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treated, when patted on the shoulder, when gently spoken to, but more especially when treated to a song, the dromedary will exhibit strong signs of pleasure in his prominent eye, will turn round his long snake-like neck, look at you steadfastly, as if to express his thanks, and then gaze forth upon the outspread desert more proudly than before. This disposition we often noticed in a white female camel big with young, on which we trav

a dog." Should he have killed one of their companions, the caravan halts, a shallow grave is dug, and the body, with the head toward Mecca, is deposited in it, after which a mound is thrown up to mark the spot. Sometimes the wind disperses such mounds in the course of a few hours, though generally it adds to their bulk and elevation by heaping upon them incessantly fresh particles. In spots where there exists any moisture, plants spring up and envelop these heaps with a net-ersed a portion of the Sahara. In form, work of tough fibrous roots, so that they become permanent, and serve at distant intervals to designate the route of the caravans. Bones of camels, horses, and asses, broken pottery, and empty bottles, likewise assist for a short time to instruct the Arab in the way toward the interior, though the occurrence of two or three violent sand-storms suffices to obliterate these traces of man's passage through the wilderness.

The camel, not being himself sociable, is averse from encouraging sociability in others. It is only after much toil, and a vigorous application of the whip, that this stubborn animal can be made to move in line with individuals of his own species; though both in India and Africa the enterprise has been accomplished-in the former country, by the creation of a camel-train, in the latter, by accustoming the dromedary to military evolutions; to charge and retreat in compact bodies, and otherwise to imitate all the movements of cavalry. But your trading camel having acquired different habits, far exceeds a mule in obstinacy when you attempt to break through them; he will then oppose to your will a passive resistance utterly unconquerable; will lie down if he thinks you have put too much on his back, and refuse to rise though you should beat him to death. To show that this is often a mere crotchet, the Arabs remove two or three small packets from the load; upon which the animal, no doubt with an inward chuckle of satisfaction at having gained the victory, gives a loud grunt, and rises without perceiving that, during the operation, the packages have been restored. As, however, he believes his load to have been lightened, he trudges along merrily, if so sullen a beast can ever be said to be merry. But though serious and gloomy, this patient creature must not be supposed to be entirely without sentiment. When kindly

lightness, and symmetry, it was one of the most delicate of its species, rising at the top of the hunch to above eight feet in height, so that while riding through the streets of Cairo, we could look into the harems through the first floor windows.

In cities, in fairs, or other much-frequented places, the camel seems habitually dull; but no sooner does he find himself in the desert than his spirits return; he snuffs the sweet air, he looks gladly over the unimpeded landscape, he feels himself at home, and, if his rider be familiar to him, trots away at the rate of twelve or thirteen miles an hour without the least urging. In cases of necessity, he can, as we have already remarked, knock off eighteen or twenty miles in the same period. One of the pleasures of this mode of traveling, not often noticed, is the great height of the rider from the ground, preserving him from the fierce heat reflected from the sand, which on an ass, or even on a horse, sometimes scorches the face; but aloft on the camel's saddle, the air is comparatively cool, and rendered more so by the swift pace of the animal. Owing to the structure of his foot, he does not sink in the sand, but, spreading the sole as he goes, appears to fly over the surface rather than to gallop. Although his eye appears dull, his sight is long and piercing; and in the fineness of the sense of smelling, is perhaps exceeded by no other animal, since he can scent water, which has scarcely any odor at all, at the distance of a mile and a half, or two miles: we should even say, from observation, that he can scent it more than twice as far, for, on approaching the Nile from the desert, we have known him voluntarily to quicken his pace at the distance of four or five miles. The delight imparted by immense heat, which appears to confer upon some individuals a sixth sense, will continue during eight or ten

It is during a sand-storm, or on the approach of the simoom, that the camel displays the most striking proofs of sagacity. Before the human eye can detect the swiftly-approaching column of yellow or lurid gas which instantly strikes dead all creatures that breathe it, the camel discerns the danger, and uttering a wild roar, turns round and plunges his nose into the sand. The traveler also, who springs instantly to the earth, presses his face against the face of the desert, tightly closes his lips, and protects his nostrils with both hands. What signs of suffering or agitation the poor dromedary exhibits, the traveler is too much terrified to observe, but he himself experiences throughout his frame, first a quivering shooting pain, then a numbness and paralysis of all the limbs and vital functions, which prolonged for many seconds would be death. But the mysterious vapor which comes almost like lightning, in the same manner departs. In many cases, the sudden death of the beast and his rider reveals the fatal power of the simoom; but when they escape with life, the process of reviving from the stroke resembles that experienced by patients after a long illness-languor, feebleness, prostration of the whole system, giddiness of the head, dimness of sight, a partial loss of memory, and a bewilderment of ideas. Europeans flee to brandy as a remedy, the Arabs to coffee; while the camel, kneeling as if under a heavy burthen, groans, grunts, and looks ruefully about upon the waste.

hours, bubbling, seething, and thrilling | transparent fluid spoken of on such occathrough the frame like a sublime intoxi- sions? The water in the fifth stomach is cation; but by degrees weariness and never, we believe, found upon dissection languor succeed, thirst makes itself felt, to be quite clear, but in some cells a little and as the sun nods toward the west, muddy, in others yellow. the eye glances about wistfully in search of a clump of palm-trees, or a rock, the usual indications of a fountain. Upon discovering the well-known signal, the dromedary rears his head, turns, gives his rider a look of encouragement, and then, if not quite subdued by fatigue, bolts off at full speed. How many days he can go without drinking, has never perhaps been exactly ascertained-in fact, the power of endurance varies greatly in different individuals but it has been stated, on very good authority, that the dromedary can subsist nine days without water, though exposed the whole time to a heat resembling that of a furnace. It is certain that when the camel does drink, he always appears to be laying in a stock for a week or so, and he has even been known to swallow seven gallons and a half, or thirty quarts of water, at one time. This allows three quarts a day for ten days, which, though not sufficient properly to quench the thirst of so large an animal, may yet be enough to keep him alive. Comparative anatomy, which has indulged in a legion of experiments on the structure of much inferior animals, has not extended a proper degree of attention to the camel. It has, no doubt, been ascertained that this extraordinary creature possesses one stomach more than other mammalia; but curiosity has not been sufficiently busy with that immense bladder, streaked with sanguine veins, which the animal sometimes blows out of its mouth in spring. In strings of thirty or forty, we have noticed, during the greatest heat of the day, a majority amusing themselves after this fashion. On such occasions, they will raise their heads, look around wildly, and then, with a strange offensive noise, draw up the bag from their throats, and blow it out inflat ed to its fullest extent, as if to cool it by the touch of the external air. In a few minutes they would suffer it to collapse, and suck it back with a ruckling noise into their throats. Is not this bag intended to contain, in addition to the fifth stomach, a supply of fresh water? And is it not in this that travelers, when compelled to kill their dromedaries to preserve their own lives in the Sahara, find the pure

One means of keeping up the strength of this faithful beast, which seems never to have occurred to the inhabitants of Eastern Africa, or else to be neglected through indolence, is habitually practiced in the Moggreb or Western Desert: the owner going before, or a little on one side, breaks or plucks up whatever shrub or plant he perceives suited to the camel's taste, and gives it to him as he walks along; and the vegetable juices thus obtained supply the want of water. Another great advantage arises from this policy of the Moggrebyns: it produces a kindly feeling, closely resembling affection, between the master and his beast, and in

spires the latter with so much trust and confidence, that when for whole days nothing is given him, he seems to understand that it is only because there is nothing to be had.

Some naturalists have given currency to the opinion that the camel is not found in India; but this is an error, since in all ages it has abounded in the great sandy plains north of the Nerbuddah, where, in the time of Akhbar, it constituted the sole wealth of some tribes, individuals among whom were said to possess herds of ten thousand. In Persia, in Khorasan, in Asia Minor, in the Crimea, on the plains of the Kuban, throughout the steppes of Central Asia, and in China, the camel is the common beast of burden. Mongol nobles journey on dromedaries to the court of Peking, and sometimes harness them to carriages. When ladies travel, whether in Northern or Southern Asia, their favorite mount is the camel, on which they are placed in a very peculiar manner; two capacious panniers are slung, one on either side the animal, furnished with soft cushions. In these, two ladies seat themselves, and are protected from the sun's rays by a silken canopy, supported on slender gilded poles rising from the corners of the panniers. Here at their ease they chat with each other, smoke, or nurse their babies, and are occasionally lulled to sleep by the drowsy motion of the animal.

The young foal of the camel, when frisking after his mother, has a sort of ungainly prettiness, which is almost comic, especially when the owner determines upon weaning it. A coarse net work of rope is then tied over the dam's breasts, against which the young camel, in search of his usual nourishment, dashes his nose in a sort of petulant fury. He will go on, however, making attempts for about eight or ten days, after which he coolly abandons the enterprise, and takes to ordinary food, thorns and thistles, and the coarsest herbage produced by the sterile soil of the desert. To reconcile the young cameling to his lot, the Kirghis adorn his head with gay-colored ribbons and long streamers, which, as he gambols about, dance and flutter in the air. Camel's milk, in all the countries where the animal flourishes, is an article in great request, both as a beverage and for the purpose of making cheese and butter; but it does not seem to yield that strong spirit which

is extracted from mare's milk in all parts of Tartary, and enables the wandering hordes to enjoy the delights of intoxication. In Arabia and Northern Africa, the fine hair of the comel, which the animal sheds once a year, is woven into fabrics little less soft and beautiful than the shawls of Cashmere. A white burnoos of this material, manufactured in Tunis or Fez, hooded and tasseled with floss silk, sometimes sells in the bazaars of Cairo or Damascus for twenty-five or thirty pounds, according to its whiteness and luster. Nor is this at all surprising, since very few camels are white, the common color being brown, varying occasionally almost to black. Of the coarse, long hair, which, as in the shawl-goat, covers and conceals the down, ropes and tents are made. Hence the expression which occurs perpetually in the Arab poets, "the black tents of Oman or Nejed;" and in the Songs of Solomon, "the black tents of Kedar."

The camel is said to be found wild in the deserts lying east of the Himalaya. But this may be doubted, since the animal shuns forests, and there is no steppe of sufficient extent to withdraw crowds of so large a beast from the notice of man. It is equally erroneous to regard him as a native of Tibet, a country so lofty, cold, and desolate that even the shaggy horse of Britain finds it difficult to subsist there. It may safely be affirmed that the camel exists every where in bondage-sometimes the slave of the slave, but always indus. trious, patient, and addicted to toil. We have seen him harnassed to the plow with an ass, and drawing a cart side by side with a buffalo; we have beheld him move through the eternal gyrations of a waterwheel assisted by a skeleton of a horse; but his proper place is the desert, where both he and his rider are exhilarated by the buoyant and elastic air. The only inconvenience attending the use of the camel as a saddle-animal is the awkwardness of mounting or descending. He squats on the ground, and you get into the saddle; you utter a sound which no combination of letters can represent, and up he starts, first with his hind-legs, which nearly pitches you over his head, and then with his fore-legs, which sends you back with equal violence. In dismounting, it is much the same-you utter the mysterious guttural sound, and down he goes, plump, doubling his fore-legs under him, and then

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THERE are many questions which pre- | which may indicate briefly the nature of sent themselves from time to time con- the task we desire to see performed. cerning the Morals of Literature-ques- 1. In Biography. Where are the limits tions of great interest, but not always of to the proper exposure to the public of easy solution. We are not speaking of the thoughts, feelings, and actions of the such literary misdemeanors as plagiarism, subject of the biography, and of those calumny, blasphemy, indecency-things with whom he was connected? which must have been recognized as offenses ever since literature existed. Rather do we refer to modes of writing whose ethical character is sometimes doubtful, or which, at all events, has not yet been branded with the opprobrium which delinquency against the principles of justice, truth, delicacy, or charity would deserve. The ever-increasing depth and fullness of the stream of books and periodicals in our time, carries us more and more frequently against these dubious shoals and quicksands of literature; and it would seem in every way desirable that they should be duly surveyed, and marked down in our charts as dangerous or otherwise. On the one hand, it is to be wished that actions really infringing the principles of morality, should meet with universal condemnation-a condemnation for which no commercial success of the offending works should compensate. On the other hand, it is no less to be wished, that the fear of transgressing, where there is no true cause for blame, should not fetter the author, or prevent him from giving to the world whatever he may have to teach.

The due discussion and settlement of these questions would be a work of great magnitude and of signal utility. Without any pretension to attempt its achievement, we propose only, in this paper, to throw out a few suggestive questions

We shall all allow, in generalities, that if architecture should have its seven lamps for illumination, literature should be guided at least by the five holy ones of truth, purity, simplicity, loving-kindness, and reverence. But, practically, the claims of truth are in continual collision with those of at least two of the rest: with kindness, as regards the revelation of error and wrong; and with reverence, as regards the violation of the sanctities of the inner life. In many cases the biographer may most justly feel at a loss to decide which guide he is to follow-the principle of such abstract truth as should require him to tell (so far as he knows it) "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," concerning his subject and all connected with him; or the principle of kindness which shall adopt the rule, "de mortuis nil nisi bonum; "" or, lastly, the principle of reverence, which shall warn him from dealing with whole departments of life most essential for a thorough comprehension of character. We all know how deplorably many biog raphers have erred in their solution of this problem. We have "Lives" which "lie like an epitaph," and are mere eulogies, as inane as the portraits of Queen Elizabeth, without a shadow in her face. These are written on behalf of kindness, and at the expense of truth. They are utterly useless; tending rather to nau

seate the reader of the over-sweetened | ness of the inner life-a violence which subject, and only misleading us in the destroys its delicate beauty, like a blow great science of humanity, of which each separate biography ought to be what a rock is to the geologist, and an elementary substance to the chemist. The only excuse for them is when they arise from that hero-worship, whose law it is to dazzle the mental eye, and render not only spots, but huge stains and blurs invisible, or transformed to radiant stars. Such biographies, written with sound vision, would be altogether unpardonable.

on a woman's face. Then there is the loss of confidence in the security of all written and spoken confessions of feeling, whereby many a heart may be led to hide a wound which might have been healed by the hands of wiser friendship. Lastly, and worst, the most secret outpourings of the heart become entangled in a web of self-consciousness in youth, and in later life are utterly checked and arrested. The young man or woman who has read Again, we have "Lives" (but they were one of these biographies, can hardly write never rare), wherein all the errors and a diary touching on the inward life (a offenses of the subject are stated plainly task otherwise most useful for self-knowlenough; and if truth be infringed, it is edge), without a poisonous under-current on the side of severity, not mercy. Near- of reflections as to the effect it would ly always such biographies sin against produce if hereafter published; like the charity, being dictated by active hate; one which he has perused, and which was and the reader's spirit of justice calls out equally, no doubt, intended by the writer for the champion (who sooner or later is to be kept secret. Even a child (as we sure to appear), to defend the helpless have known) may be thus instructed in dead from the attacks of his calumniator. miserable double-mindedness and vanity. In our day it seems as if every character One who had been duly indoctrinated in in history, who had been held up to op- the juvenile forms of this pernicious literprobrium, is thus obtaining honorable re ature, asked of her guardian (the friend habilitation. The literary pillory is al- of the writer), the ominous question, ways succeeded by the literary wreath."Auntie, don't you think I am good If there should be Comtistes in the enough to be put in a tract?" twentieth century, their calender of heroes and saints will be at least half filled with the damned of history, till we have the month of Judas, the week of Nero, and the day of St. Guy Fawkes.

Again and this is what concerns us most just now we have "Lives" written with the manifest desire to do every justice to the subject; to set forth alike the virtues and the defects, in a manner at once true and kindly. But another great law is broken-the law of reverence. The man's most secret life-his most private memoranda, his letters, written in the heat of passion or remorse, to his closest intimates-are violated and thrown open to the world. The public have got the truth; but they have lost something almost equally precious-the sense of the sanctity of the heart and soul's secrets. Or, rather, we may say that a special and individual truth has been insured by the sacrifice of the universal principle of truthfulness and confidence between man and man, whereby we trust each other with things sacred. The injury done by such a biography can not easily be measured. There is first the rude violence done to the common sense of the sacred

What is a biographer to do to avoid splitting on these rocks?-to be at once true, kind, and reverent of inner sanctities? Must biography be reduced to a mere dry statement of the most ordinary and public facts of life; such a résumé as a newspaper-writer holds in his bureau, ready to print the day any man of note expires, and telling the world only of his birth, marriage, and death, his battles, speeches, books, honors, and last will and testament? This would be to cut off from us something more than a delightful branch of literature. It would be (to use our former simile), to forbid the geologist to examine below the surface of his rock; the chemist to analyze his element. "The noblest study of mankind" would hereby for ever be arrested. Such a sacrifice can hardly be demanded. If we could consult the departed as to how they would desire the records of their earthly career to be written, we may feel assured they would not ask of us to eliminate from them aught which might really guide or help the living; any

"Footsteps which perchance another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

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