Chapter 6
Tommy.—That is true, indeed, sir; I wish I had just such a globe.
Mr Barlow.—Well, just such a globe I will endeavour to procure you.
Tommy.—Sir, I am much obliged to you, indeed. But of what use is it to know the stars?
Mr Barlow.—Were there no other use, I should think there would be a very great pleasure in observing such a number of glorious glittering bodies as are now above us. We sometimes run to see a procession of coaches, or a few people in fine clothes strutting about. We admire a large room that is painted, and ornamented, and gilded; but what is there in all these things to be compared with the sight of these luminous bodies that adorn every part of the sky?
Tommy.—That’s true, indeed. My Lord Wimple’s great room that I have heard all the people admire so much, is no more to be compared to it than the shabbiest thing in the world.
Mr Barlow.—That is indeed true; but there are some, and those very important, uses to be derived from an acquaintance with the stars. Harry, do you tell Master Merton the story of your being lost upon the great moor.
Harry.—You must know, Master Tommy, that I have an uncle who lives about three miles off, across the great moor that we have sometimes walked upon. Now, my father, as I am in general pretty well acquainted with the roads, very often sends me with messages to my uncle. One evening I went there so late, that it was scarcely possible to get home again before it was quite dark. It was at that time in the month of October. My uncle wished me very much to stay at his house all night, but that was not proper for me to do, because my father had ordered me to come back; so I set out as soon as I possibly could, but just as I had reached the heath, the evening grew extremely dark.
Tommy.—And were not you frightened to find yourself all alone upon such a dismal place?
Harry.—No; I knew the worst that could happen would be that I should stay there all night, and as soon as ever the morning shone, I should have found my way home. But, however, by the time that I had reached the middle of the heath, there came on such a violent tempest of wind, blowing full in my face, accompanied with such a shower, that I found it impossible to continue my way. So I quitted the track, which is never very easy to find, and ran aside to a holly-bush that was growing at some distance, in order to seek a little shelter. Here, I lay, very conveniently, till the storm was almost over; then I rose and attempted to continue my way, but unfortunately I missed the track, and lost myself.
Tommy.—That was a very dismal thing indeed.
Harry.—I wandered about a great while, but still to no purpose. I had not a single mark to direct me, because the common is so extensive, and so bare either of trees or houses, that one may walk for miles and see nothing but heath and furze. Sometimes I tore my legs in scrambling through great thickets of furze; now and then I plumped into a hole full of water, and should have been drowned if I had not learned to swim; so that at last I was going to give it up in despair, when, looking on one side, I saw a light at a little distance, which seemed to be a candle and lantern that somebody was carrying across the moor.
Tommy.—Did not that give you very great comfort?
“You shall hear,” answered Harry, smiling. “At first I was doubtful whether I should go up to it; but I considered that it was not worth anybody’s pains to hurt a poor boy like me, and that no person who was out on any ill design, would probably choose to carry a light. So I determined boldly to go up to it, and inquire the way.”
Tommy.—And did the person with the candle and lantern direct you?
Harry.—I began walking up towards it, when immediately the light, which I had first observed on my right hand, moving slowly along by my side, changed its direction, and went directly before me, with about the same degree of swiftness. I thought this very odd; but I still continued the chase, and just as I thought I had approached very near, I tumbled into another pit full of water.
Tommy.—That was unlucky indeed.
Harry.—Well, I scrambled out, and very luckily on the same side with the light, which I began to follow again, but with as little success as ever. I had now wandered many miles about the common; I knew no more where I was than if I had been set down upon an unknown country; I had no hopes of finding my way home, unless I could reach this wandering light; and, though I could not conceive that the person who carried it could know of my being so near, he seemed to act as if he was determined to avoid me. However, I was resolved to make one attempt, and therefore I began to run as fast as I was able, hallooing out, at the same time, to the person that I thought before me, to entreat him to stop.
Tommy.—And did he?
Harry.—Instead of that, the light, which had before been moving along at a slow and easy pace, now began to dance as it were before me, ten times faster than before, so that instead of overtaking it, I found myself farther and farther behind. Still, however, I ran on, till I unwarily sunk up to the middle in a large bog, out of which I at last scrambled with a very great difficulty. Surprised at this, and not conceiving that any human being could pass over such a bog as this, I determined to pursue it no longer. But now I was wet and weary; the clouds had indeed rolled away, and the moon and stars began to shine. I looked around me, and could discern nothing but a wide, barren country, without so much as a tree to shelter me, or any animal in sight. I listened, in hopes of hearing a sheepbell, or the barking of a dog; but nothing met my ear, except the shrill whistling of the wind, which blew so cold that it chilled me to the very heart. In this situation I stopped a while to consider what I should do; and raising my eyes by accident to the sky, the first object I beheld was that very constellation of Charles’ Wain, and above it I discerned the Pole-star, glimmering, as it were, from the very top of heaven. Instantly a thought came into my mind; I considered, that when I had been walking along the road which led towards my uncle’s house I had often observed the Pole-star full before me; therefore it occurred to me, that if I turned my back exactly upon it, and went straight forward in a contrary direction, it must lead me towards my father’s house. As soon as I had formed this resolution, I began to execute it. I was persuaded I should now escape, and therefore, forgetting my fatigue, I ran along as briskly as if I had but then set out. Nor was I disappointed; for though I could see no tracks, yet, taking the greatest care always to go on in that direction, the moon afforded me light enough to avoid the pits and bogs which are found in various parts of that wild moor; and when I had travelled, as I imagined, about three miles, I heard the barking of a dog, which gave me double vigour; and going a little farther, I came to some enclosures at the skirts of the common, which I knew, so that I then with ease found my way home, after having almost despaired of doing it.
Tommy.—Indeed, then, the knowledge of the Pole-star was of very great use to you. I am determined I will make myself acquainted with all the stars in the heavens. But did you ever find out what that light was, which danced before you in so extraordinary a manner?
Harry.—When I came home, my father told me it was what the common people called a Jack-o’-the-lantern; and Mr Barlow has since informed me that these things are only vapours, which rise out of the earth in moist and fenny places, although they have that bright appearance; and therefore told me that many people, like me, who have taken them for a lighted candle, have followed them, as I did, into bogs and ditches.
Just as Harry had finished his story, they arrived at Mr Barlow’s; and after sitting some time, and talking over the accidents of the day, the little boys retired to bed. Mr Barlow was sitting alone and reading in his parlour, when, to his great surprise, Tommy came running into the room, half undressed, and bawling out, “Sir, sir, I have found it out! they move! they move!” “What moves?” said Mr Barlow. “Why, Charles’ Wain moves,” answered Tommy; “I had a mind to take one peep at the sky before I went to bed, and I see that all the seven stars have moved from their places a great way higher up the sky.” “Well,” said Mr Barlow, “you are indeed right. You have done a vast deal to-day, and to-morrow we will talk over these things again.”
When the morrow came, Tommy put Mr Barlow in mind of the story he had promised him about the people buried in the snow. Mr Barlow looked him out the book, but first said, “It is necessary to give you some explanation. The country where this accident happened is a country full of rocks and mountains, so excessively high that the snow never melts upon their tops.” “Never?” said Tommy; “not even in the summer?” “Not even in the summer. The valleys between these mountains are inhabited by a brave and industrious people; the sides of them, too, are cultivated, but the tops of the highest mountains are so extremely cold that the ice and snow never melt, but go on continually increasing. During a great part of the winter the weather is extremely cold, and the inhabitants confine themselves within their houses, which they have the art to render very comfortable. Almost all the roads are then impassable, and snow and ice afford the only prospect. But when the year begins to grow warmer, the snow is frequently thawed upon the sides of the mountains, and undermined by the torrents of water, which pour down with irresistible fury. Hence it frequently happens that such prodigious masses of snow fall down as are sufficient to bury beasts and houses, and even villages themselves, beneath them.
“It was in the neighbourhood of these prodigious mountains, which are called the Alps, that, on the 19th of March 1755, a small cluster of houses was entirely overwhelmed by two vast bodies of snow that tumbled down upon them from a greater height. All the inhabitants were then within doors, except one Joseph Rochia, and his son, a lad of fifteen, who were on the roof of their house clearing away the snow, which had fallen for three days incessantly. A priest going by to church advised them to come down, having just before observed a body of snow tumbling from the mountain towards them. The man descended with great precipitation, and fled with his son he knew not whither; but scarcely had he gone thirty or forty steps before his son, who followed him, fell down; on which, looking back, he saw his own and his neighbours’ houses, in which were twenty-two persons in all, covered with a high mountain of snow. He lifted up his son, and reflecting that his wife, his sister, two children, and all his effects, were thus buried, he fainted away; but, soon reviving, got safe to a friend’s house at some distance.
“Five days after, Joseph, being perfectly recovered, got upon the snow, with his son and two of his wife’s brothers, to try if he could find the exact place where his house stood; but, after many openings made in the snow, they could not discover it. The month of April proving hot, and the snow beginning to soften, he again used his utmost endeavours to recover his effects, and to bury, as he thought, the remains of his family. He made new openings, and threw in earth to melt the snow, which on the 24th of April was greatly diminished. He broke through ice six English feet thick, with iron bars, thrust down a long pole and touched the ground; but evening coming on, he desisted.
“The next day the brother of his wife, who had heard of the misfortunes of the family, came to the house where Joseph was, and after resting himself a little, went with him to work upon the snow, where they made another opening, which led them to the house they searched for; but, finding no dead bodies in its ruins, they sought for the stable, which was about two hundred and forty English feet distant, which, having found, they heard the cry of ‘Help, my dear brother!’ Being greatly surprised, as well as encouraged by these words, they laboured with all diligence till they had made a large opening, through which the brother immediately went down, where the sister, with an agonising and feeble voice, told him ‘I have always trusted in God and you, that you would not forsake me.’ The other brother and the husband then went down, and found, still alive, the wife, about forty-five, the sister, about thirty-five, and the daughter, about thirteen years old. These they raised on their shoulders to men above, who pulled them up as if from the grave, and carried them to a neighbouring house; they were unable to walk, and so wasted that they appeared like mere skeletons. They were immediately put to bed, and gruel of rye-flour and a little butter was given to recover them.
“Some days after, the magistrate of the place came to visit them, and found the wife still unable to rise from bed, or use her feet from the intense cold she had endured, and the uneasy posture she had been in. The sister, whose legs had been bathed with hot wine, could walk with some difficulty, and the daughter needed no further remedies.
“On the magistrate’s interrogating the women, they told him that, on the morning of the 19th of March, they were in the stable with a boy of six years old, and a girl of about thirteen. In the same stable were six goats, one of which having brought forth two dead kids the night before, they went to carry her a small vessel of rye-flour gruel; there were also an ass, and five or six fowls. They were sheltering themselves in a warm corner of the stable till the church-bell should ring, intending to attend the service. The wife related that, wanting to go out of the stable to kindle a fire in the house of her husband, who was clearing away the snow from the top of it, she perceived a mass of snow breaking down towards the east, upon which she went back into the stable, shut the door, and told her sister of it. In less than three minutes they heard the roof break over their heads, and also a part of the ceiling. The sister advised to get into the rack and manger, which they did. The ass was tied to the manger, but got loose by kicking and struggling, and threw down the little vessel, which they found, and afterwards used to hold the melted snow, which served them for drink.
“Very fortunately the manger was under the main prop of the stable, and so resisted the weight of the snow. Their first care was to know what they had to eat. The sister said she had fifteen chestnuts in her pockets; the children said they had breakfasted, and should want no more that day. They remembered there were thirty-six or forty cakes in a place near the stable, and endeavoured to get at them, but were not able for the snow. They called often for help, but were heard by none. The sister gave the chestnuts to the wife, and ate two herself, and they drank some snow-water. The ass was restless, and the goats kept bleating for some days, after which they heard no more of them. Two of the goats, however, being left alive and near the manger, they felt them, and found that one of them was big, and would kid, as they recollected, about the middle of April; the other gave milk, wherewith they preserved their lives. During all this time they saw not one ray of light, yet for about twenty days they had some notice of night and day from the crowing of the fowls, till they died.
“The second day, being very hungry, they ate all the chestnuts, and drank what milk the goat yielded, being very near two quarts a-day at first, but it soon decreased. The third day they attempted again, but in vain, to get at the cakes; so resolved to take all possible care to feed the goats; for just above the manger was a hay-loft, where, through a hole, the sister pulled down hay into the rack, and gave it to the goats as long as she could reach it, and then, when it was beyond her reach, the goats climbed upon her shoulders and reached it themselves.
“On the sixth day the boy sickened, and six days after desired his mother, who all this time had held him in her lap, to lay him at his length in the manger. She did so, and taking him by the hand felt it was very cold; she then put her hand to his mouth, and finding that cold likewise, she gave him a little milk; the boy then cried, ‘Oh, my father is in the snow! Oh father! father!’ and then expired.
“In the meanwhile the goat’s milk diminished daily, and, the fowls soon after dying, they could no longer distinguish night from day; but according to their reckoning, the time was near when the other goat would kid; this she accordingly did soon, and the young one dying, they had all the milk for their own subsistence; so they found that the middle of April was come. Whenever they called this goat, it would come and lick their faces and hands, and gave them every day two quarts of milk, on which account they still bear the poor creature a great affection.
“This was the account which these poor people gave to the magistrate of their preservation.”
“Dear heart!” said Tommy, when Mr Barlow had finished this account, “what a number of accidents people are subject to in this world.” “It is very true,” answered Mr Barlow; “but as that is the case, it is necessary to improve ourselves in every manner, that we may be able to struggle against them.”
Tommy.—Indeed, sir, I begin to believe it is; for when I was less than I am now, I remember I was always fretful and hurting myself, though I had two or three people constantly to take care of me. At present I seem as if I was quite another thing; I do not mind falling down and hurting myself, or cold, or weariness, or scarcely anything which happens.
Mr Barlow.—And which do you prefer; to be as you are now, or as you were before?
Tommy.—As I am now, a great deal, sir; for then I always had something or another the matter with me. Sometimes I had a little cold, and then I was obliged to stay in for several days; sometimes a little headache, and then I was forced to take physic; sometimes the weather was too hot, then I must stay within, and the same if it was too cold; I used to be tired to death, if I did but walk a mile, and I was always eating cake and sweetmeats till I made myself sick. At present I think I am ten times stronger and healthier than ever I was in my life. But what a terrible country that must be, where people are subject to be buried in that manner in the snow! I wonder anybody will live there.
Mr Barlow.—The people who inhabit that country are of a different opinion, and prefer it to all the countries in the world. They are great travellers, and many of them follow different professions in all the different countries of Europe; but it is the only wish of almost all to return, before their death, to the mountains where they were born and have passed their youth.
Tommy.—I do not easily understand that. I have seen a great many ladies and little misses at our house, and whenever they were talking of the places where they should like to live, I have always heard them say that they hated the country of all things, though they were born and bred there. I have heard one say the country is odious, filthy, shocking, and abominable; another, that it is impossible to live anywhere but in London; and I remember once seeing a strange lady, who wrote down her observations in a book, and she said the country was all full of barbarians, and that no person of elegance (yes, that was her word) could bear it for a week.
Mr Barlow.—And yet there are thousands who bear to live in it all their lives, and have no desire to change. Should you, Harry, like to leave the country, and go to live in some town?
Harry.—Indeed, sir, I should not, for then I must leave everything I love in the world. I must leave my father and mother, who have been so kind to me; and you, too, sir, who have taken such pains to improve me, and make me good. I am convinced that I never shall find such friends again as long as I live; and what should anybody wish to live for who has no friends? Besides, there is not a field upon my father’s farm that I do not prefer to every town I ever saw in my life.
Tommy.—And have you ever been in any large town?
Harry.—Once I was in Exeter, but I did not much like it; the houses seemed to me to stand so thick and close, that I think our hog-sties would be almost as agreeable places to live in; and then there are little narrow alleys where the poor live; and the houses are so high, that neither light nor air can ever get to them, and the most of them appeared so dirty and unhealthy, that it made my heart ache to look at them. And then I walked along the streets, and peeped into the shops—and what do you think I saw?
Tommy.—What?
Harry.—Why, I saw great hulking fellows, as big as our ploughmen and carters, with their heads all frizzled and curled like one of our sheep’s tails, that did nothing but finger ribbons and caps for the women! This diverted me so, that I could not help laughing ready to split my sides. And then the gentlewoman, at whose house I was, took me to a place where there was a large room full of candles, and a greater number of fine gentlemen and ladies, all dressed out and showy, who were dancing about as if they were mad. But at the door of this house there were twenty or thirty ragged, half-starved women and children, who stood shivering in the rain, and begged for a bit of bread; but nobody gave it to them, or took any notice of them. So then I could not help thinking that it would be a great deal better if all the fine people would give some of their money to the poor, that they might have some clothes and victuals in their turn.
Tommy.—That is indeed true. Had I been there I should have relieved the poor people; for you know I am very good-natured and generous; but it is necessary for gentlemen to be fine and to dress well.
Harry.—It may be so; but I never saw any great good come of it, for my part. As I was walking along the streets one day, and staring about, I met two very fine and dressy young gentlemen, who looked something as you did, Master Tommy, when you first came here; so I turned off from the foot-way to let them pass, for my father always taught me to show civility to people in a higher station; but that was not enough, it seems, for just as they passed by me they gave me such a violent push, that down I came into the kennel, and dirtied myself all over from head to foot.
Tommy.—And did they not beg your pardon for the accident?
Harry.—Accident! it was no accident at all; for they burst out into a fit of laughter, and called me a little clodpole. Upon which I told them, if I was a clodpole they had no business to insult me; and then they came back, and one of them gave me a kick, and the other a slap on the face; but I told them that was too much for me to bear, so I struck them again, and we all three began fighting.
Tommy.—What! both at once? That was a cowardly trick.
Harry.—I did not much mind that; but there came up a fine smart fellow, in white stockings and powdered hair, who it seems, was their servant, and he was going to fall upon me too; but a man took my part, and said, I should have fair play, so I fought them both till they did not choose to have any more; for, though they were so quarrelsome, they could not fight worth a farthing; so I let them go, and advised them not to meddle any more with poor boys who did nothing to offend them.
Tommy.—And did you hear no more of these young gentlemen?
Harry.—No; for I went home the next day, and never was I better pleased in my life. When I came to the top of the great hill, from which you have a prospect of our house, I really thought I should have cried with joy. The fields looked all so pleasant, and the cattle that were feeding in them so happy; then every step I took I met with somebody or other I knew, or some little boy that I used to play with. “Here is little Harry come back,” said one. “How do you do; how do you do?” cried a second. Then a third shook hands with me; and the very cattle, when I went to see them, seemed all glad that I was come home again.
Mr Barlow.—You see by this that it is very possible for people to like the country, and be happy in it. But as to the fine young ladies you talk of, the truth is, that they neither love, nor would be long contented in any place; their whole happiness consists in idleness and finery; they have neither learned to employ themselves in anything useful, nor to improve their minds. As to every kind of natural exercise, they are brought up with too much delicacy to be able to bear it, and from the improper indulgences they meet with, they learn to tremble at every trifling change of the seasons. With such dispositions, it is no wonder they dislike the country, where they find neither employment nor amusement. They wish to go to London, because there they meet with infinite numbers as idle and frivolous as themselves; and these people mutually assist each other to talk about trifles, and waste their time.
Tommy.—That is true, sir, really; for, when we have a great deal of company, I have often observed that they never talked about anything but eating or dressing, or men and women that are paid to make faces at the playhouse, or a great room called Ranelagh, where everybody goes to meet his friends.
Mr Barlow.—I believe Harry will never go there to meet his friends.
Harry.—Indeed, sir, I do not know what Ranelagh is; but all the friends I have are at home; and when I sit by the fireside on a winter’s night, and read to my father and mother, and sister, as I sometimes do, or when I talk with you and Master Tommy upon improving subjects, I never desire any other friends or conversation. But, pray sir, what is Ranelagh?
Mr Barlow.—Ranelagh is a very large round room, to which, at particular times of the year, great numbers of persons go in their carriages to walk about for several hours.
Harry.—And does nobody go there that has not several friends? Because Master Tommy said that people went to Ranelagh to meet their friends.
