Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIV, May 1852, Vol. IV

The Cape baboons appear to have a tact for battle, like the Caffres. Lieutenant Shipp headed twenty men, to recapture sundry coats and trowsers stolen by a Cape baboon. He made a circuit, to cut off the marauders from their caverns; they observed him, and detaching a small troop, to guard the entrance, kept their posts. They could be seen collecting large stones, under the active superintendence of an old gray-headed baboon, who appeared to be issuing his orders as a general. The soldiers rushed to the attack, when down came an avalanche of enormous stones, and Britons left baboons the masters of the situation.

Of monkey-tricks, the Indians have an amusing fable. A man went on a journey with a monkey and a goat, and he took with him, for his refreshment, rice and curds. Arrived at a tank, the man resolved to bathe and dine. While he was in his bath, the monkey ate his dinner, and, having wiped his mouth and paws on the goat's beard, he left the goat to settle his account. When the man came out of the bath, and found his dinner gone, it was quite easy to see, by the goat's beard, who had stolen it.

The monkey was no ass. The sense of asses is not rated very high; but that is a mistake about them. They are shrewder people than we take them for, and kind-hearted as well. A poor higgler, living near Hawick, had an ass for his only companion and partner in the business. The higgler being palsied, was accustomed to assist himself often upon the road, by holding to the ass's tail. Once, on their travels, during a severe winter, man and ass were plunged into a snow-wreath, near Rule Water. After a hard struggle, the ass got out; but, knowing that his helpless master was still buried, he made his way to him, and placed himself so that his tail lay ready to his partner's hand. The higgler grasped it, and was dragged out to a place of safety. Zoologically speaking, it ought not to be thought disrespectful in a man to call his friend "an ass."

Elephants, again. They show their good taste, and are very fond of children. Dr. Darwin says: The keeper of an elephant, in his journey in India, sometimes leaves him fixed to the ground by a length of chain, while he goes into the woods to collect food for him; and, by way of reciprocal attention, asks the elephant to mind his child – a child unable to walk – while he is gone. The animal defends it; lets it creep about his legs; and, when it creeps to the extremity of the chain, he gently wraps his trunk about the infant's body, and brings it again into the middle of the circle.

And now we can not clear our minds of elephants without unburthening a story, which we have from a tale-teller with Indian experience, and which we imagine to be now first told in print. It causes us to feel that in a Parliament of animals, elephants would have divided in favor of a ten-hours' bill. There was a large ship's rudder to be floated; men were busy about it one evening, when a file of elephants were passing, on the way home from work, and it was proposed and carried that an elephant might as well save them their pains, and push the thing into the water for them. So an elephant was brought, and put his head down, and appeared to push with might, but not a beam stirred. Another was brought to help him, with the same result; and finally, as many elephants as the rudder would allow, seemed to be busy and did nothing. So the elephants went home. They had struck, and declined working but of business hours: Next morning, on the way to work, one elephant was again brought, and pushed the rudder down into the water, almost as a man might push a walking-stick.

Stories illustrative of the kindness, gratitude, and kindred feelings of which animals are capable, have no end; one follows on another; for in fact, the animals, bird, beast, and fish, are all good fellows, if you come to know them properly. A rat tamed by a prisoner at Genf slept in his bosom. Punished for some fault, it ran away, but its anger or its fear died and its love lived on: in a month it returned. The prisoner was released, and in the joy of liberty it did not come into his mind to take his old companion with him. The rat coiled itself up in some old clothes left by his friend, all that was left of him, abstained from food, and died in three days.

A surgeon at Dover saw in the streets a wounded terrier, and like a true man took it home with him, cured it in two days, and let it go. The terrier ran home, resolved to pay the doctor by installments. For many succeeding weeks he paid a daily visit to the surgery, wagged his tail violently for some minutes and departed. Tailwagging is dog's money, and when this dog thought that he had paid in his own coin a proper doctor's bill, the daily visit to the surgery was discontinued.

AN EPISODE OF THE ITALIAN REVOLUTION

During my residence at London in the early part of 1848, I became acquainted with Count – and his friend Del Uomo, both Italians. They had settled at London about two years previously, and were remarkable for the strength of attachment subsisting between them. I believe it was four years since they had left Lombardy, and they had clung together in exile closer than brothers. Del Uomo was several years the senior. His age might be about thirty; and a nobler looking Italian I never met with. There was a majesty in his fine manly form, and a dignity in his bearing, that impressed every body at first sight. His countenance was peculiarly handsome, yet shaded with an expression of habitual melancholy. His piercing black eyes, and long black hair, and flowing beard, added to the interest of his aspect. His influence over his young companion was most extraordinary. Count – regarded him as friend, brother, father. Whatever Del Uomo did or said was right in his eyes; and yet on the vital subject of religion the two were diametrically opposed.

At the time in question, Italy was in a flame of war, and refugee Italians were hurrying from all parts of the world to fight in what they deemed a righteous cause. For reasons not necessary to be named, Count – could not himself join his fellow-patriots; but his pen and his purse were devoted to the cause. Del Uomo, however, at once prepared to leave for the seat of war. "I have a father, mother, and sisters," said he, "who are exposed to all the horrors of war, and for them, as well as for my poor bleeding country, my sword must be drawn." His friend was almost heartbroken to part with him, but there was no alternative. Well do I remember the morning when Del Uomo left London. Numbers of Italians assembled to bid him farewell, and the parting scene was deeply affecting. When I myself wrung his hand, and bade God speed him, I felt the subtle involuntary presentiment that he would be shot, and mentioned it to my friends at the time. Little, however, did I think in what manner he would meet his end.

Many months rolled on, with varying success to the arms of Italy. I frequently heard tidings of Del Uomo from his friend. The gallant fellow had obtained a commission in a regiment of cavalry, and was said to have distinguished himself in every action. Ere the close of the campaign, his regiment was almost annihilated, but he himself escaped, I believe, without a wound. Austria triumphed, and Italy was bound in chains heavier than ever.

One morning, Count – received a parcel of letters from Italy, the perusal of which threw him into a state of distraction. It was two or three days ere I learned their full import – detailing the following intelligence of the betrayal of Del Uomo to his enemies, and his cruel death.

The parents and family of Del Uomo remained in Lombardy – he himself being in security in some other part of Italy. He was seized with an intense desire to see them once more, and at all hazards determined to indulge in this natural yearning. He had fought openly and manfully against the Austrians, and, however merciless they might be, he did not think they would have sufficient colorable excuse to put him to death, even if he were recognized and seized. Probably he was correct in this, but he had not reckoned on the depths of perfidy to which they would descend.

Hardly had he set foot in the Lombard territory, ere he was recognized by a creature of Austria, who instantly planned his destruction. Accosting Del Uomo, this spy inquired whether he were not about to visit such a town? (I believe, the very town where his parents dwelt.) The unsuspicious fellow replied in the affirmative. "Then," said the other, "would you do me the favor to deliver this letter to a friend of mine, there resident? I have no other opportunity to send it, and shall be infinitely obliged." Del Uomo, with his usual kindliness of disposition, instantly consented, and put the letter into his pocket, without even looking at the superscription. From that moment his doom was sealed, and he went as a victim to the slaughter.

No sooner had he embraced his family than the bloodhounds of Austria were on his track, and to his amazement, he was seized, and accused of being engaged in a traitorous design. He indignantly denied it. "I fought in open battle against you, man to man, sword to sword," replied he; "but the war is over, and never since have I done aught against Austria." He was searched, and the letter given him to deliver found in his pocket. It was opened, and proved to be a treasonable correspondence addressed to one known as a conspirator. Vain all explanation of the manner in which it came into his possession – vain all the frantic prayers for mercy by his agonized family. The ruthless Austrians only required a fair-seeming pretext to put so distinguished an enemy to death, and here it was. Whether the general in command did or did not believe Del Uomo guilty, admits of some doubt; but that mattered not, so far as his doom was concerned. Little respite – no mercy. He was condemned to be shot on the spot. The priest, his confessor, was so satisfied of his innocency, that he even knelt to the Austrian general, imploring pardon, or at least a respite till the truth could be investigated; but the general only answered, "He dies!"

Del Uomo behaved like a Christian and a hero. He prayed fervently to God to receive his soul. Death he feared not in itself, but the bitterness of such a death as this to his poor family was indeed an awful trial. He was led out to the fatal spot, and there he embraced his relatives for the last time. He gave his watch to his father, his handkerchief to a sister, and bequeathed other little mementoes to his friends. His poor mother swooned away, but his father and one or two sisters stood by him till all was over. They offered to bind his eyes, but he refused. "No," said he, "I am not afraid to look upon death. I will enter eternity with open eyes." And he looked his farewell at his friends, at the glorious orb of day, at the landscape, at the soil of Italy, so soon to be watered with his blood; then he drew himself to his full height, bared his breast, and, with flashing eyes, cried, "Fire, soldiers! Long live Italy!" Nine balls pierced him, and he ceased to breathe. Peace to the memory of Del Uomo!

THE MIGHTY MAGICIAN

He stood upon the summit of a mount,
Waving a wand above his head uplifted;
And smote the ground, whence gushed, as from a fount,
A sparkling stream, with magic virtues gifted.
It fill'd the air with music as it leapt,
Merrily bounding over hill and hollow;
And swiftly to the distant plain it swept,
Gurgling a challenge to the birds to follow.
Onward and onward, parting as it ran
A thousand streamlets from the parent river,
It roll'd among the farthest haunts of man,
Wooing the sunlight on its breast to quiver
Where'er it flow'd, it fed the desert earth
With wholesome aliment, its seeds to nourish;
Quickening its treasures into rapid birth,
And bidding golden harvests spring and flourish.
Fair thriving cities rising on its banks,
Gather'd the noble, and enrich'd the humble;
Throng'd with the happy in their various ranks,
They rear'd proud domes that ages scarce could crumble
The Great Magician from his lofty height
Beheld the world, with boundless plenty teeming,
And his eye kindled with a sense of might,
Proudly, yet softly, at the prospect gleaming.
"I've wrought," he cried, "rich blessings for mankind
I've thrill'd with happiness the hearts of mourners;
And Fame will waft upon her wings of wind
The deeds of Peace to earth's remotest corners!"

TWO KINDS OF HONESTY

Some few years ago, there resided in Long Acre an eccentric old Jew, named Jacob Benjamin: he kept a seed shop, in which he likewise carried on – not a common thing, we believe, in London – the sale of meal, and had risen from the lowest dregs of poverty, by industry and self-denial, till he grew to be an affluent tradesman. He was, indeed, a rich man; for as he had neither wife nor child to spend his money, nor kith nor kin to borrow it of him, he had a great deal more than he knew what to do with. Lavish it on himself he could not, for his early habits stuck to him, and his wants were few. He was always clean and decent in his dress, but he had no taste for elegance or splendor in any form, nor had even the pleasures of the table any charms for him; so that, though he was no miser, his money kept on accumulating, while it occurred to him now and then to wonder what he should do with it hereafter. One would think he need not have wondered long, when there were so many people suffering from the want of what he abounded in; but Mr. Benjamin, honest man, had his crotchets like other folks. In the first place, he had less sympathy with poverty than might have been expected, considering how poor he had once been himself; but he had a theory, just in the main, though by no means without its exceptions – that the indigent have generally themselves to thank for their privations. Judging from his own experience, he believed that there was bread for every body that would take the trouble of earning it; and as he had had little difficulty in resisting temptation himself, and was not philosopher enough to allow for the varieties of human character, he had small compassion for those who injured their prospects by yielding to it. Then he had found, on more than one occasion, that even to the apparently well-doing, assistance was not always serviceable. Endeavor was relaxed, and gratuities, once received, were looked for again. Doubtless, part of this evil result was to be sought in Mr. Benjamin's own defective mode of proceeding; but I repeat, he was no philosopher, and in matters of this sort he did not see much farther than his nose, which was, however, a very long one.

To public charities he sometimes subscribed liberally; but his hand was frequently withheld by a doubt regarding the judicious expenditure of the funds, and this doubt was especially fortified after chancing to see one day, as he was passing the Crown and Anchor Tavern, a concourse of gentlemen turn out, with very flushed faces, who had been dining together for the benefit of some savages in the Southern Pacific Ocean, accused of devouring human flesh – a practice so abhorrent to Mr. Benjamin, that he had subscribed for their conversion. But failing to perceive the connection betwixt the dinner and that desirable consummation, his name appeared henceforth less frequently in printed lists, and he felt more uncertain than before as to what branch of unknown posterity he should bequeath his fortune.

In the mean time, he kept on the even tenor of his way, standing behind his counter, and serving his customers, assisted by a young woman called Leah Leet, who acted as his shop-woman, and in whom, on the whole, he felt more interest than in any body else in the world, insomuch that it even sometimes glanced across his mind, whether he should not make her the heiress of all his wealth. He never, however, gave her the least reason to expect such a thing, being himself incapable of conceiving that, if he entertained the notion, he ought to prepare her by education for the good fortune that awaited her. But he neither perceived this necessity, nor, if he had, would he have liked to lose the services of a person he had been so long accustomed to.

At length, one day a new idea struck him. He had been reading the story of his namesake, Benjamin, in the Old Testament, and the question occurred to him, how many among his purchasers of the poorer class – and all who came to his shop personally were of that class – would bring back a piece of money they might find among their meal, and he thought he should like to try a few of them that were his regular customers. The experiment would amuse his mind, and the money he might lose by it he did not care for. So he began with shillings, slipping one among the flour before he handed it to the purchaser. But the shillings never came back – perhaps people did not think so small a sum worth returning; so he went on to half-crowns and crowns, and now and then, in very particular cases, he even ventured a guinea; but it was always with the same luck, and the longer he tried, the more he distrusted there being any honesty in the world, and the more disposed he felt to leave all his money to Leah Leet, who had lived with him so long, and to his belief, had never wronged him of a penny.

"What's this you have put into the gruel, Mary?" said a pale, sickly-looking man, one evening, taking something out of his mouth, which he held toward the feeble gleams emitted by a farthing rush-light standing on the mantle-piece.

"What is it, father?" inquired a young girl, approaching him. "Isn't the gruel good?"

"It's good enough," replied the man; "but here's something in it: it's a shilling, I believe."

"It's a guinea, I declare!" exclaimed the girl, as she took the coin from him and examined it nearer the light.

"A guinea!" repeated the man; "well, that's the first bit of luck I've had these seven years or more. It never could have come when we wanted it worse. Show it us here, Mary."

"But it's not ours, father," said Mary. "I paid away the last shilling we had for the meal, and here's the change."

"God has sent it us, girl! He saw our distress, and He sent it us in His mercy!" said the man, grasping the piece of gold with his thin, bony fingers.

"It must be Mr. Benjamin's," returned she. "He must have dropped it into the meal-tub that stands by the counter."

"How do you know that?" inquired the man with an impatient tone and a half-angry glance. "How can you tell how it came into the gruel? Perhaps it was lying at the bottom of the basin, or at the bottom of the sauce-pan. Most likely it was."

"Oh, no, father," said Mary: "it is long since we had a guinea."

"A guinea that we knew of; but I've had plenty in my time, and how do you know this is not one we had overlooked?"

"We've wanted a guinea too much to overlook one," answered she. "But never mind, father; eat your gruel, and don't think of it: your cheeks are getting quite red with talking so, and you won't be able to sleep when you go to bed."

"I don't expect to sleep," said the man, peevishly; "I never do sleep."

"I think you will, after that nice gruel!" said Mary, throwing her arms round his neck, and tenderly kissing his cheek.