Kitabı oku: «Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol IV. No. XX. January, 1852.», sayfa 10
The diving-spider spins its cell in the water; it is composed of closely-woven, strong, white silk, and shaped like half a pigeon’s egg, looking something like a diving-bell. Occasionally this nest is allowed to remain partly above water; generally, however, it is totally submerged, and is attached by a great number of irregular threads to some near objects. It is entirely closed, except at the bottom, where there is a large opening. This, however, is sometimes shut, and then the spider may be seen staying peaceably at home, with her head downward; and thus they often remain during the three winter months.
No insects are more cleanly in their habits than spiders, although the gummy substance of which their webs are composed, and the rough hairy covering of their bodies, with but few exceptions, render this an arduous task. Whenever they happen to break a thread of their web which they are unable to mend, they roll it up in a little ball, and throw it away, and they regularly comb their legs.
In concluding this brief account of the spider family, we can assure our readers, that any time they may bestow on the subject will be amply rewarded by the interest and pleasure they will derive. And, lest any should imagine that the hours thus passed are wasted or misspent, we shall close our article by giving a short history of a man whose life was saved by his knowledge of the habits of a spider.
Very many years ago, a Frenchman called Quatreman Disjouval sided with the Dutch in a revolt against the French. For this offense he was cast into prison, where he remained for eight long years, without the most remote prospect of being set at liberty. To while away the dreary hours, he made acquaintance with some spiders who shared his solitary cell, and, having nothing to occupy his mind, he passed the greater part of his time in attentively watching their movements. By degrees he discovered that they only spun their large wheel-like webs in fine weather, or when it was about to set in; while in damp weather they generally disappeared altogether. In the month of December, 1794, when the republican troops were in Holland, a sudden and unexpected thaw set in, and so materially disarranged their general’s plans, that he actually thought of withdrawing his army altogether, and accepting the money which the Dutch would gladly have given to have got rid of them. Meantime Disjouval, who thought that any masters would be better than his present ones, ardently hoped that the French would be victorious. Shut up as he was, he contrived to hear all about their intended movements, and, knowing that the weather alone prevented it, he watched his old friends the spiders with redoubled interest. To his infinite delight, he found that a frost was just about to set in, and so severe a one, too, that it would enable the rivers and canals to bear the weight of the baggage and artillery. Somehow or other, he succeeded in having a letter conveyed to the general, assuring him that within fourteen days a severe frost would set in. “The wish was parent to the hope;” and the commander-in-chief, believing that he really had some supernatural revelation on the subject, maintained his position. At the close of the twelfth day, the anxiously wished for frost began, and Disjouval felt sure that now he would be set at liberty. Nor was he mistaken. The general’s first act on entering the town was to go to the prison, and, thanking him personally for his valuable information, he set him free. Disjouval subsequently became a celebrated entomologist, directing his attention principally to spiders, whose first appearance in summer he thought ought to be welcomed by sound of trumpet!
AMALIE DE BOURBLANC, THE LOST CHILD. – A TALE OF FACTS
In the heat of the last French war, some forty years ago, we were under the necessity of removing from the north to make our residence in London. We took our passage in one of the old Scotch smacks from Leith, and, wishing to settle down immediately on our arrival in the great metropolis, we took our servants and our furniture along with us. Contrary winds detained us long upon our passage. Although a mere child at the time, I well remember one eventful morning, when, to our horror and alarm, a French man-of-war was seen looming on the distant horizon, and evidently bearing down on us. A calm had settled on the sea, and we made but little way, and at last we saw two boats lowered from the Frenchman’s deck, and speedily nearing us. This occurred shortly after the famous and heroic resistance made successfully by the crew of one of the vessels in the same trade to a French privateer. With this glorious precedent before our eyes, both passengers and crew were disposed to make no tame resistance. Our guns were loaded to the muzzle, and every sailor was bared for action. Old cutlasses and rusty guns were handed round about, and piled upon the deck. Truly, we were a motley crew, more like a savage armament of lawless buccaneers than bloodless denizens of peace. But happily these warlike preparations were needless, for a breeze sprung up, and, though we were pretty smartly chased, the favoring gale soon bore us far from danger, and eventually wafted us in safety to our destined port.
My mother was somewhat struck, during the period of our short alarm, by the fearless and heroic bearing of our servant Jane. A deeper feeling seemed to pervade her mind than common antipathy to the common foe. In fact, at various times during her previous service, when any events connected with the French war formed, as they ever did, the all-engrossing subject of discourse, Jane evinced an interest in the theme equaled only by the intense hatred toward that nation which she now displayed. On the present occasion, the appearance of the foe awakened in her bosom a thousand slumbering but bitter recollections of a deep domestic tragedy connected with herself; and so far from showing the natural timidity of her sex, she even endeavored to assist in the arrangement of our murderous preparations. Even a shade of regret appeared upon her face, as we bounded over the sparkling waves, when our tardy foe seemed but as a speck upon the distant sea. During the remainder of our voyage she sunk into a dreamy melancholy. With her head almost continually resting on the bulwarks of the ship, she gazed upon the clear, blue depths below; and, had we watched her closely, we might perhaps have seen some of the round tear-drops which gathered on her eyelids, and fell silently, to mingle with the waves. But we heeded not.
She was a singular girl, and seemed evidently superior to her present station; yet she toiled on with the drudgery of the house, listless and indifferent, but always usefully engaged. My mother was not altogether satisfied with her work, and still found a difficulty in blaming her. She seemed to dream through her whole duty, as if her mind was rapt in some strange fancies, while her hands mechanically did her task. At last, after long solicitation, she explained the mystery by telling us her history.
We must throw our story back some twenty years. Her family at that time occupied a respectable, if not a wealthy position in our northern metropolis. Her father was engaged in a lucrative business, had been married about six years, and was the father of four children. His youngest daughter had been born about three months previous to this period of our tale. She was a singularly lovely child. A sister of his wife’s, who had made a wealthy marriage with an officer in the French army, was at this time on a short visit to the land of her birth. Madame de Bourblanc was childless, and her heart was yearning for those blessings of maternal love which Providence denied her. She was unhappy: no wonder; for her home in sunny France was desolate.
A little while soon passed away. Mrs. Wilson and her sister were seated at the parlor fire one cold November night – the one contemplating the blessings she possessed, the other brooding on her far different lot. The children prattled merrily beside them, and waited only for their father’s evening kiss, before they went to childhood’s innocent sleep. But their father came not. His usual time had long since passed, and his wife betrayed some symptoms of uneasiness at the unwonted delay. At last they heard a hurried knock, and Mr. Wilson entered the apartment. There were traces of anxiety and grief upon his countenance, but, as he spoke not of the cause, his wife forbore inquiries in the presence of her sister. But Mr. Wilson was extremely unsocial, nay, even harsh; and, when his wife held out her babe, and the unconscious infant seemed to put up its little lips for its evening kiss, he pushed the child aside, and muttered something audibly about the curses of a married life, and the inconvenience and expense of bringing up a large, increasing family.
The babe was sent to bed, and the mother spoke not, though a bitter tear might be seen rolling down her cheek. She was deeply hurt, and justly so. But Mr. Wilson had met with some heavy losses during the course of the day. These had soured his heart and embittered his words. Perhaps he meant not what he said; it might have been but the passing bitterness of a disappointed man. However the case may be, the words he uttered remained in the bosom of his wife, rooted and festering there; and many a bitter pang had she in after-life, and the desolations and the sorrows which dispersed her family, some to their grave, others far asunder – that all could be ascribed to these few bitter words.
A week had scarcely elapsed since the occurrences of that unhappy evening, when an event took place which wrought a fearful revolution in that happy family. Surely the “evil eye” had looked upon that house.
Mrs. Wilson and her sister went to make a call upon a friend. As they expected to return almost immediately, they left the babe slumbering in its cradle, and sent the servant on some trifling errand. Circumstances retarded their return. The anxious mother hastened to the nursery to tend upon her babe. She looked into the room, but all was still. Surely the child was slumbering. She must not rouse it from its peaceful dreams. But all continued still. There was a death-like silence in the room. She could not even hear her infant breathe. She sat a while by the flickering light of the expiring fire, for the shades of evening had gathered over the darkening horizon. At length she rose; she went to look upon her child; she lifted up the coverlid. No child was there. An indescribable dread took possession of her soul; she rushed like a maniac from room to room. At last she heard a noise; she flew to the spot. Yes, three of her children were there, but the other, her babe, her newest born, the flower of her heart, was gone.
“My child! my child!” she screamed, and fell upon the floor. Her sister heard the fall, and rushed up stairs. She knelt beside the stricken woman, bathed her temples with cold water, and with a start Mrs. Wilson awoke from her swoon.
“My child! my child!” she sobbed.
“What of the child?” her sister cried.
“Gone – lost – stolen from its mother!” screamed the wretched woman.
“Oh, impossible! Be calm; the child will soon be found,” her sister said. “Some neighbor, perhaps – ”
“Perhaps – perhaps,” hurriedly replied the mother, and she rushed from house to house. The people thought her mad. No child was there. Her sister led her home. She followed her calmly, unresistingly. Was her spirit broken? She was placed upon a chair; she sat as one bereft of reason; her face was pale; and perspiration, the deep dews of agony, gathered upon her brow. Not even a feather would have stirred before her breath. It looked like death.
At last she started from her seat. Her brows were knit, and her whole face convulsed with the fearful workings of her soul. “John! John!” she cried. “Where is my husband. Send him to me.”
And they went to seek him, but he was not to be found. They told her so, and she was silent. There were evidently some frightful thoughts laboring within her breast – some terrible suspicions, which her spirit scarce dared to entertain. For about an hour she sat, but never opened her lips. It was a fearful silence. At last his knock was heard; the stair creaked beneath his well known tread; he entered. The mother sprang upon her feet.
“John!” she screamed, “give me my child! Where have you put her? Where is my child?”
Her husband started. “Woman, are you mad?” he cried.
“Give me my child!”
“Wife, be calm.”
“I will not be calm. My child! You spoke coarsely to me the other night for nothing, John. She was a burden on you, was she? But why did you take her from me? I would have worked for her – drudged, slaved, to win her bread. Oh, why did you kill my child?”
The man looked stupidly upon his wife, and sank into a chair. The room was filled with neighbors; they looked at him, and then to one another, and whispered.
“Give me my child!” the mother screamed. He sat buried in thought, and covering his face with both his hands.
“Take him away!” she cried, and the people laid their hands upon him.
He started to his feet, and dashed the foremost to the ground. There was a look about the man that terrified, and they quailed before him. He strode before his wife. “Woman,” said he, “your lips accused me. Bitterly, ay, bitterly, shall you rue this night’s work. Come, neighbors, I am ready.” And they took him to a magistrate.
“My child!” the wretched woman shrieked, and swooned away. Before a few hours had passed, she was writhing in the agonies of a burning fever.
And where was her husband then? Walking to and fro upon the cold flagstones of a felon’s cell, upon a charge of murdering his child, his own child; doomed thither by his own wife. A close investigation of every matter connected with this mysterious affair was set on foot. No proof of Mr. Wilson’s guilt could be obtained. He was arraigned before his country’s laws, and, after a patient trial, was discharged, as his judge emphatically pronounced, without a stain upon his character. Discharged, forsooth, to what? To meet the frowns and suspicions of a too credulous world; to see the people turn and stare behind him, as he passed along the streets; to see the children shrink from him and flee, as from some monster; and to dwell in a desolate home, his own offspring trembling as he touched them, and his wife – that wife who had accused him – looking with cold, suspicious, unhappy eye upon the being she had sworn to love and cherish with her life. Such was his fate! who had wrought it? His wife recovered from her illness; and her sister went her way back to her home in France.
Seldom did the poor man even speak: there was gloom about that desolate house. His trade fell off, and his credit declined; and why? because his heart was broken. Day after day he sat in his lone counting-house; there was no bustle there. His books were covered with a thick coat of dust; and, as one by one his customers stepped off, so poverty stepped in, until at last he found himself almost a beggar. He shut his office-doors, shut them for the last time, then wiped away a tear, the first he had shed for many a day. He went home, but not to the home he used to have. His furniture had been sold to supply the common necessaries of life; and poor indeed was their now humble abode. There was silence in that little house, scarcely a whisper. In the secret fountains of his wife’s heart there was still a depth of love for him; but, always when she would have breathed it forth, the strange horrid suspicion would flit across her brain – her child was not. He often looked at her, a long, earnest gaze, but he seldom spoke.
One evening, he was more than usually sad. He kissed his children fondly. He took his wife’s cold hand, and pressed it in his own. “Jessie,” said he, “as ye have sown, so shall ye reap; but I forgive you. God bless you, wife!” He lay down upon his hard pallet, and when they would have roused him in the morning, he was dead.
Time rolled on with rapid sweep, alas! bringing death and its attendant evils in his train. Two of the widow’s children died; and Jane was now about eighteen years of age. Sorrow, rather than age, had already blanched the widow’s hair. They were in great poverty; eked out a scanty livelihood with their needle. Indeed, their only certain dependence lay in the small assistance which Madame de Bourblanc sent from France. Perhaps, had that sister known the straits of her poor relatives, her paltry pittance might have been increased. They were perhaps too proud to make it known; as it was, she knew not, or, if she did, she heeded not.
About this time a letter reached the widow from her sister. Besides containing the usual remittance, the letter was unusually long. She requested Jane to read it to her, while she sat and sewed. What ailed the girl, her mother thought, as Jane gazed upon the page with some indescribable emotions depicted on her face. “Mother,” she cried, “my sister lives! your child is found again!” The widow tore the letter from her daughter’s hand, and read it eagerly, while her face grew paler every moment. She gasped for utterance; and the mystery was solved at last.
Yes, reader, at last was the mystery unraveled, and the criminal was her sister – she who had stood calmly by, and seen the agony of the bereaved mother – she who had beheld the injured father dragged as a felon to prison, when a word from her would have cleard it all – she was that wretch. Madame de Bourblanc was childless and her heart yearned for some one she could love. She saw the little cherub of her sister, and she envied it. She knew that, if she had asked the child, the mother’s heart would have spurned the offer, so she laid her plans to steal the infant. She employed a woman from France, who, as she prowled about the house, had seized the favorable moment, and snatched the infant from its cradle, and the child was safely housed in France before the tardy law began its investigations. Madame de Bourblanc remained beside her sister for a time; then hurried off to France, to lavish all her love upon the stolen child. It is true, she loved the child; but was it not a selfish love to see the bereaved mother mourn its loss, yet never soothe her troubled heart? and was it not a cruel love, to see a household broken up, affections desolated, and all to gratify a selfish whim of hers? It was worse than cruel – it was deeply criminal.
She brought up the infant as her own: she named it Amalie, and a pretty child she was. Did a pang never strike into the heart of that cruel woman, as the child would lift its little eyes to hers, and lisp “My mother?” She must have thought of the true mother, broken-hearted, in another land. Yes, a pang did pierce her heart; but alas! it came too late; the misery was already wrought. She wrote to her injured sister, begging her forgiveness, and at the same time offering a considerable sum, if she would permit the child to remain with her, still ignorant of her real parentage. But she was mistaken in her hope; for not only did the mother indignantly demand the restoration of her child, but she did more; she published the sister’s letter, and triumphantly removed the stains that lingered on her dead husband’s memory.
A few weeks after this, the widow went to pay a visit to the green grave of her broken-hearted husband: she knelt upon the verdant mound, and watered it with her tributary tears. All her unjust suspicions crowded on her mind: conscience reproached her bitterly. She knelt, and supplicated for forgiveness, seeming to commune with his spirit on the spot where his poor frail body reposed in its narrow bed. She felt a gentle touch upon her shoulder; it was her daughter Jane. One moment after, and she was clasped in the embrace of a stranger. Nature whispered to the mother’s heart her child was there, her long lost child. She too had come to look upon that lowly grave – the grave of a father.
After the first transports of meeting were over, the widow found leisure to observe her child. But what a poor young delicate flower was she, to brave the rude blasts of poverty. She was a lovely girl: like a lily, fragile and pale, the storms of life would wither her. Her mother took her home; but the contrast was too great, from affluence to poverty – Amalie wept. Poor Jane strove to comfort her; but she might only use the language of the eyes, for her foreign sister scarcely understood two words of English. Amalie struggled hard to love her new mother, and to reconcile her young heart to this sudden change, but the effort was too great, and she gradually sank. Early and late her mother and her sister toiled, to obtain for her, in her delicate state, some of those luxuries to which she had been accustomed; but their efforts were vain – she was not long for earth. The widow had indignantly refused all offers of assistance from her cruel sister though she felt that, unless Providence should interpose, her strength must soon fail under its additional exactions.
A letter arrived from France; it was sealed with black. They opened it hastily and fearfully; and they had cause. Madame de Bourblanc was dead; she was suddenly cut off, to render an account before her Creator. The shock was too great for poor Amalie. Day by day she languished, pining in heart for sunny France. Three months after she had reached England, Amalie died. Her last words were, “My mother!”
Soon after, her old mother followed her. Oh, that the purified spirits of them all may meet in heaven! Jane is the sole survivor of this domestic tragedy. Even she may have departed to the haven of eternal rest, for she left my mother shortly after we were settled in London. We have never seen her since.
