Robert Merry's Museum, Vol. VII, No. 1-6
Date: 2023-04-15T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's literature -- Periodicals

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Title: Robert Merry's Museum, Vol. VII, No. 1-6

Author: Various

Editor: Samuel G. Goodrich

Release date: April 15, 2023 [eBook #70557]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Bradbury & Soden, 1842

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70557

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT MERRY'S MUSEUM, VOL. VII, NO. 1-6 ***

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM.

EDITED BY

S. G. GOODRICH,

AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY’S TALES.

VOLUME VII.

BOSTON

BRADBURY, SODEN & CO.,

No. 12, School Street.

1844.

Stereotyped by George A. Curtis, New England Type and Stereotype Foundry.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VII.

JANUARY TO JUNE, 1844.

January, | 1
London Printseller, | 4
A Test, | “
Significant, | “
The Thorn, | 5
Old Man in the Corner, | 6, 43, 82, 116, 145, 176
Don’t give up the Ship, | 10
Cure for the Tooth-ache, | 12
Either way will do, | “
The Stormy Petrel, | “
Bill and the Boys, | 13, 69, 109, 139, 185
Pictures of Various Nations, | 16, 56, 86, 113, 146, 170
Fresh Water, | 19
Light, | 20
Herons and Rooks, | 24
Spectral Illusions, | 25
Bats, | 26
Yankee Wit, | 27
Musician in Ohio, | “
Kin Than, | 28
Our Correspondence, | 30, 94, 124, 190
Music, | 32
February, | 33
The Three Sovereigns, | 34
Written on a Boy’s Marble, | “
Inquisitive Jack, | 35, 75, 106, 130, 163
Dick Boldhero, | 38, 66, 98, 135, 173
The Indian and his Dog, | 40
Husking the Corn, | 42
The Sea, | 45
Snow-balling, | 46
Anecdote of Washington, | 47
Question on Mathematics, | “
The use of Telescopes, | 48
The Lotus, | 50
The Miller and the Fool, | “
The Indian Dandy, | 51
The Locust, | 52
St. Patrick and Father Mathew, | 53
The real Culprit, | 54
Combat between a Falcon and Serpent, | 55
The Papyrus, | “
Pigeon Coves, | 56
Bonaparte and the Leg of Mutton, | 58
Names of Countries and Places, | 59
Snuff-taking, | “
Squirrels, | 60
Consolation in Sea-Sickness, | 61
The Blue Jay, | 62
Lines placed over a Chimney-piece, | “
A German, | “
Shoe Black and his Dog, | 63
Advertisement Extra, | “
Pat-riotism, | “
To our Readers, | 63
The Snow-Flakes. A Song, | 64
March, | 65
The Old Mansion, | 72
The Desman, | 74
City of Ancient Babylon, | 79
The Leopard, | 81
The Pyramids of Egypt, | 84
A Monster of the Deep, | 88
The Sperm Whale, | 89
The Cottager to her Infant, | 91
Squirrels, | 92
A Winter Evening in the Country, | 94
The Little Soldier, | 95, 159
Evening. A Song, | 96
April, | 97
William Ellery Channing, | 101
Chinese Ingenuity, | 104
Effect of Climate, | “
The Morse, | 105
Promotion from the Ranks, | 108
Family Men, | 111
Nine of Diamonds, | “
Sharp Retort, | “
The Leming, | 112
Persia, | 120
How to get Letters Free, | 122
Love One Another, | “
Varieties, | 123
May, | 129
Deserts of Africa and Asia, | 133
The Merry Knight, | 134
Anecdote of a Tiger, | 143
Miss Pappoo, | 144
I don’t want to go, | 149
A Chinese Dandy, | “
A thrilling Narrative, | 151
Demosthenes, | 153
Walking on Stilts, | 158
The Goldfinch. A Song, | 160
June, | 161
Sketches in Egypt, | 165
What’s in a Name, | 178
The Five-Dollar Bill, | 179
The Lark, | 182
Origin of the names of the U.S., | 183
Battle between a Rat and Crab, | 184
Blue Beard and his Castle, | 188
A Horse stung to death, | “
The Flowers of Spring, | “
Boisterous Preaching, | “
Letter to Peter Parley, | 189
Peter Parley’s answer, | “
The Lily. A Song, | 191

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII 1844. No. 1.

Well—here we are again! The old year has passed away, and the new one has come. How rapidly the months have flown! It seems but a brief space since our last farewell to the old year,—and since we greeted you all with wishes of a happy new one. And yet, within that space, this great world on which we live has made its annual journey of three hundred millions of miles around the sun—and we have kept it company. The year 1843 has departed, and carried up to heaven its record of good and of evil!

And we are now at the threshold of another year; we are about to begin a new race—to perform a new journey. The year 1844 is an untried region—an unknown country. What may be there in store for us, we cannot say. But let us start with cheerful hearts, with hopeful anticipations, and with a stock of good resolutions.

It is the first day of January,—that cold and stormy month, which the ancients represented under the image of an old man, with a long beard,—such as appears at the head of this article. Boys and girls—I wish you all a happy new year! But what are mere wishes? They are idle breath—a mockery of words, unless the heart goes with them. And my heart, on the present occasion, does go with my words. I not only wish you a happy new year, my friends, but, so far as in me lies, I intend to make it a happy one for my readers. I have in store for them—not cake and candy—not sweetmeats and sugar-plums—but rhymes and riddles—fables and allegories—prose and poetry—lays and legends—fact and fancy—in short, a general assortment of such things as belong to a literary museum for young people. And although I profess to deal in matters that may amuse my friends, I have still a desire that, while they are entertained, they shall be instructed. The only way to be happy—really and truly happy—is to be wise; and wisdom comes through teaching—through education. I think I can make this very plain, if you will listen to me a few moments.

You know there are such people as savages—those who roam wild in the woods, or dwell in wigwams, sitting upon the ground, and sleeping upon the skins of beasts; those who have no books, nor schools, nor churches; those who have never read the Bible; those who know not Jesus Christ, nor the ten commandments.

Well—what makes the difference between these wild, savage people, and those who live in good houses, in towns and cities, and have all the comforts and conveniences of life? Knowledge makes the whole difference, and knowledge comes by instruction—by education. Do my little readers know that without education they would be savages? Yet it is really so. All are born alike—the child of the savage, and the child of the Christian. One grows up a savage, because its father and mother do not send it to school—do not furnish it books, do not teach it to read and to write. The other grows up a Christian, because it is instructed—it is educated. Education, therefore, makes us to differ.

Now, what do you think of this? Do you observe, that all our little friends, who hate books, and school, and instruction, are trying to be like little savages? Bah! I hope none of my readers are so unreasonable. I hope they see that it is best for them to be Christians—and as far as possible from the savage state. I think one thing is very clear: our good Father in heaven, whom we ought all to love and obey, did not intend us to be savages; and, at the same time, he has provided only one way to avoid it—and that is by education. He makes it our duty, therefore, as well as our happiness, to seek instruction—education.

This design of Providence is very apparent, when we compare man with animals. Birds and beasts do not go to school; they are provided with all needful knowledge by that power which we call instinct. A little chicken, only a day old, will run about and pick up seeds, which lie scattered among the stones and dirt. How does the chicken know that seeds are made to eat, and that stones are not made to eat? How does the chicken distinguish the wholesome and nutritious seed, from the dirt and gravel? God has taught it—God has given it a wonderful instinct, by which it is guided in the choice and discovery of its food.

But the infant has no such instinct; left to itself, it will pick up dirt, stones, pins—anything that comes in its way—and put all into its little greedy mouth! The child has to be taught everything by its parents or its nurse. It must be taught what is good and what is evil—what to seek, and what to shun.

The chicken runs about, as soon as it is hatched; the child must be taught first to creep, then to walk. The chicken, left to itself, though but a day old, will hide from the hawk that would devour it; the child, if left to itself, would as soon go into the fire, or the water, or the bear’s mouth, as anywhere else. The chicken is guided by instinct—the child by instruction.

Thus it appears, that, while instinct is the guide of the animal world, education is the instrument by which children are to reach their true destiny. God meant us to be educated; and children who hate education, hate God’s will and God’s way; they hate the road that leads to their own happiness. Think of that—black-eyes and blue-eyes!—think that when you resist instruction, you resist the will of Providence, and sin against your own peace! The designs of Providence, in respect to animals and mankind, appear very striking from other considerations. Now a beaver is a natural architect, and his instinct not only teaches him the art of house-building, but he has a set of tools ready furnished. He has sharp teeth, with which he cuts down trees, and divides them into proper lengths: thus his teeth answer both as hatchet and saw. His tail is flat, and when he has laid on his mortar, he turns round and spats it with his tail, which operates like a mason’s trowel. So here is a carpenter and mason, both in one, educated by nature and provided with a set of tools, scot free. What a happy fellow!

So it is with the woodpecker; he never learnt a trade, or paid a shilling for tools—yet he knows how to chisel out his hole in a dry tree—and his bill answers as both gouge and hammer. The spider has no shuttle or loom; he never had a lesson in the factories of Lowell—yet he weaves his ingenious web—and he sets it, too, so as to take his prey.

Surely, Providence has taken care of these creatures in a wonderful way. And perhaps you think that God has been more kind to them than to human beings; for while He teaches the animal world, He leaves children to schoolmasters; and while He teaches the beavers and the birds their trade, and furnishes their tools, gratis—boys and girls must serve seven years for a trade, and pay for their tools when they have done!

But let us look a little farther. It is true that if children refuse to learn—refuse to be educated—they remain ignorant, and like savages. But children can learn, if they will. Education is offered to them—and, if it is improved, what is the result? Look around, and see what mankind, who have obeyed the will of God, and who have improved their faculties by education,—see what they are, and what they have done. The instinct of the beaver is very wonderful—but, after all, it only enables the beaver to build rude mounds of earth, wood and stone, which serve as its abode; and also enables it to provide its simple food of roots and grass and fruits. This is the whole stretch of instinct.

But let us look at the results of education, operating upon the faculties of man. Look at Boston—what a mighty city! How many houses—and if we go into them, how beautiful—how convenient! Look at the paved streets—the pleasant side-walks! Go into the shops, and see the beautiful merchandises. Go into the Museum, in Tremont street, and see the wonders there, gathered from the four quarters of the globe. Go down to the waters and see the ships, made to plough the mighty ocean, and hold intercourse with the ends of the earth. Go to the Atheneum, and see the stores of knowledge, which man has discovered. Go to the churches, and see the people holding communion with that God who built the earth, and spread out the heavens. Open the Bible, and read the wonders of revelation—the immortality of the soul—the mighty plan of man’s salvation. Go to the fireside, and see the comfort—the peace—the happiness, which are there. And remember that all these things—every one of them—is the product of education. Oh, who then would be content with instinct, merely because it is easy, and costs nothing; and spurn education, because it requires effort?

Education, then, is a great and glorious thing; but remember that you must take advantage of it. The old adage says—“One man may lead a horse to water, but ten can’t make him drink.” It is so with children in education: it is easy to send them to school—easy to put books before them—easy to give them good counsel; but if they will not try to learn, they will not learn. You cannot teach an unwilling mind. When I was a boy, I caught a blue jay, and put him in a cage; but the fellow wouldn’t eat. I got hold of his head, and opened his mouth, and put some cherries down, but he wouldn’t swallow; and as soon as I let him go, he threw it all up; and so he died! Now, this is just the way with some boys and girls—they will not take knowledge into their minds; they reject good counsel; even if you cram it down, they throw it up. Isn’t that bad? Yes—very bad indeed.

Now—ladies and gentlemen—boys and girls—walk up,—here’s Merry’s Museum for 1844! We are going to set matters all right; we are going to show the advantages of education, the pleasures of education, the duty of education. We shall have our sweetmeats and sugar-plums, as we go along; but still—still—we mean to know a great deal more at the end of the year, than we do now! We mean to lay up a good stock of knowledge, which may last us through life. Who will go with us?

A London printseller advertises, “A head of Charles I., capitally executed.”

A Test.—“Never,” said the celebrated Lord Burleigh, “trust a man who is unsound in religion, for he that is false to his God can never be true to man.”

Significant.—An old picture represents a king sitting in state with a label, “I govern all;” a bishop, with a legend, “I pray for all;” a farmer, drawing forth, reluctantly, a purse, with the inscription, “I pay for all.”

The Thorn.

There was once a boy, named James, who, with his little brother and sister, was going to take a walk in the fields and woods. It was a beautiful warm day, and James thought he would take off his stockings and shoes, and go barefoot.

I suppose my young friends all know how pleasant it is to take off the covering of the feet, in a warm summer day, and run about on the smooth grass. How light one feels—how swift one can run with his foot free as that of the mountain deer!

Now it happened that James had been forbidden by his mother to take off his stockings and shoes, for she was afraid that he would take cold. But he was now at a distance from home, and he thought he would do as he liked. So he took off his stockings and shoes.

Oh, how he did scamper about for a time; but, by and by, as he was skipping along, he stepped upon a thorn, which entered the bottom of his foot, and inflicted a severe wound. As it gave him great pain, he sat down and tried to pull out the thorn; but, alas! it had entered quite deep, and had then broken off in such a manner, that he could not get hold of it. There he sat for some time, not knowing what to do—but at last he was obliged to hobble home as well as he could.

James told his mother what had happened, for how could he help it? “Ah—ah—my son!” said she, “this comes of your disobedience. When will children learn that parents know what is best for them?” However, the good woman set to work to try to get out the naughty thorn, but she could not succeed.

By this time James was in great pain; so his mother put on a poultice, hoping that would cure it. But the poor fellow didn’t sleep any all night, he was in such distress, and in the morning his foot was sadly swollen. The doctor was then sent for, and at last he succeeded in getting out the thorn; but poor James had a sad time of it. It was at least three weeks before he got quite well. But the event was a good lesson to him. Whenever, in after life, he was tempted to disobey his mother, he said to himself—“Mother knows best—remember the thorn!” Whenever he was tempted to seize upon any forbidden pleasure, he would always say—“Remember the thorn!”

The Old Man in the Corner; or, the Pedler’s Pack.

Not long since, an old man—a very old man—came into the office of Merry’s Museum, and sat down in a corner of the room. He looked a little like old Peter Parley—but it can’t be that it was he, for some say Peter is dead—and, at any rate, he is not to be seen about these days.

After the old man had sat for some time,—saying nothing to anybody, and only looking about with a kind of mournful countenance,—he got up, and slowly marched away. When he was gone, one of the boys found a little parcel on the bench where the old man sat, addressed to “Mr. Robert Merry; care of Bradbury & Soden, 10 School street, Boston.”

On opening the paper, we found an old greasy book within, written full of tales, fables, sketches, &c.; some of them very good indeed, and some very queer. The title of the little book was the “Pedler’s Pack,” and it had the following motto:

Come, all my youthful friends, come near—
For every one I’ve something here:
Anecdotes for those who choose—
Rhymes for all who love the muse—
Riddles and conundrums—bless ’em—
For little folks who love to guess ’em;
Odd scraps have I from history torn,
Strange tales from other countries borne—
And many a story, true and funny,
Well worth your reading and your money.
So, all my youthful readers, come—
Boys and girls, each shall have some.
Walk up, my friends—Blue Eyes and Black—
And let us ope the Pedler’s Pack.

There was no note or direction, which informed us clearly what the Old Man in the Corner intended we should do with his book; but we suppose that he intended we should publish it in Merry’s Museum. This we have accordingly concluded to do. We shall insert such articles as seem suitable for our columns—making occasional notes of an explanatory nature. The first article we shall insert, is entitled The Blues; and in order that our readers may understand it, we must premise that when people are sad, or unhappy, on account of troublesome thoughts, they are said to have the blues, or the blue devils. The same thing is meant by the terms, bad spirits, the vapors, low spirits, &c. The Old Man in the Corner seems to think that these troubles may be avoided by a proper course of life.

Here is his queer article about

The Blues.

How it rains! Patter, patter, patter! Well, let it pour! I love the rumble of the drops upon the roof, like the prolonged roll of a distant drum. Let it rain; I am secure. I shall not go out to-day, nor shall any one intrude upon my privacy. This day is mine!

A wet day is often considered a lost day. To me it is otherwise. I can shut the door upon the world—turn the key upon life’s cares, and give myself up freely to the reins of a vagrant fancy, without reproach of conscience. Providence has stepped in, and, arresting my tasks and my duties, gives me a sort of Sabbath of leisure and mental recreation. To me a wet day brings no blues, or, if it does, they are those which come on the wings of reverie, and are such as I am sometimes willing to entertain. Your reasonable blue is a communicative, suggestive thing, and I always court its society.

And, after all—what are “the Blues?” Everything else has been classified, analyzed, and reduced to scientific system; and why not these beings which figure so largely in the history of the human mind? This is a subject of profound inquiry, and I wonder it has not attracted the attention of the philosophical. Let us look at it.

To get firm hold of the subject, we must suppose a case. I sit in my room alone. Alone, did I say? As nature abhors a vacuum, the mind instinctively shrinks from solitude. If fleshy forms are not present, a host of imps press in from crack and crevice, to gambol around us. The mind is like the room in which the body is held, and these shadowy elves issue forth from the plastering of the walls, or peep out from the dark arras that hangs betwixt the visible and invisible world. Could we break through the plastering, or lift the arras, and see what these seeming imps are—whether they are things, or only images of things; whether they are substantial spirits, which, like invisible eels in water, are ever playing their pranks behind the curtain of vision; could we do this, our task would easily be done; and for our discovery we should expect to be made a member of some philosophical society. But, alas! there is no bridge that crosses the gulf between life and death—none, at least, upon which a being of flesh and blood can return. It is therefore impossible to follow “the blues” to their retreats—to the recesses from which, unbidden, they come, and to which, pursued, they fly.

What, then, are “the Blues?” In natural history, there is nothing like dissection. But, before dissection, we must have a subject. How, then, shall we catch a blue?—that is the first question. The easiest way is to take one by supposition, and, while we are supposing, we may as well include the whole race. These can be arranged as follows:

Order I. The Blues.

These have no head, no heart, no ears, no breathing organs; body, invisible; food, the human heart.

Order I. The Blues. | Class I. Blues of reverie: pleasing, but not to be too much indulged.
Class II. Rum blues: pestiferous.
Class III. Blues of indigestion: horrible.
Class IV. Blues of bad conscience: frightful.

We might now proceed to give the several kinds into which each class is divided, and then the numerous species of each kind. But this must be reserved for some future work on the subject; and if we should publish such an one, let no person laugh at our labors, nor sneer at our philosophy. “The Blues” constitute a great subject of scientific research, and are by no means unworthy of the moral philosopher. We have only time to make a few observations, to show the force of this latter remark.

In the first place, it may be noted that those persons who live temperately, rise early, and go to bed early; those who fulfil their duties toward God and man; those who have good digestion, and a good conscience—are never visited by any other blues than Order I., Class I. If any others ever do come to such persons, they usually depart as speedily as a rattlesnake from an ash stick. Of course, these people are not supposed to be particularly interested in our subject.

But that numerous class, who are in the habit of neglecting some daily duty, or violating some moral or physical law; those who eat too much; those who take strong drinks; those who follow pleasure rather than peace; those, in short, who keep the mind like an ill-swept garret, decorated with dust, cobwebs and confusion—those persons are doubtless particularly interested in our subject. For these, the little blues of the pestiferous classes have a strong affinity. Around the hearts of these persons they are ever to be found. Upon their lifeblood these elves live.

Of all classes of blues, the Rum Blue is, perhaps, the worst. Whether the insect called “blue bottle” took its name from it, or not, is a question for the learned. The class is pretty numerous, and includes a variety of genera, among which are the following.

Class II. Rum Blues;
or, The Horrors.

Genus 1. The gin blue.

Genus 2. The whiskey blue. (In London called “blue ruin.”)
Genus 3. The wine blue.
Genus 4. The toddy blue.
Genus 5. The brandy blue.
Genus 6. The Santa Croix blue.

This class of blues is particularly pestiferous. There is no great difference between them, and none but a nice observer can distinguish them: they are, however, a most destructive race. They often assemble in crowds around the mind, and are then called “low spirits,” or “the horrors,” terms which are descriptive of their character. They not unfrequently sting the soul and body with such agony, as to bring on what is called the delirium tremens—the most frightful of mortal maladies. Under the agony of the rum blue, a man will sometimes murder his wife and children. This subject is almost too frightful to dwell upon; but there is one source of consolation, and that is, that no one ever need be afflicted with the rum blue. If a person will only abstain from alcoholic liquors, he will never be infested with any species of this kind of vermin.

The class of blues belonging to bad conscience, as well as that of indigestion, is numerous, and includes a variety of genera. We will not now enter into a detail of them, as our present observations are intended to be rather practical than scientific. We may therefore close this article with the observation, that whoever is afflicted with the blues, has it in his own power to get rid of them.

And now, gentle reader, the moral of all this is as follows. Many people are subject to pain of mind—which they express by the terms, blue devils, the horrors, low spirits, &c. &c. Now, this pain of mind almost always proceeds from some misconduct; from the neglect of duty; from improper eating or drinking; from wrong doing of some kind or other. Therefore, if you would avoid pain of mind—if you would keep away the blues—adopt good habits, and stick to them.

Chinese notion of Dancing.—When Commodore Anson was at Canton, the officers of the ship Centurion had a ball upon some holiday. While they were dancing, a Chinese, who very quietly surveyed the operation, said softly, to one of the party, “Why don’t you let your servants do this for you?”

“Don’t give up the Ship.”

During the last war with England, a bloody battle was fought between the British vessel of war Shannon and the American vessel Chesapeake. This took place in the waters off Boston harbor.

In a short time, the Chesapeake was terribly cut to pieces, and many of the men were killed and wounded. The commander, Captain Lawrence, was himself mortally wounded, but, while he was dying, he exclaimed, “Don’t give up the ship!” These striking words have passed into a proverb, and nothing is more common than to hear people say, when they wish to inspire those who are in difficulty with a new stock of courage and energy, “don’t give up the ship!” Now such little sentences, take the whole world together, produce an immense deal of effect,—for very often a person about to despair has taken new courage from saying to himself,—or having it said to him,—“don’t give up the ship!” I am going to tell you a story which may show an instance of this.

Richard Dribble,—familiarly called Dick Dribble,—was a poor boy, about eleven years old, who was put out to a farmer, to go to school, and do chores at odd hours. I need not describe his appearance particularly, for his portrait is at the head of this article; but I must tell you that Dick was rather disposed to be lazy and idle. He was a good-natured fellow, but he hated exertion, and was even too indolent to keep himself tidy. He therefore had always a kind of neglected, shabby and shiftless look.

Well, it was winter, and one day Dick was sent of an errand. The distance he had to go was two or three miles, and his way led through some deep woods. Dick had a great coat, but he was too lazy to put it on, and, though the weather was bitter cold, he set off without it. He had not gone far before he began to shiver like a pot of jelly, but still he kept on. After a while it began to snow, and pretty soon Dick’s neck and bosom were almost filled with it, though some of it melted and went trickling down his back and breast.

The boy took it very quietly for a time; instead of beating off the snow, he let it rest, until at last he was almost crusted over with it. His fingers now began to ache, his nose tingled, his toes grumbled, his teeth chattered, and his whole frame shivered like an aspen leaf. At last the poor fellow began to snivel, and, stopping plump in the path, he exclaimed “It’s too bad! it’s too bad!” Saying this, he gathered himself all into a kind of heap, and stood stock still.

How long he would have remained here, if he had been left to himself, I can’t say; it is probable that he would have remained inactive till he had become benumbed and unable to move, and that he had then lain down and been frozen to death. Indeed, he was already chilled through, and his limbs were getting stiff, and almost incapable of motion, when a gay young fellow came driving by in a sleigh. As he passed, he saw Dick, and exclaimed, “Don’t give up the ship!” He was driving very swiftly, and was out of sight in an instant.

Dick had sense enough left to appreciate the force of the counsel thus hastily given; it forced him to see, that, if he did not make an effort, he would die; at the same time, it put into his bosom a feeling that he could overcome the cold and extricate himself from his trouble. “At any rate,” said he to himself, “I will try!” No sooner had he adopted this view of the case, than he began to march forward. He rubbed and beat his fingers; he knocked off the snow from around his neck; in short, he laid out his whole strength, and before he had gone half a mile, he was in a fine glow, and though his fingers and toes tingled a little from the hot-ache, he was very comfortable.

So Master Dick trudged on; he performed his errand, and returned in safety. Nor was the adventure wholly without its use to him. He often thought of the advice of the gay sleigh-driver, and the effect it had upon him. “Don’t give up the ship,” said he, amid the piercing and trying circumstances of after life; and often that brief but pointed counsel enabled him to triumph over difficulties which, perchance, had otherwise overbalanced him.

And now, gentle reader, if you find it hard to get your lesson, hard to perform your task, hard to do your duty, think of Dick Dribble in the snow-storm, and say to yourself, “Don’t give up the ship,” and go ahead!

Cure for the Tooth-ache.—Fill your mouth with cream, and bump your head against a post till it turns to butter.

Either way will do.—“Wilt thou have me, Sarah?” said a modest young man to a girl whom he loved. “No, John,” was the reply of Sarah—“but you may have me, if you will!”

“The rolling stone gathers no moss.” Unstable people seldom prosper.

The Stormy Petrel.

My course is o’er the sea, the sea,
Where the wind roams free,—
Where the tempest flies
On a wing of might,
And the billow rolls
In a robe of white!

My course is o’er the tide, the tide,
Where the fearless ride,
Where the bloody deed
In battle is done,
And the gory wreath
Of victory won!

My course is o’er the deep, the deep,
Where the lost ones sleep,—
Down, down in the hush
Of a coral bed,
Where the mermaid sighs
O’er the lonely dead!

My course is east—my course is west—
Where, where shall the petrel rest?—
In the cleft of a rock,
Where the surges sweep,
And lulled by the shock,
Shall the petrel sleep.

Bill and the Boys.

I have been often requested by my young readers to tell them something more about Bill Keeler. I have, therefore, been rumaging over my memory, to see if I could pick up something about him, worth relating. Now Bill was a great story teller, and he with myself and several other boys, used often to get together, and amuse one another by relating such narratives as we could invent or recollect. Bill was always foremost on these occasions, and not only told the best, but the most stories. It is my purpose to present my readers with such of these tales as I can recollect. I shall not try to put them down in the exact language in which they were originally spoken,—but I shall give their substance and point. The first of these tales, I shall call

THE LOTTERY TICKET.

There was once a poor, but worthy man, whose name was Trudge. He was a pedler, and though he dealt only in pins, needles, thread, combs and such little articles, he succeeded in getting a comfortable living. Nay, more—he laid up a trifle every year, and finally he had enough to buy him a small house. He had a wife and two or three children, and to this humble cottage they speedily removed.

Trudge thought himself very happy when he was snugly established at his new house. He kissed Mrs. Trudge, and all the little Trudges; danced “hey Betty Martin!” and thought himself one of the luckiest fellows in the world. And so he was, if he could have been content; but, alas! he was beset with certain very troublesome visiters; they were Ambition, Envy and Idleness. I must tell you all about it.

As Trudge travelled about the country selling his wares, he noticed some fine houses, around which he always saw nice carriages, gay horses, and well-dressed people, who seemed to have nothing to do but to amuse themselves. This made Trudge feel uneasy, and he said to himself—“Why wasn’t I rich, and why can’t I live in a fine house, and be a gentleman? Here I am—only a pedler—poor Tom Trudge—and it’s all trudge, trudge, from morning to night; winter and summer, fair or foul, hot or cold, I must trudge, trudge! If I was rich, and lived in a fine house, I should be Thomas Trudge, Esq., and then I should be as good as anybody. I should have easy carriages and fat, slick horses, and Mrs. Trudge would be a fine lady!”

Thus it was that poor Tom indulged his fancy, and all the time Envy and Ambition and Idleness were at work within, making him very unhappy. Envy made him feel a sort of hatred toward people who were richer than himself. Ambition urged him to make every effort to be rich; and, at the same time, Idleness told him that the greatest comfort in life was to have nothing to do. Thus it was that Tom, who had a neat pretty home, and every necessary comfort and convenience, was really miserable, because of these uneasy and uncomfortable thoughts.

Tom at last opened his mind to his wife, and it seems that she had been feeling pretty much like himself. “I don’t see,” said she, “why we ain’t as good as the best; and I think it mean of you, Mr. Trudge, not to let me have as good a gown as Mrs. Million, up there on the hill. Last Sunday she came out with a bran-new yaller silk gown, and there was I, in the next pew, in my old caliker; and I thought to myself, ’tan’t right! And then, you must know, when the minister said any pleasant and comforting scriptures, he looked very kind at Mrs. Million and her new silk gown, and when he said anything about the wicked, he looked at me and my caliker. Now, Tom, I say ’tan’t fair.” And here Mrs. Trudge buried her face in her apron.

Poor Trudge did all he could to comfort his spouse; but, alas! the peace of the cottage was gone. Tom and his wife had cast out Content and let in Envy, and Envy is a troublesome companion. He is never happy himself, and will let nobody else be happy. Envy is like a chestnut burr—all covered with prickles—and the closer you clasp it, the more it torments you. Yet this was now the inmate of Trudge’s cottage.

Well, time went on, and things grew worse rather than better. It is true that Tom and his wife were thrifty people; they had now got to be pretty well off in the world, but still they were by no means as happy as they once were; envy and ambition still goaded them on; they yearned to be rich; and, strange to say, they hated the people who were in the station they themselves desired. They envied and hated Mrs. Million; yet they wanted very much to be like Mrs. Million.

And—who would have thought it?—the time came when they had an opportunity to gratify their desires. Tom was one day in New York, whither he had gone to buy his stock of pins, thread, and needles—when he chanced to pass by a lottery office. Here, in the window, was a picture of a gay, lightly-dressed lady, pouring out gold and silver from a long thing, shaped like a horn, but as big as a corn basket. Plash went the money upon the ground, as free as water from the town pump. A bright thought struck Tom: “it’s of no use to plod,” said he to himself; “here I’ve got fifty dollars; if I lay it out in goods, I must go and peddle them out, and that’s hard work. Besides, what’s the use of it? Though I am a little richer by means of my labors, still, compared with the Millions and the Goldboys, I shall be poor. Now, I’ve a good mind to step in and buy a ticket in the New York State Lottery, ☞ HIGHEST PRIZE FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS! ☜ Perhaps I shall draw it.”

While these thoughts passed in his mind, Tom entered the lottery office, and in a kind of frenzy, bought a ticket and paid his fifty dollars for it. He then rolled it carefully up in his pocket and set off for home—a distance of some forty miles. On his arrival here, he communicated what he had done, to his wife; and though she secretly approved of what he had done, she took him to task for it roundly; for it was dear Mrs. Trudge’s way to find fault with everything her husband did. Besides, in the present case, she wished, if the ticket should draw a blank, and the money be thus lost, to have it in her power to say to her spouse, ☞ “I told you so, Mr. Trudge!”—thereby proving her own sagacity and her husband’s want of sense. It is a pleasure to some wives, to prove that they ought to have been men, and their husbands women, and Mrs. Thomas Trudge was one of this amiable species. But, let us not be misunderstood. Mrs. Trudge wished only to degrade her husband in her own house, so as to keep the upper hand of him. Out of it, she always praised him to the skies, and she passed—except with those who knew better—as a most obedient, devoted, respectful wife.

The lottery was to draw in about two months. Tom whiled away the time as well as he could. It is strange that creatures who have got only a few years to live, should still, at least half the time, be wishing to annihilate that very time which is so short. Yet so it is. Tom had given up peddling, for he was determined to be a rich man, and toil no more; besides, he had spent his money in the lottery ticket, and he had no cash to buy pins and needles with. He went to the tavern, drank gin sling, loafed with the idle fellows of the town, talked politics and scandal, and thus killed the time; but all did not make him content. Many times did he say to himself, “This idleness is a great curse; I wish I was at work; I’d rather peddle than play;” and yet, all the time, he was hoping and yearning for the day when he could be rich, and live without work.

At last the time came when the lottery was to be drawn, and Tom was preparing to set off for New York, to be present at the important crisis. “Now, Tom,” said his wife, “mind! If you draw the highest prize, I want you to buy me a yaller silk gown, jest like Mrs. Million’s, only a great deal smarter. And do you buy me a red satin bonnet, like Mrs. Goldboy’s, only redder. And then do you buy me a new fan, with a pikter of a Wenus on one side, and a Cowpig on the other. And then if I don’t go to meetin’, and see who’ll hold their heads highest, and who’ll get the comfortin’ scripters—I’m not Bridget Trudge!”

“Well, well,” said Tom, in reply, “and suppose I don’t draw the prize?”

“Suppose you don’t draw the prize!” said the spouse, “why then you have thrown away your money like a fool, and remember what I say; if you don’t draw the prize, remember that I told you so; and if you do draw the prize, get the silk gown and the silk bonnet, and the fan.”

After a little further conversation, Tom departed on his errand. The result will be told in another chapter.

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

About the different colors of the human race.

The globe upon which we dwell is a small body compared with the sun, or with Jupiter, or Saturn; yet it contains many millions of inhabitants. The exact number can never be ascertained. The best estimates make the number between eight and nine hundred millions. This number is too great for a young mind to grasp. A better idea may be formed of it, by supposing the whole population of the globe to pass by you, one by one. How long would it take you to count them, at the rate of twenty thousand a day? More than one hundred and twenty years.

These inhabitants are scattered over every part of the earth, and are to be found in almost every island of the sea. They have penetrated into the frozen regions, where scarcely anything grows but moss; where fish, bears and reindeer are their only food; and where they are obliged to live in cabins under ground.

Vast as the number of the earth’s inhabitants is, and widely scattered as they are, yet they all sprung from one pair. This the scriptures tell us. About six thousand years ago, God created Adam and Eve in Asia, and from them all mankind have descended.

Do you ask how this can be? Do you say, that the inhabitants of different countries and climates differ much? They do indeed differ. They differ in respect to laws, and government, and manners, and dress, and language, and color. In this last respect, color, they differ almost more than in anything else.

Well, because they differ thus much, you think they could not all have descended from Adam and Eve? If they did not, then the Bible, so far, cannot be true. This would be a sad conclusion.

But, is such a conclusion necessary? Cannot we account for the differences which exist among different nations, upon the supposition that they all did descend from Adam and Eve?

Take the difference in color, which exists among different nations. This, perhaps, is the most difficult to be accounted for. A great variety of color may be noticed; but the various colors may, perhaps, be reduced to three—white, black and red. All the others may be supposed to be different shades of these.

Now, were Adam and Eve white, black or red? This we cannot ascertain. The late Dr. Dwight, I believe, supposed that they were red; but allow that they were white; by what process could their descendants have become some brown, some yellow, others red, and others still quite black?

Suppose that a white person in the United States should constantly go abroad without any covering upon his head. What would be the consequence of his exposure to the wind and sun? He would “tan,” as we say, or grow dark colored; and the longer he was exposed the darker he would become.

Exposure, then, to the heat of the sun, and to changes in the weather, causes a change of complexion. Suppose this same person visits the torrid zone. Here, as the heat of the sun is much greater, and the winds are more scorching, we should naturally expect that his complexion would darken faster, and, in time, become of a deeper cast.

This is precisely as we find the fact. All the inhabitants of the torrid zone incline more or less to a black color. Under the equator, where the heat is greater than in any other part of the world, they are quite black. In other parts of the world, where the heat is less intense, as in the temperate climates, they are generally white, or only brown. Still farther north, in the frigid zones, where the air is very dry, and the cold very severe, the inhabitants are tawny.

Thus it appears that difference of climate produces a great difference in the complexion of people. But do not nations living in the same climate, differ in color? They do. This is remarkably exemplified in the Tartars and Chinese. The latter are fairer than the former, though they resemble the Tartars in features; but, then, they are more polished, and adopt every means to protect themselves from the weather. On the other hand, the Tartars, are a roving people, without any fixed dwellings; and hence, are continually exposed to the sun and air.

We might mention many other causes of a variety of color. Perhaps few things injure the complexion more than want of cleanliness. This recalls to my recollection a set of people, who were called Yonkers, and who lived a few miles from the city of Schenectady, in the state of New York. When I saw them, some years since, they consisted of about one hundred souls. Their ancestor’s name was Johnson. He and his wife were white persons.

Being poor and shiftless, they removed into the woods a few miles from Schenectady, where they erected a miserable hut, without a floor, and without a chimney. Some loose straw served them for a bed; and in dirt and in filth they lived. They had several children, who followed their examples. Other huts were erected—they intermarried, and in smoke, and in grease, and in filth, they and their descendants have lived. In the hottest season of the year the children are accustomed to roll in the dirt with the pigs around the door; and in the winter season they play with the ashes and live in the smoke. They seldom, if ever, wash; and it is doubtful whether a child’s hair is combed half a dozen times, till it is grown up. When I visited them, which was for the purpose of distributing bibles among them, it was stated that only five of the whole clan were able to read.

The consequence of this filthy mode of living may be easily guessed. They appeared like a different race of beings. Their features were greatly changed; but much more their complexion. In this latter respect they were nearly as dark as the North American Indians. From this story my readers may learn something of the influence which manner of living exerts, not only on complexion, but even upon features.

From the foregoing facts it is easy to perceive how white people may, in process of time, become dark-colored, and even black. Hence, admitting that Adam and Eve were created white, their descendants might, through the influence of climate and other causes, become red and even black.

But, you say, perhaps they were not white—perhaps they were red, perhaps black. Yes, they might have been red, or they might have been black. Well, if they were either of these, you ask how any of their descendants became white.

This is a nice question. But, perhaps, something may in truth be said by way of a satisfactory answer. We have seen how a white man might become very dark-colored, and how his descendants might become, in process of time, even black, by removing to the torrid zone, and there continuing to dwell for several hundred years.

Now, might not the very reverse of this prove true? Do not the blacks from Africa grow lighter colored, when brought to the northern parts of the United States? Listen to what President Dwight says on this subject:

“The change of the blacks,” says he, “whose ancestors were introduced into New England, is already very great, as to their shape, features, hair and complexion. Within the last thirty years, I have not seen a single person, of African descent, who was not many shades whiter than the blacks formerly imported directly from Guinea.”

Now, it is possible that the black people in the United States might become white, in process of time. I do not say that they ever will, because their manner of living is far different from that of the whites. They are not as cleanly; most of them are much exposed to the weather. And this is true of the Indians, or “red men.”

But, you ask, can any instances be produced of either “red men” or black men becoming white? I answer, yes, instances of both. I will give an account of an instance of each kind; and I can assure my readers that the account is true, and they may find it in an enlarged form, in Dr. Dwight’s travels. And first, I shall tell them the story of the Indian, or “red man.”

Or, rather I might say, that my story relates to four Indians. They belonged to the tribe called Brothertown Indians, who lived at a place called Brothertown, in the state of New York. It was in the year 1791, that Mr. Hart, formerly minister at Stonington, in Connecticut, saw four Indians, whose skin, in different parts of their body, was turning white.

One, whose name was Samuel Adams, had become almost entirely white. This Indian told Mr. Hart, that his skin had been gradually changing its color for fourteen years. He was a very healthy man; nor was he sensible of any pain or disease which occasioned the change. “His skin appeared perfectly smooth and fresh, and delicately white.” His hair, also, had become in part gray, like that of aged white people.

The instance of a black man, who became white, is also related by Dr. Dwight, who himself saw the man, and examined him. His name was Henry Moss. He was a native of Virginia. He came to New Haven in the year 1796, where Dr. Dwight saw him. He was originally black, and woolly headed, like other negroes; but, at this time, he was almost entirely white, and of a “clear, fresh, and delicate complexion.” His hair, also, was in part changed, and was exactly that of fair white people; of a flaxen hue, and perfectly free from curling.

From these examples my readers may learn that no one color is essential to the nature of the body; and that, as white men have become black, and red and black men white, all mankind, how different soever they may now appear, may have descended from Adam and Eve, whatever their complexion might have been.

I might say much more in relation to the differences which exist among different nations; and might, perhaps, explain how they came to differ so greatly in respect to language, and dress, and laws, and government, and other things; but I must not be tedious.

It would be pleasant, no doubt, to my readers, could they travel in safety round the world, and visit the different nations and tribes of men, and mark the differences which exist, for themselves. This pleasure some have enjoyed to a certain extent; and many are the vessels which yearly sail from the United States to various parts of the globe.

A few men have visited almost every country on the globe; but it would take a long life to become even superficially acquainted with the different tribes of men, had one the means which would be necessary. But it is not essential to travel much, to become tolerably acquainted with the people of different countries. Different men have travelled the world over, and have given faithful accounts of the people whom they saw. It is desirable to know what has been thus related. Many of my readers, I suppose, cannot obtain the books which have been written on this subject. I shall, therefore, proceed to tell them something about it.

[To be continued.]

Fresh Water.—The basin of the St. Lawrence, including the great lakes, contains, in mass, more than half the fresh water on the globe.

Candle-flies.

Light.

Before the creation of light, the world must have been involved in darkness. A state of darkness is the natural condition of the universe without light. We are very apt to think of everything as a matter of course, and we are not apt to reflect that everything has been made, created—by God. Now, let us bear in mind the fact, that darkness was the original state of the universe; then let us reflect upon the stupendous, beautiful and benignant creation of light. How wonderful must have been the first rising of the sun upon this world of ours, before involved in the shades of midnight! How wonderful must have been the first appearance of the thousand stars in the sky—and how wonderful that of the pale, but lovely moon, hung like a bow in the heavens, or bursting in its full splendor upon our world below.

And let us consider a moment what a wonderful element light is. We do not understand all its properties, but we know that it proceeds in a straight direction from its source. Now the sun produces light, and it comes to us with an inconceivable velocity. The distance of the sun is ninety-five millions of miles from us—yet the rays of light reach us in seven minutes and a half; thus showing that the rays fly at the rate of two hundred thousand miles in a second!

Let us consider, for one instant, what a stupendous work it was to make and sustain the sun, which is every instant pouring off a flood of light on all sides, reaching ninety-five millions of miles, and flowing constantly at the rate of two hundred thousand miles a second; and consider, also, that this process has been in operation for at least six thousand years! This is indeed enough to overwhelm us with wonder and admiration; and yet we are only considering one source of light—the sun—while every fixed star in the firmament is another, and presents the same topic of admiration.

We might now pass from this view of the subject, to the uses of light—and remark upon the fact, that by means of it we see things. Color and form—all that constitutes the beauty of the world of vision—is revealed to us by light. The production of light—its manufacture and supply—is a stupendous thing—but yet its conception, its invention, was still more wonderful. There was a time when all was darkness. It was then that God said, “Let there be light, and there was light!” But he had an object in producing light. He intended that his creatures should see by it. How great, then, were his wisdom and goodness in designing it—how wonderful his power in producing it!

I intend, hereafter, to say something more about the philosophy of light; but my intention, at present, is to speak only of some curious particulars in relation to it. In the first place, let me tell you that there are some plants which throw out light. A gentleman observed, in the shady recesses of some of the rocks of Derbyshire, England, a brilliant gold and green light, which appeared to proceed from a fine net-work of moss, growing upon the rocks. In the coal mines near Dresden, in Germany, there are certain mosses, which are said to be abundant and luminous. They are described by a visitor as appearing in “wonderful beauty,” and he says, “The impression produced by the spectacle, I can never forget. The abundance of these plants was so great, that the roof, and the walls, and the pillars, were entirely covered with them. The beautiful light they cast around, was almost dazzling; it resembled faint moonshine, so that two persons, near each other, could readily distinguish their bodies.”

The phosphorescence of the sea presents a most remarkable spectacle. Sometimes the vessel, while ploughing her way through the billows, appears to mark out a furrow of fire. Each stroke of an oar gives rise to sparks of light, sometimes tranquil and pearly, at others brilliant and dazzling. These movable lights, too, are grouped in endless varieties; their thousand luminous points, like little stars, appearing to float on the surface; and their matter forming one vast sheet of light. At such times, the bright waves heave, roll, and break in shining foam; or large sparkling bodies, resembling the forms of fishes, pursue each other, disappearing and bursting forth anew.

Beautiful illuminations of the same kind are frequently seen at a great depth in the clear water, which in the night time becomes jet black. Often, through this dark, yet limpid medium, have voyagers amused themselves, by tracking the routes of large fishes, such as porpoises or sharks, gleaming along in lines of light beneath the abyss, itself invisible with gloom.

As Captain Tuckey passed in his voyage towards Prince’s Island, the ship seemed to be sailing on a sea of milk. In order to discover the cause of such an appearance, a bag, having its mouth distended by a hoop, was kept overboard, and, by means of it, vast numbers of small animals were collected. Among them, were a great many small sea animals, with innumerable little creatures attached to them, to which Captain Tuckey principally attributed the whitish color of the water.

Luminous marine animals, magnified.

Thirteen species of cancer were observed, not above one fourth of an inch long; eight having the shape of crabs, and five that of shrimps. Among these, some luminous creatures were discernible. When one species was examined by the microscope, in candle-light, the luminous property was observed to reside in the brain, which, when the animal was at rest, resembled a most brilliant amethyst, about the size of a large pin’s head; and from this there darted, when the animal moved, flashes of a brilliant and silvery light.

Of the number of these little creatures, of some of which a magnified representation is here annexed, some interesting statements are furnished by Captain Scoresby. “During a run of fifty leagues,” he says, “the sea was constantly of an olive-green color, remarkably tinted; but, on the afternoon of the 17th of April, it changed to transparent blue. This green appearance of the sea in these latitudes, was occasioned by myriads of small marine animals. A calculation of the number of these animals, in the space of two miles square, and two hundred and fifty fathoms deep, gave an amount of 23,888,000,000,000!

“On September 1st, the sea was colored in veins or patches, of a brown color, or sometimes with a yellowish green; and this water, on being examined by the microscope, appeared swarming with minute marine animals. A drop of this water contained twenty-six thousand five hundred animalculæ. Hence, reckoning sixty drops to a drachm, there would be a number in a gallon of water exceeding by one half the amount of the whole population of the globe. It affords an interesting conception of the minuteness of some tribes of animals, when we think of more than twenty-six thousand individuals, living, obtaining subsistence, and moving perfectly at their ease, in a single drop of water!”

A sea is required for a whale to spout in; but a common tumbler affords abundant space for a hundred and fifty millions of these little creatures! The phosphorescent appearances presented by them are not, however, without an important design. It is probable that God, whose knowledge is unbounded, foreseeing that man would learn to traverse the mighty deep, and explore the most distant regions of the globe, has given this brightness to the ocean to lessen his dangers, and to render his nights less gloomy.

Especially will this seem likely, when it is remembered that it is seen only in the night season, and is vivid in proportion to the darkness. It disappears even before the feeble light of the moon, and increases with the agitation of the sea; so that, during the prevalence of a storm, it generally diminishes the dense gloom, which at such times even the moon and stars cannot penetrate. It casts such a light on the ship and rigging, that the sailors may execute their allotted tasks with certainty, and at all times it points out to the cautious mariner the lurking danger of sunken rocks, shoals and unknown coasts.

It is well known that sea animals, larger than those minute creatures of which we have been speaking, have also the power of emitting light. Pliny tells us, that some of the old Romans, in his time, used to sup in darkened apartments upon the pholas, a kind of shellfish, which gave out sparks of light, and amused the people, while they gratified their appetites. A traveller in a remote land, speaks of fishes that played around the boats, each being encircled by a halo of light.

But the land has its luminous animals, as well as the sea. The glow-worm is common in Europe: this is a female beetle, without wings. It emits a light of a sulphur color, so strong that if placed at night on a page of small print, it may be easily read. In Africa there is an insect that emits light from two globes, like lamps, upon its horns.

The fire-fly of South America is very common, and its light is so brilliant as that several put together will enable a person to see to write. The fire-fly of our country, which seems to make the landscape at night sparkle as with a thousand gems, is smaller than that of South America.

In the East Indies, thousands of lantern-flies, sending forth a beautiful illumination, are seen dancing at night amid the banyan trees; and candle-flies, of which we give a cut at the head of this article, have a similar power.

These are a few of the facts connected with the luminous qualities of plants and animals. We do not fully understand the uses of these powers, but we can see that the subject of light is very extensive, and that the study of it leads to a great many curious and wonderful realities.

Herons and Rooks.

At Dallam Tower, in Westmoreland, England, there were, some years ago, two groves adjoining the park, one of which, for many years, had been resorted to by a number of herons; the other was one of the largest rookeries in the country. The two tribes lived together for a long time without any disputes. At length, the trees occupied by the herons, consisting of some very fine old oaks, were cut down in the spring of 1775, and the young birds had perished by the fall of the timber. The parent birds immediately set about preparing new habitations to breed again; but as the trees in the neighborhood of their old nests were only of a late growth, and not high enough to secure them from the depredations of the boys, they determined to effect a settlement in the rookery. The rooks made an obstinate resistance, but, after a very violent contest, in the course of which some on both sides lost their lives, the herons at last succeeded in their attempt—built their nests, and brought up their young.

The next season, the same contests took place, which terminated, like the former, by the victory of the herons. From that time, peace seemed to have been agreed upon between them; the rooks relinquished possession of that part of the grove which the herons occupied; the herons confined themselves to those trees they first seized upon, and the two species lived together in as much harmony as they did before their quarrel.

When Mr. West, grandson of Sir Benjamin, was in this country, exhibiting the great picture of “Christ rejected,” he employed a man to hang it up in the exhibition-room. Accordingly, the latter brought in a bill “for hanging Christ rejected by your grandfather.”

Dr. Vince seeing the images of a ship in the air.

Spectral Illusions.

The atmosphere has the power of bending the rays of light, so that we see the sun before it actually rises above the horizon, and after it has actually sunk below it.

This bending of the rays, produces some curious appearances, and which were formerly viewed with superstition. Dr. Vince, an English philosopher, was once looking through a telescope at a ship, which was so far off, that he could only see the upper parts of the masts. The hulk was entirely hidden by the bending of the water, but between himself and the ship, he saw two perfect images of it in the air. These were of the same form and color as the real ship; but one of them was turned upside down.

When Captain Scoresby was in the Polar Sea with his ship, he was separated by the ice from that of his father for some time, and looked out for her every day with great anxiety. At length, one evening, to his utter astonishment, he saw her suspended in the air, in an inverted position, traced on the horizon in the clearest colors, and with the most distinct and perfect representation. He sailed in the direction in which he saw this visionary phenomenon, and actually found his father’s vessel by its indication. He was separated from the ship by immense masses of icebergs, and at such a distance that it was impossible to have seen her in her actual situation, or to have seen her at all, if her spectrum had not been thus raised several degrees above the horizon in the air by this most extraordinary refraction.

It is by this bending of the rays of light that the images of people are often seen at a distance, and sometimes magnified to a gigantic size. We have given an account of such an appearance in the Hartz mountains, in Germany, in the Museum, Vol. i. p. 79.

Rousette Bat.

Bats.

Bats are of various sizes and many kinds. In this country there are various species, but none of them very large. They are generally innocent creatures, living in dark caverns and hidden places during the day, and sallying forth to feast upon insects by night. The little bats that we see flying about of a summer evening, are very amusing creatures in one respect; if you throw anything up near them, they will dive at it immediately,—no doubt supposing it to be something to eat. A boy may throw up his cap, and the bat flies at it instantly, as if he would make a supper of it.

But in other parts of the world, especially in hot countries, some of the bats are very large. The rousette bat is found in the great island of Madagascar, near the southeast shore of Africa. Its wings are sometimes two feet from tip to tip. But the most frightful kind of bat is the vampire, which is found in Guiana, on the northeast coast of South America. The length of its body is about six inches, and the extent of its outstretched wings two feet.

This creature sucks the blood from men and cattle, while they are fast asleep, even sometimes till they die; and as the manner in which they proceed is truly wonderful, I shall endeavor to give a distinct account of it. Knowing by instinct that the person they intend to attack is in a sound slumber, they generally alight near the feet, and, while the creature continues fanning with his enormous wings, which keeps one cool, he bites a piece out of the tip of the great toe, so very small indeed, that the head of a pin could scarcely be received into the wound, which is consequently not painful, yet, through this orifice, he sucks a great quantity of blood. Cattle they generally bite in the ear, but always in places where the blood flows spontaneously.

“Some years ago,” says Mr. Waterton, in his Wanderings in South America, “I went to the river Panmaron with a Scotch gentleman, by the name of Turbet. We hung our hammocks in the thatched loft of a planter’s house. Next morning, I heard this gentleman muttering in his hammock, and now and then letting fall an exclamation or two.

‘What is the matter, sir?’ said I; ‘is there anything amiss?’ ‘What’s the matter?’ said he, surlily, ‘why, the vampires have been sucking me to death.’ As soon as there was light enough, I went to his hammock, and saw it much stained with blood. ‘There,’ said he, thrusting his foot out of the hammock, ‘see how these imps have been drawing my life’s blood.’

“On examining his foot, I found that the vampire had tapped his great toe. There was a wound somewhat less than that made by a leech. The blood was still oozing from it. I conjectured that he might have lost from ten to twelve ounces of blood. While examining it, I think I put him into a worse humor, by remarking that an European surgeon would not have been so generous as to have bled him without making a charge. He looked up in my face, but did not say a word. I saw he was of the opinion that I had better have spared this ill-timed piece of levity.”

Yankee Wit.—A “notion seller” was offering Yankee clocks, finely varnished and colored, with a looking-glass in front, to a lady not remarkable for personal beauty. “Why, it’s beautiful!” said the vender. “Beautiful, indeed! why, a look at it almost frightens me!” said the lady. “Then, marm,” replied Jonathan, “I guess you’d better buy one that ha’n’t got no looking-glass.”

A musician, in giving notice of an intended concert at Cleveland, Ohio, says: “A variety of other songs may be expected, too tedious to mention.”

Kin Shan; or, the Golden Isle.

There is no country more full of wonders than China, yet we know comparatively little of it. We know, indeed, something about Canton, near which foreign merchants are permitted to reside; about Nankin, which is famous for its beautiful pagoda; and about Pekin, which is a city almost as populous as London, and where the emperor resides. We know, also, that there are many other large cities in China; we know that the empire is the most populous in the world, containing three hundred and forty millions of people.

We know, too, that the Chinese produce tea, and silks, and porcelain, and many other curious manufactures; that they worship idols, and sometimes eat worms, birds’ nests, rats and puppies; but still, it has been the system of the government to exclude foreigners from the country, and accordingly few travellers have penetrated into its interior, and given us an account of what is there to be seen. It is probable that we shall soon know more about China, for the British have sent soldiers and ships out there, who have made the emperor agree to be more sociable, and let foreigners come into his domains a little more. Our government has sent out Mr. Caleb Cushing, of Newburyport, in Massachusetts, to see the emperor, and make arrangements for a free trade between the people of China and the Americans. Mr. Cushing is a very learned man, and it is pretty likely he and the emperor will come to a good understanding. You must know that the emperor is fond of fine dress, and expects everybody who comes to see him, to make a dashing appearance. Accordingly, Mr. Cushing has carried out a gay military dress, in which he is to present himself to the emperor. The old man is named Taou-Kwang, and is over seventy years of age. I should like to see the meeting between him and Mr. Cushing—shouldn’t you?

When Mr. Cushing comes back, he will write a book, and tell us all about China. In the mean time, we shall say something about a very beautiful place, called the Kin Shan, or the Golden Island. This is not far from the city of Nankin, and near the flourishing city of Quatchou. It is situated in the river Yangtse-Kiang, and is famous all over China, for its beauty. It is about three hundred feet high, and fifteen hundred in circuit. It is rocky and precipitous, but it is shaded with the loveliest trees. It is also decorated with temples, devoted to Confucius, Lockien and Fo—the divinities of Chinese superstition. Here, also, is a palace, erected by the emperor Kienlong—the grandfather of Taou-Kwang. In this he used to spend a great deal of time, to get away from the cares of governing such an empire, and to consider how happy he should be, if he was only a private individual, and not an emperor!

The Golden Isle.

The river, from the top of the Golden Island, is exceedingly beautiful; and when Mr. Cushing comes back, we must get him to tell us all about it. Mr. Fletcher Webster has gone with Mr. Cushing, and, as he is a very pleasant, sociable gentleman, I think he will bring us some pretty good stories, too. Perhaps he and Mr. Cushing will dine with the emperor, who doesn’t use knives and forks, but takes up his food with two sticks, put between the thumb and fingers of the right hand. These are called chop-sticks. I hope Mr. Cushing and Mr. Webster will practise the chop-sticks before they dine with the emperor; for if they do not, I am afraid they will get a poor dinner, and make the emperor think that the Yankees are rather awkward! If, indeed, the dinner should consist of salted angle-worms, bird-nest soup, Japan leather, balls made of sharks’ fins, and figured pigeons’ eggs—all of which are esteemed great delicacies in China—perhaps the less they can take up with the chop-sticks, the better they will like it.

Our Correspondence.

A subscriber sends us the following pretty solution of the enigma in the November number of the Museum:—

When walking by the water’s edge,
We often find the modest sedge;
The lamp that guides our weary feet,
Without a wick, is incomplete:
But these, united, form the name
Of Sedgwick, worthy of her fame.

Several of our little friends have also sent us a correct solution of the same.

The following will speak for itself:—

Mr. Robert Merry,

I like your riddles and charades very much. My mother says it sharpens the mind to guess them. So, I guess that the answer to the first riddle, in the November number of the Museum, is the letter R, and that the answer to the second is the letter A. He says that he “is also with a party of five.” Does this mean that he is one of the five vowels?

I think your Twenty Geographical Questions were very interesting, but I did not know enough of geography to answer them.

I am your true friend,

John L——n.

The following letter is interesting in itself, and it derives additional value from the fact that it has travelled about a thousand miles to find us. It was accompanied by correct answers to our Twenty Geographical Questions; thus showing that our little friends in Illinois know as much as our Yankee girls and boys. We shall be happy to be made acquainted with more of them.

Mr. Merry:

In this month’s Museum, we find an invitation to answer twenty questions which you have proposed, and our indulgent father has consented to pay the postage if we will find correct answers and send to you. But how can you expect children, who live on Rock River, Illinois, to know a great deal? So, Mr. Merry, if the answers are not all correct, you must not laugh at us, but please to tell us, in the next Museum, what the right answers are; and, when it is convenient, will you tell us a little something about the two New Holland animals?

We have been threatening you with a letter for a month past; for you must know that, the 23d of October, the numbers for September and October arrived, and we verily thought you had forgotten us, and we should never see the Museum again. Now, Mr. Merry, you know we cannot get as many books to read as the children who live east, so we depend upon the Museum, for both pleasure and profit, more than many of your black-eyed and blue-eyed readers; so, if you please, we would like the Museum every month, certainly by the tenth of the month.

We like the story of Inquisitive Jack very much, and hope he will not forget, very soon, how to ask questions; we also are very much interested in Jumping Rabbit’s story.

Blue-eyed Edward E. P——.

Black-eyed S. Adaline P——.

Nov. 1st, 1843.

Holliston, Nov. 23.

Mr. Merry:

I take this opportunity to write a few lines. I have taken your Museum for the year, and I like it very much. I think if you put in a piece of music it would be much more interesting. I have always taken an interest in your Puzzles; and, as you have had none in your last numbers, I thought I would make one, and if you think it deserves insertion, you can insert it.

I am composed of fourteen letters.
My 1, 6, 10, 5, 2, 7, is a town in Massachusetts.
My 11, 5, 9, 4, is a place in Boston.
My 5, 9, 7, is a metal.
My 3, 6, 12, 13, 14, 4, is a city in Europe.
My 6, 10, 5, is an insect.
My 4, 6, 1, 11, is a river in New England.
My 12, 9, 7, 14, is a kind of wood.
My 2, 7, 9, 11, 10, is a vegetable.
My 10, 6, 9, 13, is a very useful article.
My 6, 1, 8, 11, 3, is a town in Massachusetts.
My 14, 5, 10, 6, is a burning mountain.
My 13, 14, 6, 4, 8, is an adjective.
My 14, 6, 4, 8, is a point of the compass.
My 9, 13, 13, 9, 3, 11, 9, 4, is one of the States.
My whole is a city on the eastern continent.

From a black-eyed friend,

H. P——.

The following letter from Washington is very acceptable, and we hope our little friend will continue his interesting correspondence:—

Mr. Merry:

I have come on to Washington with my father, to spend the winter here, and I thought I would write, and tell you something about Washington. It is a pretty large place, but it is scattered about, and looks like a great city broken into a great many pieces. The capitol is situated on the brow of a hill, and is a very fine building, of white freestone. It is the handsomest building I ever saw. The grounds around it are so neat, and have such fine walks! And then there are so many pretty trees scattered about in groups! And then there are beautiful fountains, out of which the water is spouting as bright as flowing silver!

The capitol is twice as large as the Boston state-house, and has a vast number of rooms, and passages, and staircases. I got quite lost and bewildered in it several times, but I can find my way pretty well now. There is a large circular room in the middle of the building, called the Rotunda. It is lighted at the top, by the dome or cupola.

Around the sides of the rotunda are several carvings and pictures. One of the latter represents the marriage of Pocahontas to Rolfe, the Englishman. It is a very large picture indeed, the figures being as large as life. It is very interesting.

The House of Representatives and the Senate, being called Congress, meet in two different rooms in the capitol. The United States Court also meet every winter in a room in the capitol.

I have only been to the House of Representatives yet. The room is a half circle, very lofty, and supported by beautiful pillars of many-colored marble. There are about two hundred and thirty members; and what strikes me as very odd is, that they sit with their hats on. If they were boys, they would have to take their hats off; for boys are expected to observe good manners, but men and members of Congress, I suppose, may do as they please.

The Speaker is Mr. Jones, of Virginia; a man of dark complexion, and plain appearance. He is also a little lame. Yet he seems to be a mild and good man. But there is one thing that he ought to pay attention to. He being chairman, the members must address their speeches to him. When they begin, they say Mr. Chairman; and sometimes they speak of addressing the chair. Now, what I notice as wrong is this, that many of the members say cheer and cheerman! Would you believe, Mr. Merry, that such things would be tolerated in the Congress of the United States? Why, any school-boy would get a striped jacket for talking through his nose, and murdering the English tongue in this fashion; but I suppose members of Congress may do as they please.

I had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Adams, of Massachusetts, make a speech. He is very old, and his hand trembles, and his voice breaks. I was sorry to see that he got very angry—very angry indeed. It seems to me that such an old man should not get angry; but perhaps I am wrong, for I am only a boy. I should have loved him, if he had been mild, and calm, and dignified.

I must now close my letter: perhaps I shall write you again. Good bye.

Yours, truly,

James Norton.

[Audio content is not currently supported on your device.

The Two Leaves.
MUSIC COMPOSED BY GEO. J. WEBB.

Upon a bough a yellow leaf,
Seemed sad and sighing, full of grief;
While bright beside it gaily sung
Another leaf, still green and young;
And then the old leaf whisper’d light,
Unto its neighbor fair and bright—
“Why giddy leaf art thou so gay,
While I, thy sister, fade away?
While I, thy sister, fade away?

“Look down, and mark the valley deep,
Where we must soon in shadow sleep;
And is it meet so frail a thing,—
A trembling leaf,—should dance and sing?”

The green leaf, answering, softly sung,
“Sweet sister, once thyself was young,
And thy fond bosom danced with bliss,
E’en though the zephyr stole a kiss!

“I sing a soft and cheerful lay,
Perchance, because my heart is gay;
Perchance to please a floweret, born
Beside me on my own birth-morn.

“So pray forgive, my sister sere,
If more I court the smile than tear;
And when I’m yellow, withered, pale,
I’ll sigh, and sink in yonder vale.”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII FEBRUARY, 1844. No. 2.

ebruary is upon us; a severe, unrelenting month, in which winter seems to reign, in these northern regions, with resistless sway. Far to the south, as in Georgia and Louisiana, the birds have chosen their mates and are building their nests; the peas in the gardens are in blossom; the strawberries are beginning to form, and the lilacs and roses are in bloom. But here, alas, the rivers are in icy fetters—the earth is wrapt in snow—and not a symptom of starting vegetation is seen over the whole face of nature.

It may seem strange that February should be the coldest month in the year—yet so it is. In December we have the shortest days; then the nights are longest, and the sun bestows upon us the least warmth; why, then, should not December be the coldest month? The reason is this. In February, the heat has gone from the earth; the frost, ice and snow have accumulated; and these exercise an influence which the heat of the sun cannot yet overcome. If the sun remained as it is during the winter months, all vegetation would finally cease in our climate, and the whole country would remain buried in snow and ice.

In England, February has nearly the same character as our March, and it is regarded as the opening of spring. There the birds pair in February, and the blackbird, thrush and chaffinch fill the woods with their songs. The ravens begin to build their nests, the moles in the ground throw up their little hillocks, and some intrepid plants put forth their blossoms. The snow-drops, “fair maids of February,” as they are there called, often peep out, even though it be amidst the snow—the alder-tree discloses the flower-buds—and the catkins of the hazel become conspicuous in the hedges. This is the picture of things in old England. What a different picture is before us in New England!

The Three Sovereigns.

The following anecdote was often told by the late emperor Alexander, and is amongst the traditions of the Russian court:

In 1814, during the period that the allies were masters of Paris, the Czar, who resided in the hotel of M. de Talleyrand, was in the daily habit of taking a walk, (in strict incognito,) every morning, in the garden of the Tuilleries, and thence to the Palais Royale. He one day met two other sovereigns, and the three were returning arm-in-arm to breakfast in the Rue St. Florentin, when, on their way thither, they encountered a provincial, evidently freshly imported to Paris, and who had lost his way.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “can you tell me which is the Tuilleries?”

“Yes,” replied Alexander; “follow us; we are going that way, and will show you.”

Thanks on the part of the countryman led them soon into conversation. A few minutes sufficed to arrive at the palace; and as here their routes lay in opposite directions, they bade each other reciprocally adieu.

“Parbleu!” cried the provincial, “I should be glad to know the names of persons so amiable and complaisant as you are.”

“My name?” said the first—“Oh, certainly; you have, perhaps, heard of me; I am the emperor Alexander.”

“A capital joke,” exclaimed the Gascon—“An emperor! And you?” addressing the second individual,—“Who may you be?”

“I?” replied he; “why, probably, I am not wholly unknown to you, at least by name; I am the king of Prussia!”

“Better and better,” said the man. “And you, what are you, then?” looking at the third person.

“I am the emperor of Austria!”

“Perfect, perfect!” exclaimed the provincial, laughing with all his might.

“But you, monsieur,” said the emperor Alexander, “surely you will also let us know whom we have the honor to speak to?”

“To be sure,” replied the man, quitting them with an important strut, “I am the Great Mogul.”

WRITTEN ON A BOY’S MARBLE.
The world’s something bigger,
But just of this figure,
And speckled with mountains and seas,
Your heroes are overgrown schoolboys,
Who scuffle for empires and toys,
And kick the poor ball as they please.
Now Cæsar, now Pompey, gives law;
And Pharsalia’s plain,
Though heaped with the slain,
Was only a game at taw.
Mrs. Barbauld

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER I.

About the Wren and his family.

e have given some account of this curious, inquiring, investigating little hero, in a former volume of our Museum. But there is a good deal to tell about him yet; and, as I have many letters from my little readers, expressing their interest in Jack, I propose to go on and continue his story. I think everybody will be pleased to hear how he became acquainted with the natural history of birds.

One day Jack was down at the bottom of the garden, when he became interested in some insects which he saw on the leaves of a hop vine, which was climbing up a trellis close by. In order to examine the insects more closely, Jack took off his cap and carelessly hung it on the top of one of the stakes which supported the trellis.

After examining the insects for a while, Jack became so interested in the subject that he picked off some leaves of the hop vine, covered with the little creatures, and carried them to his aunt Piper, to ask her about them. He forgot his cap, which was left on the stake; nor could Jack recollect, when he wanted it, where he had left it. He was obliged to wear his best hat for nearly a week, when, by chance, he discovered his cap on the stake. He then recollected all about it, and ran to the trellis to take it down. But what was his surprise to find it tenanted by a fierce little wren, who flew out of the cap and then darted at Jack, snapping at him sharply with his tiny beak.

Jack was almost frightened at the fierceness of the little bird, but after a while he reached up his hand and took down the cap. You may well believe that he was greatly amused to find that the little wren, with its companion, had begun to build a nest in it. They had already packed it more than half full of sticks, straws, and dried grass.

At first, Jack was sorry that he had robbed the little birds of their home; but after a while, he got a little box and made a hole large enough for the wrens to go in and out, and set it upon the stake where the cap had been. For two or three days the wrens were very shy, and would not go near the box. But at last, one of them flew to the trellis and peered all about to see if there was no danger near. In a little while, he hitched along towards the box, making a queer noise all the time. By and by, he ventured to alight upon the box, and finally he popped his head into the hole. Then he looked all around again very cautiously, and at last in he went. Pretty soon he came out again, and stationed himself upon the top of the box, and began to sing with all his might. If you will excuse me, I will try to put his song into words:

Hi diddle ho diddle,
Pop diddle dee,—
Here’s the prettiest house
You ever did see.

Come hither, come hither,
My own pretty friend,
Here’s a home for us both,—
Come, come, little wren!

Here’s a hole for our door,
And a room for our nest,
So come my sweet bird,
And we both will be blest.

Hi diddle ho diddle,
Pop diddle dee,—
’Tis the prettiest house
You ever did see!

Thus the little fellow went on singing as if he would split his throat, and pretty soon his little mate was seen flying along toward him. She alighted upon the box, and nothing could exceed his apparent delight. Mr. Wren then popped into the box, and Mrs. Wren popped in after him.

Jack was an attentive observer of all these proceedings, and he was greatly delighted to find that the wrens were willing to accept of the box in exchange for the cap. The next day, they began to build their nest in the box. It was very pleasant, indeed, to see the little creatures at work. They would carry up quite large sticks, and were very handy in getting them into the hole. They began their work by sunrise, and so industrious were they, that, in four days, the nest was finished. The lower part consisted of rough sticks and coarse straws. The upper part was finer, and the nest was lined with fine grass. In a week, there were four little spotted eggs in the nest. The female wren was now rather quiet, but the male wren was very watchful indeed. If he saw the cat coming near the trellis, he would fly at her, and snap his little beak close to her ears. Puss would sometimes strike her paws at him, but, in general, she was frightened and ran away. The little wren was very pugnacious. If a robin or a blue jay came near, he went at him in the most fearless way, and drove him off. One day, as Jack was watching him, the little fellow attacked a crow that was passing by, and, overtaking him, picked at him so sharply as to make the old fellow cry for quarter in a very loud voice. “Caw, caw, caw,” said the crow, and Mr. Wren, seeming satisfied, returned to his box. Perching himself upon the very top of the trellis, he began to sing a song of triumph, shaking his wings all the time, in great glee.

The female wren soon began to sit upon the eggs, and nothing could exceed the watchful care and anxiety of good master Wren. He was always on hand, if any cat or bird intruded upon his dominions; and they were sure to pay dearly for their temerity when they did so. He spent a good deal of his time in singing, in part, I suppose, to amuse himself, and in part also to amuse his little lady.

Well, after a time, there were four young birds in the nest, and both Mr. and Mrs. Wren were too busy in feeding their children, to sing or play. They caught flies, and moths, and spiders, and gave them to their young ones, and it was amazing to see what a sight of these insects the little wrens ate, and it was really amusing to see how serious the old wrens appeared to be about these days.

The little ones grew apace, and in a short time it was thought best for them to leave the nest. You may well believe that Jack was on the look-out, to see the little creatures in their first adventure forth into the world. In the first place, one of the young birds put his head through the door of the box, and looked all round to see if the coast was clear. It was amazing to see how cunning the little fellow was, though not more than a fortnight old. The old wrens were at a little distance, chattering at a great rate, and seeming to invite the little fellow to try his wing. At last, he took courage, leaped from the box, and alighted safely upon a fence at some distance.

Now, how do you think this little bird knew how to fly,—where to go,—and how to ’light upon the fence? for you must remember that he had never been out of the box before. I suppose you will tell me that he was guided by instinct—that strange power given by the Creator; and you will tell me right. After the first one had departed, the others came out one by one, and all were successful in their first flight, except the last. This little fellow, in attempting to light upon the fence, missed his footing, and fell to the ground. The old wrens came to him immediately, and there was a prodigious chattering about what had happened. The little fellow looked very serious for a time, but at last he made a new effort, flew a little distance, and reached one of the lower rails of the fence. The old wrens cheered him with their approbation, put a big spider into his mouth, and he seemed to be quite happy.

This was a great day among the wren family. Never was there such a bustle before! The little wrens kept calling out for something to eat; the old wrens flew first to one and then to another, giving each an insect with a little good advice, and departing to provide more food.

It would take me a long time to tell all that happened upon this interesting occasion. Jack was there, and saw it all, and if you ever meet with him, you had better ask him about it. I can only tell you, at present, that, from this time, he was very much interested in birds; not as creatures to be hunted and tormented or killed, but as creatures that build nests, and have their homes, and rear their young ones, which they love very much, and whom they treat with the utmost care and tenderness. He looked upon them as creatures displaying great ingenuity, many curious habits and wonderful instincts. He, therefore, found a great deal more pleasure in watching their movements, and studying their characters, than in throwing stones at them, or shooting them. I shall tell you about other birds as we proceed in our story.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER I.

Early days—The keg of gold—Misfortunes—Voyages.

As I am about to tell my story, it is proper that I should say something of my birth, parentage and early days. About half way between Hartford and New Haven, in Connecticut, is a small, pleasant city, called Middletown. It is situated upon the western bank of Connecticut river, and lies upon the turnpike which constitutes the great avenue between the two places first mentioned.

About a mile and a half south of Middletown, upon this high road, is a turnpike gate, and contiguous to it is a small toll-house. This was originally called Hill-gate, being situated on a hill, but at last it was familiarly called Hell-gate. In the house which bore this ominous title, I was born, about five and forty years ago.

Our family then consisted of my father and mother, a brother, named Seth, and myself. Seth was two years old when I was born. When I was about two years old, a girl was added to our circle, and she was named Sarah. We were now very poor, but had once been in good circumstances. My father had formerly been a merchant in Middletown, in partnership with his brother Benjamin. They traded to the West Indies, with a sloop called the Carbuncle, and my uncle Ben used to command her. He usually went to St. Domingo, where he carried horses, mules, cows, oxen, potatoes, onions, &c., and brought back sugar and molasses.

From all I can learn, it seems my uncle Ben was an eccentric character, but still he managed his part of the business well, and the concern went on in a thriving way for some years. At last, it was thought best for him to remain at St. Domingo, so as to carry on the business there, and accordingly it was so arranged. He took up his residence at Port au Prince; but, in about a year after he was established there, the insurrection in St. Domingo broke out. My uncle, who was a hot-headed fellow, took some part in the struggle, in consequence of which, he was obliged to seek safety in flight from the island. Whither he went, we could not exactly find out, but we were told that he went on board a Dutch vessel, bound for Surinam. From that time, however, we heard nothing of him.

At the time that the disturbances commenced at Port au Prince, the Carbuncle was lying in port. Her cargo was in, and she was almost ready to sail; accordingly, she took her departure, and escaped. She brought a letter from my uncle Ben, very hastily written, saying that his life was in danger, and very probably he might never return. He went on to say, however, that he should send a keg of gold by the vessel, which was of great value; that, if my father never heard of him more, he might consider it as his own.

You may well imagine my father’s disappointment, at finding that the precious keg was not to be found on board the sloop, when she came back. The supercargo, whose name was Ambrose Dexter, and familiarly called Amby Dexter, declared that my uncle had not time to put the keg on board,—that he was obliged to fly, and that he went hastily by night on board the Dutch vessel of which we have already spoken.

My father continued the business for a year or two, employing Dexter as his supercargo; but the trade proved unprofitable, and at last he became a bankrupt. The idea was then common that the creditor has a right over the soul and body of his debtor. Accordingly, the persons whom he owed threw him into prison, where he remained for two or three years. My mother was reduced to extreme poverty, but she still continued to pick up a subsistence.

Upon my father’s failure, Dexter took the store and continued the business, and very soon he became a rich man. For some reason, he seemed to hate my father, though he pretended to be very kind to him. He used to go and see him in prison, and promised to use his influence for his liberation; but it afterwards appeared that he had actually bought up claims against him, and caused him to be imprisoned upon them.

My father suffered so much from his confinement, that his constitution was weakened, and his health impaired forever. After his release, he obtained the situation of toll-keeper, from which he received about one hundred dollars a year. Upon this pittance, our family was now obliged to live. My mother, however, was a good economist, and though we lived humbly, we had still the necessaries of life.

As I have said, Amby Dexter advanced rapidly in wealth, and in the space of a few years he became a very rich man. In reflecting upon all the circumstances, my father became suspicious that he had embezzled the keg of gold, which had been sent by my uncle Ben, and that this was the secret of his sudden prosperity. He intimated these views, in a confidential way, to one or two whom he esteemed friends. He showed them the letter he had received from his brother, together with the documents tending to establish his views. These confidential friends, however, betrayed his trust, and told Dexter of what my father had said.

As if our cup of misfortune was not yet sufficiently full, our house was secretly entered shortly after this time, by some one at night, and my father’s papers were carried off, together with two hundred dollars, which belonged to the turnpike company. A story was soon put in circulation, that the robbery was all a sham; and it was soon generally suspected that my father had taken the money, and caused the rumor of the theft to cover up his guilt. He was tried for the embezzlement of the property, but though he was acquitted, he was deprived of his place.

Nor was this all. Dexter brought an action against him for defamation, in consequence of what he had said about him to his confidential neighbors. A poor man’s word is feeble, and carries little conviction with it; while the rich man’s word is full of authority. Accordingly, in this contest, my father could hardly fail to be overwhelmed by his proud and prosperous enemy. He had even lost the papers, by means of the robbery, which justified the suspicions he had expressed, and thus he was regarded by the jury as without excuse or defence.

He was sentenced to pay five hundred dollars, and being unable to do it, he was sent to prison. Here he lingered for a few months, till, at last, worn out and emaciated with confinement, and sick at heart, his spirit departed, as I trust, for a better world.

As it is a painful story, I shall not detail the course of events which followed, in respect to my mother. It must be sufficient to say, that my brother Seth grew up rather a wild fellow, and the neighbors said—“I thought it would be so, for he comes of a bad father.” At last, when he was about seventeen years old, he went to sea, and was not heard of afterwards. For myself, I went to school till I was nine years old, when I went, as cabin-boy, on board a vessel which plied between Middletown and New York. Here I continued for several years—though I was often beaten because they said I belonged to a bad family. They seemed to think I could do nothing right. However, I bore it all, and grew up a sailor. When I was about fifteen, I went on a voyage to St. Domingo, and was instructed by my mother to make inquiries about my uncle at Port au Prince. This I did, but as it was about twenty years since the events occurred which I have mentioned, I could hear nothing of him.

After my return, I made several other voyages, and was soon able to do something towards the support of my mother and sister. At last I went upon a voyage which produced results which may be interesting to the reader. I shall give an account of it in the next chapter.

The Indian and his Dog.

On the borders of the state of Pennsylvania there lived a man by the name of Le Fevre, who had a family of eleven children. One morning, the youngest of these, about four years of age, was found to be missing. The distressed family sought after him, by the river and in the fields, but to no purpose. Terrified to an extreme degree, they united with their neighbors to go in quest of him. They entered the woods, and beat them over with the most scrupulous attention. A thousand times they called him by name, but were answered only by the echoes of the wilderness.

The different members of the party employed in the search, at length assembled themselves together, without being able to bring the least intelligence of the child. After reposing for a few minutes, they formed themselves into several different bands, and renewed the search. Night came on, but the parents refused to return home. Their anxiety increased by knowing that the forests were inhabited by panthers and wolves, and they could not but paint to their imagination the horrid spectacle of some of these dreadful animals devouring their darling child.

“Derick, my poor little Derick, where are you?” frequently exclaimed the mother, in the most poignant grief,—but all was of no avail. As soon as daylight appeared, they recommenced their search, but as unsuccessfully as the preceding day. At last, an Indian, laden with furs, coming from an adjacent village, called at the house of Le Fevre, intending to repose himself there, as he usually did, in his travels through that part of the country. He was much surprised to find no one at home but an old negress, kept there by her infirmities.

“Where is my brother?” asked the Indian. “Alas!” replied the negro woman, “he has lost little Derick, and all the neighborhood are employed in looking after him in the woods.” It was then three o’clock, in the afternoon. “Sound the horn,” said the Indian, “and try to call your master home—I will find his child.” The horn was sounded, and, as soon as the father returned, the Indian asked him for the stockings and shoes that the little Derick had worn last. He then ordered his dog, which he had brought with him, to smell them, and immediately proceeded to describe a circle of nearly a mile in diameter, ordering his dog to smell the earth wherever he went.

The circle was not completed, when the sagacious animal began to bark. This sound occasioned some feeble ray of hope to the disconsolate parents. The dog followed the scent and barked again; the party pursued him with all their speed, but they soon lost sight of him in the woods. Half an hour afterwards, they heard him again, and soon saw him return. The countenance of the dog was visibly altered; an air of joy seemed to animate him, and his actions appeared to indicate that his search had not been in vain. “I am sure that he has found the child!” exclaimed the Indian. But whether dead or alive, was a question which none could yet decide. The Indian then followed his dog, who led him to the foot of a large tree, where lay the child, exhausted from weakness and want of food, and nearly approaching death. He took it tenderly in his arms, and hastened to the parents.

Happily, the father and mother were in some measure prepared for the return of their child. Their joy was so great, that it was more than a quarter of an hour before they could express their gratitude to the restorer of their child. Words cannot describe the affecting scene. After they had bathed the face of the child with their tears, they threw themselves on the neck of the Indian, to whom they were no much indebted. Their gratitude was then extended to the dog; they caressed him with inexpressible delight, as the animal, who, by means of his sagacity, had found their beloved offspring; and, conceiving that he, like the rest of the group, must now stand in need of refreshment, a plentiful repast was prepared for him; after which, he and his master pursued their journey; and the company, mutually pleased at the happy event, returned to their respective homes, delighted with the kind Indian and his wonderful dog.

Husking the Corn.

Here they are, all at work, husking the corn—the Widow Wilkins and her three children, Tom, Dick and Lucy. The good woman is giving a lesson to Dick, how to strip off the husks—and little Lucy is trying to do as Dick does. Let us listen to the dialogue.

Mother. See there, Dick—do you see that?

Dick. Yes, ma’am.

M. Well—now you take off the husks, and then take hold of the stalk, just so.

D. Yes, ma’am.

M. And then you break off the stalk close to the ear, just so.

D. Yes, ma’am.

Lucy. There, mother! didn’t I do that better’n Dick?

M. Yes, my darling. Now, Dick, do you know how to do it?

D. Yes, ma’am.

Being satisfied that the husking was in a fair way, the widow Wilkins departed, and left her children to themselves. After she was gone, Dick spoke as follows. “Can you tell me, Tom, what all this corn is for?” “To be sure I can!” said Tom: “some of it is to feed the chickens with; some of it is to feed the pigs with; some of it is to feed the horse and cow with, and some of it is to be ground into Indian meal, to make Johnny-cake and brown bread with.”

“Well done!” says Dick. “It seems to me that the corn is very useful, then; for the chickens and the pigs, and the cow and the horse, and mother and Tom, and Dick and Lucy, all live upon it. Really, I never thought of that before. Then people, when they plant and plough, and hoe, and pick, and husk the corn, are working all the while for the hens, and hogs, and cattle, and people!”

“Yes, to be sure,” said Tom; “and what did you think all this labor was for, before you found out it was useful in this way?”

“Why,” said the boy, “I thought—I thought—I don’t know what I thought; I guess I didn’t think at all—or if I did, I thought it was all a kind of play. But I know better now; I see that when people are at work, they are not playing, but they are doing something useful; and when mother sets me to work, I mean always to consider that she has a good and useful object in view, and that I must do it, not because it is play, but because it will do some good.”

“Very well,” said Tom; “I hope you will always do so.” By this time, the husking was done, and I came away.

The Old Man in the Corner; or, the Pedler’s Pack,

NO. II.

THE STORY OF THE COTTON-WOOL.

Several weeks ago I took a ramble through the beautiful town of Dorchester. In the course of my perambulation, I came to a paper-mill, and being attracted by the stirring sound of the machinery within, I entered and looked around me. In one place I saw an immense bin of rags, of all sizes and shapes, and of all hues, and apparently gathered from the four quarters of the globe. Never did I see such a motley congregation, crowded together in one place. As I was looking on the heap, the thought occurred to me that if each rag could speak and tell the adventures of its existence, we should have a collection of romances equal in extent, and perhaps rivalling in wonders, the thousand and one tales of the Arabian Nights.

While I was gazing at the heap of rags, which, by the by, was in a dim and dusky room, I thought I saw something rise up in the midst, looking very much like the skinny visage of a very thin, old woman, about to speak. I approached the bin, and looked steadily at the grisly image—but, on closer inspection, it appeared to be only an old rag, which had, accidentally, assumed the questionable shape I have described.

I proceeded to examine the several processes of the mill, and great was my admiration at seeing their magical result. I discovered that the rags of any hue, being put into a vat, were bleached as white as the “driven snow;” that they were then reduced to a kind of pulp, as soft as paste; that this, being mixed with water, produced a liquid like milk; that this liquid passed over a wire cloth, through which the water oozed, leaving a thin, white, even scum, which, settling upon the wire cloth, formed the sheet of paper.

I looked on this beautiful process with wonder and delight. I saw the sheet of paper pass over several cylinders, gradually becoming firmer and firmer, by pressure and heat, until, at last, I could see it coiled up, smooth, white and polished, and several hundred yards in length. I then saw it unrolled, and, by a simple machine, cut into sheets, ready to be sent to market.

I have never seen any manufacture which seemed to me no admirable. When I left the mill, I sauntered along the banks of the river, which turned the wheels of the mill. The place was shady, and, it being summer, I sat down. While I was there, a pretty, black-eyed girl came along, and I beckoned her to me. She came smiling, and we fell into conversation. She asked me to go to her house, and being introduced to her parents, they gave the old man some food, and treated him kindly. “Will you tell me a story?” said the little girl. “I will write you one,” said I—and so we parted.

For some weeks I forgot my promise, when I received a note from the black-eyed girl, refreshing my memory on this point. At evening I sat down to write the tale: but, instead of writing, a drowsiness stole over me, and I fell into a dream. Methought I was at my writing-desk, when I heard a rustling amid a heap of papers on my table, and presently something rose up, and assumed precisely the appearance of the rag in the bin of the paper-mill, which had seemed to me so much like a haggish old woman. A sort of strange fear came over me. I could now see the distinct features of a face, though the general aspect of the horrid visage was that of an old calico rag. There was a long, thin, crooked nose; deep, twinkling, tallow-colored eyes; a pointed chin, and a mouth that seemed capable of uttering unutterable things.

I rose up and stood aloof in fear. I was about to speak, when the ghost put her finger on her lip, and, stepping forward, stood upon the middle of the table. There was something awful about this scene, and I felt chilled, with a creeping horror, to my very heart. The creature reached out a kind of crumpled hand, and in a sort of frenzy I clasped it. But no sooner had I touched it, than the image vanished, and I found in my grasp a roll of paper. This I unfolded, and found it to be an immense sheet, written over in a neat, close hand. Casting my eye at the beginning, I saw that it read as follows:

“THE REMINISCENCES OF A RAG.

“As the rising sun was just peeping over the bosom of the Atlantic, and tinging with gold the waters that play along the borders of Amelia Island, a negro man, named Bob Squash, was seen putting some little seeds into the ground, upon the eastern slope of said island. This event occurred on the 4th of March, 1839, as the wooden clock of the plantation was on the stroke of four.

“The seed was covered up in the ground, but in a few days it shot forth, and, in process of time, it became a large plant, covered with tufts of cotton. These were gathered by Bob Squash, and rolled into a wad and from this time I began to have a consciousness of existence. That ball of cotton was myself. I was packed into a bag with an immense heap of other cotton, and being put into a mill, we were awfully torn to pieces, in order to separate the seeds from the fibres. The teeth of the mill, which consisted of a thousand hooks, went through and through us, and thus we were parted forever from the seeds which had been born and bred with us, and which we had cherished from our infancy. The seeds, however, were black, and the combing process made us look very nice and clean.

“I was now taken, with the rest of the cotton-wool, and put into a large, coarse sack, and, in order to make us lie snug, a little negro got into the sack and trod us down. He didn’t stop to consider how we might like it, but he went on stamping and jumping, and singing Jim Crow, all the time. When the bag was full, the mouth was sewed up, and we were marked as weighing three hundred and seventy-five pounds. In this state we were called a bale of cotton.

“You must know that there are two kinds of cotton—the short staple, or upland cotton, and the long staple, or sea island. The latter is the best, and our bale was of that sort. Of course, we, being of the aristocratic class, were proud of our descent; and, while we supposed the vulgar upland would be worked up into shirtings and sheetings, or, perhaps, cheap calicoes, we expected to be treated according to our quality, by being wrought into delicate muslins or cambrics for the fair. So it chanced, as you shall see, if you will peruse the next chapter.”

[To be continued.]

The Sea.—From the great depths which have been actually ascertained in some places, and the great extent of sea in which no bottom has been found, we may conclude that we are under the estimate when, including banks and shallows, we allow one mile in depth for the whole. Even this gives us a most enormous quantity of water; a quantity which, estimated in tons weight, we have the entire quantity of sea water, with all its saline ingredients, amounting to the enormous weight of 600,000,000,000,000,000, (six hundred thousand billions of tons.) Of this enormous quantity, between three and four per cent. consists of different saline ingredients, and the rest of pure water; so that water in the sea available for the purposes of animal and vegetable life, the supply of springs and rivers, and all other purposes for which water is needed in the economy of the land, amounts to five hundred and eighty thousand billions of tons; and the quantity of salt, at least of saline ingredients, to about twenty thousand billions of tons.

Snow-balling.

“Hurrah, boys—school’s out! come! let’s choose sides and have a snow-balling!”

At this challenge, the boys divide into two groups, and at it they go. It is capital sport—for while it gives an opportunity for the display of skill and power in hurling the missiles, it causes no broken bones—no bloody noses—no peeled shins—no black eyes. It is the very mildest, merriest, and most harmless of all fighting. A snow-ball pat in the face draws no “claret,” begets no bad blood, and only provokes a retaliation, in kind, perchance inciting the hit warrior to squeeze his ball a little harder and send it back with redoubled, but still harmless vim.

Those people who live in the sunny south, where Jack Frost never comes with his snow-flakes, surely miss one of the greatest delights of our northern climes. We are willing to forego their orange groves, their fig trees, and their grape vines—bending as they may be with fruit—in consideration of the fun of snow-balling. Not that we, ourself—Robert Merry—old, decrepit and gray—ever engage in that lively sport. No—such things are past with us; but though we cannot personally engage in such merry work, we can at least look on—and that is a great pleasure.

I remember once when I was at school, the boys agreed to have a game of snow-balling, and each one was only to use his left hand. The work went on bravely and smartly, too, for some time; each boy stuck to the treaty, and faithfully worked with his left hand. But, at last, one cowardly fellow, named Farwell, got into a tussle with another chap, and as he received more balls than he sent, he broke his faith, and hurled with his right hand. This provoked retaliation, for one act of injustice is apt to beget another. Farwell was soundly beaten, and in a short time the whole treaty was violated and overturned. I have often thought of that little incident—and I close my story by suggesting the lesson it inculcates; beware of injustice—for it is very likely that you will yourself suffer from the wrongs that will be done in retaliation.

Anecdote of Washington.—At the commencement of the revolutionary war, there lived at East Windsor, Connecticut, a farmer, of the name of Jacob Munsell, aged forty-five years. After the communication by water between this part of the country and Boston was interrupted by the possession of Boston harbor by the British fleet, Munsell was often employed to transport provisions by land to our army, lying in the neighborhood of Boston. In the summer of 1775, while thus employed, he arrived within a few miles of the camp at Cambridge, with a large load, drawn by a stout ox team. In a part of the road which was somewhat rough, he met two carriages, in each of which was an American general officer. The officer in the forward carriage, when near to Munsell, put his head out of the window, and called to him, in an authoritative tone—“Get out of the path!”

Munsell immediately retorted, “I won’t get out of the path—get out yourself!”

After some other vain attempts to prevail on Munsell to turn out, the officer’s carriage turned out, and Munsell kept the path. The other carriage immediately came up, having been within hearing distance of what had passed, and the officer within put his head out of the vehicle, and said to Munsell—“My friend, the road is bad, and it is very difficult for me to turn out; will you be so good as to turn out and let me pass?”

“With all my heart, sir,” said Munsell; “but I won’t be d——d out of the path by any man.”

This last officer was General Washington. How much more noble, and how much more successful, is a mild and courteous manner, than a harsh and dictatorial one!

Question on Mathematics.—A fellow in Kentucky, with a railway imagination, wants to know how long it will be before they open the equinoctial line.

Nebulæ.

The Use of Telescopes.

One of the inventions most important to science that ever was made, was that of the telescope. The common telescope is usually called a spy-glass. It is used to look at distant objects, and it serves to bring them, apparently, nearer to view. At sea, the spy-glass is of the greatest use, for it enables the masters of vessels distinctly to see the land, which would scarcely be visible to the naked eye. He can also see vessels which are distant, and be able to tell what kind of vessels they are, what rigging they have, what colors they carry, &c., long before these things could be discovered by the naked eye.

But the telescopes, made for looking at the heavenly bodies, though apparently less useful than the common spy-glass, have still revealed to us many interesting and wonderful, and, indeed, useful, truths. By means of these, we are better acquainted with the moon; we now know that it is a rough planet of mountains and valleys, and, though resembling our earth, that it is without inhabitants, water or atmosphere.

By means of telescopes we know that Jupiter, which to the naked eye seems but a little star, is a great world, with four moons, and, what is curious, we know that these moons keep the same face always turned to the planet, just as our moon does to the earth. We know that Saturn, which also seems like a little star, is a vast world, with seven moons, and a wonderful belt of light, encircling it and revolving around it. These are some of the wonders revealed to us by the telescope.

But there are still others quite as interesting. Beyond the stars which we can see with the naked eye, the telescope unfolds to the view thousands upon thousands of others, the very existence of which we had never known but for this instrument. Nor is even this all—some of the stars are not single, but two or three are close together, and evidently revolve around one another. These are called binary, or double stars. Astronomers have observed many thousands of these wonderful worlds, far away in the boundless regions of space.

You have all seen what is called the Milky-way, a broad, irregular band of light crossing the entire heavens. The ancient poets represented this as the milk spilt by the nurse of their god Mercury, and from this poor and paltry conception, it derived its name. Now, let us remark what the telescope says the milky-way is—an immense number, myriads upon myriads, of worlds! What a glorious view does this unfold to us of that God who has not only made the heavens, but us also!

But beside stars of various magnitudes, revealed by the telescope, there are other objects, called nebulæ, from their cloud-like appearance. These are of various sizes and forms, some being without defined shape, some being circular, some long and pointed, and one bearing a resemblance to a dumb bell. The engraving at the head of this article will give some idea of the appearance of these mysterious bodies, which are seen, many millions of miles off in the far regions of space.

The idea has been suggested, and with good reason, that these nebulæ are particles of matter, thin almost as air, which are in the process of being condensed and formed into worlds. We know that a detached drop of water forms itself, at once, into a little globe, by that principle which pervades all matter—called gravitation; and we may suppose that these different particles forming the nebulæ, being attracted to each other, will gradually assume a spherical form, and that, in the rush of these particles toward each other, currents will be created, which will give the globe a revolving motion. Such are the curious speculations of the astronomers, and there is some reason to think them correct. What a vast conception does this view of things unfold—for it seems that not only are there countless millions of worlds already formed, all around us, but that, in the distance, the Almighty is still carrying on the stupendous process of manufacturing other worlds! Far—far beyond the reach of the naked eye—far beyond the reach of the searching telescope—far beyond even the daring stretch of the imagination, into the unfathomed night of space—there, there, is the Almighty lighting up the regions of nothingness with existence, bidding new suns to shine in the chambers of silence and death—and thus extending his dominions and spreading abroad the rays of his glory. If the angels and good spirits are permitted to look upon these things—to accompany the Creator in his mighty movements to look upon his proceedings—to fathom, in some degree, his designs—to participate in his works—to co-operate in his views—and to do all this in that blissful harmony which love to God creates—O, how glorious must be that happiness which they enjoy!

The Lotus.

The Lotus, or lily of the Nile, is a plant of great beauty and celebrity. There is one kind which is dried and made into loaves, and eaten for bread. The root, which is round and of the size of an apple, is also eaten.

The flower, at first, stands on the stalk, one or two feet above the water; but when the leaves are expanded and the seed-vessels fully formed, it gradually sinks till it rests on the surface of the water. All travellers are very much struck with the beauty of the lakes and rivers in Egypt, when, as frequently happens, they are covered with these blossoms. Sometimes they spring up in the places which are flooded during the overflow of the Nile, and seem to spread out to a vast extent, covering the entire surface of the water; yet when the flood subsides they perish.

The Miller and the Fool.—A miller who attempted to be witty at the expense of a youth of weak intellect, accosted him thus: “John, people say that you are a fool.” On this, John replied, “I don’t know that I am, sir; I know some things, and some things I don’t know, sir.” “Well, John, what do you know?” “I know that millers always have fat hogs, sir.” “And what don’t you know?” “I don’t know whose corn they eat, sir.”

The Indian Dandy.

It must not be supposed that the love of fine dress is confined to city dandies and dandisettes. By no means; for travellers tell us that among the tribes that inhabit the far west, the young Indian men have a great fancy for dressing themselves up in a fanciful way.

The picture at the head of this article represents a young man whose name was Prairie Wolf, and it is a very good likeness. He has upon his head the horns of a buffalo, which he slew in the chase; and beneath is the hair of the buffalo’s pate, with a circular and notched piece of leather, forming together a sort of crown. He has beads around his neck, with a necklace of bears’ claws. He has, also, a bracelet on his left arm. His robe is made of ornamented deer skins;—his kilt is of leather, fringed with wampum.

This dress is very modest for a young Indian. Very often the young fellows, when they wish to appear lovely in the eyes of the girls, paint themselves red, blue and green: they decorate their heads with feathers, and, altogether, make a most extraordinary display. They then mount a horse and ride swiftly around the village, coming often before the women to excite their admiration.

The grave old warriors and hunters, who have done great deeds in their day, laugh at such things, and ridicule them as very contemptible. Indeed, when an Indian has performed some distinguished feat in battle, or the chase, he usually ceases to be a dandy in dress.

One thing is curious among the Indians, and that is, that this love of dress is chiefly confined to the men. The women, indeed, decorate themselves with a few beads and other ornaments; but real dandyism belongs wholly to the other sex. The females are usually modest in their attire, and seldom seek to excite admiration by their dress. It seems to be among the Indians as among the turkies—the cocks are the only ones that strut about, showing off their fine feathers!

“Do you understand me, now?” thundered out one of our country pedagogues, to an urchin, at whose head he threw an ink-stand. “I have got an ink-ling of what you mean,” replied the boy.

The Locust.

The Locust is an insect whose vast depredations are so little known to us by experience, that the full extent of the plague they cause in Egypt and other eastern countries, is hardly credible. A flight of these insects has been compared to flakes of snow driven about by the wind; and if the sun shines ever so bright, it is no lighter than when covered by a cloud. When they alight upon the ground, the plains are entirely covered with them, and speedily stripped of every vestige of herbage or other vegetable; while at night, locusts cover the earth in such numbers, that they lie one upon the other, four or five inches thick.

The locust, in form, nearly resembles the grasshopper; it hops and flies in the same manner, but is more robust, and has four large wings. The body is scaly, the head large, and the eyes very bright. Their legs and thighs are so powerful, that they can leap to a height of two hundred times the length of their bodies; when so raised, they spread their wings, and fly so close together, as to appear like one compact, moving mass. In most parts of the east, they are made an article of food; and in Egypt, the catching and cooking of locusts forms a regular employment. Their taste is said to be insipid.

St. Patrick and Father Matthew.

St. Patrick was a famous missionary, who went to Ireland about fourteen hundred years ago, and taught the people Christianity. At that time, the Irish were heathen, and their religion was a kind of idolatry. Their priests were called druids, who taught the adoration of the sun and moon, together with many superstitions. St. Patrick persuaded the people to dismiss their errors and to adopt the truths of Christianity. He accomplished this great object by the gentle arts of persuasion; and consequently his memory has been ever held in kind and honored remembrance by the greater part of the Irish people. As it is a great while since St. Patrick lived, many curious stories have been invented about him; and, among others, it is related that he drove all the venomous serpents, together with the toads, frogs, lizards and tadpoles, out of the island. Now this is no doubt a fiction. Probably these stories are a kind of allegory, by which, under the idea of reptiles, the errors of heathenism are meant, and these were cast out by the good old saint.

But, however this may be, something quite as wonderful as the tales about St. Patrick, has taken place in our day. A good priest or minister, called Father Matthew, seeing that the people of Ireland were very much addicted to drunkenness, thought he would try to induce them to give it up, and become temperate. So he drew up a pledge, and began to get the people to sign it. He succeeded very well indeed; the people signed the pledge, and many that were very miserable before, on account of the use of whiskey and other strong drinks, were reformed, and became sober, useful, and happy people. Seeing the great good that was thus done, other persons signed the pledge; and thus the great work proceeded, until five or six millions of people had signed it.

This is indeed a great and wonderful work. It is impossible to say how much evil has been prevented, and how much good has been done by Father Matthew. He has recently been to England, and thousands signed the pledge there. It is said he is coming to America, and surely we shall all be glad to see him. The following lines, about St. Patrick and Father Matthew, may be amusing to our readers, and make them remember the good they have done.

St. Patrick, ’tis said, cleared Ireland’s bogs

Of serpents and reptiles—toads, tadpoles and frogs—

But a saint of our day shows a far greater wonder—

For good Father Matthew’s got alcohol under!

St. Patrick did well—and we give him a glass

Of pure cold water—so round let it pass!

We drink to his name—’tis a bright one in story,

And, wreathed with green shamrock, shines ever in glory;

For if we will read the old legend aright,

The reptiles he vanquished so bravely in fight

Were druidical monsters—dark errors and crimes—

Which he drove, with the cross, from Erin’s fair climes;

But alas! when the saint had long slept in the grave,

A serpent, more monstrous, crept out from the wave;

He seemed a good genius—was joyous and frisky—

And so he was welcomed, and they christened him Whiskey.

A favorite he grew, and at wedding or fair—

By every one cherished—sure Whiskey was there!

And all the world fancied, when he took a part,

Though ’t were praying or dancing, it came from the heart.

But at last it was seen that a demon of night

Had passed himself off as an angel of light;

For, in moments of glee, like a serpent he stole

Unseen to the bosom, and coiled in the soul!

Nor was this all—for Whiskey’s a fellow

That lives in each liquor, which makes one mellow—

And though he may dwell in a hogshead himself,

His spirit is found in a julep—the elf!

’Twas thus by his arts that he spread o’er the isle,

And millions on millions did Whiskey beguile.

In vain are the efforts the evils to paint,

Where Whiskey was worshipped as more than a saint!

There was madness and death—there was sorrow and guile—

Yet—the source of them all—he was worshipped the while!

But murder will out—and Whiskey grew bold,
Was detected—convicted of all we have told.
St. Patrick was dead, but he left an example—
And so Father Matthew adopted the sample;

He attacked the old monster, and though he roared out,

And flourished his tail, and turned round about—

Mat laid it on well, and his blows, like a sledge,

Fell heavy and thick, for he wielded The Pledge;

And the last news is this—’tis surely no wonder—

Father Matthew’s atop, and Whiskey is under.

The real Culprit.—A noble lady of Florence lost a valuable pearl necklace, and a young girl who waited upon her was accused of the theft. As she solemnly denied the charge, she was put to the torture. Unable to support the terrible infliction, she acknowledged that “she was guilty,” and, without further trial, was hung. Shortly after, Florence was visited by a tremendous storm, and a thunderbolt fell upon a figure of Justice on a lofty column, and split the scales, one of which fell to the earth, and with it the ruins of a magpie’s nest, containing the pearl necklace!

Combat between a Falcon and Serpent.

M. De Vaillant, a famous French traveller, gives an account of a remarkable engagement, of which he was a witness, between a falcon and a snake. The falcon is the chief enemy of the serpent in all the countries which it inhabits, and the mode in which it wages war with it is very peculiar. When the falcon approaches a serpent, it always carries the point of one of its wings forward, in order to parry off its venomous bites. Sometimes it finds an opportunity of spurning and treading upon its antagonist, or else of taking him upon its pinions, and throwing him into the air. When, by this system, it has, at length, wearied out its adversary, and rendered him almost senseless, it kills and swallows him at leisure.

On the occasion which Vaillant mentions, the battle was obstinate, and conducted with equal address on both sides. The serpent, feeling at last his inferiority, endeavored to regain his hole; while the bird, apparently guessing his design, stopped him on a sudden, and cut off his retreat, by placing herself before him at a single leap.

On whatever side the reptile endeavored to make his escape, the enemy still appeared before him. Rendered desperate, the serpent resolved on a last effort. He erected himself boldly, to intimidate the bird, and, hissing dreadfully, displayed his menacing throat, inflamed eyes, and a head swollen with rage and venom. The falcon seemed intimidated for a moment, but soon returned to the charge; and, covering her body with one of her wings as a buckler, she struck her enemy with the bony protuberance of the other. M. Vaillant saw the serpent at last stagger and fall. The conqueror then fell upon him to despatch him, and with one stroke of her beak laid open his skull.

The Papyrus.

In a former number of the Museum we gave some account of the Papyrus, a kind of three-cornered reed which grows in Egypt, and from the pith of which the ancients made thin paper. We give a cut representing some of these reeds growing in the edge of the water. They are still to be found in the environs of Damietta, and on the banks of Lake Menzaleh, and nowhere else in Egypt. Perhaps the reason of this is, that, formerly, the government, in order to have a monopoly of the making of paper, caused it to be pulled up and eradicated in many parts of Egypt, and only allowed it to grow where its preparation could be superintended.

It is said that the mode of making the paper was this: the epidermis or skin of the stalk was carefully taken off, and then the spongy pith within was cut into very thin slices; these were steeped in the water of the Nile, and several layers were alternately placed crosswise, one upon the other. These were then pressed and dried, and rubbed smooth with a piece of ivory. Thus a substance was formed resembling our paper. It was very tough and durable, and many manuscripts upon it are still in existence, which are two thousand years old. It is said that the papyrus was used for the making of paper so late as the ninth century.

Pigeon Cones.

In Upper Egypt every house and hut is provided with small houses or cones, painted white, for the brooding of pigeons. The number of these birds, in some parts, is quite surprising. In certain districts, no man is allowed to marry or keep house, unless he is in possession of a dove house. The reason assigned for this is, that the pigeons furnish the only manure for the grounds.

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER II.

The people of Greenland—Labrador.

In order to observe some method, in our account of the people of America, we shall introduce our readers in the first place to the Greenlanders, for I shall here consider Greenland as belonging to the American continent. For a long time Greenland was supposed to be united to this American continent; but it is now ascertained to be a large island. It lies so near to America, however, on the north-east, that it is proper to speak of it in this connection.

Greenland is a cold country, and very mountainous. It is quite barren, except in spots; but the sea is well stored with fish. The country also abounds with reindeer, foxes, white bears, sea-wolves, sea-dogs and sea-cows.

The Greenlanders are short in stature, seldom exceeding five feet in height; but well formed, and rather stout. Their faces are broad and flat; their eyes, nose, and mouth commonly small; their under lip sometimes thicker than the upper; they have high breasts and broad shoulders; their complexion is brown or olive, and their hair coal-black and long.

When they rise in the morning, they appear thoughtful and dejected, but in the evening, when their toil is over, they are cheerful and happy. In general, however, they are not very lively in their temper, yet good-humored and friendly. When a person dies, they think he goes to the land of spirits where he spends his time in hunting.

They are very fond of hunting and fishing; and in both they are very expert. They kill many seals; these furnish them with food. The oil they use as sauce, and of the blood they make soup. They use the oil also for lamp light and kitchen fire.

The clothing of the Greenlanders is composed of the skin of the reindeer, seals, and some kinds of birds, which they sew together with the sinews of the reindeer, seal, or whale. Their best garments they keep quite neat; but their ordinary dress abounds in filth and vermin. Their clothes smell so strong, that an inhabitant of the United States would be glad to get to the windward of a Greenlander.

The dwellings of the Greenlanders are of two sorts; one for summer, the other for winter. Their summer habitations are light tents, constructed with a few poles, covered with seal skins. Their winter habitations are built of stones, filled in with moss and covered with turf. The principal apartment is chiefly under ground, and the passage to it is so low, that it is necessary to creep rather than walk to it.

The Greenland women are very much degraded, and their lives are toilsome. They act as butchers and cooks; they dress all the skins, and then make them into garments, boots, shoes, &c. They are even obliged to build and repair the winter habitations, excepting that the men assist about the carpenter’s work.

We are sure that our readers would not wish to live in Greenland; yet the inhabitants of that island think their country the best in the world. If at any time a Greenlander is carried to a warmer clime, he longs for his native snows; and, if he cannot hope to return, he sometimes pines away and dies.

Crossing Davis’ Strait, which is not very wide, we reach that part of the American continent which is called Labrador. This is the country of the Esquimaux.

These people resemble the Greenlanders in several important respects. Like them, they are low in stature, and in complexion are very sallow. Their beards are thick and bushy; but, unlike the Greenlanders, their constitutions are feeble. They are a timorous people, and stroke their breasts in token of peace, when they approach a stranger.

The word Esquimaux, signifies “eaters of raw flesh.” They are very properly named. They are a rude and miserable race of beings, but some of them, it is said, have been taught to read the Scriptures. Their food consists chiefly of fish, with the flesh of the seal and the reindeer. Their greatest luxury is seal blubber, or oil, which they devour with as great relish as boys and girls of this country do sweetmeats.

The dress of these people is made of skins. Men and women dress nearly alike. The women use no trinkets except beads; but they ornament themselves by drawing a needle and thread, blackened with soot, under the skin. This leaves a light blue mark. It is a painful operation; but they delight so much in this kind of marks, that they sometimes cover almost their whole body with them.

The Esquimaux have a singular kind of dog, of which they keep large numbers. In this country, we should think it strange if a dog could not bark; yet theirs never bark. They make use of them to draw their sledges and guard their habitations. Sometimes they eat them, and use their skins for clothing.

Their dwellings in winter resemble caves or holes dug in the earth. They are rendered very filthy by the large quantities of fat or oil which are burnt in them, and which are used in cooking. In summer, they live in tents, much like the Greenlanders.

When Captain Parry made his voyage towards the north pole, a few years since, he found some Esquimaux people living north of Hudson’s Bay. These lived in huts, built of frozen snow. They were very talkative, good-humored and friendly. When they saw anything that pleased them, some fell to singing and dancing, while others screamed as loud as they could. Captain Parry’s men gave them some food; but they made up hideous mouths at it, till, at length, a sailor wet up some dried bread pounded fine, with train-oil, which they licked up with great delight. This would be a loathsome dish to some of our readers in the United States.

These people seem to have no idea of formal religious worship, yet they believe they shall live after death; and if they are good, according to their ideas, that they shall go to heaven and be perfectly happy. Perfect happiness, in their view, no doubt, consists in having plenty of blubber to eat. Without the light of the Bible, how degraded mankind are!

“John, your coat is too short.”

“Yes, sir; but it will be long enough before I get another.”

Bonaparte and the Leg of Mutton.

Some forty years ago, we are told that in England, such was the horror generally entertained of Bonaparte, that he was not only the fear of statesmen, but the bug-bear of the nursery and the schoolroom. “If you do this,” said the schoolma’m, birch in hand, “I’ll send Bony after you;” and, “if you don’t do that, I’ll do the same thing.” Bony was, in fact, the great scare-crow,—and many a child grew up under the impression that he was a sort of secondary evil spirit.

We are told by an English writer, that, at a certain boarding school, upon one occasion, a leg of mutton was stolen, and, as almost every evil thing was laid to Bonaparte, the children immediately supposed that he must be the thief! The writer himself, then a child, fancied the emperor, with the mutton in his fist, running off with it, and taking enormous strides in his eagerness to escape.

How many lasting prejudices, how many abiding errors are fixed in the mind by the inconsiderate threats of those who have the charge of youth! It is probable that many of the various defects, weaknesses and eccentricities of character,—those is some cases which are fatal to success in life,—are caused by the foolish and false modes of government to which we allude. We hardly know of a more unpardonable offence than for a person to endeavor to govern a child through fear of some fictitious evil.

Names of Countries and Places.

The following countries were named by the Phœnicians, the greatest commercial people of the ancient world. These names, in the Phœnician language, signify something characteristic of the place which they designated. Europe signifies a country of white complexions, so named, because the inhabitants there were of a fairer complexion than those of Asia and Africa. Asia signifies between, or in the middle, from the fact that the geographers placed it between Europe and Africa. Africa signifies the land of corn ears; it was celebrated for its abundance of corn and all sorts of grain.

Lydia signifies thirsty or dry,—very characteristic of the country. Spain signifies a country of rabbits or conies; this country was once so infested with these animals, that Augustus was besought to destroy them. Italy means a country of pitch; and Calabria has the same signification, for a similar reason. Gaul, modern France, signifies yellow-haired, as yellow hair characterized its first inhabitants. Caledonia means a woody region. Hibernia means last habitation; for, beyond this, westward, the Phœnicians never extended their voyages.

Britain signifies the country of tin, as there were great quantities of tin and lead found here and in the adjacent islands. The Greeks called it Albion, which signifies, in the Phœnician tongue, either white or high mountain, from the whiteness of its shores, or the high rocks on the western coast. Corsica signifies a woody place, and Sardinia, the footstep of a man, which it resembles. Rhodes, means serpents or dragons, which it produced in abundance. Sicily means the country of grapes; Scylla, the whirlpool, is destruction. Syracuse signifies bad savor, so called from the unwholesome marsh upon which it stood. Ætna signifies furnace, or smoke.

Snuff-Taking.

Snuff-taking is an old custom; yet, if we came suddenly upon it in a foreign country, it would make us split our sides with laughter. A grave gentleman takes a little casket out of his pocket, puts a finger and thumb in, brings away a pinch of a sort of powder, and then, with the most serious air possible, as if he were doing one of the most important acts of his life—for, even with the most indifferent snuff-taker, there is a certain look of importance—proceeds to thrust it into his nose; after which he shakes his head, or his waiscoat, or his nose itself, or all three, in the style of a man who has done his duty and satisfied the most serious claims of his well being.

It is curious to see the various ways in which people take snuff. Some do it by little fits and starts, and get over the thing quickly. There are epigrammatic snuff-takers, who come to the point as fast as possible, and to whom the pungency is everything. They generally use a sharp and severe snuff, a sort of essence of pins’ points. Others are all urbanity and polished demeanor; they value the style, as well as the sensation, and offer the box around them as much out of dignity as benevolence.

Some people take snuff irritably, others bashfully, others in a manner as dry as the snuff itself; generally with an economy of the vegetable; others with a luxuriance of gesture, and a lavishness of supply that announces a more moist article, and sheds its superfluous honors upon neckcloth and coat. Dr. Johnson was probably a snuff-taker of this kind. He used to take it out of his waistcoat pocket, instead of a box.

There is a species of long-armed snuff-takers who perform the operation in a style of potent and elaborate preparation, ending with a sudden activity. He puts his head on one side, then stretches forth his arm with pinch in hand, then brings round his arm as a snuff-taking elephant might his trunk, and finally shakes snuff, head and nose together, in a sudden vehemence of convulsion. His eyebrows are all the time lifted up, as if to make more room for the onset, and when he has ended, he draws himself up to the perpendicular, and generally proclaims the victory he has won over the insipidity of the previous moment, by a snuff and a great “Flah!”

Squirrels.

In the second volume of the Museum, we told some things about squirrels in general, but did not say anything about the different kinds particularly, which we will now proceed to do. They are so interesting a class (or, as the naturalists would say, genus) of animals, and especially so to children and young persons, that we think the readers of Merry’s Museum will like to hear more about them.

They have often, I have no doubt, been delighted at seeing their gambols, and their activity in leaping from tree to tree, and especially in seeing them eat nuts, sitting on their hinder legs, or haunches, with their bushy tails turned up over their bodies, and holding the nuts in their fore-paws, and making a hole through the shell with their sharp teeth to extract the kernel. It is very amusing to observe them thus engaged, and very surprising to see how rapidly they will make a hole through the hardest shelled nut. For this purpose, without doubt, it is, that He who made the squirrels, and who is the same glorious Being that created us, has formed their teeth very strong and very sharp.

There is quite a variety of squirrels that inhabit this country, but the most common in New England are the Gray Squirrel, the Red Squirrel, the Ground or Chip Squirrel, and the Flying Squirrel. All these kinds are frequently to be seen in almost every district, though the flying squirrel, on account of his habit of stirring about in the night, and lying still in the day-time, is not so frequently seen. They are all very beautiful and interesting creatures.

The gray squirrel is the largest of those I have named, and is frequently hunted for food, as his flesh is very palatable. A squirrel-hunt, in the fall, is a very common and very exciting amusement in many places in the country, and, when conducted with as much regard to humanity as practicable, is, perhaps, not only a pleasant, but a harmless and proper recreation. It is very apt, however, to be attended with the wanton slaughter of small birds, and other instances of unnecessary cruelty. In the newly-settled parts of the country, these squirrels are sometimes so numerous, that they make very serious havoc with the corn crop, and, in some cases, almost entirely destroy it. Its ordinary food, however, consists of nuts of various kinds, of which, like the other squirrels, it lays up a large supply for the winter. “This species,” says Godman, in his American Natural History, “is remarkable among all our squirrels for its beauty and activity. It is, in captivity, remarkably playful and mischievous, and is more frequently kept as a pet than any other.” I dare say many of my young readers have seen one or more of them in a rolling cage, and, by rapidly running over the bars, making it revolve almost with the speed of a mill-stone. Its general color is gray, as its name indicates, and it has a very large, bushy tail, which sometimes hides almost its whole body.

The red squirrel, or Chickaree, as he is sometimes called in the Middle States, is the next largest of the four, and is a common and beautiful animal, often seen on the trees by the road-sides. Frequently, you will hear a half barking and half twittering noise, and, looking up, you will see a red squirrel on the limb of a tree, a few feet above you, from which the sound proceeds. It seems to be a complaint for your encroachment on his premises, and a kind of warning to move out of his neighborhood. They frequently come around our dwellings for fruit and various sorts of food. Several of them now reside close by my house, and daily come into my woodshed for butternuts, which my children place there for them, and carry them up into a pear-tree standing by the side of the shed, and then devour them. I caught one of them in a box-trap, and kept him in confinement long enough to make a picture of him, and then set him at liberty, and he returns as freely as ever. Their food and habits generally are similar to those of the gray squirrel, though they are much more familiar, in the wild state, than the other. He is of a reddish brown color,—whence he takes his name,—and he has a dark stripe along his side, separating the red color from the white.

The account of the chip, or ground squirrel, and the flying squirrel, will be given in another number of the Museum.

Consolation in Sea-sickness.—A lady at sea, full of apprehension in a gale of wind, cried out, among other exclamations, “We shall go to the bottom! mercy on us, how my head swims!” “Madam, never fear,” said one of the sailors; “you can never go to the bottom while your head swims!”

The Blue Jay.

“A blue jay,” says Wilson, “which I have kept for some time, and with whom I am on terms of familiarity, is a very notable example of mildness of disposition and sociability of manners. An accident in the woods first put me in possession of this bird, when in full plumage, and in high health and spirits. I carried him home with me, and put him into a cage already occupied by a gold-winged woodpecker, where he was saluted with such rudeness, and received such a drubbing from the lord of the manor, for entering his premises, that, to save his life, I was obliged to take him out again.

“I then put him into another cage, where the only tenant was a female orchard oriole. She also put on airs of alarm, as if she considered herself endangered and insulted by the intrusion. The jay, meanwhile, sat mute and motionless on the bottom of the cage, either dubious of his own situation, or willing to allow time for the fears of his neighbor to subside. Accordingly, in a few minutes, after displaying various threatening gestures, she began to make her approach, but with great circumspection and readiness for retreat.

Seeing the jay, however, begin to pick up some crumbs of broken chestnuts, in a humble and peaceable way, she also descended, and began to do the same; but, at the slightest motion of her new guest, wheeled round and put herself on the defensive. All this ceremonious jealousy vanished before evening, and they now roost together, and feed and play together in perfect harmony and good humor. When the jay goes to drink, his messmate very impudently jumps into the water to wash herself, throwing the water in showers over her companion, who bears it all patiently, and venturing to take a sip now and then between the splashes, without betraying the smallest token of irritation. On the contrary, he seems to take pleasure in his little fellow-prisoner, allowing her to clean his claws from the minute fragments of chestnuts which happen to adhere to them.”

LINES PLACED OVER A CHIMNEY-PIECE.

Surly Winter, come not here;
Bluster in thy proper sphere:
Howl along the naked plain,
There exert thy joyless reign;
Triumph o’er the withered flower,
The leafless shrub, the ruined bower;
But our cottage come not near;—
Other springs inhabit here,
Other sunshine decks our board
Than the niggard skies afford.
Gloomy winter, hence! away!
Love and fancy scorn thy sway;
Love and joy, and friendly mirth

Shall bless this roof, these walls, this hearth,

The rigor of the year control,

And thaw the winter in the soul.

Mrs. Barbauld.

A German gentleman, in the course of a strict cross-examination on a trial was asked to state the exact age of the defendant.

“Dirty,” (thirty,) was the reply.

“And pray, sir, are you his senior and by how many years?”

“Why, sir, I am dirty-two.”

The Shoe-black and his Dog.—An English officer of the 44th regiment, who had occasion, when in Paris, to pass one of the bridges across the Seine, had his boots, which had been previously well polished, dirtied by a poodle dog rubbing against them. He, in consequence, went to a man, who was stationed on the bridge, and had them cleaned. The same circumstance having occurred more than once, his curiosity was excited, and he watched the dog. He saw him roll himself in the mud of the river, and then watch for a person with well-polished boots, against which he continued to rub himself.

Finding that the shoe-black was the owner of the dog, he taxed him with the artifice; and, after a little hesitation, he confessed that he had taught the dog the trick, in order to procure customers for himself. The officer being much struck with the dog’s sagacity, purchased him at a high price, and took him to England. He kept him tied up in London some time, and then released him. He remained with him a day or two, and then made his escape. A fortnight afterwards, he was found with his former master, pursuing his old trade on the bridge in Paris.

Advertisement extra.—The following morceau was copied from the original notice on board the steamboat William Caldwell, which plies on Lake George. The placard hung directly over the “bocks” containing the “snaick.”

A Rattel Snaick too bee Shode.—Thee history off this snaick is as follors, hee was ketcht on tunn mounting buy a poore man with a large fammely being sicks yer ould and very wenumous he is now in a bocks and cant hirt no boddy which is much better than too bee runnin wilde cause hee don’t want to eat nothun.

Admittance is sickpents for them what pleese to pay it, and thrippents for them what dont, a libberall reduckshon for fammeliees for more particklelars pleese to cawl on Old Dick.

T. N. Take notiss it was the poor man and not the snaick that had a large fammeley.

Pat-riotism.—W. E. Robinson, Esq., in a speech recently delivered in Baltimore, said that even the ridicule cast upon Irishmen was sometimes the highest praise. Thus, the nickname of Pat was a word of the very best signification. No word beginning with Pat, in the English language, had a bad meaning. Patent is applied to something valuable; Paternal means fatherly or kind; Patriarch, the father or head of the family; Patrician, a nobleman; Patriot, a lover of his country; Patrol, one who guards the garrison; Patron, a protector and guardian; Pattern, a thing to be copied.

To our Readers.

We regret that we are obliged to omit, this week, the continuation of Bill Keeler’s story of the Lottery Ticket, as well as some other articles intended for this number.

We must also defer till another number several interesting letters from our correspondents.

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The Snow-Flakes.

WORDS AND MUSIC WRITTEN FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

“Gently, gently falls the snow,
Lightly, lightly, soft and slow;
Pretty crystals, tell me why,
Leave thy home in yonder sky?

“All above is pure and true,

Pretty snow-flakes—just like you.

Then why in heaven take thy birth,

Yet seek a home on this dark earth?”

Thus I spoke, and seem’d to hear
A gentle spirit whisper near—
“Though from heaven the snow-flakes fall,
And mix with earth—the fate of all—

“When their winter task is done,
They’ll melt and mingle with the sun;
And, with his beams, in dew-drops rise,
Pure as before, to yonder skies.”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII MARCH, 1844. No. 3.

March—the blusterer—is here! It is a capricious month, often coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb; to-day it brings us sleet and tempest,—to-morrow, smiling sunshine and gentle showers. It appears to be a mixture of all the seasons—winter, spring, summer and autumn—yet not having the agreeable qualities of either. It is a sort of Jack-at-all-trades, yet good at none. Of all the months, it is the least of a favorite.

We are speaking, however, of our New England March; in the sunny south, it is otherwise. There it is a month of real spring; there it calls forth the buds and blossoms, and bids nature to assume her loveliest robes of azure, green and purple. At Charleston, in South Carolina, the people are regaling themselves with roses, lilacs and green peas, while we in the Bay State are shivering in the raw, cutting gales that come from the north-east, and bite as if dipped in acid. Well, never mind, we must button up our coats close for a few weeks longer; spring will come at last, and we shall enjoy the delights of that charming season. Let old Boreas roar, if he will; his time is nearly out for the season; he is fast retreating to Greenland, where he will have to stay till December, when we shall welcome him back, with his ice and snow.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER II.

Adventures in South America.

Being now about seventeen years old, and having the reputation of being a pretty good sailor, I was offered a berth on board a vessel that was going to Surinam, a Dutch settlement in South America. This I accepted, not only because the pay was liberal, but I had a vague notion that I might there hear something of my uncle Ben; for we had always understood that when he left St. Domingo he sailed for that place. My mother seemed always to have a kind of faith that he was alive, and she hoped I might hear of him at Surinam. We set sail in November, our vessel being a brig called the Sheldrake. We proceeded for some time on our voyage without any remarkable occurrence.

When we began to approach the coast of South America, I could not but be struck with the splendor of the stars at night. In those southern latitudes, we see a different set of stars from those which are visible in New England, and many of the groups are exceedingly brilliant. The beauty of a tropical night, especially at sea, even when the moon is not visible, can scarcely be conceived. The waves of the ocean are flashing with phosphoric light, and to such a degree, as to throw a lustre upon the sides of the ship. The stars are of sufficient brilliancy to light up the atmosphere, giving to all the objects, above and around, an aspect of peculiar loveliness.

Surinam is a part of a great country called Guiana, which forms the northeastern corner of the South American continent, and belongs a part to England, a part to France, and Surinam to Holland. It is a low, level region, presenting not a single hill or highland for two or three hundred miles. When we approached the coast, I saw the land; nothing was presented to the view but a line of trees edging the shore, as far as the eye could reach. Not a house was visible, nor, indeed, any other object which could give us the least intimation as to what part of the coast we had reached. We kept off the shore, and proceeded south-eastward, keeping the land in view.

As we were proceeding in this manner, a smart gale sprung up one night, and, in spite of our efforts to keep off, we were driven in toward the land. In the morning we struck the bottom, and soon found that we were stuck fast in the mud-bank which extends out three or four miles to sea, along the whole coast of Guiana. It was now December, a time when the whole face of nature is wrapped in snow in New England; but where we were, the heat was excessive.

After about two days, we contrived to work our brig out of the mud, and once more proceeded on our course. At last we saw a house upon the land, and the captain, coming to an anchor, sent a boat ashore, to inquire whereabouts we were. The answer was that we were near the mouth of the river Courantin, about a hundred miles west of Paramaribo, to which place we were bound. This was very agreeable news. We now proceeded cheerfully on our way, and in the course of two days we could perceive, by the appearance of the water, that we were near the mouth of a large river. This we knew to be the Surinam, and now, pursuing a southerly course, soon found ourselves at the wharf of Paramaribo.

I had been a great deal around the world and seen a great many beautiful places, but never was I more delighted than when I walked about this little city. It is not larger than Providence, having only twenty thousand inhabitants, but the streets are long, straight and broad, and are lined with the most beautiful trees that can be imagined. These are of various kinds, such as oranges, lemons, shaddocks, tamarinds, &c. At all seasons of the year, these are bending with fruit, and yet covered with blossoms. The air is at all times filled with perfume, especially at night.

The inhabitants are generally Dutch. The houses are for the most part of wood, but they are of a curious fashion, having very heavy cornices, with abundance of queer ornaments. Nothing can present a stronger contrast than do the people in these streets to those of New England. In the latter place, there is great uniformity; in the former, all is variety. Here you may see the old Dutch planters, with their huge trowsers and broad-brimmed hats; sailors from all countries; soldiers, Jews, Indians and Negroes. The dresses of these people strike a Yankee as being exceedingly droll, and at first, I could not help laughing at almost everybody I met. By degrees, the singularity of things around me wore off, and I became accustomed to the manners of the place. The river before the town of Paramaribo is at least a mile in width, and as there are a great many boats and barges constantly plying upon its surface, the scene it presents is of a very lively character.

The soil of Guiana is among the richest in the world. The land lies so low that it is necessary to build dikes, for the purpose of keeping out the sea and the inundations of the rivers. The chief productions are coffee, sugar, cacao, cotton and indigo. It also produces ginger, pepper, cloves, nutmegs, castor oil, &c. The object of our voyage was to obtain coffee and spices. There is no country in the world more rich in its fruits. Yams, sweet potatoes, bananas, and the cocoa nut, are produced in abundance. Oranges, lemons, limes, figs, shaddocks, melons of many kinds, and other delicious fruits, abound.

Nothing can equal the luxuriance of the flowering shrubs and plants. Many of these are of gigantic stature. The trees often grow to a great height, and thousands of bright-winged birds seem to live a life of perpetual bliss amid the perfume that is shed from their perennial blossoms.

As soon as I had become a little acquainted with the town, I began to make inquiry about my uncle. I could, however, hear nothing of him, until, at last, an old sailor told me that he remembered him perfectly well; that he came from Port au Prince to Paramaribo more than twenty years before, where he remained only for a year or two. The man could give me no farther information about him. He told me, however, that there was an Englishman residing up in the country about a hundred miles, who had some business with my uncle, and he could tell me all about him. As our vessel was likely to be detained about a month, I got permission of the captain to go and see this man, to whom I was referred for information respecting my uncle.

I set out on foot, and pursued my way along the banks of the river Surinam. The road was roughly paved with stones, and heavy wagons were frequently passing to and fro upon it. Although I was in a strange country, I felt no concern, for I was naturally of a fearless disposition, and beside, I was armed with a cudgel in my hand, and a pistol under my belt. So far, indeed, was I from fear, that I felt a sort of pleasant excitement in my present adventure. The strange appearance of everything around me rather excited than saddened my mind. The trees, the shrubs, the very birds, the whole aspect of nature, the forms of the houses that I occasionally met, the dress of the inhabitants, all reminded me that I was far from my own country, that I was a stranger in a strange land; but still I was light of heart, and whistling Yankee Doodle, I plodded bravely on.

I had set out before sunrise, and by ten o’clock had travelled more than a dozen miles. Finding myself weary, I turned off the road, and seated myself on the bank of the river, beneath the shade of a large tree. Here I sat for some time, listening to the incessant chatter of parrots and macaws over my head, and observing the humming birds that were buzzing among the flowering shrubs.

At last, I fell asleep, as little dreaming of danger as if I were taking a nap upon a summer day upon the banks of the Connecticut river. I slept soundly for some time, but at last I began to dream about a great many strange things. I fancied that I was wandering in a distant land—that I finally came to a great cavern, which I entered—that I was weary and laid myself down to repose—that a horrid monster stole upon me in my helpless condition, and was about to rend me in pieces; I dreamed that I attempted to rise and escape, but that I could not stir. Such at last was the horror of my mind, that I screamed aloud, and at the instant awoke from my sleep.

What was my horror to discover that my dream was almost a reality! At the distance of about twenty feet I saw an enormous alligator, with his jaws already distended, ready to press me in his fangs. He was slowly stealing upon me, but as I moved, he rushed forward, his enormous tail brandished in the air, and his claws spread, as if ready to grapple me. Quick as thought, I leaped from the ground, and at a single bound placed myself behind the trunk of the tree beneath which I had been sleeping. The monster perceived that he was foiled in his main object; but unluckily I had left my wallet, containing a loaf of bread and some cold meat, upon the ground where I had lain. The creature picked this up in his mouth, and wheeling heavily round, marched down the bank and plunged into the water. At first, I was quite satisfied to have escaped with my life; but I soon began to lament the loss of my dinner. It was in vain, however, to repine, so I seized my cudgel, and proceeded upon my journey.

[To be continued.]

Bill and the Boys.

The Lottery Ticket, continued.

The reader will remember that Tom Trudge had set off from his home in the country, to go to New York and see to the success of his lottery ticket. He soon arrived at the great city, and found, to his vexation, that the drawing of the lottery was postponed for a week beyond the appointed time. It seemed to him hardly worth while to return to his home, but what should he do to get rid of this terrible week? When we are looking forward with impatience to a certain event, the time that stands between us and the object of desire, is considered a hateful enemy, and we set about killing it as well as we can. Some people are as anxious to kill time, as if it were a lion or a grizzly bear.

At the period we speak of, some thirty or forty years ago, a common way of killing time, or, in other words, of wasting that most precious gift of Heaven, was to go to a tap-room or tavern, and drink flip, whiskey or grog, and indulge in low and vulgar conversation. Such things are considered very silly now, but it was otherwise then. Tom could think of no other way to spend his week than to go to the Jefferson and Liberty tavern, and indulge in the amusements of the bar-room. So thither he went, and by keeping himself in a state verging on intoxication, he continued to while away the awful seven days.

At last the appointed hour came. A firm conviction had taken possession of Tom’s mind, that he was to draw the prize of fifty thousand dollars. He did not seem to consider that there were twenty thousand tickets, and that his chance of getting it was only one in twenty thousand. To a deluded mind, such an obstacle is nothing; one chance in twenty thousand is just as good as certainty. When the drawing took place, the office was thronged with a crowd of people, most of them wretched in the extreme. There were old men, tottering upon the verge of the grave; there were haggard women, evidently starving for want of the money they had invested in the lottery; there were young persons, of both sexes, apparently sunk in vice and wasted with poverty; there were the sick and emaciated, mingled with the strong and the reckless. All anticipated with hope and expectation,—and yet all, or nearly all, were destined to go away with disappointment and sickness of heart.

Tom got close to the revolving wheel, and, with his ticket in his hand, watched the numbers as they were declared. Several times his heart beat violently, as a number came out near his own. The drawing continued for more than two hours, and his hopes began to fly, as he perceived that the prizes were nearly all out. At last his own number, which was 777, was announced, and immediately after, it appeared that it had drawn the prize of 50,000 dollars!!!

Tom Trudge was in general a pretty stable-minded man, but for a moment his eyes grew dim and his brain reeled. A strange variety of images glided in confusion before his fancy, among which, his wife, with a yaller damask gown and a fine fan, were conspicuous. Finding it necessary to have air, he left the crowd, and went into the street. For some time he could hardly tell where or what he was; but at last his faculties rallied, and, coming fully to himself, he began to consider what was to be done.

He made inquiries at the office, and found that he could cash his prize at once by paying 5000 dollars discount;—this he did, and immediately found himself in the possession of the sum of forty-five thousand dollars,—an immense sum in those days, especially for a pedlar, who had seldom before had fifty dollars in hand at a time. Though he was anxious to go home and communicate his good fortune to his wife, he did not forget her injunction. He went forthwith and purchased a magnificent changeable silk dress, of yellow and purple, upon which was a representation of a bathing goddess in figures of gold. He also purchased a fan, on one side of which was a Venus, and on the other a Cupid, and started for home. Stopping at every tavern on the road, he drank liberally, and by the time he reached his cottage, his brain was not a little muddled.

When he entered the little dwelling, his hair was dishevelled, and his eyes staring,—his whole aspect, indeed, was wild and singular. He, however, rushed up to his wife, exclaiming, “I have got it! I have got it!” He then kissed her over and over again; took up his children and nearly stifled them with his obstreperous embraces; at the same time, he shouted, danced and whirled round like a bedlamite. “What is it ails you, Tom? What in natur’ is the matter? Are you drunk or mad?” said his spouse. “I have got it,—there, there!” said Tom, hurling the bundle of silk at his wife’s head. “There’s the yaller damask, and the fine fan! And here’s the fifty thousand dollars!” Saying this, he took an enormous bundle of bank bills from his pocket, and giving it a whirl around his head, threw it across the room, and scattered the precious bits of paper over the floor. It is impossible to depict the astonishment of Mrs. Trudge, as she beheld the shower of bank bills, of five, ten and even twenty dollars each, now lying before her, as abundant as the very chips around the wood-pile.

For a moment the dame was bewildered, and the idea crossed her mind that it was only a dream. It was indeed so much like one of those visions that often cheat the mind in sleep, that she stood still, rubbed her forehead and looked puzzled for several seconds. But in a few moments her husband, quite out of his head, began to dance among the scattered bills, and cutting his pigeon-wings where they lay thickest, made them fly in all directions. Several of them were near the hearth, and, caught by the draught, edged closer and closer to the heap of coals, and at last bounded under the forestick and were instantly reduced to ashes. Others took a flying leap up the throat of the chimney, and circling round and round, disappeared amidst the soot and coiling smoke.

These circumstances at last recalled Mrs. Trudge to her senses. She had by degrees unravelled the tangled skein of events and made out the truth. She saw that her husband had actually drawn a great prize; that, obedient to her command, he had bought the damask and the fan, and that, between tippling and delight, his wits had gone wool-gathering for a season. She saw the necessity of immediate exertion to save the bank bills, now scattered like worthless rags upon the floor, her bewitched husband still rigadooning in their midst, and grinding them beneath his feet, or making them circle about upon the eddies of air that his brisk motions created. Like a hawk pouncing upon a brood of chickens, she now stooped upon the cash, and gathered it by handfuls into her apron, which she held up by the two corners. Seeing what she was about, her addled lord came after her and chased her round the room. But Mrs. Trudge took good care to keep out of his way, and soon succeeded in picking up the greater part of the bills. At last her husband, being completely exhausted, fell upon the floor. His good wife then dragged him to bed, and leaving him there in a sound sleep, she completed her work of securing the money.

Trudge slept long and heavy, but at last he awoke. He seemed sadly bewildered, and put his hand to his forehead in a manner which showed that he not only had a pain in his head, but was troubled in mind. At last he turned to his wife, and demanded, “Where is the money?”

“Money?” said his better half,—“Money! what man—money! money, indeed! I think I should like some money myself. ’Tis a pretty business indeed: you go away and leave your tender wife and suffering children for ten long days; you then come back drunk as a fiddler, cut up all sorts of cantraps about the house, almost murther your family, and then, after you have come to your senses, you ask, as innocent as a cat licking cream, ‘where is the money?’ Where is the money? say I. Zounds, where is my yaller damask and the French fan? Come, speak, man! Or is it all a dream? Didn’t you draw the big prize, after all? Oh, Tom, Tom! I told you so; I told you how it would be; I knew you had thrown away your money, and here we are, a poor innocent family, reduced to ruin, poverty and starvation!!” Upon this, the dame held her apron to her eyes, and the tears, real tears, bright as crystals, chased each other down her rosy cheeks.

Poor Tom Trudge! There he sat on the bedside, the very image of botheration. For the life of him, he could not tell whether he had really drawn the prize, or only been visited by a bewildering vision. At last, however, the mists that had hung over his mind began to clear away; the truth came more and more distinct to his mind, and finally he recollected the drawing of the lottery, his obtaining the forty-five thousand dollars, his buying the damask and the fan—his journey homeward, and the meeting with his wife. Just as he had fully brought to recollection the whole affair, he looked up, and discovered a half malicious smile shining through the tears of his spouse. She now burst into a hearty laugh, and brought forth the bundle of bank notes, nicely done up, and Tom Trudge and his wife were the happiest couple in the universe.

[To be continued.]

The Old Mansion.

The following simple but touching ballad was composed a short time since, by a girl in Maine, about seventeen years of age, who had been suffering several years from a weakness of sight, so as to prevent her reading or writing. It was taken down, from her dictation, by a friend.

There stood a stately mansion old
On brow of sloping hill;
There many a joyous day I’ve passed,
And mem’ry loves it still.

’Twas ’neath the shade of lofty elms
And evergreen dark pine,
Where robins sing, with notes so sweet,
In spring and summer time.

There dwelt my aged ancestor,
With partner of his years;
They’d travell’d long together here
In sunshine and in tears.

Their spring-time hopes were faded,
And winter days came round,
Yet sunny ties of kindred
Their hearts to earth still bound.

My grandma’s eyes were soft and blue,
And tenderly she smiled,
She ne’er thought ill of any one,
Her words were always mild.

I never shall forget her voice,
The tones of her “Good even’;”
Nothing we ever asked her for
But what was kindly given.

My grandpa’ often told us tales,
All of the olden time;
And of the wars for liberty
He fought in “auld lang syne.”

He gave us pretty picture-books
On happy New-Year’s day;
And poor, who hither came for aid,
Ne’er empty went away.

Grandma’ would tell us of the train,
The beaver hat and plume,
And all the fashion of the dress
She wore in girlhood’s bloom.

She always kept some plums or cake
In cupboard saved away,
To give “the children,” every time
They came with her to stay.

And we assembled every year
In that wide ancient hall,
To keep the old “Election-day,”
Parents and children all.

Then rang the walls with merriment,
With laughter and with glee;
Those sounds come o’er my memory now,
And sadly seem to me.

Oh, there were entries long and dark,
Clock-room and pantry too;
And a hole was cut in the cellar-door,
Where fav’rite cat went through.

Grandma’ wore parted on her brow
Her own soft, silvery hair;
And scissors bright at her girdle hung,
E’er knitting her fingers were.

A buck-horn head had grandpa’s cane,
His hat was wide of brim;
His silver snuff-box was a gift
From Washington to him.

Up in the garret long and low,
Was spinnet and spinning-wheel;
For grandmamma, though lady bred,
Could deftly spin a reel.

Then at foot of the kitchen stairs
There stood a “settle” low;
And cheerily the large fire blazed
With log and fore-stick too.

With wheels and bucket in the porch,
There was a deep old well;
We thought, as in its depths we gazed,
A fairy there might dwell.

And there were haunts so old and dark
We hardly dared to stay,—
Where bones and curious things were kept,
And mouldering rubbish lay.

We wandered in the orchard green,
Where large red apples grew,
And damsons purple, moose-plums sweet,
Of varied size and hue.

We shook the branches merrily,
And strewed them on the ground;
Such mellow and delicious fruit
Could nowhere else be found.

Down in the “Happy Valley” near
A streamlet wandered by;
We often crossed its bridge, to climb
For wild choke-cherries high.

We ran, too, in the long, straight mall,
Bordered with poplar trees,
Mingled with rose and currant bush,
Lilacs and gooseberries.

We sported in the garden aisles,
And sat in the arbors old,
Whose many-fancied tales of love
Then laughingly we told.

There grew the honied columbines,
And fragrant fleur-de-lis;
And grandma’s yellow marigolds,
And full-blown peony.

And there, with many a frolic wild,
We fled the hornets’ rage;
And grandma’ smiled, tho’ footsteps marred
Her much-prized bed of sage.

Her fav’rite pinks and southernwood
With fragrance filled the air;—
The summer days were always warm,
And every spot seemed fair.

The violets were very blue,
The grass was tall and green;
Such colors in my womanhood
I never since have seen!

The cows from their rich pastures came
Just at the sunset glow;
And laughing maids came out to milk,
And sat on cricket low.

’Tis the same sun in the sky, I ween,—
Ah, now it seems more cold;
And my cousin’s happy tones I miss
That fell in the arbors old.

That cherished place is still most fair,
There blooms the peony,—
He walks not o’er his broad lands now,
Nor she her flowers to see.

Alas! I never shall forget
When cold I saw her lay;
And full of years and goodness too,
They bore grandma’ away.

Eight times, as wont, the summer bloomed,
Eight times the autumn fell,
And he, the lonely, grey-haired man,
Was borne by her to dwell.

The flame broke wild and brightly forth,
One Sabbath evening still!—
In ruins fell the mansion old
On brow of sloping hill.

The Desman, or Russian Musk-Rat.

This creature resembles the common musk-rat, and is found both in Russia and Sweden. It is about the size of the common hedgehog, the body being eight or nine inches long. Its coat is like that of the beaver, and is composed of hair intermixed with soft, clear and delicate fur. The color is brown above, and silvery beneath. The tail, which is seven inches long, is one of the most extraordinary mechanical instruments in the whole animal kingdom. It is composed of three parts, each of which has a motion peculiar to itself.

The Desman chooses the margin of such places as are convenient for the burrows which it digs under water. These are sometimes seven yards in length, and are used as hiding-places. The water freezes over these entrances, and numbers of the animals are suffocated every winter. If there are any cracks or fissures in the ice, they crowd to them, eagerly thrusting their noses up to get the air.

The Desman preys at the bottom of the water, and dabbles with its nose in the mud, in search of the small insects which inhabit it. Its senses of touch and smell are very acute; this is rendered necessary from the fact that the animals upon which it preys are silent and invisible. Although nearly blind, it is not a nocturnal animal, but sleeps during the night, at which time it keeps its nose constantly moving, in order, it is supposed, to retain the organs in a proper state for work. Water is indispensable to its existence, and after having remained in a small quantity for any time, it is rendered very offensive from a strong musky odor, from which it derives its common name of musk-rat.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER II.

About the hen and her chickens.

It seems natural for mankind to love accumulation. When a child has got two or three pieces of money, he wants more, and his desire of increasing his stores, increases with his little wealth. When a person gets together a few minerals, his wish to form a cabinet begins, and in proportion as his collection enlarges, his eagerness for more specimens is stimulated. This love of increase, is what I call a love of accumulation, or a love of laying up.

Nov it is all the same with knowledge. A person who has only a few ideas, is like the child who has only a few coppers; he is usually eager to spend them and get rid of them. But one who has stored his mind with many ideas, is like a person who has commenced a cabinet of minerals: he wishes to increase his collection; he wishes to get new specimens, and is delighted with those which are rare and beautiful.

Now, our hero, Jack, was just in this condition: he had begun his mental cabinet of knowledge; he had learned a good deal about insects; and he had entered the gate of a new and beautiful science—Ornithology—or the study of birds. How little did he think that his acquaintance with the wren family had advanced him so far into the delightful mysteries of science. Yet so it was. He now began to notice other birds, such as the blue-bird, which belongs only to America; the sparrows and finches, which build their nests in the hedges and bushes, and sing so sweetly.

About this time his attention was very strongly attracted by a hen and her chickens. Jack had himself set the hen; that is, he had put the eggs under her, there being thirteen; for he was told that an even number was unlucky, and an uneven number lucky; a notion, by the way, that is very common, but utterly destitute of foundation. He was told that the eggs would be hatched in just three weeks, and so it proved.

It is a curious thing that the eggs of hens should always be hatched in just three weeks, and I must stop to tell you a story about this. A man who pretended to be good and religious, told one of his neighbors that his hens always hatched on Sunday, and he wondered what the reason was. “I can tell you,” said the neighbor; “it is because you set them on Sunday!” Thus we see that the improper conduct of the pretended good man was exposed.

But to return to Jack. About the time the hen was to hatch, he went every day to see if the chickens had come along. He could not help wondering at the patience of the old hen, in sitting night and day so faithfully upon her eggs. He noticed that she went off her nest but once a day; that she was then in a great hurry to get a little food and drink, and return to her duty, as if she was afraid her eggs would suffer. He observed that nothing could tempt her from her charge; the other hens were out in the fields, scratching the earth, feasting on worms and insects, and delighting in the spring time; but the old hen, forsaking these pleasures, remained upon her eggs. Though she was wasted by hunger, thirst and fever, nothing could induce her to betray her trust. There she continued, obeying that voice within, which we call instinct.

On the twenty-first day of the hen’s sitting, Jack went early in the morning to the nest, and his delight knew no bounds, when he heard, on approaching it, the chickens peeping under the old biddy’s feathers. The good mother herself seemed to be filled with a sort of quiet ecstacy. When she heard the gentle cries of her offspring she endeavored to hush them to rest by a few low notes, as much as to say,—

“Hush, my dear—lie still and slumber.”

All this day, the hen remained on her nest, and Jack gave her a little Indian meal mixed with water, to eat. The next day, twelve of the thirteen eggs were hatched, and the old hen, with an air of importance, and great caution, set forth with her brood. It was interesting indeed to witness the scene.

No sooner had the mother and her flock issued from the shed in which the hatching or incubation had taken place, than she began to scratch away the leaves and grass with all her might. The chickens kept close to her side, and though but a day old, seemed to know perfectly well what it all meant. They picked up the little seeds and insects and swallowed them down, taking care to avoid stones and dirt, and things that are not fit for food. How could these little creatures know so much? That is a curious question, and I can only answer, that God has made them so!

The old hen went on from place to place, clucking all the time, and taking the utmost pains to keep her brood together, and under her own immediate inspection. She made her legs fly merrily among the leaves, and many a bug and grub and worm did she discover for her little ones. She would eat nothing herself, but gave everything to her chickens, except once in a while she came across a beetle or other insect, too big for her infant flock, and then she swallowed it.

Nothing could exceed the industry, energy and watchfulness of the old biddy. For hours together, she continued to scratch and dig for her young ones, as if life depended upon it. And all this time, it was delightful to see how careful she was of her brood. Her head was bobbing up and down every instant, and her sharp eye was turned on every side, to see if there was danger. Not a bird flew over unmarked, and if it was in any degree threatening in its appearance, the whole flock was instantly drawn to a place of safety. If a cat or dog came near, they were sure to repent it, and learn better manners for the future.

When, at last, the young emigrants had filled their little crops, and become weary, the old hen gathered them under her wings. There is nothing in all nature more pleasing than a hen brooding her chickens. The little creatures themselves are marked with a singular smoothness, beauty and look of innocence. Those which are most weary bury themselves deep in the plumage of their mother’s breast, and here, cherished by a genial warmth, embedded in down, and every want and fear appeased, they fall to sleep. Those which are not yet so drowsy, peep out their heads from their mother’s feathers, and look around; or they linger outside and pick among the gravel for food; or they nibble at the old hen’s beak; or perchance they smooth some bit of their delicate plumage that is ruffled; or possibly climb up the old hen’s back. The look of innocence, peace and happiness displayed by the chickens, and the mingled aspect of care and content borne by Mistress Biddy, afford a touching and delightful picture. Who can witness it and not feel that the God of love is the author of what we call nature?

All these things were noted by Jack, and after he had observed them a long time, he went for his aunt. He found her quite busy, but he could not be contented till she left her work and went with him to see the hen and her chickens. After looking at them a long time, they went to the house, and some days after the following conversation took place:

Jack. Pray tell me, aunt Betsey, why the hen that has chickens always keeps clucking?

Aunt Betsey. So that the chickens may always know where she is. The chickens are continually running about, and sometimes they go to a considerable distance, but as the hen is always clucking, they can at any time find her. But for this they would inevitably get lost. If the Creator had forgotten to teach hens to cluck, and had neglected to make any other adequate provision, a brood of chickens could never have been raised.

J. Well, why do the chickens always keep peeping?

Aunt B. So that the hen may know where they are. You will observe that if two or three chickens are wandering together, away from the hen, their peeping is usually faint and low; but if one is straying alone, his tones are loud and distinct. They seem to feel confidence when several are together, but if one is alone, he feels that it is necessary to speak out. The clucking of the hen may be considered as continually calling to her scattered brood, “Here I am, chicks—here I am,” and the peeping of the chickens may be considered as saying, “Here I am, mother—here am I.” In this way, a communication is kept up even while the brood is scattered over a wide space, in search of food. Almost all birds have natural cries, which answer the same purposes with them, as the clucking of the hens and the peeping of the chickens with these.

J. Well, aunt Betsey, I observe that the old hen seems to talk to her chickens. If a wren or a sparrow, or any other little harmless bird flies by, the old hen says, “curr-r-r-r-r,” in a moderate tone, as much as to say “look out,” and so all the chicks just cast their eyes around and seem to take no notice of what has happened. But if a hawk appear in the air, and near by, the “curr-r-r-r-r” is uttered in a wilder key. The old hen steps high, and seeks a shelter, and the little chickens run to her as if frightened out of their little wits. Now, what I want to say is, how do the chickens, only two or three days old, know so much and understand so well what their mother means and says?

Aunt B. You might as well ask, Jack, how the chickens know so much as to pick up seeds and worms when only a day old. The seeming knowledge of these little creatures, which is often so wonderful, is to be explained, as we explain the skill of the bees in building their cells, and the ants in constructing their little cities in the earth—by instinct—a power or knowledge implanted by nature, or, in other words, by God, the author of nature. He gives those powers; and though we may see their effects, he only can explain their operation. But there is one thing in your observations upon the chickens, to which I wish to call your attention, Jack. Did you ever know the old hen to call to her chickens in danger, when they neglected or disobeyed the call?

J. No, not that I remember.

Aunt B. Let this, then, be a lesson to you, my boy. The little birds are taught obedience to their parents by God; and they obey. So God has taught children obedience, for he has said in the solemn commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother;” and the apostle adds, “Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.” The hen, the parent of the chickens, is their guardian; she knows more than they do; she is stronger, and sees farther, and is wiser than they. It is best for the chickens, therefore, that they should obey her. Were they to neglect her counsel, they would be devoured by prowling beasts or birds of prey. The obedience, therefore, that they are called upon to exercise, is imposed for their good. And just so it is with respect to children; their parents have more experience, knowledge, and wisdom than they have; they know what is best for them. It is, therefore, for the true happiness of children that they should obey their parents.

City of Ancient Babylon.

Among the most wonderful things handed down to us by history, is the account of the ancient city of Babylon, which is so often mentioned in the Bible, and the remains of which astonish the traveller at the present day. The most particular description we have of it is furnished by the Greek historian, Herodotus, who visited it about four hundred and fifty years before Christ.

He says that it was situated in a great plain, the river Euphrates running through it from north to south.

Its form was square; each side measured fifteen miles, and the whole circuit sixty miles. It was surrounded with walls, three hundred and fifty feet high and eighty-seven feet thick. Upon these walls were two hundred and fifty towers. The entrance to the city was by one hundred gates of brass. Without the wall, there was a deep ditch around the city, filled with water.

Upon the tops of the walls, there were buildings on each side containing one room each. Between these there was space to drive a chariot with horses. The walls were built of bricks cemented together by bitumen. At every thirty layers of bricks, there was a layer of reeds to give the fabric strength. The engraving at the head of this article is intended to give some idea of the form of this mighty city, as described by Herodotus.

The streets in the city were straight, the houses being four or five stories high. The temple of Belus was of amazing magnitude, being nearly as large as the great pyramid of Gizeh. It was a regular square, each side measuring six hundred feet. It consisted of eight towers one above another, and was of immense height. Beside this, there was a magnificent palace, and connected with it were hanging gardens of great extent.

The history of Babylonia goes back to a period of high antiquity. Its founders were among the earliest nations that have been formed upon the earth, and they appear to have reached a certain degree of science and civilization, nearly two thousand years before Christ. Nimrod is mentioned in the Bible as the founder of this empire, of which Babylon was the capital. Here the kings of Assyria held their court, and displayed a magnificence, the accounts of which strike us with wonder. Here many of the arts were carried to great perfection, particularly the manufacture of cotton, linen and silk.

Babylon reached its magnificence through the efforts of several succeeding sovereigns. But Semiramis, the wife of Ninus, is said to have been its founder. In the year 538 B. C. it was taken by Cyrus, king of Persia, who made it his winter residence. At this place, Alexander, who had conquered Persia, died, 323 B. C.

The ruins of this wonderful city are to be seen about forty-eight miles south of the present city of Bagdat. Its prodigious walls have entirely disappeared, and it is not easy to trace even the outline of this once mighty metropolis. The remains consist of heaps of rubbish, principally bricks. It does not appear that the architecture of the Babylonians had reached a high degree of refinement. Its chief characteristic was colossal dimensions. The remains of the temple of Belus are still to be distinguished, and consist of a heap of ruins about one hundred and twenty feet in height. This complete destruction of Babylon, and the desolation which presides over the scene, is regarded as a terrific fulfilment of the prophetic denunciations uttered against it by the prophets.

The Leopard.

This animal, a handsome, but fierce member of the great family of cats, is smaller than either the lion or the tiger. Its skin is very beautiful, being spotted with large ocellated black spots on a light ground, which sometimes approaches to a bright yellow color. The leopard is remarkably lithe and flexible in all its motions. It is a very symmetrical animal, and as its expression partakes as much of wildness as of fierceness, it is among the handsomest of its tribe. It preys upon small animals, is frequently on the hunt, and probably kills more creatures than do the tiger or the lion. It is said to be found only in the islands of the Oriental Archipelago, and in the Eastern peninsula.

The leopard climbs trees with astonishing rapidity, so that few animals are safe from his ravages. Man alone seems to be respected by him, but if pressed hard in the pursuit by the hunter, it will turn upon him, and much skill and prowess is then necessary to guard against the fury of his attacks.

Two men in Southern Africa fell in with a leopard in a mountain ravine, and immediately gave chase to him. The animal at first endeavored to escape by clambering up a precipice, but being hotly pressed, and slightly wounded by a musket ball, he turned upon his pursuers with that frantic ferocity which he frequently displays, and springing upon the man who had fired upon him, tore him from his horse to the ground, biting him at the same time very severely on the shoulder, and tearing his face and arms with his claws. The other hunter, seeing the danger of his comrade, sprung from his horse, and attempted to shoot the leopard through the head; but, whether owing to trepidation, or the fear of wounding his friend, or the sudden motions of the animal, he unfortunately missed his aim.

The leopard now, abandoning his prostrate enemy, darted with redoubled fury on this second antagonist, and before the poor man could stab him with his hunting knife, he struck him in the eyes with his claws, and had torn the scalp over his forehead. In this frightful condition, the hunter grappled with the savage beast, and, struggling for life, they both rolled down a steep declivity. All this passed so rapidly that the other man had scarcely time to recover from the confusion into which his feline foe had thrown him, to seize his gun and rush forward to aid his comrade, when he beheld them rolling together down the steep bank, in mortal combat.

In a few moments, he was at the bottom with them, but too late to save the life of his friend. The leopard had so dreadfully torn the throat of the unfortunate man that his death was inevitable—and he had only the satisfaction of completing the destruction of the savage beast, which was already exhausted by the wounds given in his breast by the desperate knife of the expiring huntsman.

In a captive state, the leopard is easily domesticated. There was a pair of these animals recently in the tower of London. The female was very tame and gentle, and would allow herself to be patted and caressed by the keepers, while she purred and licked their hands. She had one curious peculiarity; she was very fond of destroying parasols, umbrellas, muffs and hats, which she frequently contrived to lay hold of before the unwary spectator could prevent it, and tore them to pieces in an instant. While this creature was in a playful mood, she bounded about her cell with the quickness of thought, touching the four sides of it nearly at one and the same instant. So rapid were her motions that she could scarcely be followed by the eye; and she would even skim about the ceiling of her apartment with the same amazing rapidity—evincing great muscular powers and wonderful pliability of form.

The Old Man in the Corner.

NO. III.

REMINISCENCES OF A RAG.

(Continued.)

We shall now proceed to tell what appeared to be written on the mysterious scroll handed forth by the seeming ghost of the rag-bin.

“I remained for a long time in the bale of cotton, shut out from the light of heaven, and in a state of uncertainty as to my condition or fate. At last I felt the bale to be tumbled about, and finally I conjectured that we were now on shipboard. This proved to be correct; for in about a month we were landed at Liverpool, a great city on the western coast of England. In a few weeks we were taken by canal through a beautiful country, to Manchester, thirty-six miles east of Liverpool.

“As we glided along, I could see that the whole country was highly cultivated, and almost covered with cities and villages. Hundreds of tall steepling chimneys rose from their places, and poured forth volumes of smoke or flame, thus showing that the people, on all hands, were busy in their various manufactories. Never did I imagine such scenes of industry and activity.

“On arriving at Manchester, I was amazed to see so great a city; it consisted, in part, of many buildings four and five stories high, some of them having a hundred windows! It was night when we arrived, and these buildings, which were chiefly cotton factories, were all lighted up. Never did I see such a display; it seemed as if the whole city was illuminated.

“Our bale was soon landed at one of the factories, and we were stowed into a ware-room, almost as big as a church. Here were at least three hundred bales of cotton, as big as ours. Thinks I to myself, it will be a long time before it will be our turn to be spun, and twisted, and woven into cloth. In this, however, I was mistaken, for, in about a month, I found myself twitched out of the bale and put into a machine, where I was picked all to pieces. I was then put into the carding machine, which made me dance up and down and whirl about and about with such velocity, and amid such an everlasting hubbub, that I completely lost my senses. When I came to myself, I was made into a smooth roll, about a yard long, and one end of me was being twisted into thread. The room where this took place, was as big as a church, and several thousand spindles were twirling about and twisting the cotton into threads as fine as a hair. I was fairly giddy with the operation, and did not feel comfortable till I found myself wound snug and smooth upon a little spool or bobbin.

“I was not permitted to remain long in this state, for I was shortly placed upon a loom with a multitude of other spools, and was soon woven into a piece of fine muslin. I now went through various operations, and was finally done up with the piece, consisting of twenty-seven yards. I was despatched in a car, with forty-nine other pieces, to London, and in about a month we were shipped to Brazil, in South America. Our case was then purchased by an American merchant: this was bought by a shopkeeper of Rio de Janeiro, who soon opened it and took out the piece I was in and laid it upon a shelf. In a day or two I was bought by a beautiful lady, and made into a frock for her infant.

“It was a gay time now, for I was dandled up and down and made a great deal of. Everybody said, what a beautiful baby! and what a pretty frock! But sorrow soon followed. The lovely infant died; it was laid in its coffin, and I was its burial dress! The corpse was borne to the church with a long retinue of priests, holding torches in their hands. When they came to the church, they sung a solemn dirge, and the dim arches of the holy edifice seemed to echo back the sad and wailing tones. The coffin was deposited in its vault—the music ceased—the throng dispersed, and a fearful stillness reigned around. I could see and feel, even amid the darkness of my prison house, how sweet was the placid face of that lovely babe—smiling in its lonely, desolate grave! I clung to its bosom, and was happy, even though I had no other hope than to perish, and moulder, and be forgotten.

“A day passed, and midnight came. A fearful stillness rested upon the church and all around—save that, perchance, the wings of the bats might be heard, fanning the dark recesses of the cathedral; or the drops of moisture that fell upon the lids of the coffins, at long intervals, from the arches of the tombs, caught the listening ear of silence. But at last the stillness was disturbed; a light, sliding step was heard upon the marble floor of the church; the door of the tomb where I lay was opened, the lid of the coffin was lifted, and the rays of a dark lantern were turned upon the corpse of the babe. I could see that it was the sexton who thus invaded the sanctuary of the dead. He first took a diamond from the bosom of the infant, and then, disrobing the body, carried me away. I was borne to his house, where his wife soon took the frock to pieces, and the long skirt was now but a simple piece of muslin. It was carefully ironed and sold to a pawnbroker.

“I was soon purchased by a negro girl, a slave, black and glittering as anthracite, who carried me home and made me into a wedding turban. Three days after I had been sleeping as a shroud in the crypt of the church of St. Nicholas, I was the head-dress of a bride, named ‘Phillipina Squash!’”

[To be continued.]

The Pyramids of Egypt.

These gigantic monuments, erected before the period at which authentic history begins, have ever excited the curiosity and wonder of mankind. Their vast antiquity, their amazing magnitude, the mystery which hangs over their origin and design, contribute to render them objects of intense interest.

There are great numbers of these structures in Egypt, and about eighty in Nubia. Those of the former country are all situated on the west side of the Nile, and extend, in an irregular line, to the distance of nearly seventy miles. The most famous are those of Jizeh, opposite the city of Cairo. The largest, which is said to have been built by Cheops, a king of Egypt, about 900 years B. C., is by far the greatest structure in stone that has been reared by the hand of man. Near this great pyramid, are two others, of considerable size, and several smaller ones. All have square foundations, and their sides face the cardinal points. The largest pyramid excited the wonder of Herodotus, who visited Egypt 450 B. C. He says that one hundred thousand men were employed twenty years in building it, and that the body of Cheops was placed in a room beneath the bottom of the pyramid. The second pyramid is said to have been built by Cephrenes, the brother of Cheops, and the third by Mycerines, the son of Cheops.

The great pyramid consists of a series of platforms, each of which is smaller than the one on which it rests, and consequently presents the appearance of steps. Of these steps there are two hundred and three. They are of unequal thickness, from two feet and eight inches, to four feet and eight inches. The stones are cut and fitted to each other with great nicety. The whole height is four hundred and fifty-six feet. The top is a platform, thirty-two feet square. The foundation is seven hundred and sixty-three feet on each side, and covers a space of about thirteen acres.

The pyramid has been entered, and has been found to consist of chambers and passages, some of great extent.

The material of which the pyramids are built is limestone, and it is probable that this was obtained from limestone quarries contiguous to the place where they now stand. The stones of the great pyramid rarely exceed nine feet in length, six and a half in breadth, and four feet eight inches in thickness. The ascent is attended with great difficulty and danger, on account of the broken state of the steps; yet it is frequently accomplished, and sometimes by females. The scene from the top is described by travellers as inconceivably grand.

The purpose for which these monuments were reared, has been a question of great interest. It has been conjectured that they were built as observatories, but this seems to be an absurd supposition; for why build three or four close together of nearly the same elevation? There is no good reason to doubt that they were erected as burial places for the Egyptian kings, who caused them to be constructed. The natural pride of man, the desire of being remembered for ages, and probably some superstitious notions connected with the religion of the country, doubtless furnished the motives for the construction of these vast monuments. Nothing can better show the folly of human ambition, than that, while these senseless stones remain, their builders have perished, and their memories been blotted out forever.

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER III.

The Indians.

In a former number we have given some account of the northern Indians, called Esquimaux; and as our readers may like to know how these people look, we give a likeness of one of them. He would hardly be thought a beauty among us, but no doubt he would find some one to fancy him among the girls of his tribe, who live on fish and blubber oil.

All our readers know that when America was discovered, it was inhabited by tribes of copper-colored people, whom we generally call Indians. These were divided into many tribes, and spoke many different languages, but they bore a general resemblance, which led to the conclusion that this remarkable race came originally from Asia, and had a near affinity to the roving, warlike tribes there, called Tartars.

The American Indians, at the time of the discovery of Columbus, might be viewed in four groups: 1st. The Mexicans, who had built cities, established a permanent government, carried on manufactures and commerce, and cultivated the earth with care and success; 2d. The Peruvians, who had made nearly the same advances in civilization as the Mexicans, though differing in many of their arts, manners, customs, and opinions; 3d. The Caribs, a warlike nation, inhabiting the Caribbean isles and the adjacent coast of South America; and, 4th. The various scattered tribes of the continent.

We shall not enter into a minute account of these several groups, for so much has been said of the Indians, that almost all persons are pretty well acquainted with the subject. Among the chief tribes of New England, when our forefathers settled there, were the Pequots, Narragansets and Mohegans. In New York, are the Mohawks, Senecas, Oneidas, Delawares and Ottoes. In the south and west, there are many other bands or nations.

These tribes, of which there were perhaps several hundred in North America, varied in number from two hundred to five thousand inhabitants each. They all lived chiefly by hunting and fishing, raising a few pumpkins and melons, and a little corn, to aid in obtaining a subsistence. They knew not the use of iron or other metals for cutting; they had no domestic fowls or animals, except, perhaps, dogs far to the north; they lived a wandering life, having no better houses than huts of wood and mud.

Their weapons of war were hatchets of stone, bows and arrows; their fishhooks were the bones of fishes. They had no tables or chairs; no religious edifices, and but few religious notions. The men spent their time in hunting and the chase, and the women performed all the drudgery.

In war, these savages were cunning, deceitful and cruel: they could track their enemy through the forest by the traces left upon the grass and leaves; they would lurk in the thickets for days, and then suddenly and unexpectedly burst upon their victims. The warriors taken in battle, were often tortured and put to death—but these disdained to show the slightest emotion, even though knots of pine were stuck in their flesh and set on fire!

At first, these Indians received our forefathers with kindness, but, exasperated by various acts of injustice and cruelty, they became treacherous and vindictive. Many bloody encounters took place between the settlers and the savages, in all of which the latter suffered defeat and loss, until they became extinct along the Atlantic border, and the remains of their tribes only continue to linger along our western frontier.

The natives that dwelt in the West Indies, some of which were very numerous, have entirely disappeared. Mexico was conquered by Cortez more than three hundred years ago, and the whole Indian race, amounting to six or eight millions, belonging to that nation, were subjugated. The Indians of Mexico now acknowledge the authority of the established government, pay taxes, and generally belong to the Catholic religion. They are still an ignorant and half barbarous race.

The Peruvian nation, also amounting to millions, was conquered by Pizarro about the year 1535, and from that period the natives became subject to the laws of the white man. These, as in Mexico, are partially civilized.

There are still many South American tribes, which are independent, and maintain their savage habits. The Araucanians, a Chilian tribe, the noblest race of aboriginal Americans, have never been fairly subdued, and though partly civilized, they maintain a lofty spirit of independence. Far south, toward the extremity of South America, the broad-shouldered Patagonians live in savage wildness, and around the rocky and tempestuous shores of Cape Horn, the naked, shivering Fuegians snatch from the raging elements a precarious subsistence.

At the present day there are several tribes inhabiting the vast regions that lie west of the Mississippi, consisting, for the most part, of fragments of tribes driven by the white man from more eastern settlements, to their present abodes. Here they are still lords of the forest, prairie, river and mountain, and here they maintain their wild independence and savage customs. They have become in some degree changed by intercourse with the white race; they have horses, and fire-arms and blankets, and a few utensils derived from civilized man; but they are still hunters and warriors, are still without books, or a settled government, or fixed habitations, or extended agriculture, or any of the leading features of civilization. In another number we propose to tell something about the Indians as they now are.

A Monster of the Deep.

Our readers know that in some parts of the ocean there are enormous sea animals called Sepia, which are a kind of polypi. They have very long legs, and are said sometimes to seize upon the coral divers along the coast of Italy. Mr. Beale tells us the following adventure with a creature of this sort.

“While upon the Bouin Islands, searching for shells on the rocks, which had just been left by the receding tide, I was much astonished at seeing at my feet a most extraordinary looking animal, crawling towards the retreating surf. I had never seen one like it before. It was creeping on its eight legs, which, from their soft and flexible nature, bent considerably under the weight of its body, so that it was lifted by the efforts of its tentacula only a small distance from the rocks.

“It appeared much alarmed on seeing me, and made every effort to escape, while I was not much in the humor to endeavor to capture so ugly a customer, whose appearance excited a feeling of disgust, not unmixed with fear. I, however, endeavored to prevent its career, by pressing on one of its legs with my foot; but, although I used considerable force for that purpose, its strength was so great that it several times quickly liberated its member, in spite of all the efforts I could employ in this way, on wet, slippery rocks. I now laid hold of one of the tentacles with my hand, and held it firmly, so that the limb appeared as if it would be torn asunder by our united strength. I soon gave it a powerful jerk, wishing to disengage it from the rocks to which it clung so forcibly by its suckers, which it effectually resisted; but the moment after, the apparently enraged animal lifted its head, with its large eyes projecting from the middle of its body, and, letting go its hold of the rocks, suddenly sprang upon my arm, which I had previously bared to my shoulder for the purpose of thrusting it into holes in the rocks to discover shells, and clung, with its suckers, to it with great power, endeavoring to get its beak, which I could now see, between the roots of its arms, in a position to bite.

“A sensation of horror pervaded my whole frame, when I found this monstrous animal—for it was about four feet long—fixed so firmly on my arm. Its cold, slimy grasp was extremely sickening, and I immediately called aloud to the captain, who was also searching for shells at some distance, to come and release me from my disgusting assailant. He quickly arrived, and taking me down to the boat, during which time I was employed in keeping the beak away from my hand, quickly released me by destroying my tormentor with the boat knife, when I disengaged it by portions at a time. This animal was that species of Sepia which is called by whalers ‘rock squid.’ Thus are these remarkable creatures, from the different adaptation of their tentacles and slight modifications of their bodies, capable of sailing, flying, swimming, and creeping on the shore, while their senses, if we may judge from the elaborate mechanism of their organs, must possess corresponding acuteness and perfection.”

The Sperm Whale.

The Sperm Whale is much less known than the common whale, which is usually taken by our whalers. The following account of it, furnished by Thomas Beale, is interesting.

“The sperm whale is a gregarious animal, and the herds formed by it are of two kinds—the one consisting of females, the other of young whales not fully grown.

“These herds are called by whalers, ‘schools,’ and occasionally consist of great numbers; I have seen in one school as many as five or six hundred. With each herd or school of females, are always from one to three large bulls, the lords of the herd, or, as they are called, the ‘school-masters.’ The full-grown whales, or ‘large whales,’ almost always go alone in search of food; and when they are seen in company, they are supposed to be making passages, or migrating from one ‘feeding ground’ to another. The large whale is generally very incautious, and if alone, he is without difficulty attacked, and by expert whalers generally very easily killed; as frequently, after receiving the first blow or plunge of the harpoon, he appears hardly to feel it, but continues lying like a ‘log of wood’ in the water, before he rallies or makes any attempt to escape from his enemies.

“Large whales are, however, sometimes, but rarely, met with, remarkably cunning and full of courage, when they will commit dreadful havoc with their jaws and tail; the jaw and head, however, appear to be their principal offensive weapons.

“The female breeds at all seasons, producing but one at a time. The young when first born are said to be fourteen feet long. The females are much smaller than the males. They are very remarkable for their attachment to their young, which they may be frequently seen urging and assisting to escape from danger with the most unceasing care and fondness. They are also not less remarkable for their strong feeling of sociality, or attachment to one another; and this is carried to so great an extent, that when one female of a herd is attacked or wounded, her faithful companions will remain around her to the last moment, or till they are wounded themselves. This act of remaining by a wounded companion, is called ‘heaving to,’ and whole ‘schools’ have been destroyed by dexterous management, when several ships have been in company, wholly from their possessing this remarkable disposition. The attachment appears to be reciprocal on the part of the young whales, which have been seen about the ship for hours after their parents have been killed.

“The young whales, or ‘young bulls,’ go in large schools, but differ remarkably from the females in disposition, inasmuch as they make an immediate and rapid retreat upon one of their number being struck, who is left to take the best care he can of himself. I never but once saw them ‘heave to,’ and in that case, it was only for a short time, and seemed rather to arise from their confusion than affection for their wounded companion. They are also very cunning and cautious, keeping at all times a good look-out for danger. It is consequently necessary for the whaler to be extremely cautious in his mode of approaching them, so as, if possible, to escape being heard or seen, for they have some mode of communication with one another in an incredibly short space of time; the distance between them sometimes amounting to five, or even seven miles. The mode by which this is effected remains a curious secret.”

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.

The days are cold, the nights are long,
The north wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty babe!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There’s nothing stirring in the house,
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse;
Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light,
’Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain;
Then, little darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.

Squirrels.

[For Merry’s Museum.]

The Chip Squirrel or Ground Squirrel is the most common and familiar of all the squirrels. “He is most commonly,” says Godman, “seen scudding along the lower rails of the common or ‘Virginia’ fences, which afford him at once a pleasant and secure path, as, in a few turns, he finds a safe hiding place behind the projecting angles, or enters his burrow undiscovered. When no fence is near, or his retreat is cut off, after having been out in search of food, he becomes exceedingly alarmed, and runs up the nearest tree, uttering a very shrill cry or whistle, indicative of his distress; and it is in this situation that he is most frequently made captive by his persecuting enemies, the mischievous school-boys.” I shall presently mention a much better mode of treatment of them by children, than the one here alluded to, and which is far too common.

He is not only the most numerous, but the most beautiful of all the squirrels I have named. His general color (if it is necessary to describe an animal so well known) is a reddish brown, but he has five black stripes running lengthwise along his body, one in the middle of the back, and two on each side, and between the two on each side is a stripe of pure white. These stripes, together with white stripes on each side of his head, above and below the eyes, give him a very beautiful appearance, and it is no wonder that children, who are commonly pleased with what is beautiful in nature, take a strong liking to him. He is sometimes called the Striped Squirrel, on account of his markings, but he is more commonly called the Chip Squirrel, or Chipmuck, from the chipping sound he is accustomed to make, or the Ground Squirrel, because he makes a burrow in the ground for his lodging-place instead of residing in a tree, as the other squirrels do. Mr. Godman says he is sometimes called Hacky; but why so called, I am unable to tell. I have mentioned his being a familiar animal; I will now state a circumstance, to show how familiar he may be made, and how far kind and gentle treatment operates to deprive wild animals of their fears. One, which had a hole not far from my house, used frequently to come about the house for food, which my children observing, would throw walnuts or hickory nuts to him. He soon became so gentle he would take the walnuts from their hands, and, after biting off the sharp and jagged ends of the nuts, he would stow them in his capacious cheeks or pouches, sometimes taking from their hands and stowing away in this manner four hickory nuts, two in each pouch, which he would carry off and deposit in his hole, and then immediately return for another cheekful.

The Flying Squirrel is the smallest of all the squirrels in New England, and in some respects the most interesting. He is not as well known as the other three kinds I have described, principally on account of his nocturnal habits; that is, he generally sleeps during the day, and is in motion during the night. He is not so beautiful in his colors and markings as the chip squirrel. His general color is a brownish ash or gray on the upper part of the body, and white underneath, with a yellowish margin which unites with a dark stripe that borders the gray color of the upper parts. His form and attitudes are beautiful, however; his hair very soft and silky, and his eyes, which are black, are large and prominent. But what makes him the greatest object of curiosity, is, that the skin on each side of his body is dilated and attached to both his legs, nearly or quite down to the claws, so that when he extends his legs horizontally it forms a kind of wings or parachute, by which he is enabled to sail obliquely through the air a considerable distance. He cannot, however, rise, as he never flaps his wings; but by taking a leap from the top of a tree and spreading his sails, he reaches the body of another tree several rods distant, and running to the top of the latter, he again makes a similar flight, and in this way passes rapidly through the forest. His tail is flattened horizontally, and doubtless answers the purpose of a rudder.

His food is similar to that of the other squirrels, consisting of nuts, grain, &c. They make their abode in hollow trees, from which they will frequently run out, when the tree is struck with an axe and smartly jarred, to see what is the matter.

They frequently enter human dwellings. Last winter I caught, in succession, seven, in the upper chamber of my house, and kept six of them shut up till spring, when I carried them to the woods near by and released them. They also became pretty familiar, and would eat and gambol in my presence and that of my family in their box. In the course of last summer, I again saw one in my house, probably one of the same. Three other instances have come to my knowledge in which they were found in dwelling-houses.

In the animals we have been considering, we see an interesting specimen of that wonderful variety and beauty which constitute the charm of the great world of life. The study and contemplation of the works of God, animate and inanimate, will be attended with continued and increasing admiration, and if the mind is properly attuned to the harmonies that pervade them, it will be made better and better, and will be led, in the words of the poet, “from nature up to nature’s God.”

Sciurus.

Our Correspondence.

We have received the kind New Year’s greeting of R. B. Jr., for which we offer a return of our best wishes. We have also the pleasant letter of P. L. H., and that of E. D. H. His answer—Constantinople—to the puzzle, is right. We have also received the communications of D. A. B—k. Our little friend, a “reader of the Museum” at Pulaski, will see that we have hardly got room for his thoughts on “Liberty.” His sentiments, however, are very just. The puzzle from Goshen, though a good one, must be omitted. We must say the same of the geographical enigma from a place without a name. The complimentary note of Charles A. H—y is received, and his answer to the puzzle is right. The “young subscriber from New Hampshire” will see that we have not space for his pleasant enigma.

We insert the following letter with pleasure. In regard to the word “Cowpig,” as used by Mrs. Trudge, we venture to suggest that she meant Cupid; but, as we would not be too confident on this point, we propose to ask her what she did mean, when we next see her.

Sandwich, January 8th, 1844.

Dear Mr. Merry:

I wish you a happy new year. I think I have found out the answer to the puzzle in the January number, which is Constantinople. As I am not much of a poetess, I cannot put it in the form of an acrostic or rhyme, and I hope a plain answer will do. It is the first one I have ever found out, but I think it is because I have not had patience enough, for I found it very easy. I am glad you are going to have some good long stories, equal to the Siberian Sable-hunter, in this year’s Museum. I feel much interested in the story of Bridget Trudge. I laughed well at the red bonnet and yallar silk gown, and fan with Wenus on one side, and Cowpig on the other. But none of us can tell what Cowpig means. Please explain it in the next chapter about them.

P.S. My sister Lottie is very disappointed at not finding any “Little Leaves.”

E.P.C.

The letters of R. P. H., E. B. P., and James P., will appear in the next number.

We insert the following with pleasure, which the writer tells us is a true picture of a dear home. It makes our old heart glad to find that we are welcome, even among the mountains.

A WINTER EVENING IN THE COUNTRY.

Away among the mountains a pleasant farm house lies,

And round its fireside gather sweet faces and bright eyes;

The blazing fire of maple-wood lights up the spacious room,

And branches of the fragrant birch give out a sweet perfume.

And we are happy—’midst these hills our childhood has been past,

And beautiful they seem to us, with forests old and vast;

The summer and the autumn bring golden fruits and flowers,

But dearer than the summer days are pleasant winter hours.

The happy winter evenings, we love their social mirth,

For many pleasant tales are told beside our lighted hearth;

A welcome face sometimes looks in upon our circle here,

And brings to us the happiest hour in all the glad New Year.

It is an old man’s face, with clustering gray hair,

And a wrinkled forehead wearing, though furrowed not by care;

Old Robert Merry, with his smiles, his tales of other climes,

His Museum of curious things, new stories and old rhymes.

We knew him by another name in years that are gone by,

And loved good Peter Parley with his kind brow and eye;

Each month unto our mountain home, came “Parley’s Magazine,”

’Till “Merry’s Museum” took the place where it so long had been.

We love our guest far better because our own young hands

Have labored for the pleasure he brings from other lands;

When autumn leaves fell round us, the autumn nuts grew brown,

We and the squirrels gathered them as they came rattling down.

O, merry was our harvest time—we made the woods ring out,

Through all the long, bright autumn day, with our gay, careless shout;

And then we sold our nuts, and thus have the pleasure still,

Of seeing Robert Merry in our home upon the hill.

M. T. B.

Lowell, Jan. 4.

THE LITTLE SOLDIER.

We insert the following, with thanks to the writer, and should be glad to receive the remainder of the story:

Mr. Merry:

I am one of your “blue-eyed friends,” and although not a “little” one, I have been much interested in the articles which have appeared in the Museum, connected with the war of our Revolution.

I know many of the warm advocates for peace, query how far it is judicious to interest the minds of the rising generation, in the details of war; still, I must believe that many of the blessings we enjoy, peculiar to our own country, were purchased by the self-sacrifices of our fathers, and their “children’s children,” should not overlook this fact.

It has occurred to me that a little sketch of one who took an active part in the scenes of those eventful days, may perhaps amuse your readers. The old soldier from whom I have my history, enlisted into the army at the age of fifteen, as a fifer. He was much below the common size of boys at that age, and, for this reason, chose to be a musician. He heard the sound of the guns on the morning of the Lexington battle, and soon after this event, he was ordered, with the company to which he belonged, to New York. His good mother furnished him with all that a kind, pious mother could think of, for his comfort, even to a ball of yarn and a needle, to repair his stockings. He returned them to her, after his service in the army, “safe and sound.”

Soon after their arrival in New York, the alarm was given that the enemy were approaching; and not doubting a skirmish, at least, a company of men volunteered to go out and meet the enemy. They were ordered to be in ambush, and then rise suddenly upon the foe. The little fifer (a mere boy) joined the party, and soon found himself in the heat of battle. He has often told me that he felt no sensation of fear at the time; the dense smoke, the roaring of the cannon, the groans and shrieks of the dying, were alike unheeded by him. His only wish was to load—aim—fire, and kill one of the British. He always thought he accomplished his object, and God seems to have awarded a quick retribution.

Just as he had fired, his party were ordered to retreat, and, in turning to obey the orders, the poor fellow received a ball in the back, which lodged near the spine. He thought it must be his death-wound, and after moving on a few rods, he left his comrades, and concealing himself behind a small white oak tree, he set up his gun, and falling on his knees, he committed his soul to the Saviour. His eye-sight and hearing left him; he was bleeding profusely, and of course believed this to be his last hour on earth.

How long he was in this state he could not tell, but hoping his strength would permit, as soon as he could see and hear, he crawled on his hands and knees into the road, and soon met the surgeon, who, with the vehicle for the wounded soldiers, was on his way to the place where the skirmish was fought. The hospital was a mile distant, and the lad chose to remain where he was, until the cart came back. He was placed in it, and, in the course of a day or two after his wound had been given, the surgeon attempted to extract the ball, but it could not be done without causing instant death.

He remained in the hospital eight or ten weeks, slowly recovering his strength. He was two hundred miles from home; poor, feeble, and in this sad condition, he resolved to attempt a journey home on foot. A young man, who was his intimate friend and fellow-townsman, agreed to be his guide and protector, and they started on their melancholy journey.

If the sketch, thus far, has awakened any interest, the writer will cheerfully communicate some touching incidents connected with the “soldier’s return home.” What is your opinion, Mr. Merry?

A Soldier’s Daughter.

[Audio content is not currently supported on your device.

Evening.

WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; THE LATTER BY GEO. J. WEBB.

How sweet when the daylight
In summer is flown,
And the soft veil of evening
Is thrown o’er the scene,
’Mid dewdrops and fragrance
To wander alone,

As free as the fairies That dance on the green.

How changed is each scene!
Though familiar it be,
Now strange and fantastic
It comes to the eye,—
E’en the sigh of the zephyr,
That rustles the tree,
Seems the whisper of spirits
That stoop from the sky.

The stars, that shrunk back
All abashed from the gaze,
When the sun in his glory
Shone down from above,
Now timid and tender
Melt the soul with their rays,
And woo it to Heaven
On pinions of love.

Sweet Evening—how fair
Are thy charms to the heart,
And how blest thus to wander
With thee all alone!
Yet dearer—far dearer,
Blest Evening, thou art,
When I praise thee to Mary.
And call her my own!

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII APRIL, 1844. No. 4.

pril has stolen in upon us, and deserves a welcome at our hands. In our New England climate it is not so gentle as in some other lands. It brings us no flowers, but still, the blue-bird and the robin visit us, and tell us of a thousand pleasant things that May and June will bring with them. This month has been thus described by a lively and pleasant writer.

“April,” says the author of the “Mirror of the Months,” “is Spring—the only spring month that we possess—at once the most juvenile of all the months and the most feminine, never knowing her own mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover, toying it with the young sun, till he withdraws his beams from her, and then weeping till she gets them back again. April is doubtless the sweetest month of all the year; partly because it ushers in the May, and partly for its own sake. It is to the confirmed summer, what the previous hope of joy is to the full fruition; what the boyish dream of love is to love itself. It is indeed the month of promises; and what are twenty performances compared with one promise? April, then, is worth two Mays, because it tells of May in every sigh that it breathes, and every tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger, the herald, the promise, the foretaste of all the beauties that are to follow it.”

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER III.

Adventures in South America, continued.

S evening approached, I found myself quite fatigued, and my feet almost blistered from the heat of the ground. I was therefore very glad to see a coffee plantation lying to the right, and about a mile distant. Thither I went, and applied to some of the negroes for a night’s lodging, but found, however, that not one of them could speak a word of English,—Dutch being the only language with which they were acquainted. Several of them got round me, chattering like so many magpies.

Finding it impossible to make them understand by words, I resorted to signs. I suppose I must have been a pretty good mimic, for they seemed to understand me at once, and burst into the most uproarious fits of laughter. They finally concluded to take me to their master, whom I found to be a great stout man, with a swarthy complexion, and a farmer-like appearance; but he, being a Dutchman, could speak no English. The negroes, however, interpreted my wishes, and the planter gave immediate directions to have me taken good care of. I was accordingly carried off in triumph by my sable friends, who treated me as well as if I had been an emperor.

I never saw such a merry, kind-hearted set of fellows. They got some water, and one of them washed my sore feet; another brought me a bowl of milk, and a third spread my bed. After I had rested for half an hour, I was called to supper, and took my meal with the planter and his family. They were all very kind and polite. There was one black-eyed girl,—the planter’s daughter, as I supposed,—whom I thought very handsome, but very different from our New England girls. Her complexion was extremely dark; her hair black as jet, her skin being quite of an olive color. When her features were at rest, her countenance was pensive, almost sad; but the moment she spoke, there was a flash of cheerfulness over her whole countenance. I stole several glances at her, but being only a poor sailor, I deemed this a kind of theft, and tried hard not to be detected. I noticed, however, that the maiden caught me looking at her several times. I expected she would be angry, but this was far from being the case.

The habitation of the planter was very different from a snug New England dwelling. In this delicious climate there is a perpetual summer; no frost, no snow, no blustering Boreas ever comes to chill the inhabitants, to destroy the vegetation, or interrupt the genial course of nature. Little is needed for the comfort of the inhabitants, in respect to a dwelling, but a mere shelter. The planter’s residence consisted of three or four distinct buildings, of irregular shape and arrangement. One was of brick, and covered with tiles; the rest were of wood, and had more the appearance of cattle sheds than human dwellings. There were no chimneys, and the windows consisted of openings without glass.

When it came night, I was put into one of these buildings. We ascended to a second loft by a ladder, and I laid down upon a bed which consisted of straw. Feeling very weary, I soon fell asleep. I continued in a sound repose for several hours, when, at last, I awoke suddenly. It seemed as if I had heard some one whispering to me, and in a sort of dream, I fancied that it was the black-eyed daughter of the planter. But when I was fully awake, and rose up in my bed, my amazement at what I beheld was indescribable.

The moon was shining very brightly, and lighted the large barn-like apartment in such a manner, that I could see almost every object with distinctness. Above me, amid the dusky shadows of the room, I beheld a creature of the most extraordinary aspect. It seemed to have the head of a rhinoceros, with most enormous ears, the body of a bird, and the legs of an alligator. It had immense wings, shaped like those of a bat. To my excited imagination, the creature seemed as big as an ox; and as I gazed upon it, it seemed to wave its prodigious wings, and grin at me with a sneering and malicious expression.

My first idea was, that it was a mere night-mare; but when I recollected that I was in a strange country, and moreover remembered the adventure of the alligator, which had so recently occurred, I began to conceive that it must be a reality. There is no harm, at least, thought I, in being prepared for the worst. Accordingly, I reached out my hand, and seized my cudgel. I then laid down upon my bed, and keeping my eye fixed upon the grisly apparition, held myself ready for what might happen. I kept myself perfectly still, and at last the creature spread its wings and began to make a circuit through the upper regions of the apartment.

Round and round he went, upon a noiseless wing, and at last began to make a dip at me. Never shall I forget the sensations of that horrible moment! The very uncertainty, whether it was a reality, or some grisly phantom of the brain, seemed to increase my agitation. Could I have been sure that it was a thing of flesh and blood, I should have been ready to give it battle. But the doubt, whether it was a being of this world or another, seemed to freeze my blood. I grasped my cudgel, but my arm was paralyzed.

Thus I lay for several moments, while the spectre wheeled round and round, at every evolution, stooping lower and lower, as he came near the place where I lay. At last he paused in his flight, and hovered over the foot of my bed. I could distinctly feel his claws upon my feet, as well as the fanning of his wings, which were kept constantly in motion. The sensation restored my reason and my strength. I partially arose in my bed, and struck a furious blow with my cane at the monster. It took effect, and it fell lifeless to the floor. What was my surprise, on going to the spot where the creature lay, to discover that what my excited fancy had exaggerated to the seeming dimensions of a winged ox, was, in fact, not bigger than a crow! It was one of the huge bats common to Guiana, and known by the name of the Vampire. It had no doubt come to see how a little blood drawn out of a Yankee boy’s great toe would taste. But the fellow was mistaken in his customer.

I now laid myself down upon my bed but it was in vain that I attempted to sleep. I lay for several hours, and finding it impossible to repose, I went to the window and looked forth upon the scene. The moon was shining with wonderful brightness, and from the eminence on which the plantation stood, I had a distinct view of the surrounding country. The river Surinam shone like silver in the distance, the air was filled with spicy fragrance, and a kind of dazzling light or silvery mist seemed to be diffused throughout the whole space beneath the sky. The whole aspect of nature and the objects around me was strange, yet lovely. There was a balmy softness in the atmosphere, a kind of twilight splendor over the face of nature, which excited my admiration, and, at the same time, gave me a sort of pensive and lonely feeling, at the idea that I was far, very far, from my home.

I remained at the window looking out at the scene for some time. At last the morning came, and before the sun had risen, I went forth into the fields. An immense extent of ground, belonging to the plantation, was covered with coffee trees. These were about ten feet in height, planted in rows at the distance of about ten feet from each other. They somewhat resemble the peach tree; but the leaves are longer, narrower, and highly varnished. These trees, or rather shrubs, are evergreens, and produce fruit when they are about four years old. They live to a great age—sometimes a hundred years. They were now covered with large branches of white blossoms, which gave forth a sweet odor. The coffee berry grows in a kind of fruit, which is red when ripe, and has a very beautiful appearance upon the trees.

After looking about the grounds for a short time, I was returning to the house, when I met the black-eyed daughter of the planter. She bade me good morning, in English, and, to my joy and surprise, I found that she knew a few words of that language. We tried to enter into conversation, but without much success. She asked me my name; and when I told her it was Dick Boldhero, she manifested much surprise and interest. She spoke with great earnestness, and seemed to have an intense desire to know something more. At last, I saw the tears come down her cheeks, and I felt an emotion which I cannot describe. After a time, we separated, and having taken breakfast, I bade adieu to the plantation, and set forward upon my journey.

[To be continued.]

William Ellery Channing.[1]

Dr. Channing was born at Newport, Rhode Island, April 7th, 1780. His father, William Channing, Esq., an eminent lawyer of Newport, died in the midst of his vigor, and at the height of his professional success, when his son William was in his fourteenth year. His mother, was a daughter of William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. She died in Boston, in 1834. His father’s character doubtless exerted an influence in forming the mind of his son, but the nearer intimacy, which, in the long period through which his mother remained the sole possessor of his filial regard, gave her a peculiar power over him.

Dr. Channing is said to have been remarked in early youth as singularly pure-minded, devout, earnest, and aspiring—leaving his friends to anticipate from him great excellence and eminence of character. He graduated at Cambridge, Mass., in 1798, bearing with him the highest honors of the institution, and having distinguished himself for habits of diligence, and for blamelessness of conduct. He now accepted an invitation to reside a year with a gentleman of Virginia, as the instructor of his children. Here he doubtless laid the foundation of that feebleness of constitution which attended him through life. Here, also, he probably adopted the resolution to devote himself to the ministry. He pursued his professional studies, partly with his uncle, Rev. Henry Channing, of New London, Connecticut, and partly at Cambridge.

Mr. Channing received an invitation to settle over the Church and Society in Brattle Square, at the same time that he received one from the Federal Street Church. He chose to accept the latter; his preference being determined “partly by considerations of health, and partly by diffidence;” his humility producing a distrust of his own fitness for the office of a Christian minister, that for a time was painfully oppressive, and finally led him, in connection with his health, to choose the less conspicuous and important of the situations offered him.

His ordination took place on the 1st of June, 1803. An old copy of the Columbian Centinel contains the following notice: “Ordination.—Yesterday was ordained to the pastoral care of the Church in Federal Street, the Rev. Wm. Ellery Channing. The Rev. Mr. Holmes introduced the solemnity by prayer. Professor Tappan delivered the sermon from Eph. iii. 8, 9; the Rev. Dr. Osgood made the ordaining prayer; the Rev. Henry Channing gave the charge; the Rev. Mr. Tuckerman expressed the fellowship of the Church; and the Rev. Dr. Eckley made the concluding prayer. The ceremonial was conducted, and the services performed, with a solemnity and fervor suited to the occasion.”

Mr. Channing was appointed Dexter Lecturer on Biblical Criticism in Harvard University, in 1812, but his health did not allow him to prepare a course of lectures, and he resigned the appointment the next year. In 1813 he was elected a member of the Corporation, at which board he retained a seat till 1826. The University conferred on him the honorary degree of D. D. in 1820.

Dr. Channing first appeared as a controversial writer in 1815, when he addressed his letter to Rev. S. C. Thatcher, “on the aspersions contained in a late number of the Panoplist, of the ministers of Boston and the vicinity.” This led to a public correspondence between him and the Rev. Dr. Worcester, of Salem. In 1819 he preached the sermon at the ordination of Mr. Sparks, at Baltimore, which produced the letters of Professor Stuart, and of Drs. Wood and Ware. In this sermon he took that position in behalf of Unitarianism, which he defended in many subsequent discourses, on public occasions, and in his own pulpit.

Dr. Channing being very feeble, embarked for Europe, in May, 1822, and returned home in August, 1823. During his absence, he visited Great Britain, France, Switzerland, and Italy. In the autumn of 1830 he was again compelled, by his state of health, to leave the United States, and passed the winter of 1830-31 in St. Croix. One or two subsequent winters he spent in Philadelphia.

He probably derived permanent benefit from this absence to Europe, but still there was such an habitual want of vigor in his system, that, soon after his return, he desired an assistant in his ministry; and a colleague was settled in 1824. From this time he continued to officiate in the pulpit, with more or less frequency, as his strength permitted, till 1840, when he requested the society to release him from all obligation of professional service, though he desired to retain the pastoral connexion towards them. As his mind was relieved from the pressure of ministerial engagements, his attention was more and more given to the aspects which society, in its opinions, usages, and institutions, presents to the Christian philanthropist. He was led, by his interest in these subjects, to communicate to the public, at different times, his thoughts on questions of immediate urgency, involving high moral considerations, and devoted a large part of his time to an examination of the light which Christianity throws upon practical ethics.

Dr. Channing’s residence was in Boston, but for several years he had been accustomed to spend the summer in the country, amidst those influences of nature which he esteemed as even more grateful in their effects upon the mind than on the body. He chose his residence for the season of 1842, among the mountains that traverse the western section of Massachusetts, in whose beautiful seclusion he found a high degree of enjoyment, and a firmer tone of health than he had possessed for a long time. On his journey homeward, by way of Vermont, he was exposed to a temperature unusual at the season, and too severe for him to encounter with impunity, which produced an access of disease, that prevented his proceeding beyond Bennington. Here his illness steadily advanced till it overpowered the vital energy; and what at first were the slight apprehensions of his friends, were converted into anxious fears, that only gave place to the sorrows of bereavement. He observed the progress of his disease with the calmness that was habitual with him in every situation; expressed a sense of the Divine love even beyond what he had before felt, and manifested that exquisite tenderness of affection, which gave such beauty to his private life.

Dr. Channing’s illness extended over twenty-six days. As is usual in autumnal fevers, the action of the brain was increased, and the mind was crowded with subjects and images, which at times occasioned him distress, as depriving him of that control over his thoughts, which in health, and under previous attacks of disease, he habitually exercised. The nature of his complaint, also, made it necessary to avoid the excitement of the pulse inevitable upon conversation, and he therefore, as well as those about him, abstained from long-continued discourse. Still he said much that can never be forgotten; and the beautiful serenity, and the perfect trust which he exhibited, made the apartment in which he lay waiting for death, a place of holy instruction, and peaceful sympathies. He expressed a wish to die at home, but yielded himself wholly to the Divine will. His bodily suffering was at no time extreme. Towards the close of the disease there was an oppression on the chest, and he sank rapidly. He died at half past five o’clock, on Sunday, October 2, 1820.

Chinese Ingenuity.—The ingenuity of the Chinese is too often exercised for the purpose of fraud. Sometimes you will buy a capon, as you may think, of a Chinese, but find you have only the skin of the bird, which has been so ingeniously filled, that the deception is not discovered until it is prepared for being dressed.

They also make counterfeit hams. These are made of pieces of wood, cut in the form of a ham, and coated over with a certain kind of earth, which is covered with hog’s skin; and the whole is so ingeniously prepared, that a knife is necessary to detect the fraud.

A gentleman travelling in China some few years ago, bought some chickens, the feathers of which were curiously curled. In a few days, he observed the feathers straight, and that the chickens were of the most common sort. The man who sold them had curled the feathers of the whole brood, a little while before he sold them.

Effect of Climate and Cultivation on Vegetables.—The myrtle-tree, which with us is a small shrub, grows in Van Dieman’s Land to the height of two hundred feet, and has a trunk from thirty to forty feet in circumference. The wood resembles cedar.

The Morse.

There is only one species of this remarkable animal, yet the singularity of its appearance has procured for it a variety of names, as the Walrus, the Sea-Cow, the Sea-Horse, &c. The only animal which it resembles is the Seal. It has two large tusks growing out of the upper jaw, directed downwards. From the high latitudes to which the Morse is chiefly confined, there has been but little ascertained respecting it. It is not even known with certainty upon what it feeds. Some suppose its food to be entirely animal; whilst others have represented it as feeding upon sea-weed. It is probable, however, that it may turn over the sea-weed with its long tusks, to dislodge the animals upon which it feeds, from the rocks.

The Morse is sometimes found eighteen feet long, with tusks about two feet in length. Its general color is brown. It is a social animal, and resorts in great numbers to favorite places on the far northern coast, where it lies on rocks and icebergs, till hunger compels it to resort to the water for food. It is not active on land, but its tusks enable it to climb up high banks with facility.

The Morse is esteemed for the oil which it affords. Their tusks also are very valuable. They are hunted for these articles, the ivory being harder and whiter than that of the elephant. When one of these animals is encountered on the ice, or in the water, the hunter strikes him with a strong harpoon made expressly for this purpose. The animal is then drawn to the nearest flat iceberg. They then flay him, separate the two tusks from the head, cut out the fat, and carry it to the vessel. A morse will furnish half a ton of oil.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER III.

The poultry yard.

I shall not undertake to tell the whole history of the old hen and chickens, whose story is begun in the preceding chapter. If any of my readers meet with Jack, who is now a man, they can ask him, and he will tell them how the greater part of the brood grew up to be pullets or cockerels, and made a considerable noise in the world. He will tell them how the former at last became old hens, and laid eggs, and cackled like their ancestors; and how the latter, after many funny trials, learned to crow, and finally to fight, as their fathers and grandfathers had done before them. I must tell you, myself, what Jack said to his aunt about this fighting.

He had watched the chickens with a great deal of care, and he was greatly diverted to see the little roosters, as soon as they had little bits of red combs on their heads, try to crow and fight. They really seemed like some smart boys we have seen, at the age of sixteen or seventeen, trying to smoke cigars, or drink wine, or some other liquor, and appearing very ridiculous, while they fancied that they were exciting the envy and admiration of all around them, inasmuch as they were imitating the deeds of those older than themselves.

Jack laughed heartily at the ambitious efforts of the cockerels, as well in boasting as in battle—until, one day, he saw two of them fight till their heads were bloody, and one of them had his eyes picked out. This shocked him greatly, and his heart being grieved, he went to tell what had happened to his aunt. She tried to comfort him as well as she could, but, at last, he spoke to her as follows: “You told me, aunt Betsey, that these creatures were governed by instinct, and that this instinct was implanted by God. You said that the obedience of the chickens to their parent was of this nature, and furnished a good example to children. Now, I wish to ask if the fighting of the cockerels is not implanted by God, and therefore a good example to children?”

Aunt Betsey smiled at the shrewdness of this question, and seeing that it was asked in earnest, and not scoffingly, by Jack, she replied seriously in these words: “I do not suppose, Jack, that instinct is the only guide of animals. It is their guide when young, but when they are older and know how to take care of themselves, then I suppose that in many things they act freely and from their own sense and judgment. When you were an infant you were guided by instinct, but now that you are older, you act freely, according to your choice. You may fight, or you may be peaceful, just as you please. Having arrived at this period, you are responsible for your conduct, for it has pleased God to make you free. It is just so, I think, with these young cockerels; they may fight, or let it alone. If they fight and get bloody noses, they only are to blame. And if they do fight, it is no example for us. God has given human beings a law of peace, and this should be their rule. Dr. Watts has said,

‘Let dogs delight
To bark and bite
For God hath made them so—
Let bears and lions
Growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature too.’

“But it is quite otherwise with human beings; even if brute animals are left to tear each other in pieces, mankind are taught that peace, kindness and harmony are not only the duty, but the happiness of the human race.”

From observing the hen and her chickens, Jack’s attention was drawn to the other inhabitants of the poultry yard. The strutting turkey, the hissing, gobbling goose, the waddling duck, the screaming guinea-hen, and the fantastic peacock, each in turn became the subject of his investigation, and each seemed to him to have a character and interest peculiar to itself. If I had the power faithfully to paint all his feelings, and space to detail all his thoughts, I could make the story entertaining, but I must content myself with a very general account of the matter.

I believe there are very few persons who have not been often amused in pausing for a half hour and noticing the various airs, manners and customs, of the feathered inhabitants of the poultry yard. The hen, stealing to her nest, deposits her eggs, and then comes forth with an obstreperous cackle, to tell everybody what she has been about.

“Cut—cut—cadau cut—
Lay an egg every day
And have to go barefoot!”

The rooster—he that is “cock of the walk,” leads forth his body of hens, and when he finds a good fat grub, calls his favorites to come and feast on the delicate morsel. Like a polite old beau, he seems to prefer the happiness of the other sex to his own; his tones and manner are soft and insinuating, and he becomes the very personification of gallantry. While he is thus tender to the females of the flock, he is harsh and unsparing to his rivals of the masculine gender. If one of them comes near, he is sure to feel his spurs, and, after the rebuke, to hear the shrill triumphant crow of the conqueror.

The turkey-cock struts round and round, grating the edges of his wings upon the ground, and displays his purple wattles, his crimson comb, and his black, bristly beard, to the admiring gaze of the tender, transcendental hens of his flock. The guinea-hen, creeping afar, amid some thicket, comes running home with a terrible cry, as if thieves, robbers and murderers were at hand! The peacock, situated upon some conspicuous mound, spreads out his tail, set with a thousand gorgeous gems, and, lost in admiration, appears to enjoy a sublime self-conceit. Amid all this exultation, the vulgar duck is dabbling in the mud, only deigning to utter his quack—quack—quack, at intervals, few and far between. At the same time, the silent and sentimental goose is swimming upon the bosom of the muddy pool, now and then plunging its long neck into the recesses of the element upon which it floats—happy if perchance some insect, lizard, or tadpole may reward its search.

It is not to be supposed that these amusing scenes escaped the sharp observation of Inquisitive Jack. He indeed, noticed the peculiarities of the several kinds of poultry, and had many a long conversation upon the subject with his aunt Betsey. We can only note the substance of what she told him.

The domestic fowls are the descendants of birds originally wild. The barn-door cock and hen came in the first place from Asia, and in some parts of India they are still to be met with, though their appearance is somewhat different from that of the tame breeds. The peacock came also from Asia, and the guinea-hen from Africa. The duck is but a tame mallard, a bird which is often shot along our coasts. The honest goose is descended from the wild gray bird, that is often seen in flocks, in spring time, high in air, and in the shape of a triangle, wending their way to the far north, where they may breed in solitude, peace and safety.

The turkey is the only original bird of America among our poultry. It was found in the forests, when the Europeans first visited this continent. It is less changed by domestication than any other bird. If you were to see it in the wilds of the west, where flocks of it are still common, you would think it only a truant turkey which had strayed from the barn-yard. It is a strutting, vain, cowardly bird, though it is very good eating. The French call it dinde, and hence our word dandy, which means a vain, cowardly coxcomb.

Promotion from the ranks.—Seventeen private soldiers of the French army, in Bonaparte’s time, by their bravery and talents raised themselves to the following distinguished stations; two became kings; two, princes; nine, dukes; two, field-marshals; and two generals.

Bill and the Boys.

The story of the lottery ticket, continued.

Thomas Trudge was now one of the richest men in the town of Buckwheat, in which he resided, and it was not long before his good fortune was known over the whole place. A great many people came to see him and talk with him about it, and hear the whole story from beginning to end. They desired also to see the money, and make sure that it was real, good money; for many of them could hardly believe that a poor pedlar should draw a prize of fifty thousand dollars. A great many persons also came to see Mr. and Mrs. Trudge, who had never been in their humble cottage before; and Mrs. Trudge was not slow to observe that the people now called her husband Mr. Trudge, instead of Tom, and herself, Mrs. Trudge, instead of Bridget.

The town of Buckwheat consisted of about two thousand inhabitants, who were chiefly devoted to agriculture. It derived its name from its producing a large quantity of that particular kind of grain which is famous for feeding poultry and making flap-jacks. It consisted of two villages, which bore the titles of Up-town and Down-town. In the former portion, there dwelt several families of some wealth, who had removed thither from the city of New York, during the war of the revolution, to escape from the dangers and anxieties of that period. These families, having similar tastes and habits of life, naturally associated together, and were hence called the aristocracy.

The leader of fashion among this portion of the community was a dashing widow, by the name of Mrs. Million. She was rich, and so long as she was flattered and permitted to have her own way, she was hospitable and good-natured; but if thwarted, or if her superiority in all respects were called into question, she was haughty, ill-natured, and vindictive.

While such was the state of things at Up-town, there was also a natural association formed by the people in that portion of the place called Down-town. “Birds of a feather flock together,” says the adage; and, accordingly, the Down-towners, being drawn together by similar tastes, habits and condition, associated with each other, and were called the democracy. For a long time, these names were not in use in Buckwheat, and the people, whatever inequality in their condition might exist, got along very peaceably together. But when they began to call each other names, such as aristocrat and democrat, a feeling of hostility grew up among them, and it was not long before bad blood was excited between them. Hitherto, all things had gone on peaceably; every person was at liberty to do as he pleased, provided there was nothing improper in his conduct; but now that these ugly names had got in among them, there was a great deal of scandal and back-biting abroad. It really seemed as if the introduction of these two words—aristocracy and democracy—into the good old town of Buckwheat, did as much to break up the peace and harmony of the people, as if two evil spirits had taken up their residence there, and had exerted themselves to set the inhabitants by the ears.

Thomas Trudge was naturally a fair-minded, honest, good-hearted fellow, and, left to himself, would never have made any trouble in the world. But his partner, Bridget, was restless, meddlesome, and ambitious. She was always talking about the Up-towners, and nothing happened there, but it was the occasion of some sour and satirical reflection upon her part. She kept an especial watch upon Mrs. Million, particularly at the meeting on Sunday. Her dress was then thoroughly scanned, and if she ventured to come out with a new bonnet, gown, frill, or even ribbon, the amiable Bridget was sure to exclaim somewhat in this manner: “Shame upon that Mrs. Million, to be perking herself up in church with her new finery, to attract the attention of the whole congregation! What is Mrs. Million, that she presumes to catch all the best of the minister’s discourse—the corn and the kernel—and leave nothing but the husks for such people as we are. Oh, it’s because she’s rich, I suppose! But the tables will be turned, by and by. ‘Every dog must have his day!’ Dives had his, and Mrs. Million is having hers; but there’s another world to settle these accounts in!”

It must not be supposed that Bridget Trudge was a bad woman, even though she indulged in such spiteful words; her bark was a great deal worse than her bite. But still, people who get into the habit of talking harshly, will ere long feel and act harshly—and so it was with Bridget. She had been so accustomed to indulge her love of scandal towards the Up-towners, that she seemed to hate them; and as to Mrs. Million, she felt as if she owed her some particular grudge; and this was the more curious, from the fact that Mrs. Million had always treated Bridget with kindness, and had made her various presents of considerable value. Nothing, however, in the conduct of the Up-towners, could satisfy Mrs. Trudge. Their behavior, in her view, was all wrong. She accused them of being extravagant, worldly-minded, dissipated, and, what was ten times worse than all, aristocratic.

Entertaining such views as these, it may seem strange that the first idea of Mrs. Trudge, after she had settled it in her mind that they were rich, was, that she would become one of the Up-towners, join the aristocracy, and out-dash Mrs. Million. Her first great manœuvre was developed on the second Sunday after the drawing of the prize. Her husband went in his usual dress, but Mrs. Trudge appeared in all the glory of her new changeable damask, decorated with figures in gold. It was made in the height of the fashion; and as she flaunted up the broad aisle, you might have fancied that she was going to a masquerade. An enormous red satin bonnet, with huge bunches of ribbons, red shoes and a tall fan—though it was now November—served to aid the conceit. The little Trudges followed their mother, fantastically attired, while Tom, the pedlar, in his rusty, brown suit, brought up the rear.

The Scottish poet, Burns, has said a great many good things; and among these is the following couplet:

“Oh! would kind heaven the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us.”

Mrs. Trudge supposed that on the present occasion she was exciting the admiration of all Buckwheat; that she was provoking the envy of the proud Mrs. Million, and that she was conquering the respect of the Up-towners. The text happened to be the story of Lazarus in Abraham’s bosom, and was used by the preacher to show the compensations which are to be made to the humble Christian in a future world, for the sorrows, suffering and poverty of this. Mrs. Trudge made a curious, though flattering application of the text to herself. “Yes, yes,” said she, internally, “the poor shall be comforted—those who have suffered shall have the reward. I have endured poverty and suffering, and now I am taken to Abraham’s bosom.” She enjoyed great satisfaction in this view of the case, and, for the first time in her life, fondly fancied that the preacher intended to bestow upon her the comforts of Scripture.

It is not our purpose to detail the various steps by which the Trudges changed their position in society. It will be sufficient to say that they left their humble cottage and entered a new house, which they caused to be built upon the very top of Up-town! This was constructed in the most approved style; and the grounds around were duly decorated with gravel-walks, avenues, flower-beds, shrubbery, and long straight rows of Lombardy poplars. Here, they gave tea-parties and suppers; and in the course of two years rejoiced in considering themselves as making a part of that aristocracy which Mrs. Trudge had before regarded as so hateful.

[To be continued.]

Comparison between Coal and Gold.—In a work published a year or two ago by a Spaniard, there is a comparison between the produce of gold and silver mines in America and the coal mines in England, from which it appears that the gross value of the annual produce of the coal mines, which is 18,000,000 of tons, amounts to 450,000,000 francs, including the wages and other charges, whilst the produce of the gold and silver mines, including the same charges, is only 220,500,000 francs; showing a balance in favor of the coal of England over the gold and silver mines of the New World, of no less a sum than 229,500,000 francs.

Family Men.—Malancthon is reported to have frequently studied the gravest points of theology, with his book in one hand, and, in the other, the edge of a cradle which he constantly rocked; and M. Esprit, a celebrated author and scholar, has been found reading Plato with great attention, considering the interruptions which he met with from the necessity of sounding his little child’s whistle.

The Nine of Diamonds.—The nine of diamonds is called the curse of Scotland, from the Duke of Cumberland writing on the back of that card his sanguinary orders for military execution after the battle of Culloden.

Sharp Retort.—“Will you lend father your newspaper, sir?—he only just wants to read it?” “Yes, boy—and ask him to lend me his dinner—I only just want to eat it!”

The Leming.

The Leming, which is a native of Scandinavia, is somewhat larger than a dormouse, having a short, bushy tail. Its fore legs are short, and its hind ones are long, which give it a degree of swiftness. It is particularly remarkable for its migrations, in which many millions remove from their native mountains and descend like a torrent upon the plains. They move, for the most part, in a square, marching forward by night and lying still by day. Thus, like an animated torrent, they are often seen more than a mile broad, covering the ground, and that so thick, that the hindmost touches the leader.

It is in vain that the poor inhabitant resists or attempts to stop their progress, they still keep moving forward, and though thousands are destroyed, myriads are seen to succeed, and make their destruction impracticable. They generally move in lines, which are about three feet from each other, and exactly parallel. Their march is always directed from the north-west to the south-east, and regularly conducted from the beginning. Wherever their motions are turned, nothing can stop them; they go directly forward, impelled by some strange power; and from the time they first set out, they never once think of retreating. If a lake or a river happens to intercept their progress, they all together take to the water and swim over it; a fire, a deep well, or a torrent, does not turn them out of their direction; they boldly plunge into the flames, or leap down the well, where they are sometimes seen climbing up on the other side.

If they are interrupted by a boat across a river, while they are swimming, they never attempt to swim round it, but mount directly up its sides, and the boatmen, who know how vain resistance in such a case may be, calmly suffer the living torrent to pass on, which it does without further damage. If they meet with a stack of hay or corn that interrupts their passage, instead of going over it, they gnaw their way through. It is happy, however, for mankind, that they eat nothing that is prepared for human subsistence; they never enter a house to destroy the provisions, but are contented with eating every root and vegetable that they meet. If they happen to pass through a meadow, they destroy it in a very short time, and give it the appearance of being burnt up and strewed with ashes.

An enemy so numerous and destructive would quickly render the countries where they appear, utterly uninhabitable, did it not fortunately happen that the same rapacity that animates them to destroy the labor of mankind, at last impels them to destroy and devour each other. After committing incredible devastation, they are at last seen to separate into two armies, opposed with deadly hatred, and they continue their engagements till one party overcomes the other. From that time they utterly disappear; some suppose that they rush headlong into the sea; others that they kill themselves; but the most probable opinion is, that having devoured the vegetable productions of the country, they fall to devouring one another. However this may be, they are found dead by thousands, and their carcasses have been known to infect the air for several miles around, so as to produce very malignant disorders.

The Swedes and Norwegians, who live by husbandry, consider an invasion from these vermin as a terrible visitation; but it is very different with respect to the Laplanders, who lead a vagrant life like the beings themselves. They are never so happy as when an army of these creatures come down amongst them, for then they have a feast upon their flesh, which they esteem very good eating, although rejected both by cats and dogs.

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER IV.

The Indians, continued.

et us now proceed with our promised account of some of the most remarkable manners and customs of the great tribes of Indians, which occupy the western portion of the United States. Among the chief tribes, are the Osages, Pawnees, Choctaws, Creeks, Cherokees, Sacs and Foxes, Assineboins, and Winnebagoes. To the north, are the Blackfeet and the Chippewas. There are also several smaller tribes. These occupy the great tract of country which lies immediately west of the Rocky Mountains; on the other side of that range are a multitude of other tribes. All these Indians are supposed to amount to between two and three hundred thousand.

The people of these different tribes speak different languages, though these have some resemblance. In their personal appearance, there is little to distinguish them. They are all copper-colored, with small black eyes, and high cheek bones. The hair is invariably black in youth, turning gray in age. It is coarse and lank, resembling horse hair. It is very glossy—a quality which is increased by the use of grease.

The men are tall and well shaped; their arms are small, but their legs are very stout. They can endure long abstinence from food, and run for a great distance with speed. They have not, however, the strength and endurance of the white man. In a personal conflict, where strength and energy of purpose are required, the white man will generally overcome the Indian.

The women are much shorter than the men, and are capable of performing a great deal of labor. All the drudgery of the household falls to their lot. The warrior and the hunter cannot stoop to the cultivation of the soil, or any of the ordinary business of life. In travelling from one part of the country to another, the women carry heavy burdens, take the entire charge of the furniture, pitch the tents, gather the fuel, and kindle the fires; cut up and dress the meat, besides taking care of the children.

Some of the tribes are stationary and live in villages, their houses being made of stone and mortar covered with coarse thatch. These tribes carry on some agriculture, and produce corn, pumpkins, and beans. They frequently send out hunting parties, who furnish a supply of meat from the buffaloes, deer, bear, and other quadrupeds.

Other tribes have permanent villages, built like the preceding, which however are occupied only in winter. In spring, they plant their grounds, and then, taking their tents, set forward, and spend their summer in roaming from place to place, chiefly for the purpose of obtaining game. The men spend their time in war and the chase, and the women in performing household duties. During these excursions, they seem for the most part to live a happy, careless life, though they sometimes suffer from the attacks of their enemies. About the middle of autumn, they return and take up their abode at their winter residence. Here they gather their harvest, which is now ripened.

Besides the great business of war and the chase, the Indian men carry on a considerable traffic in the hides of the animals they kill. White traders frequently visit their settlements, and, in exchange for their furs, give them various trinkets, blankets, knives, hatchets, powder, ball and fire-arms, together with rum and whiskey, the great bane of the Indian. The amusements of these savages are chiefly found in the serious pursuits of life, war, and the chase. Their councils, also, in which the leading men make great speeches, excite a deep and lively interest. Besides these sources of pleasure, the Indian men are very much addicted to various kinds of dances; in these they represent their feats in battle and the chase. The women take no part in such sports, except as spectators.

A great source of amusement with the Indian men is found in personal decorations. They pluck out their beards with the utmost care, probably that they may paint themselves with the more facility. They now use tweezers made of wire, but they formerly used muscle-shells, the edges of which were ground smooth. The operation is performed with a jerk, like that commonly used in plucking a goose.

They paint their bodies in various colors, with various devices. They decorate themselves with necklaces of bear’s-claws, head-pieces consisting of the pate and horns of the buffalo, and ornamented robes of buffalo skins. They also wear feathers in their hair; the chief idea in these decorations seems to be to present a fierce and startling appearance.

The chief amusement of the women, aside from their laborious duties, seems to be found in gossiping. They never mingle in the sports of the men, but seem to take great pleasure in witnessing them. They are little addicted to finery, and dandyism is almost wholly given up to the sterner sex. Notwithstanding that they are the mere slaves of the men, they are talkative, lively and cheerful, and seem to possess a good deal of that sympathy and kindness of heart common to women in all conditions of society.

As I have said, the Indians have no books, no schools, and no churches. Their knowledge is almost wholly confined to the tract of country in which they live and the few arts they practise. They believe in the existence of a great and good Spirit, and also an evil Spirit. They believe that they shall exist in a future state; if they perform their part well in this life, they hope to enjoy a paradise in the next, fashioned after their notions of happiness. The Indian, about to die, addresses his mind to the Great Spirit, setting forth his feats in battle and the chase, and expresses the hope that in the future state, he shall be surrounded by obedient squaws, roam over rich prairies, feed on fat buffaloes, and find no prickly pear to wound his feet. The Indians are superstitious, and believe in the efficacy of various charms. They have sorcerers, who pretend to cure diseases by their incantations.

Mankind in all countries are formed by the circumstances in which they live. The savages of the western wilds have those faculties sharpened, which are called into frequent exercise. Those who have horses become very expert riders. The hunter and the warrior have a keenness of sight, and a nicety of observation, which are truly wonderful. It is related that a hunter belonging to one of the western tribes, on his return home one day to his hut, discovered that his venison, which he had hung up to dry, had been stolen. After taking observations upon the spot, he set off in pursuit of the thief, whom he tracked through the woods. Having gone a little distance, he met some persons, of whom he inquired if they had seen a little old white man, with a short gun, accompanied by a small dog with a short tail? They replied in the affirmative; and upon the Indian assuring them that the man thus described had stolen his venison, they desired to be informed how he was able to give so minute a description of a person he had not seen.

The Indian replied thus,—“The thief I know is a little man, by his having made a pile of stones to stand upon in order to reach the venison from the height I hung it, standing on the ground; that he is an old man, I know by his short steps which I have traced over the dead leaves in the woods; and that he is a white man, I know by his turning out his toes when he walks, which an Indian never does. His gun I know to be short, by the mark the muzzle made in rubbing the tree on which it leaned; that his dog is small, I know by his tracks; and that he has a short tail, I discovered by the mark it made in the dust where he was sitting at the time his master was taking down the meat.”

This story shows that savages are very sharp in little matters to which their circumstances have directed their attention. But how great is their ignorance of many important subjects! They have no idea of geography, beyond their own travels! They do not know the shape of the world—its vast magnitude, its mighty rivers, its boundless oceans, or the nations and kingdoms with which it is covered. They know nothing of Europe, or Asia, or Africa. They know nothing of astronomy except from what they see, and the highest conception they have of the stars is that they are fires with which the Great Spirit lights his pipe. They know nothing of the great truths of the Bible, and they conceive the Deity to be a being possessing nearly the same qualities as themselves. How fearful is the darkness which rests upon uncivilized, unchristianized man, and how thankful should we be for the advantages bestowed upon us by the light of knowledge and truth of revelation!

The Old Man in the Corner.

NO. IV.

REMINISCENCES OF A RAG.

(Concluded.)

eldom has there been a gayer party than the one assembled to celebrate Phillipina’s wedding. The bride herself was in excellent spirits, and her husband, Bob, danced, frisked, and flourished as if he were mad with delight. The whole company, indeed, seemed like a parcel of happy children, heedless of the past, careless of the future, and only intent upon enjoying the passing moment. They were all slaves, bought and sold like merchandize, but they seemed not to think of that. The banjo struck up its liveliest measure, and the bride and groom opened the ceremonies with a waltz. How Phillipina did swim round the room, turning, twisting and twirling about, like a crazy peg-top! Mounted upon her head, I performed my part, and having been nicely starched, and extending to the height of half a yard, you may believe I made rather a conspicuous figure. The pure white of my complexion set off Phillipina’s glistening skin to great advantage. As we went waltzing round the room, I heard some compliments upon the loveliness of the bride, but many more as to the beauty of the turban.

“Well, it was a happy night. We danced ‘Coal black Rose,’ ‘Possum up a gum-tree,’ and many other favorite measures of the kind; but as this was some years ago, ‘Jim Crow’ and the ‘Cachucha’ had not got into vogue. At a late hour, the party broke up, and on the morrow, I was laid upon the shelf. For several weeks, I was occasionally called into service to attend at parties made for the bride and groom, after which, I had a long repose in a box, with a bunch of artificial flowers, some tousled ribbons, and other old finery.

“What length of time now passed, I cannot say, but after a long space, there was a rummaging in the box, and on looking up, I perceived that Phillipina had come to take me out. The poor creature had a very sad aspect, and tears as bright as those that fall from any eyes, coursed down her cheeks. I soon learned the cause of this. Her husband had been sold to a planter, who lived in the interior, and had left her forever. Thus, what the church had joined together, man had put asunder, agreeably to the laws and customs of that Christian land. Nor was this all. Phillipina had been purchased by a Portuguese nobleman, to attend his lady; and the whole party were immediately to proceed to Portugal!

“My mistress, who had a heart, notwithstanding her complexion, took leave of her friends, shed many tears, and we went on board the ship. During the voyage, I was packed away with my old companions, the faded flowers, and tousled ribbons. We reached Lisbon, and after a few months, we proceeded toward the country seat of Phillipina’s master—a fine castle upon the mountains, on the borders of Spain. As we were passing through a deep and dark ravine, our party was attacked by robbers; a desperate scuffle ensued between our company and that of the banditti, but the latter at last prevailed, and taking our entire baggage, hurried it away into the recesses of the mountains. I was taken with the rest, and thus was forever separated from Phillipina.

“When I next saw the light, it was in a splendid castle. The robbers had selected the choicest articles from their booty, and one of them, assuming the disguise of a pedlar, took these to the castle. I was purchased by the lady, a stately dame, with beautiful black eyes, black hair, and a soft, but melancholy expression of countenance. She paid for me an enormous price, and after the pedlar was gone, she sat down and gazed at me with a delighted look. I may say it without vanity, those fair eyes had never before looked upon a piece of muslin, so sheer, even and dazzling. Phillipina—thanks to the kind-hearted creature!—had put me in the best condition; and behold, the slave’s turban now the favorite of a duchess!

“Nothing could exceed the gloomy magnificence of the castle in which I now dwelt. It stood upon the brow of a lofty rock, from the battlements of which, you looked down upon a valley threaded by a silver stream, and dotted over with vineyards and groves of olive, lemon, and orange trees. The air was filled with the most delicious fragrance, and far as the eye could reach, the lovely valley seemed to stretch out, presenting a scene of luxuriance and peace. On the other side of the castle, was a succession of rugged mountains, covered with gloomy forests of cork trees, with occasional groups of oak and chestnut. The view resembled a sea of waving leaves covered by a thin atmospheric veil of a purple hue. Nothing could exceed the grandeur and richness of the spectacle.

“The castle was itself a kind of village, where there were at least a hundred people. Its master was a duke, of an ancient family, and bearing at least a dozen titles attached to his name. He was a dark, sallow and gloomy man, yet very handsome. He bore a military title, and had served in the wars. There was about him a stern, stately demeanor, befitting the soldier, yet, when he addressed the fair duchess, his manner was gentle and winning.

“The dame, however, for some cause, was unhappy. Still youthful, she spent her time in seclusion, and seemed to devote almost all her thoughts to religious duties and ceremonies. I learned that she had been married contrary to her inclination, and that in the midst of the luxuries that surrounded her, she was far less happy than the menials about the castle. In vain were all the attentions of her lord to soothe her melancholy. The heart was given to another, and her happiness had gone with it.

“The lady had no books, save a few old Spanish ballads, and these she had learned by heart. She took an occasional drive; sometimes sauntered through the magnificent gardens attached to the castle, but more frequently buried herself amid the dark labyrinths of the park, where she sometimes met a cavalier, who kissed her hand, and departed, leaving her in tears. With these exceptions, the lady spent the greater part of her time in the little chapel of the castle, on her knees, before the image of the Virgin, and in her boudoir engaged in needle work.

“A new thought now occurred to her, which was to work me into a handkerchief for the Virgin in the chapel. This design was immediately entered upon, and industriously pursued for more than a year. Some tears fell upon me during that period, but they were too bright to leave any stain behind. At last I was finished, and after a meeting between the lady and the strange cavalier in the wood, I was one evening placed around the neck of the holy mother’s image, and fastened with a diamond of inestimable value.

“I had scarcely remained a month in this condition, when, one night, a person, whose features I could not discover, entered the chapel, took the diamond pin, and crossing himself repeatedly before the Virgin, telling his beads, and saying a number of ‘ave marias,’ he went away. The theft was not discovered, for a paste pin was put in the place of the stolen jewel. Not long after this, an attack was made upon the castle by a party of French soldiers. It was bravely defended by the duke and his attendants, but without avail. He escaped with his fair dame through some of the winding passages; and their further story I am unable to tell. My own fate was melancholy indeed. One of the cannon pierced the chapel, and striking the breast of the holy Virgin, scattered the image in a thousand fragments. Torn and blackened, I was thrown upon the floor, by the side of a bleeding soldier. He took me up, to staunch his wound, and when he was carried away by his comrades, I was taken with him.

“His wound was not serious; and after a short space, I was thrust into his pocket, stained with blood. For several weeks, I performed the office of wiping the fellow’s nose. Thus I was reduced to the most miserable and degraded condition. At last I was thrust into the soldier’s knapsack, and for a long period, travelled about with him. My companions consisted of a wad of lint, an old cigar, the handle of a jack-knife, a little black cross, an old seal-skin purse, besides sundry damaged articles of dress.

“After a great variety of marches and countermarches, the soldier was finally wounded in battle, and carried to some barracks. Here he was stretched out upon a bed of straw, with several other miserable wretches. They were visited once a day by the surgeon, and every morning the man with the dead-cart came round to carry away those who had expired. The dead-cart-men had become so hardened as to perform their office with as much indifference as if they were dealing with so many sacks of salt. If they could perceive no motion in the bodies, they would seize upon them and carry them away, hardly pausing to consider whether they were yet dead. So long as life and consciousness remained, the poor soldiers were accustomed to give a kick as these hearsemen performed their rounds, in order to save themselves from being borne away to the charnel-house. One morning no motion was perceived in my poor soldier. He had given his last kick, and he was borne to his grave. His knapsack was left behind, and I became the plunder of one of the attendants of the hospital.

“For a time, I remained with a heap of rubbish, where I found myself with a parcel of old rags, each of which could have told a tale, perhaps, as curious as my own. There was an old shirt, which had belonged to a man who had died of the plague; a pocket handkerchief, spun by the silk-worms of India, and manufactured by Hindoo artizans, and after being borne to Europe, had ministered to the conveniences of at least three different persons; an old frill which had flourished upon the bosom of a beau, and sundry other fragments equally curious. After a long space, we were bundled together, taken to the city of Cadiz, packed in an enormous bale, and shipped to Boston.

“Thus, I made my fourth voyage across the Atlantic, and found myself restored to the country of my birth. I had passed through various adventures, but alas, what was my present condition! How sadly did it contrast with the brighter days of my existence. Once the favorite of a duchess; once the ornament of the holy Virgin, and fit to be decorated with a priceless gem; now an old rag tumbled in, cheek by jowl, with a thousand vulgar fragments of shirts, sheets, and nose-wipers.

“I did not remain in this condition long. I was soon purchased by Messrs. Tileston & Hollingsworth, and transported to their mill at Dorchester; and here I am awaiting my fate. And what is that to be? Am I to be manufactured into a pure sheet, upon which Mr. Longfellow shall write one of his beautiful sonnets; or make an immortal leaf in a new edition of Prescott’s Cortez; or shall I go gilt-edged, to some fair lady, and receive her confession to her lover; or shall I be impressed with the magic figures of a bank, and bear a value a hundred times my weight in gold; or shall I go to the office of a penny paper, and be cried about the streets by the boys,—‘Here’s the second edition of the Mail, Bee, and Times, with a full account of the last horrible murder!’”

Thus I read, or seemed to read, from the scroll, which the haggish old rag in the bin had put into my hands. As I finished the last sentence recorded above, the paper shrunk from my grasp. At the same instant, I saw the grisly image rise again from the rag-bin, but with a look so portentous, that I trembled in every limb. In the agony of the moment, I uttered a shriek, which awoke me, and behold, “The Reminiscences of a Rag” were but a dream!

Persia.

The present kingdom of Persia, called Ivan by the natives, covers a space of four hundred and fifty thousand square miles, lying between 25° and 40° N. latitude, and 44° and 62° E. longitude, constituting an elevated table land. On the east and north are extensive plains, and on the south lie the Persian Gulf and the Indian Sea. To the east are the kingdoms of Afghanistan, and Beloochistan. The climate of Persia varies in the different portions. To the north it is cold; in the inland provinces the air is serene and pure; but in the south it is hot, and the wind often proves fatal to health. There are but few rivers, and water is very scarce. In some parts of Persia, the soil is unfruitful, but the luxuriance in other spots is wonderful. The vale of Shiraz is much celebrated for the salubrity of the air, and the richness and variety of its fruits and flowers. Near Ispahan, are cultivated all the beautiful flowers that can be conceived, particularly roses, from which is made the celebrated otto of rose, held by ladies in such high esteem. Here the pomegranate tree grows wild, delighting the eye with its splendid red blossom.

In Persia, there are a great variety of wild animals and birds. In some places, the lion holds his sway; in others, wolves, jackals, and foxes abound. Leopards, lynxes, and bears are very numerous. One of the most remarkable animals is the argali, or mountain sheep. But the most beautiful creature is the gazelle, so justly celebrated for its grace and agility.

There are many tribes in Persia, many of whom live a wandering life. The Persians are distinguished for their politeness and learning. The Turkish is the common language; the Persian being only spoken by the people of science and literature.

The Persians are generally a handsome race. Their dress is peculiar and fitted to their climate. The men wear a long robe, wide trousers, and a silk or calico shirt. Robes of various kinds are worn, tied by a muslin sash. In this is stuck a dagger; and a sword is considered a necessary appendage to the dress of every Persian. All classes wear a cap made of lamb-skin. The head is shaved, except a tuft on the top and behind the ears. The dress of the women is very simple. In winter, a close-bodied robe, reaching to the knees, is worn over a kind of vest. In summer a loose dress of silk or muslin, loose trousers and a vest, form the usual attire. The head is covered with a black turban, over which a cashmere shawl is thrown to serve for a veil.

The food of the Persians is simple; they drink the wine of the country, which is delicious, and use a great deal of coffee. Tobacco is smoked by all classes. The Persians have been called the Parisians of the East, though they bear a nearer resemblance to the Greeks. They are cheerful, cunning, deceitful, and dishonest, but very social, and fond of conversation. This abounds in complimentary phrases, fables and apologues. The manner of salutation is to touch the hands, and then raise them to the forehead. When they salute the king or his officers, they bow thrice to the ground.

The wandering tribes are found in all parts of Persia. They are divided into dwellers of cities, and dwellers in the field. Many of them live in tents, which they place on the plains during the winter, and seek the pasture of the mountains in the summer. They have large flocks of cattle. They breed camels and horses for sale, and have a large trade in butter made of the milk of their asses. They feed principally on their flocks, and eat sour milk, cheese, and buttermilk. They range at liberty, over the mountains and plains, paying a tax to government.

There are a people in Persia called Parsees, who worship fire, which they make their idol. They live an honest and pure life, subsisting upon the fruits and productions of their lands. Many of them, suffering persecution by the Turks, emigrated to India, where there are numerous communities of them. The Arabians, who form part of the population of Persia, gain their livelihood by fishing and going to sea; some of them are merchants, while others are occupied in the planting of date trees.

The common advantages of education may be obtained by all classes in Persia, but the arts and sciences are but little attended to. The popular literature is comprised in poems, fables, and romantic tales. Some of the works of their poets are translated and much admired.

The religion of Persia is Mahometan, with some slight variations in the forms and ceremonies. There are a few Christians. There is also a Catholic mission, but it has made few converts. The Persians are generally willing to discuss the merits of different religions, and are thus open to conviction.

The usages at funerals in Persia are very peculiar. After the death and burial of a friend, the relatives mourn forty days, during which time, they suppose the grave to be watched by angels. They accordingly keep a large supply of food upon the place of interment, for the support of these ethereal watchers. They must have rather earthly ideas of the wants of angelic beings. They are also, during the forty days of mourning, in the constant habit of asking the deceased person why he died!

The government of Persia is an absolute despotism; the king himself cannot change his own edicts. Sanguinary and barbarous punishments are very common; the eyes being sometimes put out. Theft is punished by making a hole in a wall, putting the offender in, and building it up again, thus suffocating him. The lower classes are punished by the bastinado, or whipping the feet.

How to get Letters Free.—A shrewd countryman, being informed that there was a letter for him in the post-office, went accordingly for it. On the postmaster’s handing it to him, he frankly confessed that he could not read, and requested the postmaster to open it, and let him know the contents, which he very readily did. After getting all the information he wanted, he knowingly shrugged up his shoulders, thanked him for his politeness, and dryly observed—“When I have some change I’ll call and take it.”

“Love one Another.”—A Welsh parson, preaching from this text, told his congregation, that in kind and respectful treatment to our fellow-creatures, we were inferior to the brute creation. As an illustration of the truth of this remark, he quoted an instance of two goats, in his own parish, that once met upon a bridge so very narrow, that they could not pass by without one thrusting the other off into the river. “And,” continued he, “how do you think they acted? Why, I will tell you. One goat lay down, and let the other leap over him. Ah! beloved, let us live like goats.”

Varieties.

An Old Maid’s Will.—A maiden lady, who died in London, in 1786, left the following singular legacies in her will:—

“Item. I leave to my dear entertaining Jacko, (a monkey,) £10 per annum, during his natural life, to be expended yearly, for his support.”

“Item. To Shock and Tib, (a lapdog and a cat,) £5 each, for their annual subsistence during life; but should it so happen that Shock die before Tib, or Tib before Shock, then and in that case the survivor to have the whole.”

The legacies in remainder were bequeathed to her niece.

Frederick the Great.—A Prussian ecclesiastic, of the name of Mylius, found among his father’s papers a promissory note to a considerable amount, which the Prince Royal, afterwards Frederick the Great, had given him. He therefore immediately sent it to the king with the following letter:—

“Sire,—Among my father’s papers I have found the enclosed note. I cannot tell whether it has been through negligence or any other means that it has not been cancelled. I know not, but I leave the matter to the disposal of your majesty.”

The king immediately sent for Mylius, and said that he well remembered receiving the money from his father, and that if there was any error he would be the loser himself. He immediately paid the money, with interest.

Sir Loin.—The sirloin of beef is said to owe its name to King Charles the Second, who, dining upon a loin of beef, and being particularly pleased with it, asked the name of the joint. On being told, he said, “for its merit, then, I will knight it, and henceforth it shall be called Sir Loin.”

In a ballad of Sir John Barleycorn, this circumstance is thus mentioned,—

“Our second Charles, of fame facête,
On loin of beef did dine;
He held his sword, pleased, o’er the meat,—
‘Arise, thou famed Sir Loin.’”

La Fontaine.—This famous writer is said to have been the most absent of men. He was once called upon to attend the burial of one of his friends, and sometime afterwards, he called to visit him. At first, he was shocked at the information of his death; but recovering from his surprise, he observed, “It is true enough, for now, I recollect, I went to his burial.”

A dragoon, having been carried by a restive horse against Louis XIV. during an action, his majesty became angry, and lifted his cane, as if to strike him. On this, the soldier, rendered desperate by such an affront, immediately tendered one of his pistols to the king, exclaiming, at the same time, “Sire, you have bereaved me of my honor, deprive me also of my life.” The monarch, instead of being displeased at this sensibility, took the first opportunity to promote so brave a man.

Our Correspondence

It is said that the Yankees are very much given to guessing, and they are generally allowed the privilege of guessing when they please. In the exercise of this birthright, we venture to guess that Robert Merry, with his timber toe, is getting to be almost as much a favorite with the black eyes and the blue, as old Peter Parley was, sometime ago. We have a great many letters from these good little people, and they are full of kind thoughts, and pleasant speeches, and one thing must be set down to their credit, THEY ALWAYS REMEMBER TO PAY THE POSTAGE. Only think of that!

We cannot publish all the pleasant letters we get, though we should be glad to do so. We like to encourage the first efforts of our young friends in letter-writing, and perhaps we may now and then give them a hint that may be useful to them. And beside this, these specimens which we publish may turn the thoughts of our young readers to the writing of letters, and give them some good ideas upon this important art. Here is a letter all the way from Georgia.

Decatur, Ga., 14th Feb., 1844.

Mr. Merry:

I see that some little girls write to you. I want to say something about my little cousin Julia Ann, who lives in Petersham, Mass. I think she does not take your Museum. I wish she should; and my father says I may send it to her, and as she is a new subscriber, you say she may have the three bound volumes too, for $3.00, and when she sends for them by any of her friends, you will let her have them. Send the numbers for 1844, by mail, to Petersham.

You write a great many stories. I wish you would come to Georgia, and write us a good story about the Stone Mountain, which is in the county of Decatur, in which we live. It is a lone, solitary rock. Father says it is eight hundred feet high, and that there was once a wall near the top of it. Some think the famous Spanish adventurer, De Soto, made it a long, long time ago. Some men built a tower on the top of it, one hundred and sixty feet high, but it was blown down in a storm last year. It is not a good place to stay on the rock, for there is no water, nor any way to get it, but by carrying it up.

Some who have visited the Stone Mountain say it is second to no curiosity except the Falls of Niagara.

Hoping for more stories and plenty of pictures, I am your young friend,

S. M. W.

Quincy, Feb. 29th, 1844.

Mr. Merry:

Dear Sir,—I would be greatly obliged to you if you will be so kind as to publish the following enigma in the Museum for April or May, as you choose. And I should be very happy to have some one of your subscribers puzzle it out and put it in the Museum. From a Quincy subscriber. Good bye, Mr. Merry.

Frederick H. B.

A GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA.

I am composed of twelve letters.
My 5, 8, 11, 4, 2 and 9, is a cape on a large island.
My 6, 3, 11, 4, 10 and 11, is a large circle.
My 5, 12, 3 and 8, is a tribe of Indians which inhabit British America.
My 5, 2, 9 and 1, is a cape of S. America.
My 7, 12, 9, 7, 2, 3 and 12, is a sea between Europe and Asia.
My 1, 8, 10, 7, 10, and 1, is a river of Europe.
My 11, 3, 10, 7, 8 and 12, is a small portion of Russia.
My 8, 4, 1 and 12, is a burning mountain.
My 11, 5, 10, 1 and 12, is a country in Asia.
My 5, 8, 3, 12 and 4, is the capital of a country in Asia.
My 12, 11, 5, 8, 8 and 1, is a town in a large island.
My whole is the name of a large portion of this globe.

We will endeavor to comply with the request so pleasantly made in the following letter, in relation to the stars, but our little friend must give us time. The stars are a great way off, and we do not hear from them by every mail. Beside, Bob Merry “has a good many fish to fry,” and in order to make matters go right, he is obliged to let everything take its turn. Will you be patient, Dick?

Lexington, January 17th, 1844.

Mr. Merry:

Dear Sir,—I have been taking your Museum for some time, and I like it very much. I am sorry to have to make the same complaint that some of your other subscribers have made; that is, I do not, sometimes, get my Museum soon enough.

I would be glad if you would give us a simple account of the stars, and other heavenly bodies. I have read the first part of Bill Keeler’s story about poor Tom Trudge and his wife, and I think it is quite laughable.

I hear that almost all the great men of the country have been invited to this place or that, and I heartily wish that you would come and pay your little western subscribers a visit. You will not find yourself as much a stranger to us, as even your neighbor Hon. John Quincy Adams.

My dear Mr. Merry—won’t you come to the west?

Of all the countries you’ve been in, you’ll like it the best.

Here you’ll find many little ones, black-eyed and blue,

And a good many grown ones, I rather guess, too,

Who will give you a welcome, and plenty to eat;

For if you do not like favors, you surely like meat.

O, there’d be such a racket and waving of caps,

Such forgetting of rulers, of masters and maps!

All over the country there’d be a turn-out,

And all would join in a general shout.

“For your great men I’ll give not a fig nor a cherry—

O, here is our good friend, the kind Mr. Merry.”

For there’s not a log cabin in all the broad west,

That has not of your stories, the rarest and best.

Your affectionate friend and subscriber,

Richard P. H.

Portsmouth, February 20th, 1841.

Mr. Merry:

I am a new subscriber to your Museum, and so far I like it very much. I take pleasure in studying out your puzzles, and as you have had but one this year, I thought I would make one, and if you think it worth insertion, you can insert it.

I am composed of eighteen letters.
My 3, 14, 2 and 11, is often seen in rivers.
My 3, 14, 6, 6, 16 and 10, is very useful.
My 10, 11 and 16, is a town in New Hampshire.
My 6, 2 and 18, is a nick name.
My 3, 4 and 8, is an insect.
My 7, 14, 15, 4, 17 and 13, is something in Boston.
My 3, 16, 8 and 6, is a vegetable.
My 3, 1, 2, 2 and 7, is a useful thing.
My 11, 8 and 12, is an answer often given to a question.
My 12, 6, 9, 16, 8 and 6 belongs to a town.
My 13, 16, 7, 3, 8 and 5, is a limb.
My 3, 8, 16, and 1, is much in use.
My 3 and 16, is a verb.
My 10, 17 and 13, is a medicine now in use.
My 8, 11 and 16, spells the organ of sight.
My whole is a distinguished periodical publication.

A Subscriber.

The letter which we copy below, was written in a very neat hand, showing that the little writer has good taste and good sense. The dollar spoken of, must have been a sly fellow, for when the letter came to the publishers, behold, it was missing! We have nothing to do with the money matters of the Museum—that is the affair of Bradbury & Soden. But we are curious to know something of the history of this rogue of a dollar. Will our friend Edway let us know whether it was a paper dollar or a real shiner? If we can catch the fellow, we’ll write his memoirs, and we think it will be a pleasant story. We think the life and adventures of a dollar that crept out of a letter one day, would be equal to Bill Keeler’s story of the eel in the aqueduct. If, after all, our little friend forgot to put the dollar into the letter, he may send it to the publishers of the Museum. This will be satisfactory to all parties, though it may spoil a good story of a runaway dollar.

Middlebury, Vermont, Jan., 1844.

Mr. Merry:

I have been thinking this good while, that I would write to you. You wound up your stories of Jumping Rabbit and Inquisitive Jack rather too short, I think. I should like to have you tell a little more about Jumping Rabbit—some of his hunting expeditions, &c. If you would put a little more Natural History into the Museum, I think I should like it better. You had a very handsome picture in the December Museum. I like to see chickens; and I have got six hens, one rooster, and two white turkeys.

I am going to send you one dollar in this letter. I have taken the Museum ever since it has been printed. One of the volumes is bound, and the other two volumes are up to the bookbinder’s shop to be bound.

Edway B. P——.

P. S.—We are just informed by Messrs. Bradbury & Soden, that the stray dollar is found. It appears that it was in the letter, but crept on to the floor; it was caught, however, and is safely put in crib.

The following epistle, from a romantic, descriptive, warm-hearted friend, was very welcome to us, and will be so to our readers. Alas! for those bright days when everything gives pleasure, and even the flowers seem like things of life! They are gone from Robert Merry forever; but he loves to see them reflected in the eyes of his youthful friends. We have been at Springfield, and can testify to the accuracy of the following description of that beautiful town. One thing our fair correspondent has failed to notice, and that is the cemetery, which is scarcely inferior to Mount Auburn. Cannot “Constant Reader” tell us something about it? Instead of sending us the flower she promises, she may send us her miniature. We have an eye for things of that sort yet.

Springfield, Feb. 29, 1844.

A long time ago, I addressed a letter to the little readers of the Museum, and I have had it in my mind for some time to write them another. I told them how old Peter Parley learned me to make pens, and how much good Robert Merry was like him, and how very glad I was that Peter Parley gave him all his writings before he died. It is not probable that all of your little friends will recollect this, but perhaps some of them may. I was just on the point of writing to them again, and was about to say, “Little readers of the Museum,” when it occurred to me that I had never written to you. So this time I will speak to you, Mr. Merry, and tell you something about this old town, that has been settled for more than two hundred years; for you tell such good stories, and talk so much like our old benefactor, that I love you now almost as much as I did him.

Springfield is my native town, so perhaps you will not think it strange if I praise it up pretty well. I think it the pleasantest place I have ever seen. It lies upon the eastern side of the beautiful, broad, majestic Connecticut river, that comes winding down through this extensive valley. It contains about eight thousand inhabitants, not including Cabotville and Chickopee Falls—two large manufacturing villages within the limits of Springfield. The most thickly settled part of the town lies low upon the river’s bank, but the handsomest portion is built upon what is usually termed “the hill.” This elevation commands a fine view of the lower part of the town, and also gives a delightful view of the river. Oh, how beautiful it looks in summer from the brow of “the hill,” wending slowly and sweetly its way to the sea. Upon “the hill” is located the United States Armory, for manufacturing muskets. The public buildings consist of three arsenals, where many of the guns are deposited; three long buildings, each two stories high, where the labor is principally performed, and another in the centre where the officers and clerks have their offices. There are several other smaller buildings connected with the establishment, where various branches of the work are perfected. Also, at what is called “the watershops,” are a number of fine buildings belonging to the government, where the pretty Mill river affords a charming water privilege.

I once had a fine sail of two or three miles up this stream. It had been a pleasant but sultry day, and a small company of us—merry girls and boys—when the sun had sunk down behind the blue hills, filled three small boats, and while the soft, mild moon looked into the deep, clear water to see her face, the music of some thirty voices blended with the still murmur of the stream, and was echoed in the distance. Many were the yellow water lilies we pulled into our boats with their long stems, and many did we leave floating gracefully with the current, their modest heads turned gently on one side, looking down upon the bosom of that pretty Mill river. On that sultry summer’s evening did I almost wish to be one of those water lilies; for Oh, thought I, how delightful it must be, to wave so gracefully one way and the other, constantly laved by the cool waters—the stars and the moon looking down upon me in love. After enjoying for some time the luxury which this scene afforded, we went on shore, where was a cool spring of water, which seemed the best I ever drank; and close by it I found a rare flower. If ever I should find such another, I would send it to you, Mr. Merry, that Mr. Billings might take a drawing of it, so that the little readers of the Museum might see it too; for I think it was the most splendid flower I have ever seen. We had a fine sail home, and sung as we went, the “Canadian Boat Song,” which many of the little girls and boys who read the Museum are familiar with.

But now, to tell about the armory. The largest arsenal, where the guns are deposited, is a long brick building, three stories in height, one hundred and twenty feet long, by forty wide. It is a noble structure, and contains ninety-four thousand muskets, elegantly arranged in racks, each rack containing two thousand and forty muskets. From the upper story of this building, we have a line view of the Connecticut, and in the summer we often see from this place many boats gaily passing up and down the river.

Does it not seem a pity, Mr. Merry, that so peaceful a spot as that on which this armory is located, should be devoted to these implements of death? Is it not time that they were changed into “ploughshares and pruning-hooks,” as the Bible tells us all these war instruments will be, some time or other?

A year or two since, two old barracks were standing on the ground belonging to the United States, that some thirty-five or forty years ago, sheltered several hundred soldiers. They are now torn down, but often, as I used to pass them, I thought how happy Peter Parley would be to sit down in one of these old buildings, and tell us children long stories about the war and the Indians. I often thought how glad I should be to run and bring a chair for him, on which to rest his gouty toe. From the spot where stood these old buildings, may be seen Mount Tom, some eighteen miles distant, holding up his tall blue head. I love to look at him, for there is always something very pleasing to me in the sight of a noble mountain; it makes one’s heart feel large, and seems silently to teach the eye to look upward to Him who created all things. I have sometimes imagined Mount Tom to be the highest peak of the Alps, and when a dense fog has covered its top, I have fancied it to be all clothed with perpetual snow; for I sometimes enjoy very much a flight of the imagination. I think I must have learned this of old Peter Parley. Oh, how many pretty stories has he told us about Mount Tom, and Mount Holyoke, and the Connecticut, as it passes through these mountains, and about Bellows Falls and the Indians catching fish with long spears.

The western rail-road passes through this town. A bridge has been built across the Connecticut, which passenger trains cross four times during the day, and freight trains twice. This bridge is firmly supported by six granite piers, of uncommon beauty and almost invincible strength, which have hitherto, and probably ever will, bid defiance to the large fields of ice that come floating down the river in the spring; and when passing it the cars may be heard for miles. This noble specimen of architecture was designed and executed by the enterprising and ingenious William Howe; and, taking it as a whole, is a very perfect work of art, and the admiration of all who see it.

We have seven churches in town, the largest of which is the first Congregational Church. It stands near the Court House, in front of which is a fine square in which stands a fountain built of marble, and many beautiful trees, and among them a number of majestic elms that are an ornament to the whole town. A tree standing near the fountain now presents a most magnificent appearance. The water flowing from the fountain has congealed upon it until it now looks like a huge monument of marble, chiseled out by some master hand. The branches of this tree, and the monument itself, are hung with large, transparent icicles of the most exquisite beauty. I hope, Mr. Merry, you will sometime give your little friends a view of this square, for I think they would be delighted to see it. Under the shade of these tall trees, gathers the Cold Water Army, on the 4th of July, to receive the spray from the fountain, and to drink of the cool water that comes gushing up and gracefully falls into its marble basin; after which they march in long procession, with gay banners, smiling faces, and happy hearts, to a most interesting place called Worthington Grove, where long tables are spread with all kinds of refreshments, and decorated with flowers and evergreens. Here, sheltered by stately oaks and canopied by heaven, we listen to interesting speeches; fill the large, tall grove with merry songs; send upward wild shouts of “Hurrah for cold water!!” and then, gathering about the tables, satisfy our appetites, and quench our thirst by water from the spring; and if now and then a dash of rain comes down upon us, we only sing and laugh the louder, and give still heartier cheers for cold water!!

There are two banks here in town; notwithstanding money is rather scarce. However, I think we do pretty well by you, Mr. Merry, if we do not abound in cash; for of late many have subscribed for your nice Museum. But I cannot write any more just now, though there is still enough to tell about this good town of Springfield. Let me say, before I am quite done, that we should be very happy, exceedingly happy, to see you here, Mr. Merry; and though the cannons might not fire a salute, most sure I am that you would meet a happy greeting.

Your affectionate young friend,

Constant Reader.

New York, Feb. 12, 1844.

Mr. Merry:

Dear Sir,—In the last number of the Museum, you say that in England, February has nearly the same character as our March, and is regarded as the opening of spring. Will you please tell me, in the next number, why England or London should have an earlier spring than New York—being ten degrees north of New York?—and oblige your subscriber,

William.

Answer.

In reply to the preceding inquiry, we must first remark, that the curious fact mentioned by William, has been variously explained. Our theory upon the subject is this. Greenland, a vast island at the northern point of our continent, is a mighty ice-house, perhaps as extensive as the whole United States. Here the ice and snow are piled up from century to century, imparting to all the regions around something of its own chilly atmosphere. The northerly winds that come even to us have something of old Greenland’s breath in them.

For this reason, as we think, all the northern portions of North America are much colder than they would otherwise be.

If our correspondent, William, will look at a map of the eastern continent, he will see that the Arctic Ocean occupies the whole space to the north of about seventy-two degrees of latitude. There is no Greenland there—no great mass of land to hoard up the ice and snow from age to age, and furnish an everlasting ice-house to scatter abroad its freezing influences. To the north of the eastern continent, there is ever an open, unfrozen sea, tending rather to abate than increase the cold.

These simple facts will show one great reason why our continent should be colder than the eastern continent, and will serve in part to answer William’s inquiry. There are other curious facts in relation to this subject, which have their bearing upon the question, but we have hardly time to state them now. We will only add, that the western coast of the American continent has a much milder climate than the eastern. At Astoria, which is in latitude about forty-seven degrees, it is as mild as at Philadelphia, which is at about forty degrees. The same is the fact in relation to the eastern continent; at the southern point of Kamschatka, which is about the latitude of London, it is almost as cold and tempestuous as at Greenland. Various causes have been assigned for these remarkable facts, but we cannot notice them now.

One of our little friends seems to be suspicious that the letters we insert are invented and written by Robert Merry himself, and not by the young persons from whom they seem to come. This being the first of April, we might be excused for putting off a pleasant joke upon our readers, but it would be dishonest in us to take the credit due to others. The letters inserted are the genuine productions of the various correspondents whose signatures they bear. Every mail brings us some of these epistles, and at the end of the month, we have quite a flock of them—welcome as blue-birds in March. Good bye, till the first of May.

We have a sad story to tell, at the close of this month’s Museum. Mr. Samuel S. Soden, one of the original publishers of this magazine, and one who was largely instrumental in establishing it, died at his native place—Saxonville, in this State—on the 20th of the present month, aged 25 years. He was a man of very pleasant manners, active habits, and zealous devotion to any cause which he espoused. He took hold of Merry’s Museum with great ardor, and much of its success is to be credited to his efforts at the outset of the undertaking. His disease was a lingering consumption, which he bore with great patience and even cheerfulness. We hope our young readers will bestow upon his memory a kind thought, as one who has contributed to their pleasure—and, may we not add, to their profit?

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII MAY, 1844. No. 5.

May has ever been the favorite month of the poets; yet in New England it usually disappoints our expectations. In more southern climes, it unites the soft beauties of spring with the radiance of summer. At the same time that it has warmth enough to cheer and invigorate, it does not overpower with its melting influence. The following lines describe the southern May, rather than our own:—

May, sweet May, again is come,
May, that frees the world from gloom;
Children, children! up and see
All her stores of jollity.
On the laughing hedge-row’s side,
She hath spread her treasures wide;
She is in the greenwood shade,
Where the mocking-bird bath made
Every branch and every tree
Ring with her sweet melody;
Hill and dale are May’s own treasures.
Youths, rejoice! In sportive measures
Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

Up then, children! we will go
Where the blooming roses grow;
In a joyful company,
We the bursting flowers will see;
Up, your festal dress prepare!
Where gay breasts are meeting, there
May hath pleasures most inviting,
Heart, and sight, and ear delighting.
Listen to the bird’s sweet song,
Hark! how soft it floats along.
Pleasant dames! our pleasures share;
Never saw I dames so fair;
Therefore dancing we will go.
Youths rejoice! the flow’rets blow!
Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry May!

The old rhyme tells us that

April showers

Bring May flowers;

and how often have we been tempted, on May morning, to go forth, expecting to find blossoms, as we are told they do in other countries—and how have we always been disappointed! Still, May is a delightful month, even in New England, and none of us would be willing to let it slip from the circle of the seasons.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER IV.

About birds in general.

Our friend Jack, having made himself familiar with the peculiarities of the domestic fowls, turned his attention to other species of birds. He noticed particularly those which seemed to possess gentle and confiding natures, such as the sparrows that build upon the shrubs round the house; the martens that take up their abode in boxes which you make for them, and place near the eaves of your dwelling; the swallows that build in the barn, and the cheerful robin that loves to dwell in the apple orchard. All these he observed with care, noticing their modes of building and rearing their young; the food they eat, the cries they uttered, and, in general, their peculiar characteristics.

From these, Jack passed to other birds, and carefully studied them also. At last, he was pretty well acquainted with the whole subject of birds; and now he observed several important things, which I shall present to the attention of my readers.

In the first place, Jack was struck with admiration at the formation of birds. They are designed to raise themselves in the air, and to spend a considerable part of their time in that subtle element. And how wonderfully adapted to this purpose are they! In the first place, a bird must have great strength, and yet great lightness: and how happily are they united! Look at the quill of the wing—how strong, and yet how light! Who could have invented anything more admirably suited to rise on the breeze and cut its way through the air? Is there a human being who could make a single quill, even if the model were placed before him? Not one.

And then look at the bones of the bird. These, instead of being heavy as in quadrupeds, are all hollow. They are therefore a great deal lighter than those of other animals, while they are equally strong. And then, observe the structure of the bird’s skeleton. What a wonderful and ingenious piece of machinery! Look at the wing: how easily it opens and shuts, and thus at once lifts the bird upward, and drives it forward like an arrow in its path. Look at the tail—destined, like the rudder of a ship, to direct its course—and how admirably it is turned this way and that, quick as thought, to guide the aerial voyager even among the intricacies of the forest!

Consider the feathery covering of the bird, designed to present a smooth surface, so as not to cause interruption in passing through the air, and to furnish a coat as impervious to the water as India rubber, yet light as the gossamer. How wonderfully are these objects attained! And now let us reflect upon the wisdom of the Creator, in designing a class of animals destined to soar aloft upon the air, and His power in accomplishing His purposes, as evinced in the structure of birds. How many millions of these beautiful creatures there are in the world! how diversified their structure, habits and instincts! and yet, let it be remembered that man, with all his art, cannot make a feather.

The music of birds is a very curious and interesting phenomenon, not only on account of the admirable variety and sweetness of the songs they produce, but for the strength of their voices. The lowing of the bull, or the roaring of the lion, cannot be heard at a great distance, yet the little thrush can be heard half a mile. If quadrupeds had voices equal to those of birds, in proportion to their size, an elephant could easily be heard across the Atlantic ocean.

Spoonbill.

The variety in the forms of birds is a subject of great interest. How different is the duck, with its short legs, from the spoonbill, which seems to be walking upon stilts; the common barn-door fowl, with its short neck, from the flamingo, whose neck is almost a yard in length, and not half as thick as your wrist! How different is an ostrich, which will carry a boy upon its back, from the little humming-bird, which seems scarcely larger than a humble-bee!

Who can look forth upon the landscape, and notice the feathered tribes, glancing from tree to tree, and from bush to bush, delighting the eye with their pleasing forms and lovely hues, and the ear with their charming melody, and the heart with that aspect of life and cheerfulness, which they throw over the meadow, forest and field, and not lift up his thoughts to heaven and say, “Oh Lord, how manifold are thy works—in goodness and mercy hast thou made them all!”

Ostriches.

But I must not forget to say one thing more about Jack in this chapter. While he was studying the subject of birds, he was very fond of getting young ones, so that he might rear them; he also caught several old ones, which he kept in cages. Now I believe that certain birds may be happy in cages, such as canaries, and many others, that are bred in confinement; but to catch wild birds and shut them up, is treating the poor little creatures very cruelly. I would not, therefore, be thought to commend Jack’s example in this respect.

[To be continued.]

The Deserts of Africa and Asia.

In Africa, as well as Asia, there are immense tracts of land called deserts, which consist of vast plains composed of loose sand. Large portions of these are utterly destitute of vegetation, and sometimes, in crossing them, the traveller sees not a hill, or mountain, or human dwelling, or even a tree or shrub, or blade of grass. All around is a sea of sand, and far as the eye can reach, it is one scene of lifeless solitude and desolation.

These trackless wastes are traversed by caravans, which are companies of travellers usually mounted upon camels. Horses travel in these sands with difficulty. Their feet sink in the soil; they are overcome with heat, and parched with drought. The camel, on the contrary, has a large spongy foot, which does not sink in the sand; he can bear excessive heat, and by a curious contrivance of nature, is enabled to go without water for five or six days. This valuable creature is called the ship of the desert, because it enables the merchants of Asia and Africa to transport their merchandise over the sea of sand, just as a ship carries goods from one part of the world to another, across the briny ocean. It seems really as if Providence had provided this singular animal on purpose to enable mankind to traverse the great deserts which are spread out upon the eastern continent.

The desert of Sahara stretches nearly from the eastern to the western coast of Africa, a distance of almost three thousand miles. Its width is about eight hundred miles. Its whole extent is nearly equal to that of the United States. This vast region, though for the most part a scene of absolute desolation, has a few spots where the water collects in pools, around which some vegetation springs up. These places, which bear a delightful contrast to the surrounding sterility, and cheer the eye of the thirsty, weary traveller, are called oases. Here the caravans quench their thirst and repose in the delicious shadow of the trees. The deserts of Arabia are far less extensive, but they are of a similar character to that of Sahara.

It might seem that these inhospitable regions would be deserted by man; but they are not only crossed by companies of travellers who wish to pass from one country to another, but by bands of wandering Arabs, who spend their whole lives upon these deserts. These are, for the most part, desperate robbers. Thus, the lonely desert has its pirates, as well as the lonely sea. These thieves have not only swift camels, but swift horses; and it is amazing to see how rapidly they will speed over the sandy plains. They come upon the traveller almost as suddenly as the hawk that descends from the sky upon its unsuspecting prey, and they disappear almost as suddenly.

It might seem that these inhabitants of the desert would lead a miserable life, and especially that they would often be swallowed up in the terrific sand storms, which sometimes sweep over these wastes. The sand, being loose and dry, is borne upward by the whirling tempest, and is seen driving over the plain, like a terrific thunder-cloud. The experienced traveller sees the coming danger, and prepares himself for it. He throws himself upon the ground, and covers his face so as not to be choked with the dust. The horses and camels, guided by instinct, also put their noses to the earth to prevent being suffocated. If the storm is slight, the party escapes; but sometimes, such immense waves of sand are drifted upon the wind, as to bury the traveller so deeply beneath it, as to make it his winding-sheet forever. Sometimes whole caravans, with their horses and camels, have been in this manner overwhelmed—thus making the waves of the desert as fatal as the waves of the sea.

Yet, despite the terrors of the desert, the Arabs are a lively and cheerful race. On their march, they stop at night; and in their tents, spread beneath the starry canopy, the laugh, the jest and the song go round. There are among them professed story-tellers, who delight the listeners with fanciful tales of enchantment, adventure, and love, or perhaps they repeat, in an animated manner, some fine specimens of Arabic poetry. Thus it is, that mankind, occupying the gloomiest parts of the earth, have amusements. As the steel is made to yield its spark, so the Arab finds pleasure in the desert.

The Merry Knight.—When Sir Henry Marshal, knight and alderman of London, received the honor of knighthood from George II., he fell flat upon the floor. The king was surprised, but on the knight rising up, he facetiously said,—“Your majesty has conferred so much honor upon me, that I was not able to stand up under it.” His majesty ever after called him the merry knight.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER IV.

Various plantations—droll and dangerous adventures.

As I pursued my journey along the banks of the Surinam, I met with frequent plantations of coffee, sugar-cane, cotton and cacao.

The sugar plantations, at a little distance, bear some resemblance to our fields of Indian corn. The cane has a broad, long leaf, with a jointed stalk or stem. This grows to the height of seven or eight feet, and is very smooth and glossy. The sugar-cane is not propagated by seeds, but by cuttings from the root end of the stalk, which are planted in rows or hills. It puts forth large silky tassels, which have a beautiful appearance. In eighteen months from the time of planting, it is fit to cut; the stalks are put into a mill, and from the juice that is crushed out, sugar and molasses are made.

The labor of Guiana is almost wholly performed by negroes. During the period when they are making sugar, they live almost wholly upon the juice of the cane, and at that time, they are said to get very fat. The laboring horses, oxen and mules, though kept constantly at work, being allowed to eat refuse stalks, and scummings from the boiling-house, thrive in the most surprising manner.

The cacao trees bear the fruit of which chocolate is made. These resemble young cherry-trees, but separate near the ground into four or five stems. The leaves are about four inches long, smooth, but not glossy, and of a dull green color. The flowers are saffron-colored, and very beautiful. The fruit somewhat resembles a cucumber in shape. Its color, while growing, is green; but as it ripens, this changes to a fine bluish red, with pink veins.

Each of the pods contains from twenty to thirty nuts or kernels, which resemble almonds, and consist of a white and sweet pulpy substance, enveloped in a parchment-like shell. These are the cacao or chocolate nuts. When the fruit is ripe, it is gathered, and the nuts are taken from the pods, and laid on leaves or skins to dry. They are then put into bags, each containing about a hundred weight, and thus packed, are exported to foreign countries.

I noticed, as I went along, a few fields of Indian corn and rice, and I was informed that two crops of these are frequently obtained in a season. I observed the castor-oil plant, growing wild, as well as the cabbage-tree, which is a kind of palm. This derives its name, not from its appearance, but from the use to which it is put by the inhabitants. The leaves grow crowded together at the top of the stem, and when these are cut off, the central ones are found to be white and tender, and when boiled, they are used as a substitute for cabbage.

I occasionally met with small patches of the indigo plant. This is cultivated by seeds, which are sown in rows, about a foot apart. In three months the top part is cut off, leaving the roots to shoot up anew. I used to suppose that indigo was a kind of mineral, but I now learned that it was made from these small plants. The tops of the herbs being cut, as I have mentioned, are steeped in vats. They are then pounded and put in water. The coloring matter, consisting of a fine powder, forms a sediment, which is cut into small pieces about an inch square, before it is perfectly dry. It is then packed in barrels, or sewed up in sacks for sale. The process of making indigo is very curious, and one thing is strange: the plant itself is harmless, but the indigo drug is a deadly poison.

Although I had frequently a lonely sort of feeling, as I pursued my way, and sometimes wished that I was snug at home with my mother and sister, I still found it, on the whole, very pleasant to travel in this strange land, and picked up a good deal of information, and saw many things that were quite rare and wonderful to me. I was constantly impressed with the strangeness of everything around me. Instead of forests of chestnut, walnut, and maple trees, so common in Connecticut, I here saw forests of gigantic mahogany, live oak, and other curious trees, the names of which I could not learn.

The birds, too, were all different from those to which I had been accustomed. The woods were all alive with flocks of green parrots and red macaws, which kept up a constant chatting. The latter seemed perpetually scolding each other, and I could sometimes fancy that they were calling each other all the hard names they could think of. I saw a great many toucans, with bills half as long as their bodies; they kept bowing their heads and making a kind of motion, like a minister in the pulpit. Hence, the people call this bird the preacher.

I saw a great many other birds, most of which were adorned with magnificent plumage; but they had harsh voices, and were all very unlike my feathered acquaintances in the “land of steady habits.” I once met with a woodpecker, which resembled the red-headed thief, who spears so many of our cherries with his long bill. He nodded his head, and uttered a sort of cry, which reminded me so strongly of home, that the tears filled my eyes, and I paused and partly turned about, for the purpose of returning. But this weakness was transient, and I soon pursued my way.

My path now turned from the river, and wound through a thick forest. It was no longer a wagon-road, but a mere mule-track. The weather continued very hot, and I suffered excessively from the bite of large gnats, three times as big as our musquitoes. At first, I was half crazy from the sting of these insects; but by degrees I became hardened, and at last took it very quietly, even if one of these impertinent rogues thrust his little poisoned javelin into the point of my nose. At night I slept soundly, although these fellows feasted upon me from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes.

The forests through which I was proceeding grew more and more dense as I advanced; many of the trees rose to an immense height, and festoons of gray moss swung from tree to tree, as if they had been decorated by the hand of art. Vines, with green leaves and gaudy flowers, wreathed the trunks of the trees, and parasitical plants, with blossoms bright as gems, and of every color and form, wound around their branches. Nothing could surpass the gorgeous splendor of the scene. It appeared as if nature, in a sportive and fantastic mood, had put forth every effort here to combine the beautiful and the magnificent, in the vegetable kingdom. And as if to captivate every sense, the air was balmy, and the sweetest fragrance was borne on the gentle breezes that stole from the forest.

I was so much occupied with noticing the curiosities that met me on every hand, that I did not observe, till the sun was setting, that my path had now shrunk into little more than a deer-track, and began to suspect that I had missed my way; and this impression was strengthened by the fact that I did not reach a negro settlement, where I had expected to spend the night. I hesitated, for a few moments, whether to proceed or turn back. Resolving upon the former, I pushed on with rapid strides. My path, however, grew more and more undefined, and at last I was completely lost in a bewildering maze. It was now sunset, and the shadows of night had begun to thicken around me. I attempted to retrace my steps, but could not recover the path. Finding it hopeless to attempt to extricate myself, I concluded to pass the night where I was.

My situation was not a pleasant one. I knew that these forests were the abodes of wild animals, who shrunk from daylight, yet prowled forth at night without fear or restraint. But courage is apt to come with necessity; and seeing that there was no help at hand, I sat down, clenched my cudgel, and determined to keep watch till morning. I remained in this condition for some time, listening to the strange sounds that began to steal upon the ear as the evening advanced. The day birds had gone to their repose, and their various cries had gradually faded into silence. But voices of a different kind now saluted me. Reptiles of many kinds began their uncouth songs, and droned away for hours together. Birds, known only to these solitudes, and which, even here, were silent during the day, now poured out their music without fear. Never did I hear such a jargon as seemed for a time to fill the woods around me. I could easily fancy that strange and unearthly spirits filled the air, and were trying to see what a variety of uncouth songs they could produce.

I listened to these notes for a long time, with a degree of painful excitement. It seemed to me that a thousand voices had united in one wild chorus, as if to drive me mad. I stopped my ears to keep out the din: I closed my eyes to withdraw my attention from the scene around me. At last, the sounds began to subside, and darkness gradually gave way, and I saw the moonbeams tinging the tops of the trees. Silence stole over the scene, and I fell into a profound repose. My imagination wandered to the scenes of my childhood. I was once more, as I dreamed, with my mother and my sister. They embraced me with rapture, and tears of bliss fell upon my cheeks. I remained with them for days, and a tranquil joy filled my bosom. We went to church, and once more I heard the sacred hymn, and the soothing, solemn tunes, which had become associated with all my religious emotions.

The psalm was ended, and the preacher began his discourse. He seemed at first a grave and reverend divine, holding before him a ponderous volume, containing the sacred Scriptures. But suddenly he seemed to change: his voice grew harsh and shrieking; his gestures became wild and fantastic, and at last he uttered a hideous yell, and jumping out of his pulpit, fell with a terrible crash upon the two deacons who sat beneath. Startled and terrified, I suddenly awoke; but the scene which now arrested my attention, was even more extraordinary than that which had been presented in my dream.

At a little distance, was an open glade, upon which the moonlight now fell with a dazzling splendor. In the centre of this spot there sat at least a hundred figures, which seemed to me to be men and women, about half the size of life. Upon a branch of a tree, which projected over them, was another figure, who seemed to be addressing the assembly. He uttered the most extraordinary sounds, and appeared to be speaking in a very animated manner. His gestures were strong, quick, and emphatic. Sometimes he sat upon his haunches, and sometimes he stood upright. Occasionally he leaped from one branch of the tree to another, and at times he swung off from his seat, and suspended himself by his tail. This last performance led me to conclude that if this was a congregation of human beings, they must be of rather a queer species.

I sat still, and for a long time observed the scene. Nothing could exceed the seeming eloquence of the preacher, except the sympathy and sensibility of the audience. They appeared to feel every tone and gesture, and responded by sympathetic grunts, groans, yells, and every possible variety of attitude and gesticulation. At last, the orator, having uttered a tremendous burst of eloquence, leaped from his rostrum, and came with a bound into the midst of the congregation. Upon this, they all set up a shout, which echoed far and wide over the scene.

I had become so interested in this spectacle, that I had risen from my resting-place, and advanced so far as to be near the actors in this curious drama. One of them now chanced to spy me; upon which he uttered a terrific yell. The eyes of the whole assembly were turned upon me, and, uttering a frightful howl, they all set out, and came bounding toward me. Never in my life have I been placed in a situation at once so ludicrous and so appalling. A hundred monkeys now surrounded me; some mounting the trees over my head, and some winding among the bushes at my feet; some howling, and all grinning at me, and making the most threatening demonstrations.

Bill and the Boys.

The story of the lottery ticket, concluded.

We might have supposed that the Trudges, being now rich, and having attained what seemed the summit of Mrs. Trudge’s ambition, were perfectly happy. But this was far from being the case. They lived in a fine house, made a great dash, were admitted into what is called good society, and fancied that they were exciting the envy and admiration of the whole town of Buckwheat. But with all this show of bliss, there were many drawbacks to their felicity.

In the first place, as to Tom,—or Squire Trudge, as we must now call him,—he was a simple-minded, sensible fellow, and but for the example and influence of his spouse, he had borne his prosperity without intoxication. Indeed, as it was, he behaved with considerable propriety. He spoke to his neighbors, as he met them, much as before, and when he could get from under his wife’s supervision, he would stop and chat familiarly with old intimates. He demeaned himself modestly, and seemed little elated with his good fortune. He was kind-hearted, and ready to befriend the needy; but still, he had many sources of vexation.

His restless helpmate insisted that he should dress “as became his station;” and accordingly he was compelled to wear tight shoes, which pinched his corns terribly, and kept him in an almost constant state of martyrdom. When he walked abroad, he put his foot to the ground as gingerly as if he were stepping on eggs. He was required to have his coat in the fashion, which trussed him up about the arms, and made those limbs stand out upon each side of him, like a couple of pump-handles. His neckcloth, of pure white, (as was the fashion then,) was lined with what was called a pudding; and to please his dame, who had a nice taste in these matters, he tied it so tight that it threw the blood into his face, and gave his ruddy complexion a liver-colored hue.

Nor was this all poor Tom had to endure. He was constantly “hatchelled” as to his manners, somewhat after the following fashion: “My dear Trudge,” his wife would say to him, “do now try to be a gentleman. Pray wipe your nose with your pocket handkerchief, and not with your fingers! Turn your toes out, man, or people will never forget that you was once a pedler. Hold your head up, step large, swing your arms bravely, and seem to be somebody. In short, pray do be genteel.”

“Well, well, wife,” Trudge would reply; “I’ll do as well as I can.” The dialogue would usually go on pretty much as follows.

Mrs. T. Do as well as you can! and is that all you have to say for yourself? Oh, dear, dear! I’m afraid I shall never make nothin’ on you. One can’t make a silk purse of a sow’s ear, as Shakspeare says. Oh, Tom, Tom, I wish you had a little more jinnysyquaw!

Tom. Jinnysyquaw! What the mischief’s that?

Mrs. T. Just as if you didn’t know what jinnysyquaw was! Oh, my dear Tom! you are as ignorant as the whipping-post. Not know what jinnysyquaw is! Oh, dear, dear! This comes of not knowing French. Why, jinnysyquaw is a—a—a kind of something-or-other—that—nobody knows nothing about—that is to say—it is a kind of can’t-tell-ish-ness. For instance, if a person has a very genteel air, they say, “He’s got the true jinnysyquaw.” All the people who have been to Paris talk a great deal about it; and I’ll tell you as a secret, Tom—Dick Flint whispered in my ear, the other night at Mrs. Million’s party, and he told me I had the real French jinnysyquaw! Now, what do you think of that?

Tom. What do I think of it! I think he’s an impudent jackanapes, and you are a--!

Mrs. T. Hold your tongue, Tom—hold your tongue! Dick Flint’s the height of fashion: everybody is running after him. He’s been abroad, sir—yes, he’s been abroad, sir! That’s more than you can say for yourself. So, hold your tongue, and listen to me. Try to be a gentleman, as becomes your station. Hold up your head, carry a stiff upper lip, and keep up an important air. There should always be about a person of consequence, something which says, “Clear the road, for I am coming.”

Tom. I suppose you mean the jinnysyquaw.

This last observation was made by Tom with a quizzical look, as if he was poking fun at his spouse. But she took it in good part, for she was too well satisfied with herself to suspect that she could be the object of ridicule.

We have thus given some idea of certain vexations which marred the happiness of Squire Trudge. Nor was this the only evil of his lot. Though he had a sort of impression that he was so rich as to justify any degree of extravagance, yet he was sometimes disturbed by the sums of money which his ambitious wife lavished upon her follies.

Nor was that lady wholly without her annoyances, however she might seem to be floating upon a sea of bliss. She could not but feel the superiority of Mrs. Million, who was a woman of talent and education, and the only mode she had to supply her own deficiency, was to excel her rival in dash and splendor. Accordingly, she had fine horses and a splendid carriage. She gave parties, at which there was always an abundant feast. She appeared in the most costly dresses, and carried every fashion to its height.

While she affected to despise and hate Mrs. Million, she imitated her in everything. At last, she became so complete a caricature of that fashionable dame, that everybody discovered the ridiculous resemblance. Mrs. Million, far from being flattered by seeing such a grotesque reflection of herself, was infinitely more vexed at the involuntary homage thus rendered by Bridget, than she could have been by her envy and spleen.

A new fancy now crept into the brain of our heroine. Mrs. Million had just got a piano from New York, and, as it was the only one in the town, and a great rarity in those days, it excited quite a sensation among the fashionable circles of Buckwheat. Perceiving this, and determined to be behind in nothing, Bridget resolved to get one, and a much more splendid one than Mrs. Million’s. Accordingly, the following conversation ensued between herself and Tom the next morning.

Mrs. T. My dear Mr. Trudge, I wish you had been at Mrs. Million’s last night. She’s got the beautifullest pianny in her parlor that you ever see. Now I want you to send to New York for one for me, and I want to have the beautifullest that can be got.

Tom. What’s the use of sending to New York? Can’t you get one here?

Mrs. T. Get one here, indeed! not a bit of it. Beside, nothing will do but one all the way from New York.

Tom. Well, well! I’ll see about it.

Mrs. T. Well, let it be here on Thursday, for my sorry—that’s a good man!

Here the conversation ended, and, on the appointed day, a huge tub, set on wheels, and painted green, was brought from New York, and trundled into the front entry of the Trudges. The tub contained a splendid group of peonies, in full bloom.

“What have you got there?” said Mrs. Trudge to her husband, who was standing by. “Why, the pianny, to be sure,” says Tom. “The pianny!” said his wife, throwing up her hands; “the pianny! What a ridiculous blunder! Oh, Tom, Tom, you’ll break my heart! You’ve no more hedication than a heath-hen. I axed you to get me a pianny, and you have got me a pianny.”

Here Mrs. Trudge sobbed aloud, and it was a long time before poor Mr. Trudge could be made to understand the mistake he had made. He was at last compelled to order the piano, even though it cost four hundred dollars, and he considered the peace with his wife, which he thus purchased, to have been cheaply obtained.

Another vexation which Mrs. Trudge experienced, arose from her servants. Sometimes she was familiar, sometimes imperious and tyrannical. She therefore secured neither the respect nor affection of those around her. She was accordingly accustomed to indulge in the fashionable outcry against her “help.”

An incident which throws some light upon this topic, it may be worth while to relate. Mrs. Million had recently introduced bells into her house, and Bridget followed suit. The servants conceived a dislike to being thus summoned into the presence of their mistress. It struck them not only as an innovation, but as a rude and harsh mode of calling them. Mrs. Trudge’s manner was not calculated to allay this aversion, for while the bells were being put up, she seemed to assume a loftier tone than usual.

When they were at last arranged, she attired herself in a splendid satin dress, took a bottle of hartshorn, reclined luxuriously upon a sofa, and then pulled the bell-rope, which was near. She waited a little, but no one came at the summons. She pulled again, but there was no answer. At last, she gave the cord an imperious twitch, which nearly sundered the wires. In a few seconds, the chambermaid popped her head in at the door, and said spitefully to her mistress, “You may pull and pull till you are gray, Miss Trudge; the more you ring, the more I won’t come.”

Such were some of the vexations which disturbed the brilliant career of our heroine. There were others, also, and even those of a more serious character. But she still pressed forward in her course of ambition. She seemed indeed to be always in a flurry, and to keep everybody around her in a constant state of uneasy excitement. She was indeed never happy for a moment, and seemed ever to be tormented with the desire of chasing a phantom she could never obtain. If, indeed, she had any enjoyments, they consisted only of the fleeting pleasures which characterize little minds—the idea that she was exciting the envy and admiration of those around her.

Thus affairs proceeded for several years, but, at last, a crisis came. The extravagance of the family not only exhausted the whole of Trudge’s fortune, but ran him in debt. His creditors came upon him, and as he could not meet their demands, he was declared a bankrupt. The event found Mrs. Trudge upon the full tide of fashionable dissipation. She was struck like a bird in mid flight. She could not, and would not at first, believe the melancholy tidings. It was, alas! too true, and she was compelled to submit to her cruel fate.

With scarcely a shilling in his pocket, and only a few necessary articles of furniture which his creditors had allowed him, poor Tom set out with his wife and children to return to the little brown dwelling, which he had occupied before his drawing the prize. They were obliged to go on foot, and as Bridget proceeded down the nicely-gravelled walk, thus taking leave of her splendid mansion forever, she felt a keener pang than can be well uttered in words. She was indeed the very image of despair. Her pride was humbled—her prospects blighted—her heart broken. Tom led the way, and though he felt for his wife and children, there was a remarkable aspect of cheerfulness in his countenance.

The party at length arrived at their dwelling. It seemed so desolate and bare, that for two or three days Bridget seemed utterly crushed. Tom treated her with great tenderness, and, at the same time, kept up a cheerful air. In a few days, Bridget’s good sense and energy of character prevailed. She entered upon her duties, and before a fortnight had passed, she seemed not only resigned to her fate, but absolutely content. Tom whistled, and danced, and said that he was ten times happier than when he lived in the great house. He could now wear an easy old coat, and shoes that did not pinch his corns. Beside, he had been weary of the idle life he had led, and he now entered upon his old trade as a pedler, with pleasure and alacrity. The children soon became accustomed to the change, and, in less than three months after their downfall, Tom and his wife both agreed that they were happier in their brown house than they ever had been in the big mansion.

“Style and splendor may do for those who are brought up to it,” said Tom; “but, after all, the comfort and content of the cottage are much better. Don’t you think so, Bridget?”

“Yes, Tom, I do indeed,” said the spouse.

Tom. It’s almost equal to the jinnysyquaw, an’t it, Bridget?

Mrs. T. Hold your tongue, Tom!

Anecdote of a Tiger.—One day a singular circumstance took place in a menagerie near London, which shows the retentive memory of the tiger. A sailor, who had been strolling round the exhibition, loitering here and there to admire the animals, was attracted by a strange noise, made by a tiger, who seemed irritated beyond endurance. Jack, somewhat alarmed, sought the keeper to inquire the cause of so singular a display of feeling, which, he remarked, became more boisterous, the nearer he approached the animal. The keeper replied, that the behavior of the tiger indicated that he was either vastly pleased, or very much annoyed. Upon this, the sailor again approached the den, and gazed at the tiger a few minutes, during which time the animal became frantic with seeming rage, lashing his tail against his sides, and giving utterance to the most frightful bellowings. He soon discovered the tiger to be one that he had, not long before, brought to England, and which had been his especial care.

It now was Jack’s turn to be delighted, as it appears the tiger was, in thus recognizing his old friend; and, after making repeated applications to be permitted to enter the den, for the purpose, he said, of “shaking a fist” with the beautiful animal, he was suffered to do so. The iron door was opened, and in jumped Jack, to the delight of himself and his striped friend, and the astonishment of the lookers-on. The affection of the animal was now shown by caressing and licking the pleased sailor, whom he seemed to welcome with the heartiest satisfaction; and when the honest tar left the den, the anguish of the poor animal seemed almost insupportable.

Miss Pappoo.

Here she is—Miss Pappoo—all the way from New Guinea—a specimen of humanity which shows the lovely, fascinating, bewitching effect of an exuberant quantity of hair. It is all her own, too! not purchased at Gilbert’s, nor forced by beef marrow, antique oil, bear’s grease, or Macassar ointment! No; it is pure, genuine nature.

It may be that there are some persons who cannot appreciate the loveliness of Miss Pappoo’s locks; but every day, we see in our streets, certain young and middle-aged men, who strike us as kindred spirits. They possess long, tangled locks, and an immense quantity of beard, covering each side of the face, the throat, and the chin. Sometimes it is permitted also to cover the upper lip. This bushy beard gives to a man the somewhat simpering aspect of an old goat; but still, it would seem that many of our beaux are delighted at making such a figure. Their great desire seems to be to run to hair.

It is to be remarked that in general these excessively whiskered gentry have low crowns, and of course a small quantity of brains, and probably the little they have is of rather an inferior quality. Still, they seem satisfied, nay, delighted—conceited even—if they can make up this deficiency with an enormous quantity of bristles growing out of their chins.

To all such persons, we present Miss Pappoo, not doubting that there will be a sympathy—a fellow-feeling between her and them. They truly can appreciate a character so eminently distinguished for hair. She is a native of the great island of Papua, or New Guinea, lying in the Pacific Ocean, near New Holland. She is dressed in the highest fashion of her country, and doubtless would pass for a belle of the first order there.

Now, if any of our whiskered countrymen, impelled by a fellow-feeling for Miss Pappoo, are desirous of a nearer acquaintance, we will do what we can to bring about an introduction between them and the fair Papuan. Let the letters of all applicants be written upon pink paper, perfumed with the otto of roses, marked on the outside with Cupid’s bow, and contain a specimen of the applicant’s whiskers.

Cosmopolite.

The Old Man in the Corner.

NO. V.

FABLES.

We must not be too much captivated with the deeds of those called great. It often happens that their victories and triumphs over others are obtained by unfair means; their successes are frequently purchased by meanness and treachery; and thus it is that, if we could see the truth even beneath their rays of glory, we should sometimes be taught to despise, rather than applaud their actions. The fable that follows may throw some light upon this subject.

THE GOLDEN SHIELD.

There was once a famous knight, who went forth in search of adventures. Now, he was a great coward and knave, but he got himself a shield of burnished gold, and so brilliant was it, that every eye was dazzled which looked upon it. When he met another knight, instead of giving him fair and honorable fight, he used to ride near him, and then slyly and unawares, would stab him with a dirk. His enemy would fall murdered to the ground, but the people, being dazzled by the glittering armor, would cry out, “Victory and honor to the knight of the golden shield!”

VANITY.

This folly or vice usually belongs to the weak and the idle—those who do little good to others, and are mostly occupied in thinking of themselves. Vanity is generally large and strong in proportion to the littleness of the individual who exercises it: one who is its victim, is incapable of judging of things rightly; even in the presence of what is great and sublime, he is blind to everything except his important self. Hear the story of the

GRASSHOPPER AND THUNDER-CLOUD.

Upon the top of a mullen-stalk, sat a grasshopper, who thus complacently sang of himself:--

Was ever seen, in earth or air,
As my sweet self, a thing so fair?
My coat is made of shining green,
My little wings are glossy sheen,
My form is such as fairies love,
My motions those that mark the dove;
But oh! my voice, so soft and low,
No music can so sweetly flow.
The thrush is silent when I sing—
The linnet stays on balanced wing—
The oak doth hush its whispering leaves,
No more its web the spider weaves,
The rill and river cease their roar,
And all around confess my power,
E’en yonder passing thunder-cloud
Pauses to hear, though yet so proud!

While the grasshopper thus indulged its strain of self-conceit, a bolt of lightning fell upon an oak near by, and shattered its trunk into a thousand splinters. One of them struck the mullen-stalk, and the vain insect was crushed in an instant.

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER V.

I  could tell you a great deal more about the Indians, especially of the Cherokees, Creeks, Chickasaws, and other tribes, which have been removed by the government of the United States to a fine country northwest of Louisiana, where they have schools and churches, and cultivate their lands, and live much like white people. But I am afraid I am making too long a story. I shall, therefore, tell you something of certain queer tribes that seem to be a mixture of the American Indian and Esquimaux, and then proceed to other countries.

NOOTKA SOUND.

Let us cross to the western side of the continent of America. Here, far to the northwest, we find Nootka Sound, which is a bay in the Pacific Ocean, discovered by captain Cook, in 1778. Around this bay live a set of people, who in some respects differ from the North American Indians, though they have many traits in common with them.

On board one of the vessels which first entered Nootka Sound, in 1778, was John Ledyard, one of our own countrymen. He resided in Hartford some time after his return, where he wrote an account of his voyage. That account I have seen, and in it he speaks of the inhabitants who live round the Sound.

He says that the people there resemble the Indians on this side of the Rocky Mountains. They are tall, robust, and well made; but in this last respect, they do not equal the Indians farther east. Some of the women, however, appeared quite handsome.

They have large and full faces, high and prominent cheek bones, small and black eyes, broad and flat noses, thick lips, and teeth of the most brilliant whiteness. They fill their hair with oil, paint, and the down of birds. They also paint their faces with red, blue, and white colors. They look odd enough.

Some accounts represent them to be a quiet, peaceable people; but others say that they are bold and ferocious. They give some evidence of being rather a wise people,—they do not talk much; but, perhaps, it is because they have not many ideas. This last, I think, is true, for they have no books, and no means of knowing much.

I am sorry to add, that they are said to be cannibals; that is, they eat human flesh. Ledyard saw, when he was there, not only human skulls and bones for sale; but, also, human flesh ready cooked. This made the sailors shudder, and well it might.

The only inhabited parts of the Sound are two villages, containing about two thousand people. Their houses are made of very long and broad plank, resting upon the edges of each other, fastened together by means of withes, and supported by posts.

As you enter one of their houses, you find benches raised on the sides of the room. These are covered with mats, upon which the family sit and sleep. The fireplace is in the middle of the floor, but they have neither hearth nor chimney.

They have very fine furs; and when Captain Cook was there, he purchased some, not thinking they were very valuable, but when he arrived in China, he sold skins, which cost but sixpence, for a hundred dollars. Since Captain Cook’s time, many vessels have been to Nootka Sound after furs, and made their voyages very profitable.

I will only add, that Nootka Sound lies west of Boston, about three thousand miles. But should any of my readers over go thither, they will probably go by water. In this case, if they sail from New York, they will proceed south along the American coast, round Cape Horn, and then north to the Sound. The voyage will take them about five months, and they will sail not less than fifteen thousand miles.

ONALASKA.

Before we return to the eastern side of the continent, we must notice the people who inhabit the Fox Islands, the largest of which is called Onalaska. This island lies in the Pacific Ocean, at some distance from the peninsula of Alaska, as you may perceive by looking on a map.

This island, also, was first discovered by Captain Cook, in 1778. The inhabitants here are described as being in stature about middle size, with full round faces, flat noses, black eyes and hair, but no beard; for this they pluck out by the roots as soon as it begins to grow. Their skin is quite dark, but is rendered still more so by the manner in which they live.

The inhabitants appear to be good-natured and benevolent; but if their anger is once roused, it is not easily allayed. Their common dress, in rainy weather, is a garment, made of the entrails of the sea-dog. This secures them against the rain. In dry and cold weather, they wear a garment made of feathers, curiously sewed together, and which costs a person sometimes a whole year’s labor. Their hats are made of wood, and very much resemble an umbrella.

They are quite fond of ornaments, particularly beads, and small ivory figures cut from the teeth of the sea-cow, and with the bristles of the sea-lion’s beard—all of which they put upon their hats. The women ornament themselves with rings upon their fingers, and with belts of glass beads upon their wrists and ankles.

The houses in which they dwell are large holes, dug in the ground, and covered with a roof, over which earth is thrown, and grass grows upon it. In the centre of the roof a hole is cut. This is all the door, window, and chimney which they have. They enter the house, and go out of it, by means of an upright post, with pins in it. Their habitations are generally filthy places. They are filled with the smoke of burnt oil, which they use for light and cooking. They live principally upon fish and sea-dogs.

The canoes of these people are very ingenious. They build a wooden frame, which they cover with sea-dogs’ skins. They are light, and are pushed forward in the water with amazing rapidity.

CANADA.

It is a long distance from the island of Onalaska to Canada; but as we travel, we are soon there. Canada now belongs to Great Britain, and there are many English, Scotch and Irish people resident there; but it was first settled by the French, and there are more French than there are English. Some Americans, also, have settled there, for the purpose of trade.

The English and American inhabitants of Canada are intelligent and polished people, resembling the higher classes in England and America. These live principally in the large towns and cities.

The common people, or true Canadians, are French. They speak the French language; but it has lost much of its purity. Few among them know how either to read or write. They are, however, quite an honest, hospitable, and inoffensive people. They are very poor; and no wonder they are so, for they are a very lazy people. They seem to have few wants, and to be quite happy, and contented with their condition. Within a few years they have improved somewhat; but it will be a long time before they make much advance.

At an early period of life, the Canadian is healthy and robust; but he soon looks old and sallow, owing to his exposure to the weather, and the toils of the field. This is also true of the women, many of whom are quite handsome when young; but they soon fade. Both men and women frequently live, however, to advanced age.

Canada is a cold country. The winters are long and severe. The inhabitants protect themselves when they go abroad, by means of furs, in which they envelop themselves. They travel, during the cold season, in a kind of sledge, or open carriage, called a cariole. In these, they glide over deep snows and frozen rivers, with surprising celerity.

At the beginning of winter, the farmers, who are called habitants, kill hogs, cattle, and poultry, sufficient to serve them till spring, as well as to supply the markets. The carcasses they store in their garrets, where they soon become frozen, and keep without injury; or they bury them, and dig them out as wanted. Vegetables are preserved in a similar manner. The French Canadians are chiefly Roman Catholics; the other inhabitants are of various sects.

I don’t want to go!—A curious incident occurred near Paris, not long since, in consequence of a balloon starting on its own hook, without the consent of the proprietor. A large concourse of people had assembled to see an æronaut take flight for the regions of upper air, but, unfortunately, before he took his seat in the car, the ærostat got loose, and the grappling-hook, which was dangling from the machine, hitched into the indescribables of a boy, who was gazing, open-mouthed, at the ascending mass, and carried him up willy-nilly.

The women screamed and fainted, but the lad, who seemed to have been a hero in his way, clasped the rope tightly with his hands and his feet, and, with an awful rent in his aforesaids, was introduced by his inflated companion into the upper circles. After a short voyage, the balloon descended, and deposited the little fellow safe and sound on the firm earth.

A Chinese Dandy.

The following description of a Chinese exquisite, is from a new work on China, by P. Dobel, formerly Russian Consul to China, and a resident in that country for seven years:—

“His dress is composed of crapes and silks of great price, his feet are covered with high-heeled boots of the most beautiful Nankin satin, and his legs are encased in gaiters, richly embroidered, and reaching to the knee. Add to this an acorn-shaped cap of the latest taste, an elegant pipe, richly ornamented, in which burns the purest tobacco of the Fokien, an English watch, a toothpick suspended to a button by a string of pearls, a Nankin fan, exhaling the perfume of the tcholane, (a Chinese flower,) and you will have an exact idea of a fashionable Chinese.

“The Chinese dandy, like dandies of all times and all countries, is seriously occupied with trifles. He belongs either to the Quail Club or the Cricket Club. Like the ancient Romans, the Chinese train quails, quarrelsome birds, intrepid duellists, whose combats form the subject of senseless wagers. In imitation of the rich, the poorer Chinese place at the bottom of an earthen basin, two field crickets. These insects they excite and provoke, until they grow angry, attack each other, and the narrow field of battle is soon strewed with their claws, antennæ and corselets.

“There is between the Chinese and the old Romans as great a difference as there is between the combats of the crickets and the terrible combats of the gladiators.”

A Thrilling Narrative.

The town of St. Etienne, in the department of the Loire, has acquired, by its manufactures of iron and silk, the appellation of the Birmingham and Coventry of France. Though very far from contemptible, it is however, at most, only a miniature likeness of the two celebrated towns to which it is compared. For its prosperity, it is indebted to the circumstance of iron oar and coal being abundant in its vicinity. Among the coal mines in its immediate neighborhood, is that of Bois Monzil, the scene of the event which is now to be described.

On the 2d of February, 1831, about eight in the morning, when there were twenty-six men at work, a sudden detonation was heard, instantly followed by the roar of water, rushing from the adjoining pit. The cry of alarm was quickly spread through the mine, but only ten of the laborers were able to reach the entrance. One of them was driven forward with such violence, by the condensed air and the torrent, that his escape was miraculous; another was so terrified, that he hurried forward, without thinking to disencumber himself of a sack of coals which he had upon his shoulders; a third, who possessed both presence of mind and humanity, snatched up a boy of eleven years old and bore him away in his arms.

Eight individuals perished. Some of them were swept away by the deluge—but at least one of them had to endure a lingering death. He was heard for some hours knocking against the sides of his prison; at the end of that time the knocking ceased—the flood had overwhelmed him. The remaining eight workmen were fortunate enough to reach a gallery on a higher level; but, as it had no other outlet than that by which they entered, their fate was certain, unless the water should recede, or their friends could open a passage through the rock beneath them.

On hearing of the accident, the engineers of the mine hastened with their assistants to the spot. Thirty hours elapsed before the miners could penetrate into some of the lower galleries from which the water had retired. They repeatedly called aloud to their lost companions, but no voice was heard in reply. They then struck with their pickaxes upon the roof, and after several fruitless trials, they were rejoiced to hear an equal number of answering knocks.

Measures were immediately adopted for opening a communication with the imprisoned men; the principal of them were the boring a hole through the rock, in the supposed direction whence the sound came, and the forming of an inclined tunnel. But there was much difficulty in ascertaining the point to which they ought to direct their efforts; for the sound of their blows on the roof, far from offering a certain criterion, or at least a probable one, seemed each time to excite fresh doubts. The rock, too, was so hard and thick, that the gunpowder employed in blasting it produced but a trifling effect; nor could the pumps be got to work, and they were therefore obliged to resort to the slow and incompetent method of forming a line of men from the gallery to the mouth of the mine, and passing the buckets from hand to hand.

The persons who were thus employed, had to work upon a rapid slope, in a crouching posture, with the water dropping all round them, and generally rising up to the middle of their bodies. They had to endure that which was still worse to men not devoid of humanity. The wives of the hapless miners had heard that all hope was not extinct, and they hastened to the spot. With heart-rending cries, and shedding tears alternately of despair and hope, they exclaimed, “Are they all there? Where is the father of my children? Is he amongst them, or has he been swallowed up by the waters?”

When it became known at St. Etienne and its vicinity, that there was a prospect of saving a part of the victims, the whole of the National Guards, and several hundreds of miners and other persons, thronged to lend their assistance. The pumps were now got to work, and the line of men with buckets was consequently discontinued. Yet, notwithstanding the number of additional hands, the work proceeded but slowly. Such was the flinty hardness of the rock, that frequently the tools either broke, or remained immovably fixed in the stone. The water also filtered in rapidly through the perforation which they were making, and seemed to threaten another irruption.

It was now Sunday, and the spirits of the workmen began to flag. On the following day an alarming incident occurred which spread a general panic. A terrific noise was heard, which was prolonged in echoes throughout the mine. When their terror had sufficiently subsided to allow of their investigating its cause, they found that an enormous mass of rock had fallen into one of the draining wells. Though this fall was attended by no bad consequences, the workmen were so much disheartened by it, that it required much management to bring them back to their labors, and revive their courage and perseverance.

By dint of persuasion and argument, the superintendents at length prevailed on the men to make a vigorous effort. In a very short time, that effort was crowned with success. The instrument of one of the miners penetrated into the shut-up gallery, and was drawn from his hands by the poor imprisoned miners. But the man who had thus been the first to open a way into their dungeon, was still more unfortunate than they were. At the moment when hope dawned to them, it set forever to him. He was the father of one of the men who had disappeared in the mine. His paternal feelings seemed to have endowed him with superhuman strength. Night and day he quitted his work only for a few minutes to return to it with redoubled vigor.

One absorbing thought occupied his whole soul; the idea that his son, his only son, was with those who were heard from within. In vain he was solicited to retire; in vain they strove to force him from labors too fatiguing for his age. “My son is among them,” said he; “I hear him; nothing shall prevent me from hastening his release;” and from time to time he called on his son, in accents that tore the hearts of the bystanders. His first question, on the instrument being drawn from his hand, was, “My child!” His Antoine was no more; he had been drowned.

For four days, medical men had been present in the mine, to be ready to give their aid, as soon as a passage should be opened. They now directed soup to be introduced through a tube, and air to be forced into the gallery by means of bellows. Food was, however, by no means the most urgent want of the captives; light was what they first and most pressingly requested. A tinder-box was conveyed to them, but the vitiated air of their dungeon rendered it of no use. At first, they seemed to be strengthened by the soup, of which they had made their oldest and weakest companions the earliest partakers; but afterwards it had a contrary effect. They therefore for the present rejected the nourishment which was occasionally supplied, and expressed but one wish, which was that their friends would make haste. Yet one at least there was, who had not lost all his gaiety. This was a man, named Fereol. When he was asked what day he thought it was, be replied, “Sunday;” and upon being told it was Monday, he rejoined, “Ah, I ought to have known that—for yesterday we indulged ourselves by tippling freely—of water.”

But though some of them retained their cheerfulness, the strength of all was rapidly failing. Their utterance grew gradually more faint; and about six in the evening, the last words that could be distinguished were, “Brothers, make haste.” By ten in the evening, they had broken through sixteen feet of solid rock, and liberated the captives. Looking more like spectres than human beings, the miners, one by one, slowly traversed the gallery, and emerged into open air, which they had so recently almost despaired of ever breathing again. From the mouth of the mine to the temporary residence allotted them, the whole way was illuminated. The engineers, the pupils, and the workmen, with the National Guard under arms, were drawn up in two lines to form a passage; and thus, in the midst of a religious silence, did these poor fellows traverse an attentive and sympathizing crowd, who, as they passed along, inclined their heads, as a sort of respect and honor to their sufferings.

Generosity is a pleasant, agreeable, fascinating virtue; justice is more stern, but must be regarded as the higher virtue of the two.

Demosthenes.

This greatest of the Grecian orators was born about 385 or 384 years before Christ, when Athens had reached the zenith of her literary, and had passed that of her political glory. Juvenal has represented him slightingly as the son of a blacksmith, the fact being that the elder Demosthenes was engaged in various branches of trade, and among others was owner of a sword manufactory. His maternal grandmother was a Thracian woman, a circumstance noticeable because it enabled his enemies, in the spirit of exaggeration and ill-will, to taunt him as a barbarian and hereditary enemy of his country—for the Greeks in general regarded the admixture of barbarian, that is, other than Greek blood, with the same sort of contempt and dislike as do the whites of America the taint of African descent.

Being left an orphan when seven years old, Demosthenes fell into the hands of dishonest guardians, who embezzled a large portion of the property which his father had bequeathed to him. His constitution appears to have been delicate, and it may have been on this account, that he did not attend the gymnastic exercises, which formed a large portion of the education of the youths in Greece; exercises really important where neither birth nor wealth set aside the obligation to military service common to all citizens; and where, therefore, skill in the use of arms, strength, and the power to endure fatigue and hardship, were essential to the rich as well as to the poor. It may have been on this account that a nickname expressive of effeminacy was bestowed on him, which was afterwards interpreted into a proof of unmanly luxury and vicious habits; indeed, the reproach of wanting physical strength stuck by him through life, and apparently not undeservedly. Another nickname that he obtained was that of “Viper.” In short, the extant anecdotes tend pretty uniformly to show that his private character was harsh and unamiable.

His ambition to excel as an orator is said to have been kindled by hearing a masterly and much admired speech of Callistratus. For instruction, he resorted to Isæus, and, as some say, to Isocrates, both eminent teachers of the art of rhetoric. He had a stimulus to exertion in the resolution to prosecute his guardians for the abuse of their trust; and having gained the cause, B. C. 364, in the conduct of which he himself took an active part, recovered, it would seem, a large part of his property. The orations against Aphobus and Onetor profess to have been delivered in the course of the suit; but it has been doubted, on internal evidence, whether they were really composed by him so early in life.

Be this as it may, his success emboldened him to come forward as a speaker in the assemblies of the people: on what occasion, and at what time, does not appear. His reception was discouraging. He probably had underrated, till taught by experience, the degree of training and mechanical preparation requisite at all times to excellence, and most essential in addressing an audience so alive to the ridiculous and so fastidious as the Athenians. He labored also under physical defects, which almost amounted to disqualifications. His voice was weak, his breath short, his articulation defective; in addition to all this, his style was thought strained, harsh, and involved.

Though disheartened by his ill success, he felt, as Sheridan is reported to have expressed himself on a similar occasion, that it was in him, and it should come out; beside, he was encouraged by a few discerning spirits. One aged man, who had heard Pericles, cheered him with the assurance that he reminded him of that unequalled orator; and the actor Satyrus pointed out the faults of his delivery, and instructed him to amend them. He now set himself in earnest to realize his notions of excellence; and the singular and irksome method which he adopted, denoting certainly no common energy and strength of will, are too celebrated and too remarkable to be omitted, though the authority on which they rest is not free from doubt. He built a room under ground, where he might practise gesture and delivery without molestation, and there he spent two or three months together, shaving his head that the oddity of his appearance might render it impossible for him to go abroad, even if his resolution should fail. The defect in his articulation he cured by reciting with small pebbles in his mouth. His lungs he strengthened by practising running up hill, while reciting verses. Nor was he less diligent in cultivating mental, than bodily requisites, applying himself earnestly to study the theory of the art, as explained in books, and the examples of the greatest masters of eloquence. Thucydides is said to have been his favorite model, insomuch that he copied out his history eight times, and had it almost by heart.

Meanwhile, his pen was continually employed in rhetorical exercises; every question suggested to him by passing events served him for a topic of discussion, which called forth the application of his attainments to the real business of life. It was perhaps as much for the sake of such practice, as with a view to reputation, or the increase of his fortune, that he accepted employment as an advocate, which, until he began to take an active part in public affairs, was offered to him in abundance.

Such was the process by which he became confessedly the greatest orator among the people by whom eloquence was cultivated, as it has never been since by any nation upon earth. He brought it to its highest state of perfection, as did Sophocles the tragic drama, by the harmonious union of excellences which had before only existed apart. The quality in his writings which excited the highest admiration of the most intelligent critics among his countrymen, in the later critical age, was the Protean versatility with which he adapted his style to every theme, so as to furnish the most perfect examples of every order and kind of eloquence.

Demosthenes, like Pericles, never willingly appeared before his audience with any but the ripest fruits of his private studies, though he was quite capable of speaking on the impulse of the moment in a manner worthy of his reputation. He continued to the end of his career to cultivate the art with unabated diligence, and even in the midst of public business, his habits were known to be those of a severe student.

The first manifestation of that just jealousy of Philip, the ambitious king of Macedon, which became the leading principle of his life, was made B. C. 352, when the orator delivered the first of those celebrated speeches called Philippics. The word has been naturalized in Latin and most European languages, as a concise term to signify indignant invective.

From this time forward, it was the main object of Demosthenes to inspire and keep alive in the minds of the Athenians a constant jealousy of Philip’s power and intentions, and to unite the other states of Greece in confederacy against him. The policy and the disinterestedness of his conduct have both been questioned; the former, by those who have judged, from the event, that resistance to the power of Macedonia was rashly to accelerate a certain and inevitable evil; the latter, by those, both of his contemporaries and among posterity, who believe that he received bribes from Persia, as the price of finding employment in Greece for an enemy, whose ambition threatened the monarch of the East. With respect to the former, however, it was at least the most generous policy, and that of the elder Athenians in their most illustrious days, not to await the ruin of their independence submissively, until every means had been tried for averting it; for the latter, such charges are hard either to be proved or refuted. The character of Demosthenes certainly does not stand above the suspicion of pecuniary corruption, but it has not been shown, nor is it necessary or probable to suppose, that his jealousy of Philip of Macedon was not in the first instance far-sighted and patriotic. During fourteen years, from 352 to 338, he exhausted every resource of eloquence and diplomatic skill to check the progress of that aspiring monarch; and whatever may be thought of his moral worth, none can undervalue the genius and energy, which have made his name illustrious, and raised a memorial of him far more enduring than sepulchral brass.

In 339, B. C., Philip’s appointment to be general of the Amphyctionic League gave him a more direct influence than he had yet possessed; and in the same year, the decisive victory of Cheronea, won over the combined forces of Thebes, Athens, &c., made him master of Greece. Demosthenes served in this engagement, but joined early in the flight, with circumstances, according to report, of marked cowardice and disgrace. He retired for a time from Athens, but the cloud upon his character was but transient; for shortly after he was entrusted with the charge of putting the city in a state of defence, and was appointed to pronounce the funeral oration over those who had been slain. After the battle of Cheronea, Philip, contrary to expectation, did not prosecute hostilities against Athens; on the contrary, he used his best endeavors to conciliate the affections of the people, but without success; the party hostile to Macedon soon regained the superiority, and Demosthenes was proceeding with his usual vigor in the prosecution of his political schemes, when news arrived of the murder of Philip, in July, 336.

The daughter of Demosthenes had then lately died; nevertheless, in violation of national usage, he put off his mourning, and appeared in public crowned with flowers, and with other tokens of festive rejoicing. This act, a strong expression of triumph over the fall of a most dangerous enemy, has been censured with needless asperity; the accusation of having been privy to the plot for Philip’s murder beforehand, founded on his own declaration of the event some time before intelligence of it came from any other quarter, and the manifest falsehood as to the source of the information, which he professed to derive from a divine revelation, involves, if it be judged to be well founded, a far blacker imputation.

Whether or not it were of his own procuring, the death of Philip was hailed by Demosthenes as an event most fortunate for Athens, and favorable to the liberty of Greece. Thinking lightly of the young successor to the Macedonian crown, he busied himself the more in stirring up opposition to Alexander, and succeeded in urging Thebes into that revolt, which ended in the entire destruction of the city, B. C. 335. This example, as it well might, struck terror into Athens. Alexander demanded that Demosthenes, with nine others, should be given up into his hands, as the authors of the battle of Cheronea, and of the succeeding troubles of Greece; but finally contented himself with requiring the banishment of Charidemus alone.

Opposition to Macedon was now effectually put down, and until the death of Alexander we hear little more of Demosthenes as a public man. During this period, however, one of the most memorable incidents of his life occurred in that contest of oratory with Æschines, which has been more celebrated than any strife of words since the world began. The origin of it was as follows. About the time of the battle of Cheronea, one Ctesiphon brought before the people a decree for presenting Demosthenes with a crown for his distinguished services; a complimentary motion, in its nature and effects very much like a vote of parliament declaratory of confidence in the administration. Æschines, the leading orator of the opposite party, arraigned this motion, as being both untrue in substance and irregular in form; he indicted Ctesiphon on these grounds, and laid the penalty at fifty talents, equivalent to about $45,000. Why the prosecution was no long delayed, does not clearly appear; but it was not brought to an issue until the year 330, when Æschines pronounced his great oration “against Ctesiphon.” Demosthenes defended him in the still more celebrated speech “on the crown.” These, besides being the most admirable specimens of rhetorical art, have the additional value, that the rival orators, being much more anxious to uphold the merits of their own past policy and conduct, than to convict or defend the nominal object of prosecution, have gone largely into matters of self-defence and mutual recrimination, from which much of our knowledge of this obscure portion of history is derived. Æschines lost the cause, and not having the votes of so much as a fifth part of the judges, became liable, according to the laws of Athens, to fine and banishment. He withdrew to Rhodes, where he established a school of rhetoric.

Demosthenes roused the Athenians against Antipater the successor of Alexander in Greece, but when that general triumphed, he fled to Calmesia, and took refuge in a temple. He retired into the inner part of the building, on pretence of writing a letter, where he took poison and speedily died.

Such was the life of Demosthenes, the greatest orator Greece ever produced, and one of the most famous that ever lived.

Man is made to live on the earth, but to regard heaven as his resting place. He must keep both objects in view: if he forgets heaven, he imitates the brutes which perish; if he forgets the earth, he will tumble into the first ditch that lies across his path.

Walking on Stilts.

In some countries the inhabitants walk on stilts from necessity. In England, boys do so for fun; and it is astonishing with what agility, after a very short practice, they do so. Any boy may make his own stilts; nothing is required but a pair of poles, about six or seven feet long, upon which some broad pieces of leather or iron hoop are nailed for the feet, so as to leave the top of the stilt within a few inches of the arm-pit. The boy may at first place his foot-holds very low, till he can balance himself, and then raise them every few days, till he obtains a complete command over them. I have known boys who had great command over stilts, to wade through rivers three or four feet deep; which would be of some importance in certain situations, to which all are subject, as by such aids small rivers might at any time be crossed, and life even saved in a case of necessity.

I once, however, knew a boy, who, having attained this art in great perfection, was not content with amusing himself in a rational and innocent manner, but set his wits to work to frighten two of his playfellows, a little boy and girl, who lived in the neighborhood. He had often heard foolish people talk of ghosts, and thought it would be good fun to make one; so he got a large white tablecloth, and having scraped out the inside of a turnip, so as to leave nothing but the rind, he cut two holes for eyes, made an enormous mouth with gnashing teeth; in this he put a lantern, and putting himself on his stilts, which made him seven feet high, and fastening the turnip lantern to his hat, he sallied forth into a by-lane, where he knew his play-fellows were to pass.

After a while he heard their footsteps, and then he made himself ready by pulling his white garment about him, and placing himself under the shade of an old tree. Then he gave a loud, unearthly groan, and with a slow and measured step came forth. It was nearly dark, and a little girl and boy came gaily on, singing and dancing. But the moment the little girl saw the supposed spectre, she gave a thrilling scream, and dropped senseless on the ground. Her brother, poor fellow, who at once saw the trick, ran towards the spectre, and with a blow of a stick which he held in his hand, felled him to the ground. He then ran to his sister, but she was insensible. After a while, assistance came; but when they had taken the little girl home, and put her to bed, they found that her senses had fled forever. The fright had turned her brain, and she became an idiot, and did not live many years.

Be careful then, my young friends, never to play upon the fears or feelings of your companions. It is not only very wicked, but cruel in the extreme; and as the consequences may be serious, guard yourself against every temptation of the kind. A sudden start at the word “Boo,” has been known to produce severe illness; and it is by no means an uncommon thing to hear of persons meeting with sudden death through fright.

It is pleasant to some persons to give; but if one gives only to gratify himself, he is merely selfish, and can claim no praise.

[For Merry’s Museum.]

THE LITTLE SOLDIER.

(Concluded.)

Mr. Merry:

Your young readers will remember, I hope, that they left our “little soldier” at the commencement of his journey homewards. Weak and faint from his long confinement in the hospital, without money, and with the sad prospect of two hundred miles on foot before him, it seemed impossible to him that he could ever accomplish the journey. But “home,” that blessed word, at mention of which, “the sailor, clinging to the dripping yard-arm,” feels a glow of rapture, filled the heart of the soldier with hope, and he proceeded on. Children of the present day, cannot imagine the change which has been made in the country since that period. What was at that time a “wilderness,” has now become a “fruitful field;” and where our tired soldiers at the close of the day sheltered themselves beneath some large tree, may now be seen the splendid hotel, inviting the traveller to comfort and rest. Then, too, at the nightfall, where our two friends heard only the mournful note of the “whip-poor-will,” may now be heard the shrill whistle of the locomotive, as it scuds over mountain and valley with the speed of thought. I cannot take time to give the details of adventures which cheered and discouraged our friends from day to day. They found great difficulty in supplying themselves with food; and I think it was in some lonely place, on this journey, that the sick soldier was fortunate enough to catch a young woodpecker, and he said nothing could be more delicious than the little bird. He pulled out the feathers, and ate it just as it was! He said it was meat and drink too, for the blood was warm! If I am not mistaken, it was three or four weeks after they left New York, that the two friends reached a village, called Farmington, in the State of Connecticut. They had been a long time coming a short distance, as the strength of the little soldier had been gradually failing during the journey thus far. Just at dark, after a day of great suffering from exhaustion and fatigue, they came to a house which stood on an eminence rather difficult of ascent. Here, the poor fellow’s courage failed, and he said to his companion, “Let me stop at the foot of this hill and die. I can never reach the house,”—and he sank upon the ground, entirely overcome. His companion, however, had strong confidence that if he could have food and rest, he would soon be restored. He accordingly went to the door of the house, which was opened by a very respectable middle-aged woman. He proceeded to an inner room, where an old man was sitting, reading the Bible. He made as earnest an appeal as he could for the friend he had left in the road; but the thought of having such a burden upon them, (for they were rather poor,) seemed more than they could bear. Now, whether the old gentleman happened to be reading in Matthew, the passage, “Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto me,” I cannot say; but he did not hesitate long. “Let him come in,” said he; “we will do the best we can for him.” Here, then, new courage came to him, and, with the utmost exertion, he reached the door. The table was spread for the evening meal; and such a sight our “little soldier” had not seen since he left his father’s house, where was “bread enough and to spare.” He has been heard to say often, that at no other period in his life, was he ever so much overcome, as at the sight of that table! He wept and sobbed like an infant. The utmost caution was needed, or he would no doubt have sacrificed his life in the indulgence of his appetite. At this house he remained several weeks,—and I would to God that this account might fall into the hands of some of the descendants of that pious family. The man was named Thomas Cowles. A maiden daughter kept the house, and took care of her father. They were unwearied in their attentions to the invalid, and he began to recruit at once. His companion came on to their native place, and a brother of the sick soldier immediately started on horseback for him, with money to remunerate the family who had shown him so much kindness. When the young soldier came to take his leave, which he did with many tears, the good people refused all compensation. Now, I hope, Mr. Merry, some of your young readers will know why this was. Our “little soldier” loved and feared God. They had taken “sweet counsel together,” and felt that they had their reward. Many years after these events occurred, and after the little traveller had been in the service of his Divine Master a long time, an opportunity was given to send to this daughter, who had survived her father several years. With deep emotion he took from his library a handsome volume, and presented it to Miss Cowles, with the simple quotation, “I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”

Should any one of the name meet with this account—a branch of that family—“may the Lord bless them seven fold,” for their father’s sake.

A Soldier’s Daughter.

To make room for the remainder of the story of “The Little Soldier,” we are obliged to defer our Correspondence until the next number.

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The Goldfinch.

THE MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEORGE J. WEBB.

Goldfinch, pride of woodland glade,
In thy jet and gold ar-rayed;
Gentle bird, that lov’st to feed
On the thistle’s downy seed;
Freely frolic, lightly sing,
In the sunbeams spread thy wing;
Spread thy plumage trim and gay,
Glitt’ring in the noontide ray.
Freely frolic, lightly sing,
In the sunbeams spread thy wing;
Spread thy plumage trim and gay,
Glitt’ring in the noontide ray.

Fickle bird, forever roaming,
Endless changes ever loving,
Now in orchards gaily sporting,
Now to flowery fields resorting;
Chasing now the thistle’s down,
By the gentle zephyr blown,
Lightly on thou wing’st thy way,
Always happy, always gay.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII JUNE, 1844. No. 6.

une, the first of the summer months, presents us with many interesting things. The meadows are now covered with flowers in full bloom: the forests have put on their beautiful garments of green: the birds are busy in tending their young; the mornings are ushered in with silvery dews, and the evenings come like a soft veil thrown over the cradle of her children, by the gentle hand of nature, to make their slumbers sweet and secure.

The farmer is now busy in gathering his crop of hay,—though, as he swings his scythe, he unhappily disturbs many a pretty nest of the meadow lark, the sparrow, and the boblink. How the latter does sing “Get out o’ the way old Dan Tucker,”—as the mowers intrude upon his dominion! However, it is better that Bob should be disturbed now and then, than that the cattle should starve, and every body go without milk and meat.

But let us go to some field, where the mower has not yet appeared. Let us stop and listen to Bob—with his white nightcap on. What a set of names he has got—boblink—bob o’ lincoln—skunk black bird—and rice bird. He seems to have as many names as those rascals who are sent to the state’s prison, yet he has no other quality in common with pick-pockets and counterfeiters. He is no thief, for what he takes he takes in open day; he is no pick-pocket, for while the cat-bird filches cherries, strawberries, raspberries, and grapes, Bob is content with the waste seeds of the meadows. He is no counterfeiter,—no, he is a downright fellow, and is never ashamed of his name. Meet him where you will, he springs into the air, and seems to give you a challenge in the following words—

“Jem Richardson, Jem Richardson,—get away—yet away: it’s very disagreeable of you to trouble us: get away! get away!”

Different people fancy the boblink to say different things. A girl of sixteen blushes at his open, impertinent calling out the name of her lover, which she supposed a secret to every one but herself; the miser thinks his song like the jingling of keys; a tory fancies that the rogue calls him a whig; a whig, that he reviles him as a tory; a boy going home from school, imagines that he is mocking him for spelling the word jingo, with two gs—and a town-meeting orator, regards him as a lecturer upon that species of eloquence which at town-meetings is usually displayed—a succession of nasal, brassy sounds, with very little sense.

But let us leave boblink to pursue his cheerful, happy life, and look at that bird with long legs and a sly appearance, stealing through the grass. He is a meadow lark,—and a magnificent bird, streaked with gray and brown upon the back, with a breast of bright yellow. See! he is very timid, and has already flown. Alas, his flesh is excellent, and man has taught him that there is danger in his near approach. Yet listen to his clear, shrill note, as he flies in the air. See! there he lights on the topmost bough of yonder apple-tree. How plaintive, yet how beautiful, his prolonged note! He is not, however, so sweet a singer as the lark of Europe.

Let us take a stroll in yonder thicket. How still and secluded is this little dell. Not a sound is to be heard. Hush! I heard a rustle among the bushes! Oh, it is a brown thrush; there he sits, trying to hide himself behind the oak leaves. He has a nest near, and being engaged in important business, does not wish to be disturbed. He will not speak to you till evening. If you are then within a quarter of a mile, you will hear his song. It consists of imitations and variations that might put Ole Bull to the blush. Some passages are exquisitely beautiful, and would excite the envy of that conceited bird, the English talk so much of,—the nightingale,—a bird, that is so solicitous to be heard, that it will sing only in the night, when all honest birds are asleep.

We will say no more of this month, after introducing to you the following description of it, in the oldest English lay extant:

“Summer is yeomen in—
Loud sing cuckoo;
Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,
And springeth the weed new.”

The new King.—The king of the Sandwich Islands has so much improved in his condition since he signed the pledge, that the people call him THE NEW KING.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER V.

About Quadrupeds.

I  must tell you that by this time, Jack had learned to read, and this was now a source of great delight to him. It often happened that he could not go into the fields to study nature, because the weather was stormy, or perhaps it was winter, and the ground was covered with snow. It is true that his aunt Piper was generally ready to answer his questions, and to give him information—but she could not attend to him always. Beside, he found in books that there were more exact and scientific accounts of birds, beasts, fishes, insects and other things which interested him, than even aunt Betsey Piper could give.

Thus, Jack devoted a good deal of his time to reading, though he did not lay aside his habit of observing and investigating. This habit is very important, and I advise all my young friends to adopt, and continue it, however much they may read. Reading will indeed store the mind, and make it full of knowledge; but observation and investigation render that knowledge clear, distinct, and useful. So, I wish to have every body follow Jack’s plan to read a great deal, and also to investigate a great deal. Thinking is to the mind what exercise is to the body—it makes it strong, cheerful, and full of health. Thus my plan is that reading books and reading nature should go together. Now, I will tell you how Inquisitive Jack managed this.

One day, he was going through a little wood, where he saw a squirrel running along upon the fence. It was of a reddish color, and exceedingly nimble. It seemed almost to fly along the rails of the fence, and at last, it mounted upon a tree. It then ran about upon the limbs, and sprang to another tree. Then it dashed from tree to tree almost like a bird, until at last, it reached a large oak. It now seemed to consider itself out of the reach of harm, and accordingly, it began to chatter in the most extraordinary manner. There was something about it that made Jack feel that the fellow was making fun of him. He was annoyed at this, and picking up a stone, he hurled it at the offender with all his force.

The squirrel dodged the stone, ran up the tree a little higher, and chattered louder than ever. It seemed to say something like this, “Oh Jack—Jack—you are a very silly fellow—get you gone and leave the woods to me and my companions!—chickaree!—chickaree!—chickaree!” While the squirrel was saying this, he flourished his long red tail, and seemed to be in a state of violent agitation.

When Jack went home, he told his aunt Piper about the squirrel, but she did not know as much of squirrels, as of bees, butterflies, and birds, and therefore she could not wholly satisfy his curiosity. He therefore consulted a book of natural history, and there he found a full account of the red squirrel, or chickaree. He found it described just as he had seen it, and furthermore he learned that it was one of the most lively of the whole squirrel family; that it lives upon nuts, and is common in the forests of New England and the Middle States—that it builds its nest in hollow trees, and lays up a store of its favorite fruit against the winter season.

Now you will be able to see the advantage of combining observation with reading;—Jack had seen the squirrel, had noticed its color, form, air, and manners. He had therefore distinct, indelible impressions respecting these things, and when he began to read about this squirrel, it was of something he had seen; something of which he had a lively knowledge; something associated in his mind with his walk through the woods, and the pleasure of a ramble. He read, therefore, with a keen delight; he understood what he read, he remembered it all, and he was incited to go on and pursue the subject, till at last he had read the story of the whole squirrel family, red, black and gray!

I tell you this just to give you a specimen of Jack’s way of combining observation with reading. I must now tell you about another thing, which I have alluded to before. It would seem that ideas resemble boys; they don’t love to be alone. One idea wants another; and several ideas want a good many others. You show a child a beautiful shell, it gives him a new idea, and that immediately suggests a desire of other ideas, and he asks, “Who made the shell?” “Where did the shell come from?” “What is it made of,” &c., &c.

I have almost got through my story, so do not be impatient if I tell you one thing more, and that is how Jack used to think about what he saw and read. I shall give you an instance. One day, he was strolling through the fields, at a distance from any house, when he saw a large hawk pounce down upon a rabbit. The talons of the bird pierced the very heart of the little animal, and it was almost instantly killed, and borne away by the destroyer, struggling however in the pangs of death. As it was carried over his head, Jack noticed the four legs of the rabbit, and he began to reflect upon the fact that a hawk has two legs, and a rabbit four. Having made this comparison, he proceeded to make others; and now it struck him, for the first time, that the whole feathered race are two-legged creatures, while rabbits, squirrels, cats, dogs, pigs, foxes, lions, tigers, cows, horses, and elephants are four-legged creatures. As he was thus ruminating upon this matter, he happened to take up his book, and he there found that the animal creation is divided into groups—such as orders and classes, &c., according to their formation.

He learned that four-legged animals, called quadrupeds, form one great class; that birds form another class; fishes another; reptiles another; and insects still another. And in pursuing this subject, he found that each class was divided into many families or kinds. Among the quadrupeds, he found the family of cats, including old puss in the corner, as well as the lynx, cougar, leopard, tiger, and lion. He learned that among the bears, there are many kinds, and also among the wolves and foxes, and all other races of animals.

And now, a new source of interest grew up in Jack’s mind. This classifying of animals became intensely interesting. He loved to compare one kind with another; to note the resemblances and differences; to observe the influence of climate, and see how nature had diversified her works, so as to adapt everything to the purpose it was designed to accomplish. Thus, at every step, his knowledge increased, and became more and more permanently fixed in his mind; while the interest he took in study, was enhanced even in a greater degree.

Sketches in Egypt.

In a former number of our Museum, we have given some account of the wonderful things, displaying the manners and customs of the Egyptians, and setting forth many points of history, which have been discovered among the ruins of their ancient cities and temples. We now give a few passages, showing some of the manners and customs of the present inhabitants of Egypt.

IRRIGATION.

Throughout the whole of Egypt, even in the Delta, there are numerous canals to preserve the water after the overflow; and from these the country is supplied with moisture. The lands in Upper Egypt—to aid the process of artificial irrigation—are dug into small squares, connected by gutters or furrows; and the water, being raised from the stream either with a machine or by manual labor, is admitted into these ridges, and flows from one square into another. This operation forms the most laborious part of a fellah’s employment; particularly where the Persian water-wheel is not in use.

HARVEST.

Egyptian mode of thrashing corn.

Immediately after the water has run off, sowing commences, the seed only requiring to be strewed over the land, when it sinks into the soft earth by its own weight, or is trodden down by the cattle driven over it; a process generally performed in November. The harvest commences in April, when the corn is cut with a sickle, close to the ear, and the straw is appropriated for fodder, or converted into fuel. The ears, having been carried from the field in baskets, are laid upon the ground. A sort of sledge drawn by oxen is then driven over it, which answers the end of thrashing, separating the corn from the ears.[2] It is next stored, and the husbandman having none of the labors of ploughing, furrowing, or manuring his land—those duties being superseded by the bounteous Nile—he is at leisure till the next overflow.

MARRIAGE.

Marriage procession.

A day or two before the wedding, the bride elect goes in procession to the public bath, which is often hired exclusively for her and her friends. A canopy of silk is borne over her by four men, preceded by musicians, and sometimes by persons who perform some feat of strength or a mock fight with swords; the female relations of the maiden are also of the party; and when in the bath, the company is amused by almehs and other musicians.

On returning from the bath the bride takes a large lump of henna, and going round to her guests solicits a contribution of money, when each person generally sticks a small piece of gold into the henna, which on being relieved of the coins, is afterwards applied to her hands and feet. The evening of this ceremony is called “The night of the henna.”

The next day, the bride proceeds to the house of her future lord in the same order as when she goes to the bath; and on arriving at the harem all her friends leave her, except her mother or other near relation, the bridegroom remaining below with his friends. Sometimes he goes to a mosque, and on his return, after seeing the company supplied with pipes and sherbet, is for the first time introduced to his wife; and having been left alone with her he presents her money, which is called “the price of uncovering the face.” This is an awkward moment for the bride, whose form and features do not always bear out the praises that the match-maker has previously bestowed on them by way of description; and lovers have been known to betray disappointment at this delicate juncture. On removing the covering it is however proper for him to say, “In the name of God, the compassionate, the merciful, blessed be this night!” the lady must answer “God bless thee!” Several women are stationed outside the door, who, at a signal from the bridegroom, set up cries of joy—which are responded to by others below and in the neighborhood—to signify that he acknowledges his bride, and that she equals his expectations: these ceremonies over, the man rejoins his male friends, with whom he spends an hour or two in sociality, and then returns to his wife.

MOSQUES.

The houses of worship in Cairo are magnificent and spacious. The principal mosque, called the church of Lazarus, is situated in the middle of the city. Van Egmont says that between five and six thousand persons receive their subsistence from it, and that two thousand lie in it every night. Formerly the interior was as a sealed book to all who did not follow the faith of the prophet; for, if any stranger happened to enter it, he was instantly imprisoned, and his only chance of escape from death was to turn Mohammedan.

Great Mosque of Sultan Hassan, Grand Cairo.

The minarets, or high towers of the mosques, are surrounded, at a great elevation, with projecting galleries, in which stand the public criers, who announce the stated times of prayer prescribed by the Mohammedan law. Upwards of eight hundred voices may be heard at once from these lofty stations, from which, also, prayers are on extraordinary occasions, offered up.

BURIALS.

The Egyptians seldom keep a corpse in their houses on the night succeeding death; and never bury their dead after sunset. Rose-water, camphor, and other perfumes, are sprinkled over the deceased, his nostrils and ears are stuffed with cotton, the ankles bound, and the hands placed over his breast. If he have been a man of wealth, he is wrapped successively in layers of muslin, cotton cloth, and cloth of cotton and silk, and lastly, a Cashmere shawl. He is then placed on a bier, and a procession is formed of chanters, with the relations and domestics of the deceased; and passages from the Koran, with a dirge, are recited during the way. The bier is first carried into a mosque, when the imán and his assistant repeat certain prayers over it; and after the performance of some minor rites, the funeral train proceeds to the burial-ground.[3] When within the tomb a singular ceremony is performed by a person called “the instructor of the dead;” who, sitting before it, speaks to the corpse as if it were a living person, saying, that there will come two angels who will ask certain questions, which he also tells the body how to answer. The two angels are supposed to visit the dead on the succeeding night, when the soul will depart and the body be tortured for its sins. After burial, prayers are recited and certain forms gone through by the relatives, to facilitate the entrance of the deceased into paradise. Wailers are sometimes hired at funerals, to make loud lamentations; but in the case of a welee, or reputed saint, these mournings are turned into cries of joy at the release of the pious man from this world, to the world of happiness; to which it is believed he has certainly departed.

Burial procession.

The religious superstitions of the Egyptians present a remarkable feature in their character; as many of them are not only believed in by the learned, but are sanctioned by the Koran. The principal of these is the belief in genii, a class of spirits who play so prominent a part in the “Arabian Nights Entertainments.” These supernatural beings are supposed to hold a sort of middle rank between angels and men—to be created of fire, capable of assuming any form, and of becoming invisible. They are presumed to inhabit rivers, ruined houses, wells, baths, ovens, &c.

TINGING THE EYES.

It is a common practice with ladies in Egypt as in Persia, to tinge their eyes with a black powder, called khol. This seems to have been an ancient practice, for vessels containing this powder have been found in the tombs. The hands and feet are also tinged with a decoction of the henna tree, a kind of privet, which imparts an orange hue. Women of the lower classes mark their bodies with a blue tint, like that used by sailors in tattooing their wrists and arms.

Tinging the eyes.

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER VI.

MEXICO.

South-west of the United States is the country of Mexico. Till within a few years, it was a Spanish colony; but is now independent.

In Mexico there are seven kinds of people: 1. Whites, born in Europe; 2. Creoles, born of Spanish parents in America; 3. Mestizoes, or descendants of Whites and Indians; 4. Mulattoes, sprung from Whites and Negroes; 5. Zambas, the offspring of Indians and Negroes; 6. Indians, who are the copper-colored native race; and 7. African Negroes.

The Mexicans are of good stature, well proportioned, and so free from personal defects, that there is scarcely upon the earth a nation, in which fewer deformed persons are to be met with. Their skin is of a copper-color; and they have good complexions, narrow foreheads, black eyes, white, firm, regular teeth, and thick, glossy, black hair.

Some of the ladies are said to be very beautiful; but they have one practice, which is very disgusting—that of smoking cigars. They carry their cigars in a gold, or silver case, suspended by a ribbon at their side; and as soon as one cigar is exhausted, another is lighted; and they only cease to smoke, when they eat or sleep.

It is said that the Mexicans are moderate in eating; yet one would think they must eat a great deal, as they have eight meals a day. This I suppose, however, is only among the higher classes. Chocolate is a favorite beverage, but if they eat little, they drink much. Indeed, drunkenness is so common, that in the city of Mexico, the police send round tumbrils, or carts, to collect such as are found stretched in the streets.

The senses of these people are very acute, especially that of sight, which they enjoy to old age, unimpaired. Their constitutions are naturally sound; and, though most of them die of severe diseases, it is not uncommon for them to attain to the age of a hundred years.

The Mexicans have good understandings; but education among them is not very general. They are said not to be as passionate as the people of some other countries. They are slow, and very persevering in respect to works, which require time. They are generous and disinterested. They set but little value upon gold. The Spanish inhabitants dress very expensively. They generally wear silks, and adorn their hats with belts of gold, and roses of diamonds. Even some of the slaves have bracelets, and necklaces of gold, silver, pearls, and gems.

The Roman Catholic is the established religion. The natives retain many of their superstitious notions and practices. When one of them dies, the deceased has a jug of water given him, and pieces of paper, with directions where to go. At the same time, a little dog, or some other domestic animal, is killed, to accompany the deceased on his journey, to the invisible world. The corpse and the animal are now burned, and the ashes placed in an earthen pot, which is buried in a deep ditch.

BRAZIL.

Before we speak of the inhabitants of Brazil, however, we shall say a word or two of the country. Scarcely a finer country is to be found on the globe. Its climate is healthful; its soil fertile; its scenery charming, and even romantic; thick forests crown its hills, and perpetual verdure adorns its valleys; noble rivers pass in every direction, and the richest tropical fruits abound in every quarter. Brazil also is famous for its gold and diamonds. Until recently, the country belonged to the king of Portugal; but it is now independent. The Roman Catholic is the established religion.

The European settlers are generally gay and fond of pleasure. The men generally wear cloaks and swords. The ladies have fine dark eyes, and expressive countenances. They adorn their heads with tresses, tied with ribbons and flowers. The labor of this class of persons is chiefly performed by slaves.

If you go into the country, but not into the mining districts, you will find the people living in small mud cottages, covered with tiles or leaves. The people here use no knives or forks; and but few have tables. They eat their meals, squatting on the ground, with dishes, bowls or gourds, placed in the centre. The people dress in a slovenly and mean manner, but the women more so than the men.

In the mining districts, the inhabitants are still more degraded. You may indeed see cups, coffee-pots, wash-basins, and the like, all of silver; but other things, food, dress, and manner of living, by no means correspond.

The native Indians of Brazil are divided into numerous tribes, and speak different languages; but they all agree in wearing few clothes. Many are entirely naked. They are of a copper-color, with long, coarse, black hair; but, like the more northern Indians, they are destitute of beards. They are a strong, lively, and gay race of people. Few diseases are known among them. They delight in feasting and dancing, both of which they carry to excess.

Their huts are made of the branches of trees, and covered with palm leaves. Their articles of furniture are few and simple. Their weapons of war are bows, arrows, and wooden clubs. The flesh of monkeys is their principal animal food. This they so prepare, that at the same time it is roasted, it is blackened with smoke. A monkey roasted by a Brazilian, would frighten an American: or if it did not frighten, it would disgust him, for it is always roasted with its head on, and in a sitting posture.

PERU.

To the west of Brazil, lies Peru; and hither we shall now conduct our readers, to take a view of the inhabitants of that country.

We must first tell them, however, a few words of the country itself. Peru is a hot and barren country. It is barren, because it seldom rains there. It has many dreary deserts. The lofty Andes pass through, and divide it. It abounds in gold, and silver, and mercury, or quicksilver. Here, too, is found Peruvian bark, which is so much used in this, and other parts of the world.

Peru is a large country; and yet it has but about a million and a half of inhabitants. They consist of Creoles, Mestizoes, and Indians, or natives of the country. The Creoles are natives of Spanish descent. They are well made, and of good stature, with lively, agreeable countenances. The Mestizoes are a mixed race. They are, also, generally well made, very robust, and quite tall.

By far the greater part of the inhabitants of Peru are Indians; but they are not now what they once were. Many years ago, the Spaniards conquered them. At that time, they were a rich and flourishing people. They understood several of the arts, and many of them lived in a style of magnificence.

At that time, gold was so common among them, that they used it, as we use iron and brass. Their sovereigns were called Incas. They believed the sun to be a god, and worshipped it as such. The glory of their former days has, however, passed away. They are now almost savages. They are well proportioned, and even strong; but are generally low in stature, and some of them remarkably so. They have deep black hair, which is thick, long, harsh and coarse, like that of a horse. The men wear theirs loose, but the women plait theirs behind with a ribbon. They set great value upon their hair; the greatest insult which can be offered to either sex, is to cut it off; and when this is done by way of punishment, they never forgive the disgrace put upon them.

Their dress consists of white cotton drawers, reaching to the calf of the leg, loose, and edged with lace. Instead of a shirt, they wear a black cotton frock, in the form of a sack, with two openings for the arms, and a third for the head to pass through; over this, they throw a kind of cloak, and cover the head with a hat.

This dress they never put off, even when they sleep. Some of the richer class distinguish themselves by the fineness of their drawers, and wear shirts with lace four or five inches broad, fastened round the neck like a ruff. Though they wear no stockings, they have silver or gold buckles in their shoes; and their cloak, which is of fine cloth, is often adorned with gold or silver lace.

Intemperance in England.—At a meeting recently held in Exeter Hall, London, the Hon. J. S. Buckingham stated, that £53,000,000 was the annual cost of intoxicating drinks to the people of that country. That this sum was fifty times as much as all the collections for the relief of the distressed, under every form of appealing to public sympathy.

In that land of distress and wretchedness, where thousands perish for the necessaries of life, and tens of thousands more gain a scanty subsistence, fifty-three millions of pounds, or 250 millions of dollars, are annually spent for poison to augment the poverty, misery, and death. Strange infatuation!—When will old England be alive to the interests of the great mass of her citizens, and place an everlasting quarantine upon this source of physical and moral disease, temporal and eternal death.

The whole community of whites on the Columbia River, and the various settlements in Oregon, have abandoned the use of intoxicating drinks.

A Tapir.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER V.

The adventure of the monkeys concluded—strange animals—weariness, despair—a terrible incident.

My readers can hardly imagine the bewildered state of my mind, occasioned by the scenes described in my last chapter. The little apes, who grinned, chattered, frisked, and frolicked in the moonlight around me, appeared like so many fantastic sprites, and I could scarcely believe that it was not all a dream. Never shall I forget some of their quizzical countenances and grotesque gestures, as they peeped at me between the branches of the trees. After they had hung around me for several minutes, one of them uttered a shrill cry, and with many a leap, and jirk, and bound, they disappeared. They seemed to run along upon the trees, passing from the branches of one to another, as easily as a rabbit upon the solid ground.

They were indeed supplied with limbs to accomplish this. They had not only four hands, but they were furnished with a tail, which seemed amazingly convenient and useful. Never was any instrument employed with more dexterity and success. They wound it around the limbs of the trees, where they hung suspended, or swung from branch to branch. When they were travelling upon the giddy heights of the forests, they held it erect, in order to keep them steady, thus using it as a rope-dancer does his balance pole.

At this time I knew very little about these creatures, but I afterwards learned that the forests of Guiana, as well as other warm parts of South America, abound in various kinds of monkeys, and that the species who made me the nocturnal visit I have described, are called howlers. They are particularly noisy at night, and make the forests ring with their elvish din. It is common for one of them to mount a tree, and seem to address the assembled group around him, embellishing his discourse with the most extraordinary grimaces, gestures, and contortions. One can hardly look upon a scene of this sort, and not feel it to be a sort of satire upon human oratory.

I did not close my eyes again that night. Morning at last came, and I attempted to grope my way back through the thickets, to the path I had lost. But I was encompassed by lofty forests, and my mind was in some degree bewildered, I rambled about the whole day, and at night found myself at the precise spot from which I had started in the morning.

My heart was now full. The prospect of perishing in the wilderness, was before me; I had eaten the last morsel of food that remained in my wallet; it seemed impossible, therefore, that I should escape. The thoughts of never again seeing my mother and my home—of dying without a friend at my side, and leaving my form to be torn limb from limb, by wild beasts, all rushed upon me with frightful force, and for a few moments, I gave way to despair.

But these feelings gradually subsided, and though no situation could be more hopeless than mine, still, hope revived, and I determined to make another effort the next morning, to effect my escape. Having formed this resolution, I stretched myself out upon the ground and fell asleep, and nothing remarkable occurred during the night. At early dawn, I arose, and set forward with the determination of being more wary than before, in order to avoid a similar result. I was very hungry, but I soon found some berries, which I ventured to eat, though I was not sure that they were wholesome. I pushed forward, as I imagined, in a direct line toward the path. But when one’s head is turned, south seems north, and north south—so that a great part of the day, I travelled in the direction opposite to that which I intended to follow.

Toward evening, I came in sight of a lake, and as I was exceedingly thirsty, I approached it. It was encircled with tall trees and thickly matted shrubbery, except on the side where I was. Here was a little opening, and as I came to the edge of the water, I was about to stoop down and quench my thirst; but what was my astonishment to behold before me a huge beast, bearing a resemblance to a large black hog. It was completely in the water, but I could distinctly see it walking on the bottom and approaching the shore. Being not a little alarmed at this strange apparition, I ran hastily back from the lake, and concealed myself in a thicket, at the distance of several yards. My position was such, however, as to command a view of the water.

I could soon perceive an undulation on its glassy surface, and shortly after the bristly back of the animal became visible. He leisurely come to the shore, looked around, snuffed the air, a little suspiciously, and then began to devour the coarse herbage that grew along the margin of the water. The whole aspect of this creature was swinish, and I should have set him down as one of the hog family, but for two reasons. He was twice as big as any specimen of that race, I had ever seen; and he had a long, flexible snout, which he used like an elephant’s trunk. I watched him narrowly, and never have I seen a more extraordinary looking creature. He seemed, indeed, to be half hog and half elephant, though his manners resembled the former, rather than the latter. He seemed to feel perfectly at home, ate voraciously, flourished his little tail, and at last, sat down upon his rump, like a tired dog.

I had now remained for half an hour in my concealment, and being weary of inaction, I rushed out from the thicket, club in hand, and suddenly stood before the beast. Never have I seen such a gaze of stupid wonder, as the monster at first exhibited. But he soon made up his mind to retreat, and uttering a grunt by way of exclamation, he plunged into the water, and I saw him no more. I afterwards learned that this animal is common in the waters of South America, and probably is known to most of my readers, under the name of tapir.

Night soon followed this scene, and I was obliged again to find a pillow beneath the boughs of the forest; I slept soundly, however, and again in the morning began my rambles. My strength, however, was impaired; my courage was gradually ebbing away; still I continued to roam about, making the best effort I could for my deliverance. I was not alone in the forest, for innumerable parrots were chattering among the branches of the trees, and birds of many forms and hues, were glancing through the air, or reposing in the leafy shade of the wilderness.

I frequently met with monkeys, skipping from tree to tree, and as they grinned at me from above, I could fancy that there was a sneering and malicious expression in their faces, as if they understood and rejoiced in my forlorn condition. I once saw an animal bounding along upon the ground, which greatly resembled a raccoon, and a momentary flash of pleasure came over my bosom, at being thus reminded of a creature with which I was familiar in my native woods. But I soon perceived that the animal had a longer tail and snout than the raccoon. He speedily bounded up a tree, and coiling his tail around one of the branches, looked down upon me with a gaze of curious wonder. I learned that this creature was the coaiti; an animal which is famous for eating up his own tail!

Another and another day followed, my strength and spirits gradually failing beneath the efforts I was making, particularly as the food I procured, consisting wholly of berries, seemed to give me but little sustenance. It was, I believe, on the sixth day after I had wandered from my path, that I sat down, overpowered with heat, exhaustion, and despair. I felt that my final hour was come—that I had found my resting place, and that I must prepare in solitude to die. The anguish of my feelings was not so great as might have been imagined—I was worn out both in body and mind, and was contemplating my release, if not with satisfaction, at least with some degree of composure, when a fearful spectacle arrested my attention.

At the distance of about thirty feet, lay an object, which at first, I had taken to be the fallen branch of a tree. But its dull, earthy colors, gradually changed to the most brilliant hues; its relaxed and flattened form, became rigid, rounded, and curved. Its head rose with a slow motion, and I could now perceive that it was an enormous serpent, gliding with a noiseless motion towards me. Its eye was fixed upon me with a glassy and terrific stare; its jaws were expanded; its tongue brandished, ready to strike the fatal blow. I had sufficient recollection to know that this must be an anaconda, and I expected the next instant to be crushed in its folds. The thought was too horrible to be endured. I felt a faintness come over me, and while a rushing sound filled my ears, my senses departed.

The Old Man in the Corner.

NO. VI.

PETER AND THE PIG.

There was once a youth, who being born in poverty, was brought up to labor for his living. But being of an indolent turn, he felt this to be a great hardship. He was also as unwilling to study his books, as he was to perform other tasks. He hated all exertion; and seemed indeed to think that toil was the only curse, and idleness the only bliss. If he was not the same youth, who, when asked what he deemed the highest state of happiness, replied—“swinging on a gate, with one’s mouth full of molasses candy,”—he was still, of much the same way of thinking.

Now lazy Peter, as he was called, went one day to feed the pig. The animal was very fat, and even when he heard the corn rattle into his trough, he only uttered a kind of affected grunt, pricked up his ears, wagged his tail, and kept his place. Peter looked into the stye, and beheld with unaffected admiration, the luxurious beast, imbedded in straw, and too happy in the enjoyment of his digestion and repose, even to get up and eat. “This is the perfection of comfort,”—said Peter to himself. “How pleasant it must be to have nothing to do, but to eat and sleep; no chores to do; no boots and shoes to put on; no jackets and trowsers to button up; no musty books to learn; no Emerson’s Arithmetic to make one’s head muzzy; no awful looking schoolmaster, whose very countenance makes one’s stomach ache, to watch over him; no sharp voice to call him at 5 o’clock in the morning! No, no—he eats and sleeps and sleeps and eats—gets up and goes to bed just as he pleases. Really, I half wish I was a pig!”

Thus mused lazy Peter—while he rested his chin upon the edge of the pig-stye, and gazed with dreamy eyes upon the lord of the manor. At length, urged by a sense of imperious necessity—for the idea of duty, had not yet taken possession of his head—he tore himself away from these agreeable contemplations.

At night Peter went to bed as usual, but the scene of the pig-stye had made such an impression upon his mind, that it stole in among the visions of his sleep. He dreamed that he was sauntering along upon a highway, and bound upon some long journey. Weary at length, he sat down and began to grumble at the necessity of travelling such a distance, and over such a tiresome road. While he was thus occupied, a Fairy came to him, and said—“Peter, I have heard your complaints, and have come to relieve them! You think it hard to travel this road, though its borders are decorated with flowers; though it leads through delightful regions, and finally terminates in a happy home, where friends gather around to minister to every want and gratify every desire. Your difficulty is, that you must take the trouble to pick the flowers, to visit these happy regions, to travel to this final home of peace. Well, you shall have your way: you want idleness, and deem that this is bliss. I have a stye, in which is the fattest pig you ever saw: you shall be his companion, share his bed and board, and thus find the fulfilment of your wishes!”

Strange as it may seem, Peter accepted the offer, and was soon domesticated in the stye. For a time, he enjoyed himself to the utmost: to be sure the perfume of the place offended him a little at first—but the luxury of having nothing to do but to eat and sleep, prevailed over every other feeling, and he deemed himself perfectly happy.

Thus time rolled on—until one night he chanced to hear certain ominous preparations going on outside of the stye. He heard the rolling of a large tub, and chanced to hear the mistress of the place give directions to a man to butcher her two pigs the next morning. “Two pigs!” said Peter to himself—“and so I am one of them: but I’ll give them the slip!” He waited till all around was quiet, and then attempted to rise, for the purpose of making his escape. But alas he was so fat and unwieldly, and the fence was so high, that he could by no possibility get out of the pen. And there was one thing, which struck him with absolute horror: he now perceived that he had four legs—cloven feet, a long snout, and a tail! Nor was this all—long wiry bristles stood up along his back—his sides were coated with coarse hair, and while he tugged to get out of his prison, he grunted like his companion. “I am, at last, a pig then!” said Peter; “and yet, I am not altogether a pig. I know more than this lazy beast by my side; I know what is to happen to-morrow, and while he is at rest, I am in an agony of fear. I wish I were really a pig, for then I should know no fear, and the butcher’s knife would finish me. But it is really horrible to have the mind of a human being, and the body and habits of a hog.”

Poor Peter in the agony of his dream made a great outcry, but it was like the squealing of a pig; the fairy heard it, however, and came at the call. “What is the matter?”—said she. “Let me out! let me out!” said Peter in his frenzy. “I can’t let you out,” said the fairy: “you weigh at least fifteen score, and beside, you are a pig, now; for you must know that if a human being adopts swinish habits and keeps swinish company, he gradually becomes assimilated to the brute he imitates. But there is one difference: the pig, though he enjoys indolence, is able to do so, only because of his ignorance. He has no mind which paints higher and nobler enjoyments; no desire of long life; no looking forward to the future; no sense of right and wrong; no conscience to disturb him. It is otherwise with you. You have a mind, and though you may abuse it, you cannot annihilate it. It is a lamp—it may become dim for a time, but you cannot put it out. It will burn forever, and will forever show you, and make you feel the degradation you have reached, and the happiness you have lost.” Thus saying, the fairy departed.

It is not possible to tell the agony of the dreamer; he now saw his folly, and bitterly lamented it. But at last, in his vision, the morning came. He heard the hot, hissing water poured into the tub, to scald off his hair; he heard a lively whetting of knives, and at last saw the goggling eyes of the butcher, taking a look over the edge of the pig-stye. His agony was beyond bounds; he uttered a piercing shriek, and in the paroxysm of his distress, he awoke. It was, however, a lucky dream, for the youth took warning by it, and conquering his indolence, he became industrious, and grew up a prosperous and happy man.

Reader, if thou art given to indolence, take heed by Peter’s dream; and like him, turn from the error of thy ways. Deem not that indolence is bliss—but believe me—the ways of industry are ways of pleasantness, and her paths lead to peace.

What’s in a name?—“My name is Norval!” said a runaway youth, who was playing that character in a small theatre at Annapolis, some years since. “That’s a whapper!” said an officer in the crowd—“your name is Bill Brown, and you owes Mrs. Knipper three dollars and a half for board, washing and lodging—and here’s a writ, so come along, my darling!”

The Five-Dollar Bill.

The following story has been published in many of the newspapers, but it is so good, that we give it a place in our columns. It not only shows how proper and necessary it is to pay small accounts, but it shows the use of money. What a wonderful thing, that little pieces of paper may perform such important offices in society, as we see that they do, by the story of the “Five-Dollar Bill.”

“Sir, if you please, boss would like you to pay this bill to-day,” said, for the tenth time, a half-grown boy in a dirty jacket, to a lawyer named Peter Chancery, and whose office was in Philadelphia.

The attorney at length turned round and stared the boy full in the face, as if he had been some newly discovered specimen of zoology, gave a long whistle, thrust his inky finger first into one pocket and then into the other of his black cloth vest, and then gave another long whistle and completed his stare at the boy’s face.

“Ho, ha, hum! that bill, eh?” and the legal young gentleman extended the tips of his fingers towards the well worn bit of paper, and daintily opening it, looked at its contents.

“Hum! for capping and heel-tapping, six shillings—for foxing, ten and sixpence, and other sundries, eh! So your master wants me to settle this bill, eh?” repeated the man of briefs.

“Yes, sir. This is the nineteenth time I have come for it, and I intend to knock off at twenty and call it half a day.”

“You’re an impudent boy.”

“I’s always impudent to lawyers, coz I can’t help it—it’s catchin’.”

“Your eye-teeth are cut, I see!”

“That’s what boss sent me for, instead o’ the ’prentices as was gettin’ their teeth cut. I cut mine at nine months old, with a hand-saw. Boss says if you don’t pay that bill he’ll sue you.”

“Sue me? I’m a lawyer!”

“It’s no matter for that! Lawyer or no lawyer, boss declares he’ll do it—so fork over!”

“Declares he’ll sue me?”

“As true as there’s another lawyer in all Filadelphy.”

“That would be bad!”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“Silence, you vagabond. I suppose I must pay this,” muttered the attorney to himself. “It’s not my plan to pay these small bills! What is a lawyer’s profession good for, if he can’t get clear paying his own bills? He’ll sue me! ’Tis just five dollars! It comes hard, and he don’t want the money! His boy could have earned it in the time he has been sending him to me to dun for it.—So your master will sue for it if I don’t pay?”

“He says he will do it, and charge you a new pair o’ shoes for me.”

“Hark’ee. I can’t pay to-day; and so if your boss will sue, just be so kind as to ask him to employ me as his attorney.”

“You?”

“Yes; I’ll issue the writ, have it served, and then you see I shall put the costs into my own pocket, instead of seeing them go into another lawyer’s. So you see if I have to pay the bill I’ll make the costs. Capital idea.”

The boy scratched his head a while, as if striving to comprehend this “capital idea,” and then shook it doubtingly. “I don’t know about this; it looks tricky. I’ll ask boss though, if as how you say you won’t pay it no how without being sued.”

“I’d rather be sued if he’ll employ me, boy!”

“But who’s to pay them costs—the boss?”

The lawyer looked at once very serious, and then gave another of those long whistles peculiar to him.

“Well, I am a sensible man, truly! My anxiety to get the costs of the suit blinded me to the fact that they had got to come out of one of my own pockets before they could be safely put into the other pocket! Ah; well, my boy, I suppose I must pay. Here is a five-dollar bill. Is it receipted?—it is so dirty and greasy I can’t see.”

“It was nice and clean three months ago when boss gin it to me, and the writin’ shined like Knapp’s Blackin’—it’s torn so of a dunnin’ so much.”

“Well, here’s your money,” said the man of law, taking a solitary five-dollar note from his watch fob; “now, tell your master, Mr. Last, that if he has any other accounts he wants sued, I will attend to them with the greatest pleasure.”

“Thank’ee,” answered the boy, pocketing five, “but you is the only regular dunnin’ customer boss has, and now you’ve paid up, he hasn’t none but cash folks. Good day to you.”

“Now there goes a five-dollar note that will do that fellow, Last, no good. I am in great want of it, but he is not. It is a five thrown away. It wouldn’t have left my pocket but that I was sure his patience was worn out, and that costs would come out of it. I like to have costs, but I don’t think a lawyer has anything to do with paying them.”

As Peter Chancery, Esq. did not believe in his own mind that paying his debt to Mr. Last was to be of any benefit to him, and was of opinion that it was “money thrown away,” let us follow the fate of this five-dollar bill through the day.

“He has paid,” said the boy, placing the five-dollar bill in his master’s hand.

“Well, I am glad of it,” answered Mr. Last, surveying the bank-note through his glasses; “and it’s a current bill, too. Now run with it and pay Mr. Furnace the five dollars I borrowed of him yesterday, and said I would return to-morrow. But I’ll pay it now.”

“Ah my lad, come just in time,” said Furnace, as the boy delivered his errand and the note. “I was just wondering where I could get five dollars to pay a bill which is due to-day. Here, John,” he called to one of his apprentices, “put on your hat and take this money to Captain O’Brien, and tell him I came within one of disappointing him, when some money came in I didn’t expect.”

Captain O’Brien was on board his schooner at the next wharf, and with him was a seaman, with his hat in his hand, looking very gloomy as he spoke with him.

“I’m sorry, my man, I can’t pay you—but I have just raised and scraped the last dollar I can get above water to pay my insurance money to-day, and have not a copper left in my pocket to jingle, but keys and old nails.”

“But I am very much in need, sir; my wife is ailing, and my family are in want of a good many things just now, and I got several articles at the store expecting to get money of you to take ’em up as I went along home. We han’t in the house no flour, no tea, nor——”

“Well, my lad, I’m sorry. You must come to-morrow. I can’t help you unless I sell the coat off my back, or pawn the schooner’s kedge. Nobody pays me.”

The sailor, who had come to get an advance of wages, turned away sorrowful, when the apprentice boy came up and said, in his hearing, “Here, sir, is five dollars Mr. Furnace owes you. He says when he told you he couldn’t pay your bill to-day, he didn’t expect some money that came in after you left the shop.”

“Ah, that’s my fine boy! Here, Jack, take this five-dollar bill, and come Saturday and get the balance of your wages.”

The seaman, with a joyful bound, took the bill, and touching his hat, sprung with a light heart on shore and hastened to the store where he had already selected the comforts and necessaries which his family stood so much in need of.

As he entered, a poor woman was trying to prevail on the store-keeper to settle a demand for making his shirts.

“You had better take it out of the store, Mrs. Conway,” he said to her; “really, I have not taken half the amount of your bill to-day, and don’t expect to. I have to charge every thing, and no money comes in.”

“I can’t do without it,” answered the woman: “my daughter is very ill, and in want of every comfort; I am out of fire-wood, and indeed I want many things which I have depended on this money to get.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Conway,” said the store-keeper, looking into his money-drawer; “I have not five shillings here, and your bill is five dollars and ninepence.”

The poor woman thought of her invalid child, and wrung her hands.

“A sailor was here a while ago and selected full five dollars’ worth of articles, here on the counter, and went away to get his wages to pay for them; but I question if he comes back. If he does and pays for them, you shall have your money, madam.”

At this instant Jack made his appearance in the door.

“Well, ship-mate,” he cried, in a tone much more elevated than when he was discovered speaking with the captain; “well, my hearty, hand over my freight. I’ve got the document, so give us possession!” and displaying his five-dollar note, he laid hold of his purchases.

The store-keeper, examining and seeing the note was a good one, bade him take them with him, and then sighing, as he took another and last look at the bill, he handed it to the poor widow, who, with a joyful smile, received it from him and hastened from the store.

In a low and very humble tenement, near the water, was a family of poor children, whose appearance exhibited the utmost destitution. On a cot-bed near, lay a poor woman, ill and emaciated. The door opened, and a man in coarse, patched garments entered with a wood-saw and cross, and laid them down by the door side, and approached the bed.

“Are you any better, dear?” he asked in a rough voice, but in the kindest tones.

“No—have you found work? If you could get me a little nourishing food, I should regain my strength.”

The man gazed upon her pale face a moment, and again taking up his saw and cross, went out. He had not gone far before a woman met him, and said she wished him to follow her and saw some wood for her. His heart bounded with hope and gratitude, and he went after her to her dwelling, an abode but little better than his own for its poverty, yet wearing an air of comfort. He sawed the wood, split and piled it, and received six shillings, with which he hastened to a store for necessaries for his sick wife, and then hurried home to gladden her heart with the delicacies he had provided. Till now he had had no work for four days, and his family had been starving; and from this day his wife got better and was at length restored to her family and to health, from a state of weakness to which another day’s continuance would probably have proved fatal.

These six shillings, which did so much good, were paid him by the poor woman from the five dollars she had received from the store-keeper, and which the sailor had paid him. The poor woman’s daughter, also, was revived and ultimately restored to health; and was lately married to a young man who had been three years absent and returned true to his troth. But for the five dollars which had been so instrumental in her recovery, he might have returned to be told that she, whose memory had so long been the polar star of his heart, had perished.

So much good did the five-dollar bill do which Peter Chancery, Esq. so reluctantly paid to Mr. Last’s apprentice boy, though little credit is due to this legal gentleman for the results that followed. It is thus that Providence often makes bad men instruments of good to others. Let this story lead those who think a “small bill” can stand because it is a small bill, remember how much good a five-dollar bill has done in one single day—and that in paying a series of twenty bills, they may dispense good to hundreds around them.

The Lark.

A GERMAN ALLEGORY.

In the balmy morning of a spring day, a farmer walked with his son into the field. The cool morning wind played with the silver locks of the old man, and lifted the blooming stems of the field, so that they appeared like a cloud over the waving grain.

And the old man said, “Behold how active nature is for our good! With the same breath which cools our cheeks, she makes our fields fruitful, so that our barns are filled.

“Eighty years have I witnessed this, and still it is as pleasing to me as though I saw it to-day for the first time. It may easily be the last! For have I not reached the limit of human life!”

Thus the old man spake. Then the son pressed his hand and was grieved in his heart.

But the father said, “Why do you mourn? Behold, my day is ended, and my evening has come. If a new morning is to break upon me, it must first be night. But it will appear to me like a night of summer, cool, and lovely, when the evening twilight melts into the twilight of morning.”

“Oh my father,” said the son, “how can you speak so composedly of that, which will be to us the cause of severe affliction? You have given me an emblem of your death. Oh give me an emblem of your life, my father!”

Then the old man replied, “That I can easily do. For the life of a farmer is simple, like nature, which surrounds him. See the lark yonder; do you observe how it arises out of the grain-field singing! It does not soar so near the farmer for nothing! For it is the emblem of his life.

“Behold, it is born and matured in the lap of maternal earth, and feeds itself in the nourishing furrow. Among the waving stems it builds its nest and hatches its eggs, and takes care of its young. And the animating exhalations of the ground and the green field strengthen its wings, and the voice of its bosom. But now it arises towards heaven, and looks down from above on the stems and grain, and the tender mother, and upwards at the light, which rears the stems, and in the cloud, which sends dew and rain on the earth. As soon as morning begins to dawn, it is on the wing, to salute the early messenger of approaching day. And when the evening sun is sinking below the horizon, it rises again to drink of his last celestial beams. Thus it lives a two-fold life, the one silently in the still shade of the nourishing furrow and the green stems, and the other, singing in the bright regions of a higher world of light. But its two-fold life is only one. For behold, it rises only to descend, and descends only to rise again!”

Thus the old man spake. And the son fervently pressed the hand of his father, and said, “Ah yes, my father, such has been your life! Oh, may it be a source of joy to us for a long time to come!”

Thereupon the old man replied, “The clod is too heavy for me! Why do you envy me the undivided life of pure harmony and brighter light?

“The day is sultry. Come, let us return home.”

Origin of the Names of the several United States.

Maine was so called, as early as 1623, from Maine in France, of which Henrietta Maria, Queen of England, was at that time proprietor.

New Hampshire was the name given to the territory conveyed by the Plymouth Company to Captain John Mason, by patent, November 7th, 1629, with reference to the patentee, who was Governor of Portsmouth, in Hampshire, England.

Vermont was so called by the inhabitants in their Declaration of Independence, January 16th, 1777, from the French, verd mont, the green mountain.

Massachusetts was so called from Massachusetts Bay, and that from the Massachusetts tribe of Indians in the neighborhood of Boston. Massachusetts is said to signify “Blue Hills.”

Rhode Island was so called, in 1644, in reference to the Island of Rhodes, in the Mediterranean.

Connecticut was so called from the Indian name of its principal river. Connecticut is a Moheakanneew word, signifying long river.

New York was so called in 1664, in reference to the Duke of York and Albany, to whom this territory was granted by the King of England.

New Jersey was so called in 1664, from the Island of Jersey, on the coast of France, the residence of the family of Sir George Carteret, to whom this territory was granted.

Pennsylvania was so called in 1681, after William Penn.

Delaware was so called in 1703, from Delaware Bay, on which it lies, and which received its name from Lord de la War, who died in this bay.

Maryland was so called in honor of Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I., in his patent to Lord Baltimore, June 30, 1632.

Virginia was so called in 1584, after Elizabeth, the virgin Queen of England.

Carolina was so called by the French in 1564, in honor of King Charles IX. of France.

Georgia was so called in 1732, in honor of King George II.

Alabama was so called in 1817, from its principal river.

Mississippi was so called in 1800, from its western boundary. Mississippi is said to denote the whole river, that is, the river formed by the union of many.

Louisiana was so called in honor of Louis XIV. of France.

Tennessee was so called in 1796, from its principal river. The word Ten-assee is said to signify a curved spoon.

Kentucky was so called in 1792, from its principal river.

Illinois was so called in 1809, from its principal river. The word is said to signify the river of men.

Indiana was so called in 1809, from its being, for a long time, occupied by several large Indian tribes.

Ohio was so called in 1802, from its southern boundary.

Missouri was so called in 1821, from its principal river.

Michigan was so called in 1805, from the lake on its border.

Arkansas was so called in 1819, from its principal river.

Florida was so called by Juan Ponce de Leon, in 1572, because it was discovered on Easter Sunday, in Spanish Pascua Florida. Some say it was so called from its florid appearance, in consequence of the great number of flowers it produced.

Columbia was so called in reference to Columbus.

Wisconsin was so called from its principal river.

Iowa is so called from its principal river.

Oregon is so called from its principal river.

Battle between a Rat and a Crab.

The following incident is related in a late English journal:

In the year 1812, a sailor in company with several persons, at Sunderland, a short time before, perceived a crab which had wandered to the distance of about three yards from the water side. An old rat, on the look-out for food, sprang from his lurking-place and seized the crab, who, in return, raised his forcep claws, and laid fast hold of the assailant’s nose, who, when opportunity offered, hastily retired, squeaking a doleful chant, much surprised, no doubt, at the unexpected reception he had experienced.

The crab, finding itself at liberty, retreated, as speedily as crab could do, towards its own element; but after a short space of time, it was arrested in its progress by Mr. Rat, who renewed the contest, and experienced a second rude embrace from his antagonist. The rat, as before, retreated, bemoaning such violent treatment. Frequent and severe were the attacks; on view of his enemy, the crab always prepared for action by raising its fore claws in a threatening attitude.

After a bloodless contest of half an hour, the crab, though much exhausted, had nearly reached the sea, when the rat, almost despairing of conquest, made a last and daring effort to overcome his antagonist, and succeeded (to use the seaman’s term) in capsizing his intended victim, a situation of which the rat immediately took advantage, seizing, like an able general, the vanquished prey, and dragging the creature by the hind legs (proceeding backwards) into his den. After a short interval, he made his escape, and appeared to the spectators, mutilated and deprived of most of the small legs; the rat soon followed in pursuit of the fugitive, and forced him back to his den, where, no doubt, he regaled his wife and family.

Bill and the Boys,

OR WIT AND WEALTH.

As we have finished Bill Keeler’s story of the lottery ticket, we will now proceed to relate another tale which was told by one of the boys who belonged to the story-telling circle of Salem, and which we shall entitle Wit and Wealth.

A great many years ago, and in a far-off country, there were two boys—one of them was the son of the king and bore the name of Selim; the other was the child of a poor man and was called Bazeen.

Selim was brought up in luxury and permitted to have his own way. He was dressed in the richest silks; his ears were decorated with diamonds, and jewels of great price glittered upon every part of his person. He was surrounded with servants, who were attentive to his wishes, and prompt to gratify every passion and caprice.

But while so much pains were taken to amuse the young prince and minister to his pleasures, his education in most respects was neglected. He was instructed in horsemanship, music, dancing and military exercises, but he had a contempt for books, and utterly refused to learn to read. He seemed to think it was enough to be a prince—that by birth he was superior to all others. He made, indeed, a mistake common enough among people of high fortune, in feeling that the rank and condition in which he was born gave him a right to claim superiority in every respect over all around him. He forgot that there is no royal road to learning—that the prince as well as the plebeian must study to acquire knowledge, and that a person with a full purse may be a pauper with respect to brains.

Young Bazeen was very different from all this. His father, as we have said, was poor. He had no jewels with which to decorate the person of his son, nor could he do more in respect to dress than to clothe him in the plainest attire. But he had still the power of giving his boy an education, for learning was little prized in that country, and the schoolmaster undertook the education of Bazeen for a very small compensation. Thus, the boy was taught the learning of that day, and among other things was made acquainted with several different languages.

When the two youths we have described were approaching the period of manhood, they joined the army of their country and went on an expedition against a distant enemy. Bazeen was attached to Selim’s corps, which consisted of a troop of horse, and though a private soldier, he attracted the notice of the youthful prince. They at last met the enemy, and their army being defeated in the terrible engagement which followed, they were both taken and carried into captivity.

The appearance of Selim marked him as a person of some consequence, and he was therefore ordered into the presence of the king whose soldiers had made him prisoner. Bazeen accompanied him as his attendant. The young prince had taken care to decorate his person in the most costly manner, expecting in this way to dazzle the eyes of the monarch, before whom he was to appear.

The two prisoners were soon led into the presence of the sovereign. He received the young prince graciously, and began to ask him questions about the battle, and the country from which he came. But he soon perceived that Selim was ill informed upon these subjects, and that he was, in fact, deficient in intelligence and observation. He then turned his attention to Bazeen, and put nearly the same questions to him that he had done to Selim. Bazeen answered modestly, and with some hesitation, doubting whether it was proper to show himself superior in knowledge to his royal master. The monarch penetrated his feelings, and commanded him to reply. The youth was therefore forced to answer, and soon showed himself to possess a great deal of knowledge. “Bring me a book!” said the king to one of his servants. The book was brought and handed to Selim; but he shook his head disdainfully, and remarked that at his father’s court, princes scorned the drudgery of learning to read. “Such tasks,” said he, “are reserved for our slaves. Give the book to Bazeen, he can read!”

The lip of the monarch curled, but he did not speak. The book was handed to Bazeen, and he read the passage that was pointed out. “It is well,” said the king, “and now hear my decree. Bazeen shall be my secretary, for he has learning; and his mind, which is the noblest part of man, fits him to be the companion of princes. Selim despises learning, and shows that while the body—the inferior part—is glittering with jewels, he has still a base and grovelling mind! Selim is at heart a slave, and slavery shall be his doom. This is my decree.”

The sentence of the king was put in immediate execution. Bazeen was raised to a high station in the palace, and Selim was compelled to perform the meanest offices of the household. But the former was scarcely less unhappy than the latter. He performed his duties faithfully, but he did not enter heartily into the service of a king who was the enemy of his country. The condition of Selim was also a constant source of misery to him. He therefore entered into a scheme for effecting the escape of his young master and his own. In endeavoring to carry this into effect, they were both detected and thrown into prison.

It was some consolation to the two youths that they were permitted to be together, but after they had been confined for several months, time hung heavily on their hands. Their dungeon consisted of a small room, with scarcely a ray of light. Selim soon sunk into a miserable state of despair. He was permitted to retain his jewels, but how worthless were they now! They seemed, indeed, to mock his degradation, and even to embitter his misery. But Bazeen had jewels of another kind—those of the mind, which could even illuminate the darkness, and were of inestimable value even in the dungeon. They enabled him to support his confinement; his range of knowledge furnished him with constant sources of thought, reflection and emotion. He was thus not only able to keep his own mind in a cheerful state, but he often communicated the light of his mind to that of his dejected companion.

A year had now passed, when at last the jailer in making his rounds entered the apartment, attended by a person holding a lamp in one hand, and a scroll in the other. The latter addressed the prisoners as follows: “I am instructed by the king, my master, to present to you this writing, and he that can read it is pardoned, and permitted to return to his own country.” Upon this he held out the paper, first to the prince and then to Bazeen. The latter ran his eye over it, but shook his head, saying “It is a hard task you give us; we have been confined in a dungeon for a year, and now you bring us a light which dazzles our eyes. Leave us the lamp for an hour, and when we are accustomed to the light, return and put us upon the trial.”

The messenger of the king acceded to this proposition, and departed. As soon as he was gone, Bazeen, who had read the paper, told Selim the precise words it contained. He made him repeat them again and again, until they were fixed in his memory.

At the time appointed the messenger returned. Selim took the paper, and repeated the words it contained, thus seeming to read it accurately. He was therefore released from the prison, and taking leave of Bazeen, departed from the dungeon. He was taken before the king, where Bazeen also was summoned. “I have heard the story of your wit,” said he to the latter, “and you have used it generously in behalf of your master. He shall have his liberty, for I have promised it; but you shall accompany him. He may depart; but let him carry with him the consciousness that wit is better than wealth, and the mind infinitely more worthy of decoration than the person.”

Blue Beard and his Castle.

The ruins of the Chateau de la Verriere, on the banks of the Erdre, in the department of the Loire Inferieure, are, according to the tradition of the neighboring peasantry, those of the castle of the celebrated Blue Beard, the hero of the well known nursery tale. This formidable personage, who is not altogether a creature of fancy, was Giles de Retz, who lived in the reign of Charles VII., and was a vassal of John V., duke of Bretagne. He was tried at Nantes, on suspicion of having destroyed a number of children, who had been seen to enter the castle, and were never heard of afterwards.

The bodies of several were afterwards found, he having caused them to be put to death to make use of their blood in writing charms and forming incantations to raise infernal spirits, by whose means he believed, according to the horrible superstitions of the times, that buried treasures would be revealed to him. On his trial he confessed the most horrible acts of atrocity, and was sentenced to be burnt alive; but the duke caused him to be strangled before he was tied to the stake. This execution took place December 25th, 1440, and a detailed account of it is still preserved in a manuscript in the archives of Nantes.

A Horse stung to death by Bees.—We learn from the Hartford (Connecticut) Patriot, that Mr. William Russell, of Spring Hill, tied his horse near a bee-hive, a few days ago, when the swarm set upon the horse and stung him until he sunk down in the greatest agony and immediately died. Before he fell, Mr. Russell made every effort to remove the horse, but the poor brute seemed spellbound, and refused to stir. The day was warm, and Mr. Russell had been driving fast.

The Flowers of Spring.—The shower of rain that was falling a few minutes ago, is passed away; the sun is shining bright, the drops of rain are glittering like diamonds on the young leaves. How sweet is the smell of the sweetbriar after the rain! How pleasant does the garden look! A few weeks ago there were little signs of life anywhere, but now every border is full of flowers, and fresh buds are still showing their heads above the ground. Among the low green leaves, we see colors of blue, and red, and yellow, and orange, and purple. Where were these beautiful flowers in winter? Were they dead? They were buried, indeed, in the ground, and their fair blossoms were not then unfolded, but there was life in their roots. There was life, too, in the seeds which were sown a little while ago, though they did not spring up till the rain and sunshine came.

Your kind heavenly Father sends you flowers, not only to teach you wisdom, but to give you sweet and innocent pleasure. So now, my little ones, enjoy the sunshine, for it will soon pass away. The clouds are gathering again. Look for violets and primroses in the sunny banks, gather the cowslips and tie them into yellow balls, and let no innocent joy of spring pass by you.—English magazine.

Boisterous Preaching.—A celebrated divine, who was remarkable in the first period of his ministry for a loud and boisterous mode of preaching, suddenly changed his whole manner in the pulpit, and adopted a mild and dispassionate mode of delivery. One of his brethren observing it, inquired of him what had induced him to make the change? He answered: “When I was young, I thought it was the thunder that killed the people; but when I grew wiser, I discovered it was the lightning—so I determined to thunder less and lighten more in future.” It is a pity that all preachers had not made the discovery.

Letter to Peter Parley,

AND HIS ANSWER.

Belleville, Gloucester county, Va.,
March 26th, 1844.

Dear Mr. Parley:

I am very much interested in your little book on the sun, moon, and stars; I understand it very well. The last lesson I read was about the centrifugal and centripetal forces. I have read a good many of your books of Asia, Africa, Europe, the Christmas Gift, and your magazine.

I should like to have accompanied you in your journeys on the terrestrial and celestial globes; were you not afraid of being melted in Mercury and freezing in Uranus? I think I should have been.

I have lately been reading the history of Virginia, which is the state in which I live. I think it very interesting. It tells when the state was first settled, and it gave me a great deal of information about the colonies. I did not know of Nathaniel Bacon, or the rebellion which he caused, before I read the book, although he lived and died within a few miles of our house. His remains were buried in Petsworth church. Nor did I know, before I read the history, that Charles 2d’s coronation robe was woven in Gloucester county.

You may be sure I was very glad to have a knowledge of such facts. The Virginians were very loyal subjects, and would have continued so, had it not been for the manner in which they were treated by the king and his parliament.

Are you a whig or a democrat? Mr. Parley, do you think we shall ever have as good a president as Washington? I fear not, but hope we may. Mr. Parley, where did you acquire so much information as you have given your little readers? My brother, who went to Cambridge College, says he has often passed your house; if I had been in his place, I would have stepped in and made your acquaintance. I am for Mr. Clay.

I wish you would write a book on mythology. I would like to know something more than I do of the heathen gods. I have read a good deal of them, but not by you. Your method being so good to convey information, furnishes a reason why I should like to read a book on this subject by you. I have seen your geography, and think it very good for youth; it gives such a good description of the earth.

Your little reader,

Edwin T*******.

PETER PARLEY’S ANSWER.

My dear young Friend:

Your kind letter, written in March last, was received by me some weeks since; but I have not been able to answer it till now. You speak very pleasantly of my little books, and tell me that they have given you a great deal of instruction. I am glad to hear this, and I shall be still more pleased to learn, that as they have added to your stock of knowledge, and increased your enjoyment, they have also shown you, that our goodness ought to increase with our learning. I shall at least indulge the belief that it will prove so in your case, and that you will thus, in after life—show yourself worthy of the name you bear.

You speak with great interest of Virginia—and this is right—for it is your birth-place. It is natural to love our native land, and this love, which is called patriotism, is a virtuous and praiseworthy sentiment. How many beautiful and glorious actions have sprung from it! What a noble spectacle does the life of Washington present, who lived for his country! A true patriot is indeed a great man, and commands the admiration of the world. You may be proud of a state that produced Washington, but though I am a Yankee, he was my countryman, and I am proud of him too.

You ask if I am a whig, or a democrat. If Washington was a whig, so am I. I do not know that, in all respects, we shall ever again have so faultless a character to preside over our nation; but I hope to see the next president, whoever he may be, willing to walk in his footsteps—willing to imbibe his spirit—willing to set an example of patriotism to the whole country and the whole world. If Henry Clay is this kind of man—and I am told he is—I shall rejoice to see him president. They say he has a noble, generous, patriotic heart—and an excellent head too. This union makes a great man. Without it no man can be truly great.

I have hardly space to talk of politics, for you know it is a mighty long-winded subject. The best way is for you to call and see me, when you visit Boston. I live in a brown house, four miles from the city, and am ever glad to see my young friends. I always have a plate ready, somewhat in Virginia fashion, for my juvenile visitors. If my table is not so bountifully spread as yours, I will try to imitate that warm-hearted hospitality for which Old Virginia is famous. When you come, I will tell you whether I am a whig or a democrat—and one thing you will find out—and that is, that I like a clever fellow, whatever his politics may be. We will also, when you visit me, talk over the affairs of Mercury and mythology. If I do not tell you where I got all my knowledge, I will try to satisfy you that a moderate stock of learning, well employed, may do a great deal of good in the world.

I am your sincere friend,

Peter Parley.

Our Correspondence.

We have this month our usual stock of letters from our good natured friends,—but we can only find room to notice them briefly. We are particularly well supplied with puzzles—enough, indeed, to get our brains, and those of our readers too, into a snarl—if we were to publish them all. There seems to be a great love for these things, and abundance of talent to produce them; why don’t somebody set up a Magazine entirely devoted to them? It might be called “The Universal Puzzler,” or the “Puzzler Puzzled, consisting of puzzles, original and select, foreign and domestic, and embracing the most celebrated puzzles of ancient and modern puzzlers—edited by Peter Puzzle, Esq., aided by all the little Puzzles!” If any one is disposed to start the work, we give him the title gratis. But to our correspondence.

H. D. W——r, of Fruit Hill, Rhode Island, guesses that the answer to the riddle of our Quincy subscriber, is North America; and that of the one that comes from Portsmouth, is R. Merry’s Museum. Master Walker is right—as are several other correspondents, who send us the same answer.

The letter of F. H. B. of Quincy, is received, as is that of E. D. H., Elizabeth B——g, &c., &c. The following deserves insertion as it has travelled so far.

Athens, (Georgia) April 19th, 1844.

Mr. Merry:

Dear Sir,—I have received your Museum, and I am perfectly delighted with it. I am trying to get you more subscribers in our town, and I know that when I show the late numbers to some of the other little girls and boys, I shall have some new subscribers for you. I take a great deal of interest in your puzzles, and every time that your Museum has some of them in it, I sit down and try to solve them. Sometimes I succeed, and sometimes I do not. I write this to you because I see that you say in your last, that you love to hear from your little subscribers; and I am also encouraged to do so, seeing that you published a letter from a subscriber in Decatur, which is not very far from this place. I have found the answer to the Enigma of Frederick H. B. of Quincy; and I also send one of my own, which you will please publish if you think it deserves it. All that I have now to add is, that you are not forgotten in Georgia.

Your young friend,

A. C. C******.

HERE IS THE ANSWER TO FREDERICK’S ENIGMA.

His 5, 8, 11, 4, 2 and 9, is Hector, a cape on a large island.

His 6, 3, 11, 4, 10 and 11, is Arctic—a large circle.

His 5, 12, 3 and 8, is Hard—the tribe of Indians that inhabit British America.

His 5, 2, 9 and 1, is Cape Horn, of South America.

His 7, 12, 9, 7, 2, 3 and 12, is Marmora, a sea between Europe and Asia.

His 1, 8, 10, 7 and 10, is Niemen, a river in Europe.

His 11, 3, 10, 7, 8 and 12, is Crimea, a portion of Russia.

His 8, 4, 1 and 12 is Etna, a burning mountain.

His 11, 5, 10, 1 and 12, is China, a country in Asia.

His 5, 8, 3, 12 and 4, is Herat, the capital of a country in Asia.

His 12, 11, 5, 8, 8 and 1, is Achun, a town on a large island.

His whole is North America—a large portion of the globe.

PUZZLE.

My whole consists of ten letters.
My 9, 8, 5 and 6, is very useful to fur traders.
My 5, 6 and 10, is an animal.
My 10, 9, 4 and 7, is a burning mountain in Europe.
My 9, 5 and 8, is manufactured in large quantities in the Southern States.
My 1, 7 and 9, is an animal that goes out only at night.
My 10, 2, 3, 6 and 10, is a part of the Eastern Continent.
My whole is the name of a distinguished Emperor.

A. C. C.

We are requested to express, in a particular manner, the thanks of the Publishers to the post-master of Augusta, Georgia, for his kind offices; and also to Mrs. D——, who takes a special and efficient interest in our humble periodical. Mrs. S. W. L., of Leighton, Alabama, will also accept our acknowledgments for her kind offices in behalf of our work. We hope it may prove worthy of such kindness.

[Audio content is not currently supported on your device.

The Lily.

MUSIC COMPOSED BY GEORGE J. WEBB.

By cool Siloam’s shady rill,

How sweet the lily grows!

How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon’s dewy rose!

Lo, such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upwards drawn to God!

By cool Siloam’s shady rill
The lily must decay,
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
Must shortly fade,
Must shortly fade away,
Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man’s maturer age,
Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power,
And stormy passion’s rage!

O Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father’s shrine!
Whose years with changeless virtue crowned,
Were all alike divine:—

Dependent on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still thine own!

Footnotes:

[1] The substance of the following memoir is extracted from an address delivered at the funeral of Dr. Channing, by his colleague, the Rev. Ezra S. Gannett.

[2] The mode still pursued by the Egyptians is precisely the same as that practised by them and other eastern nations formerly, as described in Numbers xviii. 27; Deuteronomy xxv. 4; Isaiah xxviii. 27, 28; Ruth iii. v. 2-9.

[3] Every city in Egypt has a necropolis, or burial-place, so situated as to be secure from injury by the inundations of the Nile. In Upper Egypt these “silent cities” are hollowed out of the mountain-sides.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged unless indicated below.

Hyphenation of titles in the Table of Contents was adjusted to match that of the text in the book.

Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the book. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, partially or unprinted printed letters, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Duplicate letters at line endings or page breaks were removed.

Links to audio files were added for music at the end of each monthly episode. The music files are the music transcriber's interpretation of the printed notation and are placed in the public domain. At the time of this writing, music file links will not work in mobile e-book formats like epub or Kindle/mobi. Users who are reading the e-book in one of these formats can listen to the music or download music files in the HTML version. Lyrics to musical scores are presented as poetry following the illustration of the music.

The following spelling corrections were made:

- he / be
- waiscoat / waistcoat
- uproarous / uproarious
- walcome / welcome
- Domosthenes / Demosthenes

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Table of Contents

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VII.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

The Thorn.

The Old Man in the Corner; or, the Pedler’s Pack.

The Blues.

“Don’t give up the Ship.”

The Stormy Petrel.

Bill and the Boys.

Pictures of Various Nations.

Light.

Herons and Rooks.

Spectral Illusions.

Bats.

Kin Shan; or, the Golden Isle.

Our Correspondence.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

The Three Sovereigns.

Inquisitive Jack.

Dick Boldhero.

The Indian and his Dog.

Husking the Corn.

The Old Man in the Corner; or, the Pedler’s Pack,

Snow-balling.

The Use of Telescopes.

The Lotus.

The Indian Dandy.

The Locust.

St. Patrick and Father Matthew.

Combat between a Falcon and Serpent.

The Papyrus.

Pigeon Cones.

Pictures of Various Nations.

Bonaparte and the Leg of Mutton.

Names of Countries and Places.

Snuff-Taking.

Squirrels.

The Blue Jay.

To our Readers.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Dick Boldhero.

Bill and the Boys.

The Old Mansion.

The Desman, or Russian Musk-Rat.

Inquisitive Jack.

City of Ancient Babylon.

The Leopard.

The Old Man in the Corner.

The Pyramids of Egypt.

Pictures of Various Nations.

A Monster of the Deep.

The Sperm Whale.

Squirrels.

Our Correspondence.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Dick Boldhero.

William Ellery Channing.[1]

The Morse.

Inquisitive Jack.

Bill and the Boys.

The Leming.

Pictures of Various Nations.

The Old Man in the Corner.

Persia.

Varieties.

Our Correspondence

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Inquisitive Jack.

The Deserts of Africa and Asia.

Dick Boldhero.

Bill and the Boys.

Miss Pappoo.

The Old Man in the Corner.

Pictures of Various Nations.

A Chinese Dandy.

A Thrilling Narrative.

Demosthenes.

Walking on Stilts.

The Goldfinch.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Inquisitive Jack.

Sketches in Egypt.

Pictures of Various Nations.

Dick Boldhero.

The Old Man in the Corner.

The Five-Dollar Bill.

The Lark.

Origin of the Names of the several United States.

Battle between a Rat and a Crab.

Bill and the Boys,

Blue Beard and his Castle.

Letter to Peter Parley,

Our Correspondence.

Footnotes:

- Transcriber’s Note:

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