and makes me delay, from moment to moment, the
trifling exertion of jumping up;—it is not sleep, for I am generally awake,
merely thinking, in a confused sort of way, of things that are past, or things
that I intend to do. My aunt says, that were I asleep all the morning, she
would not then struggle against my habits, for my constitution might
require sleep; but I have not that excuse to plead.
When I do get up early, there is no time of the day that I enjoy so much.
The brightness of the morning sun makes the dewy trees and grass look so
beautiful; and then the birds seem so happy, and so active, in the sweet
fresh air. These are pleasures that I knew not till I came to England, and
they are every day within my reach. I have determined not to let them slip
any more. You have often told me of the danger of giving way to bad habits,
but nothing teaches one so forcibly as experience.
My aunt and uncle are both of them early risers; and they consider it of
great importance that young people should so manage their time as to have
some part of every morning to employ in serious reading. “I wish my little
Bertha,” said he, “to bestow ample time on the neatness and propriety of her
dress; but it is still more necessary that she should never feel in the least
hurried in the performance of those religious exercises with which every
day should begin, and which should be gone through with calmness and
leisure before she joins the family circle at breakfast, and before the cares
or pleasures of the day mix with her graver thoughts.”
They spoke to me very kindly on this subject yesterday, and I think and
hope that I shall not again shew myself unmindful of their advice.
 I have consulted Caroline about it. I find that she and Mary are always
up early, and are seriously engaged for a part of the morning.
Caroline is indeed an extremely early riser, and she has engaged to rouse
me regularly at a reasonable hour. She began this morning, and to
encourage me, she read a pretty little poem on early rising. By copying it
for Marianne, I shall recollect it the better.
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