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BERTHA'S

VISIT TO HER UNCLE

ENGLAND.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET

LONDON: Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-street.

ADVERTISEMENT.

These little volumes consist of extracts from the Journal of a young person, who, having passed her childhood at Rio Janeiro, was sent, at the close of that period, on a visit to her English friends.

Her father, Colonel Montague, had been ordered to Brazil upon confidential business; and, foreseeing that it would occupy him for an indefinite time, he carried his family along with him. They had remained in that country several years, when their domestic happiness was suddenly destroyed by his death; and the effect of the shock on his unfortunate widow was such, that she was wholly unable to undertake a voyage to England. She was, therefore, obliged to continue her residence at Rio; but her brother, who had always been tenderly attached to her, requested that she would permit her daughter Bertha to visit him; and, though a most painful separation, she consented, knowing how much it would be for her child's advantage.

Bertha promised to keep a constant Journal, and to send it whenever an opportunity offered; and such parts of that Journal have been selected by the Editor, as it is hoped may be found useful or interesting.

BERTHA'S VISIT.

MY DEAR MAMMA,

Though I wrote to you yesterday by the Blossom, which "we spoke," I am tempted by the delightful smoothness of the sea to begin another letter, in order to tell you a little of what I have seen and thought;--but how different from being with you every day--from being your companion as well as your child! I will not, however, say another word about my sorrow at leaving you; I will try to show that I remember your last words: "affection is best preserved by not yielding to violent feelings." Indeed, I believe I said too much in yesterday's letter of the misery I felt. I now try to console myself with the hope that as your health has been so much better for the last two years, you will soon, perhaps, be able to follow your poor little daughter to England; and I repeat to myself all the good reasons that you were so kind as to give for the propriety of sending me to my native country.

I am determined to follow your advice in keeping my mind constantly occupied; and as you have often said that there is no place in which something interesting may not be observed, I shall at once begin the journal you desired me to keep. It shall be ready to fold up whenever an opportunity may occur; so that I shall have the pleasure of making you and my sister, dear Marianne, frequently share with me in all that I see, and all that I enjoy.

She swept the seas; and as she skimm'd along, Her flying feet unbathed on billows hung.

He replied, by shewing us several little shell-fish adhering to the under side of a bit of weed. "These," said he, "must have been deposited there before it was torn from its native rocks by the current; in the course of their long voyage they grow; and their increased size and weight gradually sink the weed. My attention was first turned to this curious circumstance from having observed some of the weed lying edgewise in the water; I had it taken up, and found some heavy limpets attached to the lower edge."

Our captain was laughing to-day at the mistakes that authors, who have never been at sea, make in some of their fine poetical descriptions. He mentioned the albatross, as an instance, which some one has described as rising off the deck. He says it never alights on the deck, and if it were there, it could not rise again. It finds great difficulty in rising even from the sea, and scrambles along the waves to a great distance before it can fairly use its wings. They have five joints to spread out, and appear to have no motion except at the moment the bird first raises itself into the air; when, at the same time, it makes several strokes against the water with its webbed feet. This impulse once given it seems to have no longer occasion to flap its wings; it holds them widely expanded while it glides along, balancing its body from right to left, and sweeping majestically over the surface of the sea.

I happened to say at dinner that I wondered how this constantly moving ocean should ever become frozen into one field of ice; but the captain told me that the deep ocean never freezes permanently. Any ice that may have been formed on it in winter is broken up by gales of wind, and is drifted about till it becomes fixed to the shores.

The great icebergs that are sometimes seen floating on the sea are formed by the accumulation of ages on high precipitous shores, and are afterwards broken off by their increasing weight.

How extraordinary every thing relating to the freezing of the sea is; and how strange that plants should grow on ice islands. How do they get there, or the earth in which they vegetate?

I have run down to the cabin to tell you that we are entering a great harbour--Falmouth. There are two castles that protect the entrance: on the right is St. Mawes, and on the left Pendennis.

MY DEAR MAMMA,

As I wrote to you on the day after we landed, and told you of the safe arrival of your child in her native country, and of all that I had seen at Falmouth, I will say no more on that subject.

We set out very early in the morning from Falmouth, slept one night on the road, and arrived here yesterday evening to tea. My aunt and cousins received me in the most affectionate manner.

I cannot tell you how odd many things in this country seem. In coming here we passed along great wide roads, which are indeed very different from those in Brazil; they are so smooth that the carriage rolled on without impediment, and I was not half as much tired by the journey here as I have been going only from Rio to the Prince's farm. The whole appearance of the country--the trees, the fields, the roads, the people, the houses, are so different from what I have been accustomed to, that I still feel in a state of constant surprise; but nothing that I see appears so remarkable, as that there are no slaves here--no poor negroes!

Though my aunt and cousins are very good-natured to me, I cannot help feeling a little afraid of them. Indeed, I must confess, though you, who love my uncle so much, will be surprised, that I felt quite a dread of meeting him; but I soon perceived that I was a fool, and that he was as kind and indulgent as you had told me he would be.

On our journey he talked to me of you, dear Mamma, and told me many delightful anecdotes of your youth, when you and he were so happy together. How I do wish your health may soon permit you to return to England, that you may be again with this dear brother.

I am determined to continue my journal regularly; for it will be my greatest pleasure to write every thing that interests me to you and my dear Marianne. I shall sometimes imagine I am speaking to you.

This place is altered in many respects, I am told, since you saw it last. Some of the old windows are enlarged; new walks are made; and there is a new flower-garden and conservatory, of which my aunt is very fond. Your favourite walk has been preserved quite unchanged. My uncle loves it so much, that he shewed it to me himself, and we sat under your favourite tree, where you and he used to play and read together in those happy times when you were companions.

I sleep in your room, which has the same dear old projecting window, which you described to me,--a half hexagon, with stone divisions, and pretty casement work between.

"I hope," said my aunt, "that Bertha does not feel herself a stranger--she will soon become accustomed to our mode of life; but we must give her a little time--we must become acquainted by degrees."

"But, Mamma," said Caroline, "will not my cousin feel a little neglected, if we continue our own pursuits, without any attention to hers?"

"Certainly, were that the case--but I think, my love, that as Bertha will have her own employments, she may not, perhaps, at first like to make one of our happy family school; but though occupied ourselves, I am sure we shall never be inattentive to her feelings."

"I dare say Bertha knows that to be always employed is the chief secret of happiness," said my uncle; "and I am convinced that both you and she will perceive that we never enjoy the society of our friends so much, as when we have earned it by useful labour or moderate restraint."

Just then the letters were brought in; one of them from cousin Hertford, who is now visiting the Western Isles, seemed to give great delight to the whole party.

Mary is not so pretty as Caroline, but she has a most expressive countenance; her health has been delicate, and she is timid and reserved in company, but very lively when we are quietly together. They are both very charming, but different in many respects.

I generally sit part of the morning in the library, where my uncle invited me, and am very happy, except that when Wentworth and Frederick are engaged with him I feel afraid of being an intruder. But my uncle likes to have me there, and his conversation is always pleasant and instructive.

Yesterday evening my cousins sung, and then we all danced for an hour--even my uncle danced, while my aunt played for us.

The little lawn into which the library opens is well defended from all winds, and there the most delicate plants are placed. A miniature grove of orange trees in tubs stands there during the summer--they have fruit and flowers on them, and smell delightfully; but, though healthy, they look stunted to my eyes, accustomed to those of our favourite valley at the foot of the Corcorada--I mean the Laranjeros, where the orange trees are so numerous at each side of the little stream along which we used to have such delightful walks. When shall I walk there again with you, or wander about the pretty green plain, at the entrance of the valley? How often Marianne and I have made you loiter there, while we looked at the rivulet dashing over its stony bed, or at the grotesque war-horsemen, in all their various dresses!

We spend the finest part of the evenings out of doors--walking, sauntering, or sitting--then comes tea; and once or twice we have been tempted to go out again afterwards. Some evenings we read to ourselves, but now and then my uncle is so good as to read aloud, and that is very delightful, he reads so well.

My aunt truly practises what she advises--to be useful is her great object; but she mixes usefulness and domestic pleasures so well, as my uncle says, that one is scarcely aware of all she effects.

"No, indeed, uncle; but there was always some little thing that was not quite clear, and which prevented me from advancing as fast and as far as I ought."

Dear Mamma, my uncle reminds me so much of you sometimes: oh! if I had attended better to your instructions, I should not blush as I do now at my own ignorance; but one comfort is--my uncle knows you so well that he cannot attribute my faults to your neglect.

But I must tell you all that happened about this same arithmetic. I was so vexed at my own stupidity, and at appearing as if you had taught me nothing, that a few tears forced their way into my eyes, though I tried to struggle against them:--my uncle good-naturedly went back to the table where Wentworth and Frederick were employed, and I soon recovered.

When they had finished their algebra, to which they seemed to give their whole attention, my uncle said, "Bertha, if you like to try arithmetic again, my daughter Mary will readily assist you: she has one of the clearest heads I ever knew; and will make every step plain. But I must remark that, if we were to force ourselves to repeat every day the substance of what we learn to some third person, we should instantly discover what part is not clear to us."

I went then with him to Mary, who undertook the task in the kindest manner--to-morrow we are to begin.

After this was all arranged, Mary and Caroline invited me to play at shuttlecock, as the day was rainy. Shuttlecock I had never seen, and knew only from your description; my first attempts, therefore, produced a great deal of laughter.

My uncle generally selects some passage, in Scripture, for the purpose of conversing upon it, and leading us to think; or else some expression which he sees requires explanation, and on which some light can be thrown, either from parallel passages, or from profane authors. These little conversations are, generally, between breakfast and the time of setting out for church.

This day he read the 11th chapter of 2d of Corinthians, and told us, that St. Paul's expression "to triumph in Christ," v. 14, alludes to the Roman triumph, or the celebration of a victory; and as the conqueror went in procession through the streets of Rome to the Capitol, with the attendant captives following the triumphal car, so the apostle describes himself as led from city to city, and from province to province, triumphing over the powers of darkness, while the name of Christ, "as a sweet savour," was diffused wherever he came.

My uncle said that this expression, "sweet savour," alludes to the custom in the Roman procession, of strewing the streets with flowers, and causing the altars to smoke with incense; while, immediately before the victorious general, a long train of attendants marched, carrying perfumes, which exhaled a sweet and powerful fragrance;--and thus was the knowledge of Christ, like a reviving odour, diffused around, to improve and strengthen all who received it. Indeed, it is still the custom of all eastern nations, he says, to introduce sweet waters and other perfumes, on solemn occasions, which makes the propriety of the allusion still more strong.

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