Robert Merry's Museum, Volumes I-II (1841)

by Various

The Mouth.

The mouth was made to eat and speak with. It is therefore a pretty convenient and useful thing, and we could not well do without it.

But the mouth, like almost everything else, needs to be taken care of. Sometimes the mouth will pout, and make a child look very disagreeable.

Sometimes the mouth will eat very fast, and get too much in at a time. Don’t let your mouth do any such things as these!

I forgot to tell you another very curious thing about the mouth, and that is, that it laughs! I believe dogs, and cats, and pigs, and hens, and geese, never laugh; but children laugh, and old people too, sometimes.

It is well enough to laugh, at proper times. I love to see children laugh in their play. I love to see them laugh when I tell a funny story.

But I never like to see any one laugh at the misfortune of another. Tell me, little reader, did your mouth ever laugh at another child because he was poor? or because he was poorly dressed? or because he fell down and hurt himself? or because he happened to know less than you do?

If your mouth has ever done any of these naughty things, I pray you, little reader, teach your mouth better manners.

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 3.

One of my schoolmates, named Dick Dashall, was a wild rattle-headed fellow, always sure to get into mischief, but slow enough to get out of the quagmire. His parents and brothers were poor farming people, who had hard work to make both ends meet, and could ill afford even the very trifling cost attending Dick’s education. Dick had been intended for the hard-working profession of a farmer, but that honest calling did not at all jump with his restless humor. He never could see the fun and philosophy of rising with the dawn, and “yoking up” to follow the plough through the field, or the iron harrow over the furrows. He did not like the tedious work of planting corn and potatoes, and still less the more laborious employ of “covering up” or “hilling up,” or getting in the crops; nor did he relish any of the various details of hay-making and harvesting. He had no objection, however, to the merry husking frolic, for then, in the general sport and confusion, he managed to avoid work himself, while he listened with both his big ears to the diverting tales that were often on such occasions related by those present. He disliked as much the tedious employment of riding the old cart-horse in the plough, as he delighted in scampering away on his bare back all over the country side, when he could contrive to get possession of the poor beast. And when he did accomplish that desired object, never was the dull animal so worked by his owners; for away the madcap would ride, without saddle, bridle, spur or stirrup, guiding him only with an old rope, and urging him on with a big bludgeon of a stick, with which he failed not well to belabor the ribs of his steed, till they fairly bled and ached again. At length, one of his runaway frolics terminated fatally to the poor brute, whom he attempted to swim across a rapid and deep river near the village, in which essay the horse was drowned, and Dick only escaped by skilful swimming, which was almost the only valuable accomplishment that he possessed.

Dick seemed to be filled with the very evil spirit of all mischief. The book and task were perfectly odious to him, and if left to follow his own inclination, he never would have learned either to read or write; indeed, as it was, his best attempts with the pen looked more like pot-hooks and fish-hooks than good civilized letters. No mortal could have deciphered them. And then his copybook was one blotch of ink from beginning to end. His arithmetic and grammar books, though showing, by their numerous thumb-marks and “dog’s-ears,” that they had been pretty thoroughly handled by his seldom-washed fingers, were about as intelligible to him as so many volumes of Greek or Arabic; the deep lore contained in their pages was much too profound for his understanding, and never did any ideas from them penetrate the thickness and dulness of his brain; or, if they ever by any chance found an entrance there, they must have laid in a torpid state, for no one could ever discover that such scraps of knowledge existed in his head, through the outlet of the tongue and voice.

But though Dick could not inscribe legible characters with his pen, yet he had a sort of natural talent for drawing rude sketches with pencil, pen, or even a bit of charcoal; and most ridiculous and striking caricatures would he produce with them. The droll expression and awkward figure of the old pedagogue himself furnished him with a fertile subject for his wit, and various and laughable were the burlesque representations he gave of him. Every scrap of paper that he could lay hands on, every piece of broken slate, and even the very walls of the school-house and the board fences in the neighborhood, were covered with all sorts of strange figures, hit off, too, with no little talent and humor. This love for sketching and caricaturing seemed to be the peculiar bent of his genius, and it proved to him and his mates a source of great amusement.

When the term of his instruction had well-nigh expired, and it became necessary for him to decide to what species of employment he should devote his talents and attention, it happened that an itinerant portrait-painter strolled into the village, and, taking the best room of the inn, announced, through a staring painted placard at the window, that he was ready to paint, for a small consideration, the portraits of the good people of the place, in a most artist-like and expeditious manner. Nor was he long without his patrons. First the squire, and then the parson and his lady, and the doctor with his lady, and a half-score of children, and then many of the most substantial farmers and tradesmen of the vicinity, were seen to enter at the inn-door, and in a few days return to their several homes, each one bearing in his hands a large highly-colored piece of canvass, in which one might perhaps detect some remote likeness to the bearer or some of his family. Finally, the worthy innkeeper himself, with his rosy-faced dame, and some half-dozen overgrown daughters, figured in full-length beauty, in one mingled group, upon the artist’s canvass; and presently a span-new sign-board of “the white horse” was seen creaking and swinging in all the freshness of new paint from the tall sign-post at the tavern door. This flaming specimen of the fine arts proved a great object of admiration and remark with all the grown gossips and little children of the village, till at length, the “nine days” having elapsed, the wonder ceased.

Dick very soon made the acquaintance, and gained the good will of the artist, first by running on all his errands, in his communication with his patrons, and afterwards by his unfeigned expressions of admiration at the inspection of the “artist’s gallery,” which comprised a few dauby copies of the old masters, and a number of unpaid and unclaimed portraits from the artist’s own easel. Before the worthy artist took leave of the village, Dick had so far ingratiated himself into his favor, that he agreed to take him with him, and impart to him all the knowledge of his art that he was able to give, receiving in return due assistance from Dick, as a sort of artist-of-all-work, which phrase might be understood to comprise any and all kinds of menial occupation. But Dick was deeply smitten with the love of painting, and eagerly caught at this golden opportunity of ridding himself from the irksome drudgery of book and task, and learn to be a painter of faces himself, while at the same time he should have some opportunity of seeing in his rambles not a little of the men and manners of the world.

Poor little Dick! when he set forth “to fresh fields and pastures new,” with an adventurous desire to try his fortunes in the world, he little anticipated the troubles and perplexities that would beset his way. The honest artist to whom he had attached himself was neither a Raphael nor a Vandyke, and the share of patronage he met with in the humble places where he set up his easel, was very limited in degree, and unprofitable to the pocket. In some villages which they visited in their rounds, they found that rival artists had reaped such scanty harvests as the poverty of the villages afforded; and in other places they found, to their sorrow, that the flinty inhabitants were no upholders of art, and felt no ambition to hand down the “counterfeit presentment” of their features to posterity. So, as there was only starvation to be had, there was nothing to be done but to pack up their slender wardrobe, with the paints and pencils, and migrate to a more enlightened region. The poor artist was, however, both kind and liberal, so far as his means went, to his little charge, and when he received his hard-earned dollar, as the recompense of many a patient hour of toil, he freely shared it with him; and so long as the treasure lasted, they did not lack for the best of good fare, at village tavern or rural farmhouse. Oftentimes it chanced that their treasury was entirely exhausted, and neither paper or specie payments were forthcoming to defray the needful expenses of the way. At such times, the cost of coach-ride, or even wagon conveyance, being beyond their reach, their only resource was, to convey their bodies from place to place upon those natural supports which Nature has kindly supplied us with, but which often complain of an undue proportion of fatigue after a long day’s progress in a hot summer’s day. But poor Dick ever made the best of it, and shouldering his little bundle, stumped on stoutly at the side of his master, often beguiling the toil and length of the travel with a merry heart, and a cheerful singing voice. The natural beauties of the scenes through which they passed were not lost upon them, nor did the wild rose at the road-side blush unseen of them, or the sweet lily of the valley waste its fragrant breath in vain. They each had the artist’s eye and soul to enjoy the loveliness of the bending and painted skies, the waving woods, the verdant grass, and the flowing stream.

“Even the air they breathed, the light they saw,

Became religion; for the ethereal spirit

That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,

And mellows everything to beauty, moved

With cheering energy within their breasts,

And made all holy there—for all was love.

The morning stars, that sweetly sang together,

The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky,

Day-spring and eventide, and all the fair

And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice

Of eloquent worship.”

Every pretty flower that bloomed in the hedge, or at the wood-borders, Dick would diligently gather, and carefully preserve in a little book, which he carried with him for that purpose. Many a colored butterfly with its wings of powdered gold, and many a nameless insect, streaked or spotted with all the rich hues of the rainbow, would he hunt down and add to his collection. His great delight at the close of the ramble consisted in copying, with his paints, the rich colors of these beautiful objects; and soon he had formed quite a portable museum of pretty prints, flowers and insects; and in this recreation he received no little aid from his kind-hearted teacher. He soon became a proficient in the art of mingling colors, and by a zealous application to the details of art, in a short time was able to sketch a scene or strike off a likeness with considerable faithfulness and ability. So great was his love of the art, that he really derived much pleasure from his rambles, long and difficult as they often were. In the course of a few months’ practice, he had learned all that his teacher had to communicate; and it was often asserted by their rustic patrons that the little painter was in no respect inferior to his principal with the brush. Indeed, so conscious were they themselves of this fact, that an equal partnership was formed between them, and whatever sums fell into their exchequer, were shared equally between them.

But, alas! there is an end to all human enjoyment, and a severance of all earthly ties. The poor artist, what with the fatigues of journeying, often at inclement seasons, and with the wearing labors of his long and tedious tasks, had gradually undermined a constitution naturally infirm; and his poor little protegè, as he gazed sorrowfully upon his wan face and wasted form, saw plainly that the one was getting paler, and the other thinner and thinner, every day; and soon was impressed with the certainty that they must soon part from each other, and that that parting would be at the grave’s foot. And so indeed it turned out, when a year or two had elapsed from the commencement of their connection. The elder artist, after struggling on with all his resolution, and unwilling to yield to the insidious advances of disease, was at length completely exhausted and subdued. He sank down on the way at the door of a little village public house, where he was obliged to take to his bed, and receive the aids and doses of the doctors, in the feeble hope of a restoration to health. But in vain; his poor frame, already so much reduced, grew feebler and feebler day by day, and his sunken cheek grew still more hollow, and the little light that sickness had lent to his eye trembled and flickered, and then expired altogether; and finally the poor fellow, after taking an affectionate and mournful farewell of Dick, and bequeathing to him all the little possessions that he called his own, resigned himself patiently to his fate, and without pain or struggle “passed away.” Dick, after following his remains to the humble church-yard, and pouring out his soul in the truest sorrow over his dust, departed sad and solitary on his way. He assumed his poor master’s easel and other implements, and followed “the painter’s quiet trade” on his own account. He met with but indifferent success, however; he painted the rough faces of country squires, and the hard-favored features of their spouses, without number, but the recompense he received therefor scarcely served to find him in “meat and manger.” After struggling with adversity for many a weary year, and encountering every species of trial and disappointment with the firmness of a martyr, he at length, in very despair, was obliged to relinquish his beloved profession, and settle down quietly in a flourishing town, where the products of his brush could be turned to better account. He was forced to abandon entirely the higher walks of art, and stoop to a humbler, but more profitable branch of trade; devoting himself, in short, to the daubing of chairs, tables, and vehicles of every description, and embellishing them with as many of the “scientific touches” of his former calling as the time and pay would justify. In this way he contrived to eke out a humble but respectable subsistence, and after gaining the good will of his employer by his faithful and honest exertions, he scraped together sufficient money to enable him to set up an establishment of his own, where a flaming board proclaimed that Richard Dashall executed sign, house and chaise painting, in all its varieties, “in the most neat and expeditious manner possible;” assisted by two or three active young apprentices in all his handicrafts. In due course of time he joined to his fortunes a pretty little lady of a wife, and conjointly they reared up and educated a numerous progeny. So ends the history of poor Dick Dashall; and it is that of many an honest and industrious young fellow, who is cast forth like a weed upon the ocean of life, to sink or to swim as the chance may be.

The Fata Morgana.