A Mother’s Affection.
Would you know what maternal affection is?—listen to me, and I will tell you.
Did you ever notice anything with its young, and not observe a token of joy and happiness in its eyes? Have you not seen the hen gather her chickens together? She seemed delighted to see them pick up the grain which she refrained from eating. Did you never see the young chick ride on its mother’s back, or behold the whole brood nestle beneath her wing? If you have, you may know something of a mother’s love.
Did you ever see a cat play with its kitten? How full of love and joy she looks; how she will fondle and caress it; how she will suffer it to tease, and tire, and worry her in its wild sports, and yet not harm it in the least! Have you not seen her take it up in her mouth, and carry it gently away, that it should not be injured? and with what trembling caution would she take it up, in fear that she might hurt it!
Did you ever see a bird building its nest? Day by day, and hour by hour, they labor at their work, and all so merrily, then they line it with soft feathers, and will even pluck their own down, rather than their young should suffer.
A sheep is the meekest, the most timid and gentle of animals—the least sound will startle it, the least noise will make it flee; but, when it has a little lamb by its side, it will turn upon the fiercest dog, and dare the combat with him: it will run between its lamb and danger, and rather die than its young one should be harmed.
The bird will battle with the serpent; the timid deer will turn and meet the wolf; the ant will turn on the worm; and the little bee will sheath its sting in any intruder that dares to molest its young.
Many beasts are fierce and wild, and prowl about for blood; but the fiercest of beasts—the tiger, the hyæna, the lion, the bear—all love their young: yes, the most cruel natures are not utterly cruel. The snake opens her mouth, and suffers her young to enter into her bosom when they are in danger:—this is maternal love.
If, then, the beasts and reptiles of the earth, who are so full of love for their offspring,—if they will care for them, provide for them, live for them, die for them,—how great do you suppose must be the love of a mother for her child? Greater than these, be assured; ay, far greater, for the mother looks forward for the time when the child shall become like a flower in full blossom. A mother’s love is the most powerful thing on earth!
All other things are subject to change, all other hearts may grow cold, all other things may be lost or forgotten—but a mother’s love lasts forever! It is akin to that love with which God himself loves his creatures, and never faileth.
Love thy mother, then, my little child. When she is gone, there is no eye can brighten upon thee, no heart can melt for thee, like hers; then wilt thou find a void, a vacancy, a loss, that all the wealth or grandeur of the world can never fill up.
Thy mother may grow old, but her love decays not; she may grow sear at heart, and gray upon the brow, but her love for thee will be green. Think, then, in the time of her decline, of what she has suffered, felt, and known for thee; think of her devotion, her cares, her anxiety, her hopes, her fears—think, and do not aught that may bring down her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
In 1753, the Boston Common presented a singular spectacle. It was the anniversary of a society for encouraging industry. In the afternoon, about three hundred young women, neatly dressed, appeared on the common at their spinning wheels. These were placed regularly in three rows. The weavers also appeared, in garments of their own weaving. One of them, working at a loom, was carried on a staging on men’s shoulders, attended with music. A discourse was preached, and a collection taken up from the vast assemblage for the benefit of the institution.
A young child having asked what the cake, a piece of which she was eating, was baked in, was told that it was baked in a “spider.” In the course of the day, the little questioner, who had thought a good deal about the matter, without understanding it, asked again, with all a child’s simplicity and innocence, “Where is that great bug that you bake cake in?”
The Voyages, Travels, and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Journey to Pisa.—Roads of Tuscany.—Country people.—Italian costumes.—Crowd on the road.—Pisa.—The leaning tower. Prospect from the top.—Tricks upon travellers.—Cause of its strange position.—Reasons for believing it designed thus.—Magnificent spectacle of the illumination of Pisa.—The camels of Tuscany.
On the 22d of June, I set out from Florence for Pisa, feeling a strong curiosity to see the famous leaning tower. There was also, at this time, the additional attraction of a most magnificent public show in that city, being the festival of St. Ranieri; which happens only once in three years, and is signalized by an illumination, surpassing, in brilliant and picturesque effect, everything of the kind in any other part of the world. The morning was delightful, as I took my staff in hand and moved at a brisk pace along the road down the beautiful banks of the Arno, which everywhere exhibited the same charming scenery; groves of olive, fig, and other fruit trees; vineyards, with mulberry trees supporting long and trailing festoons of the most luxuriant appearance; cornfields of the richest verdure; gay, blooming gardens; neat country houses, and villas, whose white walls gleamed amid the embowering foliage. The road lay along the southern bank of the river, and, though passing over many hills, was very easy of travel. The roads of Tuscany are everywhere kept in excellent order, though they are not so level as the roads in France, England, or this country. A carriage cannot, in general, travel any great distance without finding occasion to lock the wheels; this is commonly done with an iron shoe, which is placed under the wheel and secured to the body of the vehicle by a chain; thus saving the wear of the wheel-tire. My wheels, however, required no locking, and I jogged on from village to village, joining company with any wagoner or wayfarer whom I could overtake, and stopping occasionally to gossip with the villagers and country people. This I have always found to be the only true and efficacious method of becoming acquainted with genuine national character. There is much, indeed, to be seen and learned in cities; but the manners and institutions there are more fluctuating and artificial: that which is characteristic and permanent in a nation must be sought for in the middle classes and the rural population.
At Florence, as well as at Rome and Naples, the same costume prevails as in the cities of the United States. You see the same black and drab hats, the same swallow-tailed coats, and pantaloons as in the streets of Boston. The ladies also, as with us, get their fashions from the head-quarters of fashion, Paris: bonnets, shawls, and gowns are just the same as those seen in our streets. The only peculiarity at Florence is, the general practice of wearing a gold chain with a jewel across the forehead, which has a not ungraceful effect, as it heightens the beauty of a handsome forehead, and conceals the defect of a bad one. But in the villages, the costume is national, and often most grotesque. Fashions never change there: many strange articles of dress and ornament have been banded down from classical times. In some places I found the women wearing ear-rings a foot and a half long. A country-woman never wears a bonnet, but goes either bare-headed or covered merely with a handkerchief.
As I proceeded down the valley of the Arno, the land became less hilly, but continued equally verdant and richly cultivated. The cottages along the road were snug, tidy little stone buildings of one story. The women sat by the doors braiding straw and spinning flax; the occupation of spinning was also carried on as they walked about gossipping, or going on errands. No such thing as a cow was to be seen anywhere; and though such animals actually exist in this country, they are extremely rare. Milk is furnished chiefly by goats, who browse among the rocks and in places where a cow could get nothing to eat. So large a proportion of the soil is occupied by cornfields, gardens, orchards and vineyards, that little is left for the pasturage of cattle. The productions of the dairy, are, therefore, among the most costly articles of food in this quarter. Oxen, too, are rarely to be seen, but the donkey is found everywhere, and the finest of these animals that I saw in Europe, were of this neighborhood.
Nothing could surpass the fineness of the weather; the sky was uniformly clear, or only relieved by a passing cloud. The temperature was that of the finest June weather at Boston, and during the month, occasional showers of rain had sufficiently fertilized the earth. The year previous, I was told, had been remarkable for a drought; the wells dried up, and it was feared the cattle would have nothing but wine to drink; for a dry season is always most favorable to the vintage. The present season, I may remark in anticipation, proved as uncommonly wet, and the vintage was proportionally scanty.
I stopped a few hours at Empoli, a large town on the road, which appeared quite dull and deserted; but I found most of the inhabitants had gone to Pisa. Journeying onward, the hills gradually sunk into a level plain, and at length I discerned an odd-looking structure raising its head above the horizon, which I knew instantly to be the leaning tower. Pisa was now about four or five miles distant, and the road became every instant more and more thronged with travellers, hastening toward the city; some in carriages, some in carts, some on horseback, some on donkeys, but the greater part were country people on foot, and there were as many women as men—a circumstance common to all great festivals and collections of people, out of doors, in this country. As I approached the city gate, the throng became so dense, that carriages could hardly make their way. Having at last got within the walls, I found every street overflowing with population, but not more than one in fifteen belonged to the place; all the rest were visiters like myself.
Pisa is as large as Boston, but the inhabitants are only about twenty thousand. At this time, the number of people who flocked to the place from far and near, to witness the show, was computed at three hundred thousand. It is a well-built city, full of stately palaces, like Florence. The Arno, which flows through the centre of it, is here much wider, and has beautiful and spacious streets along the water, much more commodious and elegant than those of the former city. But at all times, except on the occasion of the triennial festival of the patron saint of the city, Pisa is little better than a solitude: the few inhabitants it contains have nothing to do but to kill time. I visited the place again about a month later, and nothing could be more striking than the contrast which its lonely and silent streets offered to the gay crowds that now met my view within its walls.
The first object to which a traveller hastens, is the leaning tower; and this is certainly a curiosity well adapted to excite his wonder. A picture of it, of course, will show any person what sort of a structure it is, but it can give him no notion of the effect produced by standing before the real object. Imagine a massy stone tower, consisting of piles of columns, tier over tier, rising to the height of one hundred and ninety feet, or as high as the spire of the Old South church, and leaning on one side in such a manner as to appear on the point of falling every moment! The building would be considered very beautiful if it stood upright; but the emotions of wonder and surprise, caused by its strange position, so completely occupy the mind of the spectator, that we seldom hear any one speak of its beauty. To stand under it and cast your eyes upward is really frightful. It is hardly possible to disbelieve that the whole gigantic mass is coming down upon you in an instant. A strange effect is also caused by standing at a small distance, and watching a cloud sweep by it; the tower thus appears to be actually falling. This circumstance has afforded a striking image to the great poet Dante, who compares a giant stooping to the appearance of the leaning tower at Bologna when a cloud is fleeting by it. An appearance, equally remarkable and more picturesque, struck my eye in the evening, when the tower was illuminated with thousands of brilliant lamps, which, as they flickered and swung between the pillars, made the whole lofty pile seem constantly trembling to its fall. I do not remember that this latter circumstance has ever before been mentioned by any traveller, but it is certainly the most wonderfully striking aspect in which this singular edifice can be viewed.
By the payment of a trifling sum, I obtained admission and was conducted to the top of the building. It is constructed of large blocks of hammered stone, and built very strongly, as we may be sure from the fact that it has stood for seven hundred years, and is at this moment as strong as on the day it was finished. Earthquakes have repeatedly shaken the country, but the tower stands—leaning no more nor less than at first. I could not discover a crack in the walls, nor a stone out of place. The walls are double, so that there are, in fact, two towers, one inside the other, the centre inclosing a circular well, vacant from foundation to top. Between the two walls I mounted by winding stairs from story to story, till at the topmost I crept forward on my hands and knees and looked over on the leaning side. Few people have the nerve to do this; and no one is courageous enough to do more than just poke his nose over the edge. A glance downward is most appalling. An old ship-captain who accompanied me was so overcome by it that he verily believed he had left the marks of his fingers, an inch deep, in the solid stone of the cornice, by the spasmodic strength with which he clung to it! Climbing the mast-head is a different thing, for a ship’s spars are designed to be tossed about and bend before the gale. But even an old seaman is seized with affright at beholding himself on the edge of an enormous pile of building, at a giddy height in the air, and apparently hanging without any support for its ponderous mass of stones. My head swam, and I lay for some moments, incapable of motion. About a week previous, a person was precipitated from this spot and dashed to atoms, but whether he fell by accident or threw himself from the tower voluntarily, is not known.
The general prospect from the summit is highly beautiful. The country, in the immediate neighborhood, is flat and verdant, abounding in the richest cultivation, and diversified with gardens and vineyards. In the north, is a chain of mountains, ruggedly picturesque in form, stretching dimly away towards Genoa. The soft blue and violet tints of these mountains contrasted with the dark green hue of the height of San Juliano, which hid the neighboring city of Lucca from my sight. In the south the spires of Leghorn and the blue waters of the Mediterranean were visible at the verge of the horizon.
In the highest part of this leaning tower, are hung several heavy bells, which the sexton rings, standing by them with as much coolness as if they were within a foot of the ground. I knew nothing of these bells, as they are situated above the story where visiters commonly stop—when, all at once, they began ringing tremendously, directly over my head. I never received such a start in my life; the tower shook, and, for the moment, I actually believed it was falling. The old sexton and his assistants, however, pulled away lustily at the bell-ropes, and I dare say enjoyed the joke mightily; for this practice of frightening visiters, is, I believe, a common trick with the rogues. The wonder is, that they do not shake the tower to pieces; as it serves for a belfry to the cathedral, on the opposite side of the street, and the bells are rung very often.
How came the tower to lean in this manner? everybody has asked. I examined it very attentively, and made many inquiries on this point. I have no doubt whatever that it was built originally just as it is. The more common opinion has been that it was erect at first, but that, by the time a few stories had been completed, the foundation sunk on one side, and the building was completed in this irregular way. But I found nothing about it that would justify such a supposition. The foundation could not have sunk without cracking the walls, and twisting the courses of stone out of their position. Yet the walls are perfect, and those of the inner tower are exactly parallel to the outer ones. If the building had sunk obliquely, when but half raised, no man in his senses, would have trusted so insecure a foundation, so far as to raise it to double the height, and throw all the weight of it on the weaker side. The holes for the scaffolding, it is true, are not horizontal, which by some is considered an evidence that they are not in their original position. But any one who examines them on the spot, can see that these openings could not have been otherwise than they are, under any circumstances. The cathedral, close by, is an enormous massy building, covering a great extent of ground. It was erected at the same time with the tower, yet no portion of it gives any evidence that the foundation is unequal. The leaning position of the tower was a whim of the builder, which the rude taste of the age enabled him to gratify. Such structures were fashionable during the middle ages. There are two other specimens of this sort of architecture still remaining at Bologna.
The crowd in the streets continued to increase every hour. It was evident that the city already contained ten times as many guests as it could accommodate with lodgings. There was not a public house where a bed or even a dinner could be obtained. All round the city, in vacant spaces, were temporary erections of booths, tents, shanties and other hasty and imperfect structures, for the accommodation of the thousands and thousands who could find no better quarters. At night, the whole city was a blaze of lamps; every street being brilliantly illuminated. This exhibition is not performed as with us, merely by placing lights in the windows, but by such artificial and tasteful arrangement of them as adds greatly to the picturesqueness and magnificence of the scene. The two great streets bordering the river, and the three bridges crossing it, were lined with lofty scaffoldings, representing castles, towers, obelisks, and orders of architecture. These were hung with millions of lamps, and the whole exhibited a scene of dazzling and fairy magnificence, that reminded me of oriental splendor and the visions of enchantment. The crowd of spectators completely blocked up the streets, and it was impossible to move in any direction without great difficulty. All night long the streets were full, and the blaze of the illumination was kept up till the light of the lamps began to fade away in the brightness of the dawn.
In the immense numbers of those who thronged the city, few thought of a lodging for the night. Indeed, a lodging within doors, was out of the question with regard to the most of them—there were not houses to hold them. The greater part of these houseless guests were country people, who had travelled on foot from a distance, and began towards morning to feel the fatigues of their journey and sight-seeing. Sleep overpowered them amidst the din and hurly-burly of the crowd, and they threw themselves by hundreds and by thousands on the steps of the doors, and on the pavements in nooks and corners, to sleep. The steps of the churches were black with heaps of men and women piled one upon another, fast asleep. Fortunately, the night was most balmy and serene, and they were all too much accustomed to the open air to suffer by this exposure.
The festivities were kept up through the following day. The river was covered with barges, galleys, boats, and small craft of every description, decked out with banners and streamers in the gayest and most fantastic manner. There were boat-races and other naval sports, which kept the river and the shores all alive with people through the day. For my part, I had seen sufficient of the crowd, confusion and tumult of these gayeties, and took more pleasure in strolling about the neighborhood. The fields are richly cultivated, and the soil naturally rich, till you approach the sea, where it becomes sandy and barren. Even here, however, I found, in the midst of a forest of oaks, a beautiful thriving farm belonging to the grand duke. It is true, there was not much cultivation, owing to the thinness of the soil; but there were immense herds of horned cattle, sheep and wild horses which roamed at large through the woods, and over the desert tracts along the shore, and, what surprised me most of all, about two hundred camels. These latter animals, I was told, were first brought to this region in the time of the crusades, and have been naturalized on the spot. They are used as beasts of burthen, and carry loads of wood to Pisa every day. It seems that all the camels which are carried about in caravans over Europe and America, are obtained here, where they may be bought for it hundred dollars apiece. Very probably, this breed, having been so long from its original territory, has degenerated, so that the genuine animal is never seen in our menageries. An attempt was made some years ago to introduce camels into Carolina and Georgia, where it was thought they might be of essential service in the low, sandy regions, but the animals dwindled away and died. The camel requires a dry air, and could not resist the moisture of our atmosphere.
A sailor, who had heard of musical accompaniments, symphonies, &c., being one night at the theatre where the audience were calling upon the orchestra for their favorite tunes, determined to put in his claims; and standing up in the pit, he set the whole house in a roar by calling out, “Hallo! you mess-mate with the big fiddle, give us Yankee Doodle with the trimmings.”
Amongst the literary curiosities in the National Library at Berlin is the Bible used by Charles I. on the scaffold.