Traits and Trials of Early Life/The Indian Island
THE INDIAN ISLAND.
"Oh, many are the beauteous isles,
Unknown to human eye,
That, sleeping 'mid the ocean smiles,
In happy silence lie!
The ship may pass them in the night,
Nor sailors know what a lovely sight
Is resting on the main."
The Isle of Palms.
"Do not tell me so! I cannot send my children from me; they are the only links between me and the past, and the only ties that bind me to the future. Care and skill"—but here Mr. Selwyn's voice became inaudible. Dr. Irvine, the physician to whom he was speaking, gave him no answer, but put back a large curtain that interrupted the view of the lawn, which stretched away from the colonnade that extended round the house. The sun was scarcely risen, and the fresh air of the morning stirred the bright branches of the many blooming and odoriferous shrubs around; the grass glistening with dew, gigantic flowers bright with the sunshine on their rich hues, and all open as if rejoicing in the morning, many-coloured birds flitting among the leaves—all these made a scene which might have gladdened the heart of the mourner, and raised to their highest pitch the buoyant spirits of youth; and yet, in the midst of the lawn, beneath a young banana tree, were two children, evidently quite unexhilarated by the freshness of the air or the cheerfulness of the morning. The one was a boy of about nine years of age. He was seated on a bough of the tree which had been trained artificially along the ground. He had been reading, but the book lay on the grass, for his arm supported the head of a little creature about three years old who was leaning against him, half in affection, half for support. There was something very striking, and yet sad, in the appearance of these children, they were singularly handsome and singularly alike; but the cheek might have been marble, it was so utterly devoid of colour, and the faint crimson of the lip was parched and feverish, and the pale face was more striking from the profusion of thick black hair and the large dark and melancholy looking eyes. The boy seemed naturally grave and quiet: but the fairy figure and dimpled mouth of the little girl were at variance with her present listless attitude. "I see it—I see," said Mr. Selwyn, "they are pining away for a healthier air. In two years I can retire to England: but now, amid the many difficulties that surround us, I cannot in honour resign my situation."
"But," returned Dr. Irvine, "you have friends in England: and they are still too young to need that watchful guidance which will be so important in a few years. I dare not deceive you: Marion will not live over another rainy season: Francis you might venture to retain with you."
"I will not part them; I cannot bear that abscence should weaken their now perfect affection: besides (and do not think this weak partiality), I shall be happier for knowing that Francis is with his sister. In care and thoughtfulness, he is far beyond his years, and till I myself can reach England, they shall not be parted."
Dr. Irvine hesitated for a moment: he had only performed one half of his painful task. Mr. Selwyn stood watching from the window the pallid countenance of his little girl, when his friendly adviser broke the silence by saying, "Poor Marion herself is my best argument: but let me impress upon you the necessity of prompt measures, though by your side, from this moment, you are really parted from them: Captain Cameron sails next week. Can your children be in better hands?
"Next week!" exclaimed Mr. Selwyn, in a broken voice.
Dr. Irvine shook hands with him in silence, and left him for the present.
To all parents such a parting would have been a trial; but to Mr. Selwyn it came with more than usual bitterness. Immersed in business, whose fatigue unfitted him for the exertion of society, shy, and reserved in habits, to him his own family was every thing. His young wife had died a week after Marion's birth, and he had attached himself entirely to his children. He saw in them the relics of the dearest love on earth, and felt that he had to be both father and mother. It was impossible not to be proud of the fine mind and generous temper of Francis; and it was equally impossible not to be enlivened by the gaiety of Marion. But he had for some time remarked that, unless stimulated by his presence to exertion, Francis grew more and more silent, as if talking were a fatigue; his garden was only cultivated at intervals, and his mimic frigate remained unfinished. Every day, too, the music of Marion's laugh grew more unfrequent in the house; she loathed her food, and, instead of the restless, dancing steps, that seemed never quiet but in sleep, she would creep to the knee of her father, and sit for hours with her languid head resting on his shoulder. Mr. Selwyn had long felt what Dr. Irvine now confirmed, and for him there was but the choice of parting with his children to England, or to the grave. Now, for months and months to come his hearth would be desolate, long solitary evenings, uncheered by the sweet companions now far away, no little hand eagerly put into his for his now solitary walk, and worse than all, strangers would be winning the affections and guiding the youthful hearts hitherto so entirely his own.
Mr. Selwyn had married young, and poor, and the early years of his married life had been embittered by struggles which it was his great hope that he might spare his children. Gradually he had risen to the important situation he now held in Ceylon. Wealth he had accumulated; and, under Providence, Francis could never know the same difficulties which had embittered so large a portion of his father's life. But Mr. Selwyn had to learn that there are miseries beyond even those of poverty, and would have gladly given all, beyond a mere competence, of his noble fortune, to have accompanied his children to England.
At length, and yet how soon!—the day came for the sailing of the Warren Hastings. Marion, tired out with fatigue, was asleep, in her cabin with her nurse; but Frank still held his father's hand, who lingered to the last upon deck. But the boat was in waiting, and Dr. Irvine gently put his arm through that of Mr. Selwyn, and drew him away. Once more he clasped his boy in his arms; and Frank turned to his father a pale face, but a tearless eye, and said, in a low, but tolerably steady, voice, "You may trust me, father." The splash of the oars was heard in the water, the boat rowed rapidly away; but the effort the heroic boy had made to subdue his feeling was too much for his enervated frame, and he sank quite insensible on the shoulder of an old sailor who had approached to console him.
The young voyagers had not been a week at sea before its good effects were apparent: both recovered their appetite, and Marion's little feet seemed never weary: long before her brother's shy temper would permit him to speak, she had made friends with every seaman on board. There are few boys but what are born with a love for a ship and a horse; and, thanks to the kindness of the old sailor we have mentioned, Frank was soon initiated into every part of the vessel, and his steps became familiar with the most dangerous parts of the rigging.
But no attraction, whether of amusement, or information, ever diverted his attention from his sister. His eye seemed always upon her; he would give up any employment to attend to her want or wish: he would spend hours amusing her with her box of ivory letters; and not an evening passed but her sweet voice might be heard repeating to her brother her simple prayer and hymn. Already Frank shewed a naturally mechanical genius; but even the carpenter's chest and company never detained him long from Marion, and the great aim of his ingenuity was to construct some slight toy for her. They had now been on board four weeks; and often did Frank wish his father could have seen the light step and bright eyes of the once pale and listless Marion. One evening Frank came up from the cabin, where he had been soothing his sister, who was somewhat restless with the oppressive heat, to sleep; and took his usual post beside the old sailor, who, from the first, had made him an especial favourite. Nothing could be clearer than the atmosphere, and the sea was almost as bright and motionless as the sky. Not a single object broke the mighty stillness; no fish were visible in the clear waters, no birds in the clear air; not another bark shared the ocean with their solitary ship. No wind was stirring, the sails hung loose and motionless, and the red flag drooped heavily from the mast. The sailors shared in the general tranquillity, and sat or stood round in silent groups; the oppression of the air seemed also on their spirits. The old seaman, to whom Frank had drawn, was leaning over the side of the vessel, gazing so intently on the distance that his young companion's approach was at first unobserved; when, suddenly turning round, he said, "We shall have rough weather soon, Master Francis." The boy looked on the shining elements around, as much as to ask where was the slightest sign of storm? When the sailor, answering to his gaze, pointed out a small white cloud, or rather speck, which looked as if scarcely freighted with an April shower.
Francis turned pale, for he thought of his young and helpless sister. "Why, you wouldn't be only a fair-weather sailor, would you?" and, turning round, the old man began one of those tales of tempests met and baffled by naval skill and courage, which so delighted his youthful auditor. Nearly an hour elapsed, when the narrator was called away to his duty in another part of the ship.
The small white cloud had now spread like a white and gigantic veil over half the sky, and an unequal and capricious wind was awakening the sails from their repose; and by the time the dinner hour came, little order could be preserved among the plates and dishes, which were soon scattered by a sudden squall.
Francis had been accustomed to employ the afternoon in teaching Marion her alphabet, and to spell various small words; but to-day their studies were interrupted—neither could keep their footing a single moment and, by the captain's directions, Marion was fastened in her cot, with a stout silk handkerchief round her waist, and the cot itself strongly lashed to the sides. It was a dismal time, for the waves now ran so high that the port holes were ordered to be closed. Suddenly a deep and hollow sound rolled over the ship, and a faint flash glimmered through the darkness. That first peal of thunder was like a summons; the wind rose up at once with frantic violence; peal followed peal, and flash followed flash; and the trampling of the hurried steps over-head told of the anxiety and exertion going on above. Frank never for a moment left his sister, who, though too young for fear at their actual danger, was terrified at the unusual darkness and noise. A number of the men now came below; a sound of loosened chains was heard, and plunge after plunge into the waters. They had been forced to throw the guns over-board. Immediately came a tremulous crash, as of the falling of some heavy mass; the-mast head been cut away. Frank now fancied that the vessel seemed to reel less, but appeared to be dashing on with frightful velocity. The trampling over head, too, abated, and the thunder ceased: it only made the fierce and howling sound of the wind more terrible. At this moment came the gleam of a dark lantern into their cabin; it was the old seaman; but his face was ghastly pale, and his features looked rigid, as if he had suffered from long illness. Francis saw no hope in his countenance, and he asked no questions. "You have had no food for some hours: I have brought to you, poor things, some biscuit and a slice of ham."
Marion laughed with delight at the sight of the biscuit, for she was very hungry. Poor Frank put away the offered food; his heart was too full to eat, but he clasped the hand of the kind old man, who now turned to go away; but Marion cried to go with him.
"It does not matter," he muttered; "as well above as here."
He then took the child in his arms, and, Frank following with the lantern, they groped their way to the deck. They had not been there five minutes before an awful shock told their worst had come to pass—-they had struck upon a rock. A cry of "boats! boats!" now arose; and the lanterns shewed hurrying, and yet despairing, groups thronging to the side.
"Come, Michael!" said two sailors, rushing past. The old man made no reply, but seated himself on a broken fragment of wood, and placed Marion on his knee. Frank immediately took his sister's hand, and drew her towards himself. "Michael, you must not stay with us. God bless you; but go."
"Go! Master Frank," said the sailor, "I have a boy your age at home, and for his sake, I will stay with you. God would desert him in his need, if I deserted you." The glimmer of a lantern amid the thick darkness shewed that the last boat had pushed off. "And you have stayed here to perish!" And, for the first time, Frank gave way to a bitter flood of tears. Michael put his arm kindly around him, and said, "Do you remember the holy words you were teaching your little sister the other morning? 'Do unto others as you would they should do unto you?'"
"Yes," interrupted Marion, "he taught me, too, a new hymn yesterday; I will say it to you;" and she began to repeat one of Watts's beautiful Hymns for Children. She did not quite know it through; but the last two verses were singularly apposite to their situation:
"There's not a plant or flower below,
But makes thy glories known;
And clouds arise, and tempests blow,
By order from thy throne.
Creatures (as numerous as they be)
Are subject to thy care;
There's not a place where we can flee,
But God is present there."
"Our lives are in His hand, and it may be His will even now to save us: somehow, the words of this innocent creature have put hope into my heart:" and the old sailor turned his head to the east, where a dim streak told of the coming day. All know how rapidly the light of morning floods an eastern heaven; wave upon wave of fire kindled the ship, when Frank, who was looking in an opposite direction to his companion, clapped his hands, and, exclaimed joyfully, "Land! Land!" About a quarter of a mile from the wreck extended a line of coast, whose waving palms might be distinctly seen. Michael gave one look, and sank on his knees to return thanks to Almighty God for their wonderful preservation. They could now see all the bearings of their situation: their ship was jammed in between two rocks, both now visible; the one was higher than the other, and to its raising the head of the vessel whereon they stood might be attributed their safety.
"And the boats!" exclaimed Frank.
"Perished! No boat could have lived though the sea of last night," replied his companion; and both remained for a few minutes gazing on the vast expanse of air and water, which still bore traces of their late convulsion. The sea heaved with a tremulous and unquiet motion, and the sky was covered with broken clouds. But there was no time for melancholy meditation; the wind, which had been gradually veering round, was now blowing full to land, and they were obviously under the necessity of taking advantage of its direction to reach the island with all possible speed. One rough gale would drive to fragments the frail wreck, which yet, had they but kept by it, would have saved the lives of so many. A chest, with carpenters’ tools, had been lashed upon deck, and, of the planks and spars scattered round, they soon formed a slight raft. Great part of the ship was under water; but in the captain's cabin they found an ample supply of present necessaries. Wrapping Marion in a boat cloak, they fastened her to a large chest in the middle of the raft. The wind was in their favour, steady and gentle and setting in directly to the shore. Their frail launch went steadily though the water, the low sandy beach was easily gained; and, by ten o’clock, they had kindled a small fire, boiled some cocoa for breakfast, and Marion was asleep beneath the shadow of the knot of palm-trees which had first caught their attention, and under which it was their earliest task to raise a tent sufficient to shelter them from the nigh dews.
They soon discovered that their place of refuge was a small island, apparently quite uninhabited, and with no sign of any species of animal; but a complete aviary of the most brilliant-coloured birds. With the exception of the little knot of palm-trees where their tent was, that side of the island was a low sandy beach, which, indeed, ran around it like a belt; but the interior was a fertile and beautiful valley; and Frank saw with delight tamarinds growing in great profusion—a species of the bread fruit-tree, the cocoa-nut, and some wild nutmegs; these last, however, imperfect for want of cultivation. The ground, and all the lower branches of the trees, were covered with the most luxuriant creeping plants, whose profusion of flowers Marion was never weary of gathering; and often, after having piled them up in heaps, she would be found asleep half hidden amid their bright and odoriferous blossoms. The first week passed in continual voyagings backwards and forwards to the ship, when, as Michael had foreseen, a rough gale blew one night, and in the morning there was not a trace of the wreck. That very day, walking along the coast, Frank's eye was caught by a dark mass entangled in the sea-weed: he drew it up by means of a hook. It was the gallant flag, that had once
"Braved the battle and the breeze,"
of the now perished Indiaman, He laid it carefully out on the sands to dry, and went to impart his plan to Michael. The knot of palm-trees was on the only part of the island whose height commanded a view of the sea; yet there it was impossible for them to fix their residence—fresh water, fruits, and shelter, belonging to the other part of the island—and yet, from not being on the spot, a vessel might pass and repass unobserved; thus risking their little chance of escape.
Now it happened that the most conspicuous of the palms was a young and slender tree: this Frank proposed to climb, and affix to its height the flag, which would be as striking a signal as any they could raise. Even Michael shut his eyes, as the daring boy ascended, with the aid of a sharp hook and a knife, with which he cut notches, on which he rested first a hand, and then a foot, till at length. he was safely lodged amid the spreading branches at the top. He then let down a rope, with a pebble at the end, which had been put round his middle; the flag was drawn up, and nailed to the summit in the most conspicuous manner; and then, fastening the rope firmly, he descended to the ground in perfect safety, and, we may add, satisfaction.
The next day was the Sabbath, and was passed in rest and thanksgiving. When the heat of the day was over, they walked towards the interior of the island, and almost in the very centre found an immense banama-tree, with at least fifty green and slender pillars, forming as it were a natural temple. The whole party knelt; and, at her brother's bidding, Marion's innocent lips were the first to teach that solitude the words of prayer and praise. While they rested, Francis read a chapter from the Bible, which was his father's parting gift; and he can scarcely be blamed if his tears fell fast and heavy on the page. "My child," said the old sailor, "the God who has preserved you so wondrously for your parent, will restore you to him." Frank looked up in hope and gratitude, and to gather some tamarinds for Marion; and, by repeating yesterday's task of climbing a cocoa-nut near, made a valuable addition to their store.*[1]
Close beside, like a vein of silver, they found a pure, though small, fountain; they steeped some of the fruit in the water, and, with one of the cocoa nuts, they made a most delicious meal. The moon was shining over the dim and purple sea before they re-gained their tent.
For some days following, their labour was incessant—the banama tree seemed to be made too obviously for their home to be neglected; they cut away some of the boughs, and, stripping off some of the leaves, formed a kind of wall of branches and reeds, of which a large species grew near, and in great quantities. The spring they had found oozed away to a considerable distance, and at last was quite lost in a bed of greyish clay. Frank had often seen the natives of the villages, whither he had sometimes gone, fashioning clay into any form by the action of fire, and an idea struck him that they might harden square pieces of this clay, so as to form a floor for their dwelling, the soft damp earth beneath the banama being both comfortless and unhealthy. His plan was adopted, and they had soon a hard, dry, and firm floor.
There being certainly no risk of robbers, they left most of the things brought from the wreck, on the palm-tree knoll, having run up a slight partition of boards for their protection, only taking to the banama what was absolutely necessary. Francis, too, was the archer of the party; he had been accustomed to the use of a bow and arrow from his infancy, and a little practice made him so expert a shot that they were seldom without a bird for dinner; indeed, the island swarmed with them; and then they were roasted gypsy fashion—a fire was kindled on the ground, and the bird hung between two sticks to roast.
No time was ever lost, and nobody was ever idle; even Marion's services were called in requisition, and she soon became very industrious in collecting all the light and dried sticks to be used for fuel. One of their first tasks had been to plant some yams and peas in an open space, and their labour was rewarded, for they throve amazingly. Whether it was the change, the spare diet, the exercise, and being constantly out in the open air, but the children became quite robust in health; and Marion began to acquire a tint of crimson, quite English, on her cheek. Her childish age made her the happy one of the party; for Frank, even when most exhilarated by the success of any plan, was ever haunted by the thought of his father's despair when he should learn that the Warren Hastings had never arrived in port. Could he but have had his father with him, he thought life would have been perfectly happy, passed in their little Island—if he could but let him know their escape. At length an idea, almost an inspiration, came across his mind: he had heard of papers being sealed up in bottles, trusted to the mercy of the waves, and yet wonderfully coming to human knowledge at last. Accordingly, he wrote three distinct accounts of the shipwreck; described, which Michael's knowledge enabled him to do, the latitude of the island; gave his father's address, and also that of his London correspondent; finally, he took three bottles, placed in them the precious papers, and committed them to the sea. He was the more encouraged to this by Michael's observation, that a strong current run southward on the left side of the island.
There had now elapsed three months since their shipwreck, and the rainy season had set in. For this, however, they were well prepared. The banama tree stood on an eminence, and two drains, that they had cut, carried away all moisture. The roof was quite impervious to rain; and they had an ample stock of dried tamarinds, cocoa-nuts, heaps of the bread-fruit, kept in the sand like apples, their pease, almost all of which they had dried, biscuits, preserves, and salted provisions which yet remained of the ship's store. They had formed three rooms, and the rest of the banama tree, or rather grove, was like a covered garden, where Marion could run about in safety. But it soon became too evident that Michael's health was failing; he complained of dull weary pains at night; he loathed his food, and could with difficulty be prevailed on to take a little tea that was kept exclusively for him. Some arrow-root, which was found in a jar, now became invaluable; and, once or twice, Frank had the good luck to kill a bird, though the violence of the weather drove them mostly to shelter; and then, after a failure or so, he became quite skilful in broth-making. But Michael grew, daily, weaker and weaker—he could just creep from and to his bed, but that was all. Every thing now devolved on Francis; but Marion, who was a little, quiet, affectionate thing, would sit for hours by the old man's hammock, reach him refreshments, call her brother if he was wanted, and beguiled many a weary hour with her stock of hymns and scripture history.
Fine weather came at last, but it brought no strength to Michael. One day, with Frank's assistance, he wandered out a brief distance in the fresh morning air; with difficulty he returned to his hammock, and thence he never rose—he died that very afternoon. About an hour before he breathed his last, he called Frank to his side, gave him directions how to bury him, told him that it was his last belief that God in his mercy would restore Francis and his sister to their father, and commended to their future aid the faithless orphan Philip Michael, whom he had himself left at Southampton. Francis wept his promise. The old man then blessed them both, and said he was weary, and would fain sleep. They knew not when his spirit departed, for he died without a struggle.
One of the singularly brilliant butterflies, with which the island abounded, had for some time been skimming about on its white and azure wings; at last it settled on the sick man's face; Frank rose to drive the insect away, and saw with terror the change of countenance which had taken place; his exclamation brought Marion from the adjoining room, whither she had been sent, lest her movements might disturb Michael's sleep. "He is dead, Marion—dead! He will never look at or speak to us again! We have lost our only friend!" The poor boy sat down on the wooden stool and sobbed; Marion began to cry too; and the evening closed upon their lamentations. The little girl was too young for sorrow and sleep not to be near comrades; her brother saw her weariness, gave her the usual supper of a piece of biscuit, and another of cocoa nut, and watched by her till she was fast asleep. He then returned to the room where Michael lay, and remembered his last injunctions, and prepared to obey them.
A wick, floating in a goblet of oil, gave a dim and wavering light, scarcely sufficient for Francis to perform his sorrowful business. Michael had died with almost the very words on his lips urging the necessity of immediate burial; and this the boy was preparing to effect—for the life had now been departed twelve hours—and he himself wished to avoid leaving any gloomy impressions on the mind of such an infant as Marion: for himself he had no fear; he knew God was as much present with the dead as with the living.
It was almost beyond his strength; but by lowering the hammock, as Michael had directed, on a frame which was below, and which, running on four rudely constructed wheels, had been used to drag whatever they had wanted from the store at the palm-knoll, he contrived to convey the body from their dwelling. He took the way he had been told; and the burden was easily drawn, for it was on a descending slope the whole way.
He soon reached the palm the old sailor had indicated, and there saw what had been the last employment of his more than kind protector—the grave was ready dug. Frank sat down by its side; and sobbed as if his heart were breaking; at length he tightened the ropes of the hammock till it closed, like a shroud, round the body: he turned over the frame, and it fell with a heavy sound into the deep grave. Frank paused for a moment, and then proceeded to throw in the mould heaped on either side. The pit was at last full; but he could not bear to trample it down. He then knelt, and by the light of the clear full moon, now shining in the glory of a tropical night, read aloud the burial service of the dead. The solemn and consoling words had their due effect. With a tranquilised spirit he returned home. His sister had never before been left for one quarter of an hour by herself; yet he had felt no anxiety, Providence was watching over her, and there he found her; her little arm under her head, almost hidden by the black curls, the sweet breath coming regularly from her parted lips, one cheek flushed into the brightest rose, and seeming as if she had never stirred since he parted from her. Francis did not himself attempt to go to bed. At length fatigue overpowered him, and he slept long and sweetly. On his awakening he found Marion seated at his feet watching, but without an effort to disturb him, though it was long past noon. Mournfully, indeed, did the first week pass away without Michael; incessant were Marion's enquiries when he would return: it is so difficult to give a child an idea of death. But, as day after day passed by, poor Frank grew more anxious; for now the provisions, saved from the wreck, were almost exhausted. All that were left he put by carefully for the rainy season; he also, unless one now and then, as a rare treat to Marion, saved all the cocoa-nuts; and they lived entirely on what birds he shot, and the tamarinds. Both, however, continued in perfect health; and Marion now began to read prettily. Still, he dreaded the approach of the rainy season; for, with all his exertion, his stock of food ran short, and his crop of pease had failed.
During Michael’s lifetime, not a day had passed but he had gone to the sea-shore; now he could only go at intervals, for he had no one to take charge of Marion in his absence, and it was too far for her to walk, unless they could give nearly the whole day, and, by dining under the palm-trees, allow sufficient time for her to rest. The red flag still floated in the air, and on the trunk of the tree he carved the following inscription—"Francis and Marion Selwyn were saved from the wreck of the Warren Hastings, and are now living on this island. Should any land, they are implored not to leave the shore without first searching the interior." Having thus taken every possible precaution, they rarely left their own hut; and Frank busily employed himself in endeavouring to salt some of the birds he killed, and, by drying them over the smoke of a wood fire, found he succeeded very tolerably.
The rainy season again commenced; and it was with a heavy heart Frank listened to the rushing of the first mighty rains. However, he was too busy for despondency; several chests of clothes had floated on shore, and both were now employed in recruiting their own dilapidated wardrobe. The blue checked shirts were invaluable, for out of these he made Marion's new frocks, which he decorated very gaily with the bright coloured feathers he had collected in great quantities. The sewing certainly was a curiosity; for his only needle was a fine splinter of wood, in which he had burnt an eye: and it may be guessed that he was not very expert in its use. Still, the frock kept her warm, the feathers were quite gay, and Marion thought herself an Indian princess at least. Making baskets of the various twigs he had collected was another source of employment; and teaching Marion filled up the day. But the long dark nights were very tedious; for they had no lights, and no means of making any; and the small portion of oil left after Michael's death was husbanded carefully in case of an emergency. With great joy did both the children watch the abating rains; and the first day they could get as far as the palm-trees was one of absolute festivity.
They had been a year and three months on the island, when, one day, as Francis was climbing a tamarind tree, the branches on which he stood gave way: he was precipitated to the ground, and sprained his ankle. For the first time Frank thought their situation hopeless; their little garden must now remain uncultivated, their fruit ungathered, and unfortunately, the accident had happened at a considerable distance from home.
"Marion, my poor little sister!" exclaimed he, leaning his face on her shoulder, while he felt the large tears of the affectionate child falling on his hand. Both started; for at that moment they most assuredly heard the sound of voices. Frank sprang to his feet, but the pain was excruciating, and he sank on the grass. Voices were again heard, when, joining his hands together, so as to convey the sound farther, he gave a loud shout. It was answered; figures appeared among the trees, and in another moment they were in the arms of their father.
The blessing of God had been upon their plan: one of the bottles had been picked up at sea, and forwarded to Mr. Selwyn, who lost not a moment in hastening to the place indicated. A little assistance allayed the pain of Frank's ankle; and a sort of hand-barrow was soon formed. He was seated on it, and carried in triumph by the sailors; for not one but shared in the admiration excited by the resolution and the resources he had displayed. Little Marion in her robe of parti-coloured feathers, and her hat of palm-leaves, was for the next two days her father's guide. It will readily be believed with what interest every spot in the island was visited. At Frank's earnest desire, a large wooden cross was placed over Michael's grave; and there (for a few days rest and care restored the use of his ankle; and during those few days the ship was taking in fresh water) he and Marion paid their last visit.
The voyage was unmarked by any adventure; and, with no ordinary feelings of thankfulness, Mr. Selwyn found himself once more in his native land, and with his children at his side. It will be readily supposed that the first employment of the Selwyns was to find out Philip Michael. To oblige Francis, they themselves went to Southampton, where they learnt that, his uncle being dead, he had been placed, by the parish, in the service of a neighbouring farmer. Thither Mr. Selwyn and his son directed their steps. Philip came into the room—a fine intelligent looking lad, but pale and depressed. Mr. Selwyn asked Francis what he wished to have done for the lad they were about to take into their own care.
"His father was my father, and shall he not be my brother?"
Mr. Selwyn embraced his child: and from that hour the young Michael was treated as one of their family. He did their gratitude ample credit; and amid all the prosperity which was the lot of their future life, none of them ever forgot their early lessons of exertion, content, and reliance on Providence.
- ↑ *The cocoa-nuts shoot up to the height of seventy, and sometimes eighty, feet: we were told that a hundred feet is not uncommon, but I think we saw none so high. The fruit grows in immense clusters at the top of the stem, close up to the branches. The tree from top to bottom is surrounded by a series of rings, doubtless the traces of former circles of branches which have successively flourished, decayed, and fallen off. These rings are very distinct near the top; but lower down the trunk becomes so smooth that the natives are obliged to cut notches to assist them in getting up, either to pull the fruit, or to tap the tree of its juice, which is called toddy by the English. "The method used by the natives of the east in performing this feat of climbing—In the first place, they unite their feet, either at the great toes or ankles, by a thong or strap about ten or twelve inches in length. This lies across the steps or notches cut in the tree, and is strong enough to support the whole weight of the body. A flat broad belt is then made to pass round the tree, and also round the man's middle, enclosing both in one ring, as it were, the body being at the distance of a foot or so from the tree. The climber commences by placing the strap which ties his feet together across the first or lowest step, while he adjusts the belt, embracing him and the tree so as to be horizontal, he then plants his hands firmly against the stem, and a foot, or a foot and a half, below the belt. By now leaning back and tightening the body-belt, he divides his weight between it and his arms, so as entirely to relieve the foot-strap of all strains. The legs are next drawn up quietly, till the foot-strap lies across the second notch. The climber now removes his hands from the tree, and grasps the body-belt, which becomes quite slack on his throwing his body forward till it almost touches the stem—his whole weight meanwhile resting on the foot-strap. By a sudden movement he then jerks the slackened belt about a foot and a half further up the tree. After this he once more rests his hands on the stem, relieves his feet of the weight, and draws them up, as before, till the next notch receives the foot-strap, and so on till he reaches the top. He carries along with him an earthen pot slung round his neck, and a huge knife at his girdle. With this he cuts away the young sprouts, and draws off the toddy, which appears to be the sap intended by nature to form the fruit. When freshly taken from the tree, in the cool of the morning, it forms a delicious drink, not unlike whey in appearance, with a slightly acid taste, and a pleasant sweetness, as well as sharpness or briskness not very dissimilar to that of ginger-beer, only more racy and peculiar in its flavour."—Captain Hall's Fragments of Voyages and Travels, Second series, vol 2., pp. 217-219.