Robert Merry's Museum, Volumes V-VI (1843)
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Title: Robert Merry's Museum, Volumes V-VI (1843)

Author: Various

Editor: Samuel G. Goodrich

Release date: May 30, 2024 [eBook #73736]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Bradbury & Soden, 1842

Credits: Carol Brown, Linda Cantoni, Jude Eylander, Katherine Ward and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT MERRY'S MUSEUM, VOLUMES V-VI (1843) ***

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM:

VOLUMES V. VI.

BOSTON:

PUBLISHED BY BRADBURY, SODEN & CO.

NO. 10, SCHOOL STREET.

1844.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

ROBERT MERRY’S
MUSEUM.

EDITED BY

S. G. GOODRICH,

AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY’S TALES.

VOLUME V.

BOSTON:
BRADBURY, SODEN, & CO.,
No. 10, School Street.
1843.

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

CONTENTS OF VOLUME V.

JANUARY TO JUNE, 1843.

A New Year’s Bow, | 1
The Two Travellers, | 2
Fidelity of a Negro Servant, | 4
Maple Tree at Matibo, in Italy, | 5
The Lost Found, | 6
The Snow-Man, | 8
An Intelligent Horse, | 9
True Stories, | 10, 42, 112, 167
Kindness and Sagacity of the Ass, | 10
A Test of Christianity, | 11
A Tahitian Christian, | ”
Sir Matthew Hale, | 12
David Saunders, | ”
An Indian’s Illustration of Scripture, | 13
The Force of Habit, | ”
The Narval or Sea Unicorn, | 15
Come and get it, | 17
The Effects of Music on Animals, | 18
Irishman’s Notion of Discount, | 21
Winter Evening, or Ghost Stories, | 22
The White Bear, | 26
The Story of Hercules, | 27
The Walk, | 30
Discontented Betty, | 31
Music—Hope, | ”
Sources of History, | 33
Something about Government, | 36
The Law is Everywhere, | ”
Equality, | 37
A Boy Lost, | 38
Arithmetic, | ”
Anecdotes of Storks, | 39
Conundrums, | ”
Artificial Ice for Skating, | 41
The Love of Nature, | 45
True Stories for the Young, | ”
Winter, | 48
Smiles, | ”
The Water-Spout, | 49
Eccentric Old Maid, | 50
Beauty, | ”
The Elephant and Fox, | ”
The Vain Search, | 52
Varieties, | 54
Imagination, | 56
Sister, | 57
Burning of the Tower of London, | 59
The Gleaner, | 60
Metals, | 63
The Prussian Exercise, | ”
Anecdotes of Bonaparte, | 64
Catching Rabbits, | ”
Amusements, | 65
Contradiction, | 66
Bull, | ”
All by Themselves, | 67
Profane Swearing, | 68
A Roman Story, | 69
The Rock of Gibraltar, | 74
Order and Disorder, | 75
The Little Mariner, | 77
The Old Lady and her Cat, | 78
Cornelia, | 80
A Sliding Party, | 81
A Roman Judge, | 82
Patrick Henry, | ”
The Old Owl, | 83
A Fisherman’s Widow, | 84
The Zebu, or Indian Ox, | 86
The Bison, or American Buffalo, | ”
Anecdote, | 87
A Pious Mother, | ”
The Medallion, | 88
Good and Evil, | ”
Little Leaves for Little Readers, | 89, 121, 154, 185
The Mourner Comforted, | 91
Inquisitive Jack, | 92, 125, 155, 185
The Snow Drift, | 95, 124
The Seasons, | 96
The Revolutions of the Earth, | 99
Alexander and his Mother, | ”
Constantinople, | 100
Wonderful Sagacity, | 101
Tsze Pun Zu, | 102
Language of Animals, | 103
Fighting Crickets, | ”
Lying, | ”
Signs of the Zodiac, | 104
Invention of Printing, | 105
Comparison between Good and Bad Housewifery, | 107
An Equinoctial Storm, | 108
Yellow Hair, | 109
April, | 110
Shops in London, | 114
Fishes Playing the Jewsharp, | 115
Tea, | 116
The Finland Mother, | 118
Comets, | 119
Things that have Happened, | 121
The Mother Counselled by her Daughter, | 122
Princess Anne, | ”
The Blind Beggar and his Dog, | ”
Mother’s Advice, | 123
The Moon, | 127
The Meadow Lark, | 128
The Bird’s Nest, | 128
Shrine of San Rosalia, at Palermo, | 129
English Conundrums, | 130
May, | 131
Country Pursuits, | ”
The Village of Economy, | 133
God sees everywhere, | 135
Mohammed, | 136
A Fourth of July Oration, | 138
Clean Clothes, | 141
Subserviency, | ”
Heathen Mythology, | 142
The Elephant, | 147
The Lion, | 148
The Gnoo, | 149
A Swedish Girl, | 150
The Story of Gander, | 151
The Dog of Montargis, | 152
Natural Lamps, | 153
The School Ma’am, | 154
Lucy and Ann, | 157
Truth Triumphant, | 158
The Little Flower-Girl, | 159
Dash won’t learn his Lesson, | 160
To Correspondents, | ”
Louisa Vinning, | 161
Importance of a Fly, | 162
June, | 163
A Chapter of English Kings, | 165
Geography, | 170
The Bob-o-link, | 172
The White or Polar Bear, | 173
The Boy and his Mittens, | 174
Idleness, | ”
The Unfaithful Servant, | 175
The Barber of Paris, | 176
The World within a Plant, | 177
The Kildeer Plover, | 179
Force of Truth, | ”
Early Impressions, | 180
About the Chickadees, | 181
The Two Travellers, | 183
To our Correspondents, | 184
Puzzle, | ”
The Hoop, | 188
Hay-Making, | 189
The Moth, | 190
Chapter on Spices, | ”
Idle Mary, | ”
The Balloon, | 191
Sleepy Harry, | ”
Mamma and Baby, | ”
The Harrow, | 192
Handsome is that Handsome does, | ”

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

MERRY’S
MUSEUM.

JANUARY, 1843.

Vol. V. No 1.

A New-Year’s Bow.

Well, here we are again at the opening of a new year! It might seem that New-Year’s day had come so often as to have lost its interest; that by repetition it would become stale; that the words, “I wish you a happy new year!” would cease to excite the slightest regard. But it is not so. New-Year’s day seems always to take us by a kind of pleasant surprise, and never fails to be welcomed by old and young, boys and girls. It has been said by some old writers, that such anniversaries as this of New-Year’s day, are, in the journey of life, like milestones along the road, marking the distance we have travelled, and informing us of the position we occupy in respect to the beginning and end of our existence. If, indeed, we were to use them as such; if, on New-Year’s day, we were accustomed to look over our past lives, to compare what we have done with what is required of us; to see when we have performed, and when failed in, our duty; to mourn over past errors and neglect, and adopt new resolutions of improvement for the future—then, indeed, would New-Year’s day be an instructive mile-stone on our journey, a point of reckoning of the greatest benefit; and then it would not pass by as a mere thoughtless holiday of pleasant speeches and profitless amusement.

And why, blue eyes and black eyes!—tell me why we should not thus use our New-Year’s day—or at least a little piece of it? I will not ask you to give the whole day to a moral lecture. No! You may partake freely of the frolics and festivities of the day; you may greet all your friends and companions with that pleasant salutation—“A happy new year!” It is a cheerful sound, especially when uttered from child to child; from the child to the parent; from friend to friend. And you may engage in the various amusements of the season, as freely as if old Bob Merry were a child again, and romping with you, the gayest of the gay.

But, after your sports are done, just sit down in the chimney corner, with me. Don’t be afraid, for I am not about to scold you; or if I do scold a little, remember that I shall do it in all kindness; remember that I am like old Baldwin’s dog, who had lost his teeth,—my bark is worse than my bite. So, here we are! Now sit still, boys; don’t giggle, you girls! John, Tom, Peter, silence! I am about to tell you a story of New-Year’s day.

THE TWO TRAVELLERS.

Once upon a time, two young men, who were friends, set out to travel in distant countries. Before they departed, each one had formed a plan of proceeding. Horace determined to give himself up entirely to pleasure; to go wherever his humor might dictate; and to keep no records of his adventures. In short, he resolved to enjoy himself as much as possible, and by no means to encumber his mind with cares, duties, or troubles of any kind.

Ronald was as fond of amusement as Horace, but the mode he adopted for the gratification of his wishes was quite different. In the first place, he made out a scheme of his travels; he procured maps, read books, and, after mature deliberation, adopted a certain route, as most likely to afford him pleasure as well as instruction. In the formation of this plan he spent several weeks, and in this occupation he found quite as much satisfaction as he afterwards did in travelling. Thus he obtained one great advantage over his idle and luxurious friend, who foolishly thought that the essence of enjoyment lay in freedom from thought, restraint, and toil. Even before they set out on their journey, Ronald had actually found nearly as much pleasure as Horace received in the whole course of his expedition.

Well; the two young men started together, and as we are speaking of ancient days, when there were no coaches, canals, or railroads, we must tell you that both set out on foot. They had not proceeded far before they separated; Horace taking one road and Ronald another.

After the lapse of three years they both returned; but what a difference between them! Horace was sour and dissatisfied; he had seen a good deal of the world, but as he had travelled with no other design than to gratify himself from hour to hour, he had soon exhausted the cup of pleasure, and found nothing at the bottom but the bitter dregs of discontent. He pursued pleasure, till at last he found the pursuit to be distasteful and revolting. He grew tired, even of amusement. He indulged his tastes, humors, and passions, until indulgence itself was disgusting. When he returned to his friends, he had laid up nothing in his memory, by the relation of which he could amuse them; he had kept no record of things he had seen; he brought back no store of pleasing and useful recollections for himself, or others. Such was the result of three years’ travel for pleasure.

It was quite otherwise with Ronald. Adhering to his plans, he visited a great variety of places, and each day he recorded in his journal what he had seen. Whenever he met with an interesting object, he stopped to contemplate it; if it was some aged relic, famous in history, he took pains to investigate its story, and to write it down. If it was an object of interest to the eye, he made a sketch of it in the book which he kept for the purpose.

In this way, Ronald accomplished three good objects. In the first place, by taking in pleasure in a moderate way, and mixed with a little toil and industry, he prevented that cloying surfeit, which at last sickened and disgusted Horace. Horace took pleasure at wholesale, as a boy eats honey by the spoonful, and soon got sick of it. Ronald took his honey, on a slice of bread, and while he enjoyed it heartily, his appetite continued as good as before.

In the second place, Ronald greatly increased his enjoyments by the plan he adopted. Merely executing a plan is agreeable, and a source of great pleasure. It is natural to derive happiness from following out a design; from seeing hour by hour, day by day, how results come about, in conformity to our intentions. But this was not the only advantage which Ronald received from his system. The very toil he bestowed; the investigations he made; the pleasant thoughts and curious knowledge that were unfolded to his mind; the excitement he found in his exertions; the pleasure he took in drawing picturesque scenes; all these things constituted a rich harvest of pleasure, which was wholly denied to Horace. Thus it was that labor and industry, exerted in carrying out a plan, afforded the young traveller a vast deal of gratification. The very things that Horace looked upon as hateful, were, in fact, the sources of his rival’s most permanent enjoyment.

In the third place, Ronald had come back laden with rich stores of knowledge, observation and experience. Not only was his journal rich in tales, legends, scenes, incidents, and historical records, but in putting these things down on paper, his memory had been improved, and he had acquired the habit of observing and remembering. His mind was full of pleasant things, and nothing could be more interesting than to sit down and hear him tell of his travels, and of what he had seen. While Horace was dull, silent, and sour, Ronald was full of conversation, life, and interest. The one was happy, the other unhappy; one was agreeable, the other disagreeable; one had exhausted the cup of pleasure, the other seemed always to have the cup full and sparkling before him. It was agreed on all hands, that Horace was a bore, and everybody shunned him; while Ronald was considered by all a most agreeable fellow, and everybody sought his society.

So much for the two travellers; one, a luxurious lover of pleasure, who thought only of the passing moment, and in his folly, abused and threw away his powers of enjoyment; the other, a lover of pleasure also, but who pursued it moderately, with a wise regard to the future, and careful attention, every day, to rules of duty; and who thus secured his true happiness.

Now, my young friends, this is rather a dull story; but there is truth in it. Though it be New-Year’s day, still, remember that every day has its duties, for those who would live and be happy, like our hero, Ronald. And what is the peculiar duty of this day? Let me tell you.

We should all of us consider the past year; and reflect whether we have done our duty to God, to our neighbor, and to ourselves. Do we love our Maker, our Redeemer, better than when the past year opened upon us? Is our reverence, our confidence, in him stronger? Do we live more habitually in his presence? Do we yearn more and more to please him, to be like him?

Do we love our friends, neighbors, all that we see and meet, better? Are we more ready to forgive injuries? More earnest to promote peace? More self-sacrificing; more regardful of the feelings, wants, and wishes of others? Are we carefully cultivating the garden of the heart; cherishing its flowers, and weeding out its noxious passions?

These are questions which we should put to ourselves, this New-Year’s evening; and if we can answer them in the affirmative, it is well; but if not, let us make new and vigorous resolutions to give a better account of the opening year.

Do not be frightened from your duty by the idea that such thoughts as these I suggest, are distasteful or painful, remember the story of the two travellers; remember that if you adopt a good plan, the pursuit of it will unfold new and unexpected pleasures. Remember that all play and no reflection, is like unmixed honey, cloying to the appetite; remember that a mixture of duty enhances pleasure itself, at the same time improving the faculties and keeping the relish always fresh. And remember one thing more, which is this: the heart needs your constant care. Let me ask your attention to a homely practice in the country—that of putting down a barrel of meat. You notice that a quantity of salt is always put into it; for we all know that otherwise the meat would become an offensive mass. It is so with the human heart: it needs the salt—it needs a sense of duty, to keep it from spoiling! Oh, my young friends, think of this; and save your bosoms from becoming tainted with sin, and vice, and crime!

Fidelity of a Negro Servant.

Dr. L., a respectable gentleman, was confined for some time in the King’s Bench prison, London, while his fortune, on account of a law-suit, was unjustly withheld from him. During this distress, he was obliged to tell his negro servant, that, however painful to his feelings, they must part; his difficulties being so great that he was unable to provide for him the necessaries of life. The negro, whose name was Bob, replied, “No, master, we will never part. Many a year have you kept me and fed me, and clothed me, and treated me kindly; and now I will keep you.” Accordingly, Bob went out to work as a day-laborer; and, at the end of every week, faithfully brought his earnings to his master. These proved sufficient for the support of them both, until, the law-suit being ended, Dr. L. became possessed of a large fortune. He then settled a handsome sum on his faithful servant.

The Maple Tree Temple at Matibo, in Italy.

The beautiful tree which our engraving represents, is one of the most curious ornaments of a charming estate called Matibo, situated in the neighborhood of Savigliano, in Piedmont. It was planted more than sixty years ago, but it is not more than twenty-five or thirty years since the idea was started of making it grow in the form of a temple, which, after much time and perseverance, was completely realized.

This elegant little edifice consists of two stories, each of which has eight windows, and is capable of containing twenty persons. The floors are formed of branches twined together with great skill, and by nature are covered with leafy carpets; all round the verdure has formed thick walls, where a great number of birds have taken up their sojourn.

The proprietor of the island of Matibo has never disturbed those joyous little songsters, but has rather encouraged them; and at all hours of the day they may be heard fearlessly sporting and warbling, by the delighted visiters, who, looking from the windows, admire the prospect that opens before them.

The Lost Found.

In the south-eastern part of France is a range of mountains called the Cevennes. The highest points are about as elevated as Mount Washington, in New Hampshire. These mountains are remarkable for their wild, rugged, and broken character, and for the furious storms and tempests to which they are subject. In winter the snow falls to a great depth, and sometimes the inhabitants, being buried in the drifts, cut arch-ways beneath, and thus pass from one house to another.

These wild regions are not only celebrated in history as being the places of refuge to which the Huguenots retreated during their fearful and bloody persecution—about two hundred and fifty years ago—but as producing a race of people of peculiarly adventurous habits. Surrounded by natural objects of a savage aspect—grisly rocks, dark cavernous ravines—and trees hoary with age; their memories tinged with the traditionary romances attached to their ancestors; battling day by day with a sterile soil and a rugged climate for subsistence; often disputing with the bear and the wolf their very habitations; and, above all, touched with the lights and shadows of religion, mingled with various superstitions; these people present an interesting subject of regard to the student of human nature. Leaving them to the philosophers, however, it is our present design merely to tell a story which may shed some little light on the modes of life which prevail among these people.

In a little hamlet embosomed in the mountains, lived Pierre Bec, a poor laborer, with his only daughter, Aimee. Their house was of rough stone, laid in mud, and covered with pieces of bark as a roof. Here they dwelt with no other companions than a dog, named Tonnerre, which, in English, means thunder.

Aimee’s mother died when she was an infant; and after she could run alone, the little girl was left pretty much to her own guidance. The hamlet where she dwelt, consisted of only a dozen hovels, much like her own home. These were situated on an elevated ridge, in the very bosom of the mountain, and surrounded with wooded cliffs and dizzy precipices. A scene more wild, remote and lonely could scarcely be imagined.

Here Aimee grew to the age of nine years, and at that period she had not only become familiar with the scenes around, but, like the wild goats, she could climb the cliffs and thread the dells as fearlessly as if she had wings to support her, in case her foot should slide. Nor was this all. She could even go to the market town of Laperdu, a distance of seven miles, and return in the course of the day, having carried and sold a pair of stockings which had been made with her own hands.

In all these mountain excursions, old Tonnerre was the constant companion of Aimee, and he contributed not a little to her amusement. His activity knew no bounds. He must plunge into every thicket; put his head into every cave and crevice; smell up the larger trees; course through the ravines, and take, in short, a careful survey of the country over which they passed. He must banter with every squirrel that took refuge in the trees, daring him down with many a noisy shout. He must give chase to every hare that glanced across his path. He must mark the track of the wolf and bear with cries and howls of defiance, though in such cases he used to keep near his mistress, either for her safety or his own.

Such was Aimee, and such old Tonnerre, the hero and heroine of our tale, when, on a fine summer morning, they set out on a visit to Laperdu. They reached the place, and on their return were about two miles from their home, when one of the violent thunder storms, common in the mountains, began to darken the sky. It was already sunset, and in a few minutes the darkness became intense; at the same time the rain began to fall in torrents. In a short space, the ravines were spouting with waterfalls, and torrents were dashing madly down the glens. At the same time the roar of the thunder was perpetual, and the lightning, flash on flash, seemed to array the scene in garments of fire. Accustomed to such scenes, Aimee pushed on, following the lead of the dog, who kept close, and with fidgety anxiety turned round at every step to fortify her heart with a look of cheerfulness and courage. There was that in his face which seemed to say, “Don’t mind it, my dear little mistress—don’t mind it—it’s nothing but thunder and lightning, and wind, and rain, and tempest, and dark night, and we’ll get the better of it all, yet. Keep a good heart, and we’ll soon be home!”

Aimee did keep a good heart, but the storm was indeed fearful; and at last a bolt of lightning, falling upon a tree near by, tore it in splinters, and dashed the little girl to the ground. Here she lay, in a state of insensibility. The dog came to her side, and in a beseeching howl, seemed to try to awaken her. He at last began licking her face, but all was in vain. He remained with the poor girl till it was near morning, when, having used every art and device of which he was master, to recall her to consciousness, he set off with a round gallop for the hamlet. Panting and out of breath, he rushed up to his master, and with a piteous howl, did all he could to tell his melancholy story.

Pierre knew at once that something had befallen his child. He instantly announced his fears to his neighbors, who rallied at his call, and set out in search of Aimee. Her absence during the night had been remarked, and all the people had feared some accident, though Pierre had solaced himself with the idea that Aimee had been kept at Laperdu by the storm.

Tonnerre took the lead, and bounded forward like a deer. He went in long leaps, his hinder heels flying high in the air at every jump. He whined, howled, and came often back upon his track, as if to hasten forward the too tardy party. At last Pierre, who was the most anxious, and the leader of the group, came near the place where Aimee had fallen. The dog then leaped forward, and placing himself by the side of the girl, once more licked her face. She instantly raised herself so as to sit up, and putting her arms around the neck of her friend, embraced him, while the tears began to flow down her cheeks. Her father soon arrived, and the rest of the party coming up, all were rejoiced to find the poor girl unhurt. She was a little bewildered, and it was not until after several minutes, that she was able to tell her story. At last she arose upon her feet, on her wooden shoes, which had been knocked off by the lightning, and went home.

An occasion like this, would be noticed with pleasure, in any country; but these wild mountaineers appear to be peculiarly sensible to everything that is beautiful, even though it be but a display of the activity with which animals are endowed by their Creator. Accordingly, the tale we have told, was commemorated by an anniversary; every year, on the day in which the event occurred, the people used to go to a wild spot in the mountain, where a dog was wreathed with flowers, in honor of the feats of old Tonnerre.

The Snow Man.

Of all the sports of winter, I know of none that used to delight me more, when I was a boy, than the making of a snow man. To do this successfully, it required what is called a moist snow, so that it would adhere like mortar, and take any desirable shape.

And of all the fellows I ever knew, for this kind of sculpture, Bill Keeler—the companion of my early days—was the cleverest. He could indeed turn his hand to anything, and such was his dexterity, that whatever was going forward, he seemed always to take the lead. If we were skating, Bill was sure to cut the most fantastic circles and evolutions, and beat the best at a race. If we were leaping, Bill went just an inch further than the largest boys of the party. At a hop, either on the left or right foot, he surpassed his competitors by a quarter of a yard. In setting a trap for a woodchuck; smoking out a fox; coming Yankee over a rat; making wind-mills, kites, or chestnut whistles, Bill was the transcendent workman of the village.

But in nothing was his genius more conspicuous than in making a snow man. In this, as in sculpture, the great art lies more in the model, the design, than the finish. Bill’s figures, in this line, always meant something. He did not leave the effect to accident—not he! He knew what he was about, and could always accomplish, by the skill of his hand, what his mind conceived. I remember one remarkable instance of this.

In the days of which I speak, economy was a great point in matters touching the town-school; and consequently it was customary to employ cheap schoolmasters. A man who failed in everything else, was supposed to be fit to teach a school. According to this rule, one William Picket, was deemed worthy to preside over the West Lane Seminary, in Salem, some forty years ago, particularly as he underbid everybody else.

Picket was essentially a dunce, and believed that there was more sense, knowledge, and virtue in a birch stick, than in anything else. Accordingly, his chief efforts consisted in applying it to his pupils. At the same time he was a man of uncouth appearance. His neck was long—his nose prominent—the nostrils flaring, and always lined with snuff. His ears were large, and stood aloof from his head, like two mushrooms upon sharp stones.

Well, during the administration of Mr. William Picket, there came a fall of snow, about two feet deep, moist and malleable,—and “hurra!” it was for a snow man! Bill, who, by this time, was as celebrated in this species of fine art, as our Boston Greenough is in making marble statues, at once took the matter in hand. Up rolled the snow in huge masses, and Bill stood ready to give it shape and conformation. I recollect perfectly well the queer, quizzical air with which he presided over the operation. He said nothing, but held the point of his tongue, half twisted, like an auger, between his teeth.

The image grew into life rapidly, beneath his magic hand. At last it was done, and all at once the wonderful resemblance it bore to the schoolmaster flashed upon the spectators. What a shout rose to the sky! The long neck—the trumpet-shaped proboscis—the flaring ears—it was impossible to mistake them—it was impossible to resist the ludicrous likeness.

Many a wild thought was now suggested. “Let us give him a lesson in birch!” said one. “Let us snowball him!” said another. But all this time Master Picket was looking out of the school-house window, and I must say that he had the sense to take the joke. Alas for poor Bill! how his jacket was strapped that day! But so it is—genius is often made to suffer, and my friend consoled himself that, like many great men whose story is told in history, his very cleverness was the cause of his misfortunes.

An Intelligent Horse.—We read an anecdote the other day of a horse in England, belonging to a brewery, which is so tractable that he is left without restraint, to walk about the yard, and return to the stable as he pleases. In this yard there are some pigs, which are fed entirely on grain and corn, which the horse has taken a great dislike to. This he manifests in the most striking manner. There is a deep trough in the yard, which holds water for the horses, to which this one goes alone, with his mouth full of corn, which he saves from his own supply. When he reaches the trough, he lets the corn fall near it on the ground, and when the young swine approach to eat it, he suddenly seizes one by the tail, pops him into the trough, and then capers about the yard, seemingly delighted with the frolic. The noise of the pig soon brings the men to his assistance, who know from experience what is the matter, while the horse indulges in all kinds of antics, and then quietly returns to the stable.

True Stories.

A Warning to Thoughtless Boys.—In the autumn of 1842, as the Queen of the Isles steamer was on her passage from Liverpool to Douglas, Isle of Man, when about thirty miles from her destination, Mr. M’Fee, the chief mate, discerned an object at some distance in the water, and, on approaching it more nearly, it turned out to be a small boat, about four or five miles distant. On viewing the object with his telescope, he could see a person sitting in the stern, apparently in distress, and he immediately ordered the steamer to make all possible despatch towards the boat, and made every necessary preparation to render assistance.

On nearing the boat, a little boy was plainly seen using an almost expiring effort to keep it in the direction of the steamer, which was soon very near it. A rope was immediately thrown out, which the lad seized with a convulsive effort. To describe the scene when the boat was alongside the steamer is impossible—it was most heart-rending. There sat a little boy, twelve years of age, the boat having in it six inches depth of water, and the youth almost in a state of nudity, without shoes or stockings, cold and emaciated—indeed, all but dead. When on board the steamer he was immediately conveyed to bed, and Mr. Sigston, surgeon, who was a passenger, took him under his special care, and rendered every possible assistance and attention which his deplorable situation required.

When the vessel arrived at Douglas, the little fellow was given into the charge of the town surgeon, and has since been doing well. It turned out that the lad, whose name is Barney Smith, had, along with several other lads about his own age, got into the boat on Saturday evening, when it was anchored on the Douglas Sands; the other lads leaped out of the boat, took up the anchor, and pushed poor Barney off to sea.

They at once discovered the mischief they had done, and, being afraid of the consequences, ran away and did not mention the circumstance. Poor Barney was consequently drifted out to sea, and had remained afloat from Saturday till the time when he was providentially taken up by the steamer, at four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, a space of three days and three nights. He had a small quantity of meal and a little bread in a bag, of which he states he did not eat, as his thirst was so intolerable and his mouth so dry and parched, that he could not swallow it. He had only had salt water to drink, which increased his thirst, and he fancies that he slept one whole night and day. There can be no doubt that he had an almost miraculous delivery, as, soon after he was taken up, there was a severe gale and a heavy sea.—Carlisle Patriot.

Kindness and Sagacity of the Ass. The following anecdote of the sagacity of an ass, and the attachment displayed by the animal to his master, may help, in some degree, to redeem that ill-used race from a portion of the load of stupidity which is generally assigned to them, and which, with so many other loads, they bear with such exemplary patience.

Thomas Brown, residing near Hawick, England, travelled the country as a pedler, having an ass, the partner of his trade. From suffering under a paralytic affection, he was in the habit of assisting himself on the road by keeping hold of the crupper of the saddle, or more frequently the tail of the ass. During a severe winter, some years ago, whilst on one of his journeys, near Rule water, “the old man and his ass” were suddenly plunged into a wreath of snow. There they lay long, far from help, and ready to perish. At length the poor ass, after a severe struggle, got out; but finding his unfortunate master absent, he eyed the wreath for some time with a wistful look, and at last forced his way through it to where his master still lay, when, placing his body in such a position as to afford a firm grasp of the tail, the honest pedler was thereby enabled to take his accustomed hold, and was actually dragged out by the faithful beast to a place of safety!

A Test of Christianity. A Christian gentleman had occasion to travel through a new and thickly-settled part of the western country. His companion was a man of intelligence, but of infidel principles, who was fond of discussion, and tried to beguile the way by urging arguments against the truth of the Christian religion. The thinly peopled section of country through which they were passing, was inhabited by people of bad reputation, and it had been rumored that travellers had suffered fatal violence from them when they were within their power.

As regular inns were unknown, our travellers were compelled to trust to the hospitality of those of whom they could not but entertain a secret fear. On one occasion, as the evening closed in, they sought a lodging-place in a log cabin, far remote from other habitations. They anticipated but little comfort; and were induced to believe that it would be a measure of safety to watch alternately through the night.

As they were about to retire to their rude bed, their host, whose exterior had excited their distrust, proceeding to a shelf, took down an old and much worn Bible, and informing his visiters that it was his custom to worship God in his family, he read and prayed in so simple and sincere a manner as to secure the esteem of the travellers. They retired to rest, slept soundly, and thought no more of alternate watching.

In the morning, the Christian requested his infidel companion to say whether the religious exercises of the preceding evening had not dispelled every particle of distrust of their host’s character, and had not enabled him to close his eyes in the most confident security. He was evidently embarrassed by the question; but at length he candidly acknowledged that the sight of the Bible had secured him a sound night’s rest. Here was a testimony, extorted from an infidel, in favor of the influence of the religion which he skeptically assailed. He could not harbor a fear of violence from one who was in the habit of daily bending his knee before God! The very erection of the family altar rendered the house a secure asylum! Who would not be a Christian? Who can be an infidel?

A Tahitian Christian. Maree, a native of the island of Otaheite or Tahiti, was a man of fine natural talents and was not destitute of acquired ones; being able to read and write well, and acquainted with some of the first rules of arithmetic. He was possessed of a surprising memory, a quick perception, and a good understanding, with a sound and penetrating judgment; while, to crown all, he was a man of genuine piety and ardent zeal in the Savior’s cause. He was one of the first, who, under the preaching of the missionaries, publicly embraced Christianity among these islanders; and before it became general, his life was often in jeopardy, through his profession of it. More than one attempt was made, by a number of violent men, to shoot him and a little praying company, who used to meet with him that they might together worship the true God.

On one occasion, these lawless men having found him and his little party at prayer in a place appropriated for the purpose, levelled their muskets at them, with a view to execute their cruel designs, when, as though withheld by an unseen arm, their attention was arrested by the prayers offering up by the intended victims of their fury. The effect was instantaneous and powerful. Abandoning their murderous purpose, they went in and sat down with Maree and his company, confessed what their intentions had been, and told them not to be afraid, as they should not molest them any more; which promise they kept.

Maree was much respected among the people, both for his piety and talents, and also, as having been made a judge from the esteem entertained for him by Pomare, the king; because, as the latter used to say, “he had embraced Christianity at the mouth of the musket,” and for his persevering attachment to his profession, and moreover, as the king said, “because he knew Maree would regard the laws and do justice.”

Sir Matthew Hale. This great man, who was a famous judge in England about two hundred years ago, in writing to his children on the duties they were called to observe, thus speaks of the Sabbath:—

“I have by long and sound experience found that the due observance of this day and the duties of it hath been of singular comfort and advantage to me. The observance of this day hath ever had joined to it a blessing upon the rest of my time; and the week that hath been so begun hath been blessed and prospered to me; and, on the other side, when I have been negligent of the duties of this day, the rest of the week has been unsuccessful and unhappy to my own secular employments; so that I could easily make an estimate of my successes the week following, by the manner of my passing this day; and this I do not write lightly or inconsiderately, but upon a long and sound observation and experience.”

David Saunders,—the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain. Most of our readers are acquainted with that beautiful story, written by Hannah More, entitled “The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.” The substance of this narrative is a correct account of David Saunders, of West Lavington, England, who died about the period of its publication. The conversation represented as passing between the shepherd and a Mr. Johnston, really took place with Dr. Stonehouse, a neighboring clergyman, who befriended the shepherd on many occasions.

Dr. Stonehouse, who was on a journey, and somewhat fearful, from the appearance of the sky, that rain was at hand, accosted the shepherd by asking him what sort of weather it would be on the morrow. “It will be such weather as pleases me!” said the shepherd. Though the answer was delivered in the mildest and civilest tone that could be imagined, Dr. S. thought the words themselves rather rude and surly, and asked him how that could be. “Because,” replied the shepherd, “it will be such weather as pleases God, and whatever pleases him, always pleases me.”

Dr. S. was quite satisfied with this reply, and entered into conversation with the shepherd in the following manner: “Yours is a troublesome life, honest friend.” “To be sure, sir,” replied the shepherd, “’tis not a very lazy life; but ’tis not near so toilsome as that which my Great Master led for my sake. He had every state and condition of life at his choice, and chose a hard one, while I only submit to the lot that is appointed me.” “You are exposed to great cold and heat,” said the gentleman. “True, sir,” said the shepherd; “but then, I am not exposed to great temptations; and so throwing one thing against another, God is pleased to contrive to make things more equal than we poor, ignorant, short-sighted creatures are apt to think. David was happier when he kept his father’s sheep, on such a plain as this, and singing some of his own psalms, perhaps, than ever he was when he became king of Israel and Judah; and I dare say we should never have had some of the most beautiful texts in all those fine psalms, if he had not been a shepherd, which enabled him to make so many fine comparisons and similitudes, as one may say, from a country life, flocks of sheep, hills, valleys and fountains of water.”

“You think, then,” said the gentleman, “that a laborious life is a happy one?”

“I do, sir, and more especially so as it exposes a man to fewer sins. If king Saul had continued a poor laborious man to the end of his days, he might have lived happy and honest, and died a natural death in his bed at last; which you know, sir, was more than he did. But, I speak with reverence, for it was divine Providence overruled all that, you know, sir, and I do not presume to make comparisons. Beside, sir, my employment has been particularly honored. Moses was a shepherd in the plains of Midian. It was to shepherds keeping their flocks by night, that the angels appeared in Bethlehem, to tell the best news—the gladdest tidings that were ever revealed to poor sinful men; often and often has the thought warmed my poor heart in the coldest night, and filled me with more joy and thankfulness than the best supper could have done.”

This poor shepherd had indeed a depth of wisdom, which infinitely surpassed that of many learned philosophers. How often have they studied the ways of God, without being able to discern them—while all was plain to David Saunders.

An Indian’s Illustration of Scripture. Some years ago one of the preachers of the Mohegan Indians, near Norwich, in Connecticut, was preaching on the language of Solomon, “Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.” Eccles. xi. 1. To illustrate his subject, and enforce the duty of benevolence, he related a circumstance connected with his early days, as follows: “A certain man was going from Norwich to New London, with a loaded team; on attempting to ascend the hill where Indian lives, he found his team could not draw the load; he came to Indian, and got him to help him with his oxen. After he had got up, he asked Indian what there was to pay. Indian told him to do as much for somebody else.

“Some time afterward, Indian wanted a canoe; he went up Shetucket river, found a tree and made him one. When he got it done, he could not get it to the river; accordingly, he went to a man, and offered him all the money he had, if he would go and draw it to the river for him. The man said he would go. After getting it to the river, Indian offered to pay him. ‘No,’ said the man; ‘don’t you recollect, so long ago, helping a man up the hill by your house?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, I am the man; take your canoe and go home.’ So I find it after many days.”

The Force of Habit. Some time since, Lowndes, a tippling bookseller, presented a check at the banking house of Sir William Curtis & Co., London, and upon the cashier putting the usual question, “How will you have it?” replied, “cold, without sugar.”

The Narval, or Sea-Unicorn.

Among all the variety of weapons with which nature has armed her various tribes, there is not one so large or so formidable as the tusk of the narval. This terrible weapon is generally found single, and some are of opinion that the animal is only furnished with one by nature; but there is ample proof of instances to the contrary, for a narval with two teeth was for some time to be seen at the Stadthouse, at Amsterdam. The tooth, or horn of the sea-unicorn, is as straight as an arrow, is wreathed, and tapers to a sharp point; and is whiter, heavier, and harder than ivory.

The form of the sea-unicorn, as may be seen from the engraving prefixed to this article, resembles that of the dolphin, the head being about the seventh part of the body; the mouth is exceedingly small when compared to the enormous bulk of the animal, the eyes keen, and the nostrils placed on the top of the head.

The narval varies in color according to age; when young, the back is grayish, with small spots of a dark hue; and when full grown, is whitish, with small brown or gray spots, which vary much in their depth of color.

The sea-unicorn is generally found about Greenland and Iceland, but it is said that one has been seen near Boston. They swim with great rapidity, and are rendered formidable by their tusks, which they sometimes bury in the sides of a ship, or in the body of the whale. They are generally seen in numbers, and whenever they are attacked they crowd together in such a manner that they embarrass each other by their tusks.

“We one day saw,” says Scoresby, in his ‘Voyage to Greenland,’ “a great number of narvals, that swam near us in parties of fifteen to twenty; the majority of them were males, and had very long horns, or tusks, and seemed to be enjoying themselves by raising their horns above the water, and crossing them as if fencing. During their play they made a very strange noise, as if water were gurgling in their throats, which was probably the case, as the noise was only heard when they lifted their heads above the water. The greater number, apparently attracted by curiosity, followed the vessel, and as the water was clear, we could plainly see them go down to the keel and play with the rudder.”

The narval lives upon small fish, and not, as Cravez has asserted, upon sea-plants. Scoresby, in the following passage, confirms our statement:—

“My father sent me the contents of the stomach of a narval, which appeared to me very extraordinary. It consisted of small fishes half digested with the bones and fins of others, besides the fragments of cuttlefish, which seemed to constitute its principal food. There was a part of the back-bone of a turbot, fragments of another, with one almost entire—this was about two feet three inches long, and one foot eight inches broad. It is strange that the narval, without teeth, and having a very small mouth, apparently inflexible lips, and a short tongue, is able to seize and swallow a fish about three times larger than its mouth. As the animal in which these extraordinary contents were found was a male, with a tusk of seven feet, I think that this weapon had been used to catch the fish which had recently been made his prey. It is probable that the turbot had been pierced and killed before devoured, otherwise it is difficult to imagine how the narval was able to seize it, or how a fish of such activity as the turbot would allow itself to be taken by one with smooth lips, without teeth to catch, and without the means of holding it.”

The sea-unicorn, like the whale, is often used as food, and is, in fact, more valuable than any other cetaceous animal, as the oil which it furnishes is considered the best.

An anecdote relative to narval fishing, which we believe to be true, may not be unacceptable to our readers.

Etienne Turgot was one of the most respectable fishermen of Greenland, and from his expertness in spearing and harpooning the narval and the whale, was respected by all his craft. He had a wife, on whom he doted; and a son, a boy of seven years of age, whose daring disposition and fear-nought character were often the cause of many a sad hour to the mother; but it warmed the father’s heart to see in his offspring the same wild spirit that had characterized his own young days,—to hear of a miraculous escape, which reminded him of some of the hazardous scenes of his own daring boyhood.

For several months the son (Pierre,) had his mind bent on going out on a fishing excursion with his father; and when the parent returned home at night, the first thing that saluted his ears was, “Father, I must go to-morrow.”

The indulgent parent, after much persuasion, at last consented; and the following morning was fixed for the desired expedition.

Pierre slept but little; for his night was spent in dreams. At one time he was chased by a whale, or some other monster of the deep; at another he was making his way home with one on his back. At last morning came, and up he got to wake his father; and shortly afterwards they were gliding along in their light boat—the parent on the look-out for narvals, the son gazing into the crystal element, shouting, from time to time,—

“Oh! what a fish; I wish I could reach it!”

Thus they moved onwards, the father casting an occasional affectionate glance on the son, while the latter was too busy to see anything but the small fishes that were sporting beneath him.

After gazing for some time on the broad expanse of water, Etienne imagined that he saw something resembling a fish moving on the surface. On drawing nearer he perceived a horn projecting three feet out of the water, and nothing daunted, exclaimed,—

“Ah, ah; a narval!” Scarcely had he uttered these words, when he heard a plunge behind him; and on turning round, he discovered that his son had fallen into the water. The fond parent was about to plunge after him, when his eye caught sight of the tooth of the narval, which was rapidly gliding towards the place where Pierre was. Etienne stood for a moment horror-struck, gazing wildly at his son as he came up gurgling to the surface, then on the huge creature that was threatening to destroy the object of his affection. That presence of mind which had characterized his former actions in time of danger, did not forsake him at this critical moment. He seized his spear, fixed his keen eye upon the frightful animal, raised himself in the boat, and, aiming a thrust at its head, plunged into the water. For a moment nothing was to be seen; neither the father, son, nor fish. All was as if nothing had taken place, save that the water round the boat was tinctured with blood. Was it that of one, or all of them? No, not of all; for, a few moments afterwards, Etienne reached the surface, bearing in his arms his cherished boy.

When once more safely seated in the boat, the father and son looked everywhere for the wounded fish and the lost spear; but their search was in vain. At last they returned home; and on the husband telling his beloved spouse of the danger they had run, the terrified mother began to scold Pierre for his temerity; but the boy, accustomed to such rebukes, replied,—

“Ah, mother; if you had seen what a beauty it was, you would not scold me. If my arm had been a little longer I am sure I should have caught it.”

Years have elapsed; and, in spite of all Pierre’s solicitations, the prudent mother would not again hear of his accompanying his father on another fishing excursion.

Come and get it.

Come and get it, little pet—
Try again—you’ll have it yet!
’Tis a ring that sparkles bright,
And delights thy infant sight.
I wonder not, my little boy,
Thou art eager for the toy;
Grown-up people strive to grasp
The gold thy little hands would clasp.
Though we call thee silly boy,
Thus to love an idle toy,
Still, what better are the old,
Whose cherished bauble is but gold?
Are they not little children yet,
Like our little thoughtless pet,
Those who strive with eager lust
To gather heaps of shining dust?
Fare thee well, my little friend;
May thy mother o’er thee bend,
And whisper in thy tender heart,
A better love—a wiser part;
So that thou, to manhood grown,
May fix thy love on Truth, alone.
This is better, far, than gold,
This will serve thee, young or old;
This will brighter grow with years,
Cheer thee through this vale of tears;
And as current coin will pay
For all thy wants, on heaven’s way.
Parley’s Picture Book. New edition.

The Effects of Music on Animals.

Music exercises extraordinary effects upon certain animals, and fully confirms the remark of Racine, that “Nature has given ears sensible of harmony even to brutes.” We shall find that music subdues the rude dispositions of some; arouses the ferocity of others; renders some so docile and tame, that they may be approached without hesitation; while it makes others suspicious and frightened.

Gregory Nicene tells us of an ape, in the city of Alexandria, which, clothed in very rich attire, used to dance very exactly to music. Once he had continued the dance for a long time; but a beholder, having thrown him some nuts, he immediately left off dancing, and began to gather them, amidst the loud laughter of the spectators.

Old Franzius, a moralizing zoologist, compares this ape’s conduct to that of those men in high office, who will neglect the public whenever private gain offers itself to them. This writer says, “a bear is extraordinarily delighted with music.”

Paulus Diaconus and Olaus Magnus tell us, that “there are multitudes of bears in the south, which oftentimes will come to the shepherds and make them play to them till hunger forceth them to go away; and as soon as they are gone, the shepherd will sound his horn, by which they are so affrighted that they will never come any more.”

Many dogs appear to be fond of music. Mr. Jesse observes, that “there is hardly a regimental band in the British service which is not attended by some particular dog, who owns no master, but picks up his living where he can; in fact, attaches itself to the band, and follows it from one quarter to another. These dogs are great favorites with the soldiers, and they never ill-use them or suffer others to do so.”

M. Marville says, that while a man was playing upon a conch shell, he noticed a dog sitting on its hind legs looking steadfastly at the player for above an hour; and M. Le Cat observes, that we hear a dog howl, we see him weep, as it were, at a tune played upon a flute; but we see him quite lively in a field, at the sound of a French horn.

Bowyer states, that “a Scotch bagpiper traversing the mountains of Ulster, in Ireland, was one evening encountered by a starved wolf. In his distress, the poor man could think of nothing better than to open his wallet, and try the effects of his hospitality; he did so, and the savage swallowed all that was thrown to him with such a voracity that it seemed as if his appetite was just returning to him. The whole stock of provision was, of course, soon spent, and now his only recourse was to the virtues of his bagpipe; this the monster no sooner heard, than he took to the mountains with the same precipitation with which he had left them. The poor piper could not so perfectly enjoy his deliverance, but that, with an angry look at parting, he shook his head, saying, ‘Ay, are these your tricks? had I known your humor, you should have had your music before supper.’”

Sparrman furnishes us with an anecdote of a trumpeter, who, by a similar expedient, saved himself from falling a prey to a prowling hyæna:—“One night,” he says, “at a feast near the Cape, a trumpeter, who had got himself well filled with liquor, was carried out of doors, in order to cool and sober him. The scent of him soon attracted a spotted hyæna, which threw him on its back, and carried him away to Table Mountain, thinking him a corpse, and consequently a fair prize. In the mean time, our drunken musician awoke sufficiently sensible to know the danger of his situation, and to sound the alarm with his trumpet, which he carried fastened to his side. The beast, as may be easily imagined, was not less frightened in its turn, and ran away.”

Sir Everard Home found that the effect of the higher notes of the pianoforte upon the great lion in Exeter ’Change, was only to excite his attention, which was very great, as he remained silent and motionless. But no sooner were the flat notes sounded, than he sprang up, attempted to break loose, lashed his tail, uttered the deepest yells, and seemed so furious and enraged as to frighten the ladies.

Franzius says, “the tiger cannot endure the sound of drums, which maketh him run mad, and tear himself to pieces.” Valmont de Bomare saw, at the fair of St. Germain, cats turned musicians; their performance being announced as the “Mewing Concert.” In the centre, was an ape beating time; and some cats were arranged on each side of him, with music before them on the stalls. At a signal from the ape, they regulated their mewing to sad or lively strains.

Seals have a most delicate sense of hearing, and delight in musical sounds; a fact not unknown to the ancients. Sir Walter Scott says,

“Rude Heiskar’s seals, through surges dark,

Will long pursue the minstrel’s bark.”

Laing, in his “Voyage to Spitzbergen,” states, that a numerous audience of seals would surround the vessel and follow it for miles when a violin was played on deck, as was often the case.

Music has been resorted to as a means of attracting rats, mice, and other mischievous animals, from out of their abodes. In the “Magazine of Natural History,” it is stated, that the steward of a ship, infested with rats, used to play some lively airs on a flute after he had baited his traps and placed them near the rat holes. The music, we are told, attracted the rats, who entered the traps unconscious of that danger, which, without this allurement, they would have instinctively avoided. In this way, it is said, the steward bagged from fifteen to twenty rats in about three hours. The mouse is no less pleased with music. “I have seen,” says a writer on this subject, “several mice regularly come out of their holes and run about a school-room, whenever the boys were singing psalms.” An officer, confined in the Bastile, at Paris, begged to be allowed to play on his lute, to soften his confinement by its harmonies. Shortly afterwards, when playing on the instrument, he was much astonished to see a number of mice frisking out of their holes, and many spiders descending from their webs, and congregating round him while he continued the music. Whenever he ceased, they dispersed; whenever he played again, they re-appeared. He soon had a far more numerous, if not a more respectable audience, amounting in all to about a hundred mice and spiders.

Sir Everard Home is disposed to think the elephant does not possess a musical ear. Suetonius tells us, however, that the Emperor Domitian had a troop of elephants disciplined to dance to the sound of music, and that one of them, which had been beaten for not having his lesson perfect, was observed on the following night to be practising by himself in a meadow.

The enterprising and lamented Clapperton informs us, that when he was departing on a warlike expedition from lake Muggaby, he had convincing proofs that the hippopotami are very sensibly affected by musical sounds, even by such as are not of the softest kinds. As the expedition passed along the banks of the lake at sunrise, these uncouth and stupendous animals “followed the drums of the different chiefs the whole length of the water, sometimes approaching so close to the shore that the water they spouted from their mouths reached the persons who were passing along the bank. I counted fifteen at one time sporting on the surface; and my servant Columbus shot one of them in the head, when he gave so loud a roar, while he buried himself in the lake, that all the others disappeared in an instant.”

M. Le Cat remarks, that the horse becomes highly animated at the sound of a trumpet. Franzius says, “the horse is very much delighted with any musical instrument, for he is observed sometimes even to weep with joy at it, but most of all he is pleased at the sound of a trumpet. Pliny, speaking of horses, mentioneth a sort of people in Italy that taught their horses to dance to the sound of a trumpet, which they used to do at great feasts; and therefore, when the enemy waged war with them, they had the best trumpets they could get, by which the enemy’s horses were so transported that they would leap and dance, and run with their masters on their backs into their enemy’s camp.”

“And when the drum beats briskly in the gale,

The war-worn courser charges at the sound,

And with young vigor wheels the pasture round.”

Rogers’s Pleasures of Memory, Part I.

Shakespeare has taken notice of the horse’s sensibility to music, in the following passage:—

“Then I beat my tabor,

At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears,

Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses,

As they smelt music.”

Tempest, Act iv. Sce. 1.

The instances of the attractive influence of music on animals are very curious; but how much more curious is it to find some animals so sensitive to its charms as voluntarily to resort to places where they know they have a chance of gratifying their taste for it. We are told, that “an ass at Chartres used to go to the chateau of Quarville, to hear the music that was performed there. The owner of the chateau was a lady, who had an excellent voice; and whenever she began to sing, the ass never failed to draw nearer to the window, and listen very attentively. Once, when a piece was performed, which no doubt pleased him better than any he had ever heard before, he left his ordinary post, walked without ceremony into the music room, and, in order to add to the concert what he thought was wanting to render it perfect, began to bray with all his might.” A writer in the Athenæum, says, “The ass is no unimportant member of the Spanish population, for he is to be seen everywhere; and he has apparently as much gratification in listening to the street-concerts as any Christian present. From the whisking of his short tail, the steady gaze of his eyes, and, above all, the pricking of his ears, you would say that he was familiar with every tune.” In Heresbatch’s “Foure Bookes of Husbandrie,” translated by Barnaby Googe, (1586,) page 125, it is stated, that asses “are very apt to be taught, (in Egypt and Barbary,) so as at this day in Alcayre you shall have them dance very mannerly, and keep measure with their musician.”

It is noticed by Franzius, that stags “love music exceedingly, and are much delighted in hearing any one sing; and therefore one goeth before a stag and singeth to him, while another cometh behind him and taketh him.” M. Marville observed that while a man was playing on a conch shell, a hind lifted up her large, wide ears, and seemed very attentive. Mrs. Vasey says, “If a person happen to whistle, or call at a distance, the stag stops short, and gazes upon the stranger with a kind of silent admiration; and if he perceives neither fire-arms nor dogs preparing against him, he goes slowly forward with apparent unconcern. He seems delighted with the sound of the shepherd’s pipe; which, on that account, is sometimes used to lure him to destruction.” Playford, in his “Introduction to Music,” says, “Travelling some years since, I met on the road near Royston, a herd of about twenty bucks, following a bagpipe and violin, which, while the music played, went forward; when it ceased, they all stood still; and in this manner they were brought out of Yorkshire to Hampton Court.”

Sir William Jones, in his curious dissertation on Hindoo music, says, “that he has been assured by a creditable eye-witness, that two wild antelopes used often to come from their woods to the place where Sirrajuddaulah entertained himself with concerts, and that they listened to the strains with an appearance of pleasure, till the monster, in whose soul there was no music, shot one of them, to display his skill in archery.”

Sheep have been long noted for their attachment to music. Heresbatch says, “A shepherd must deal lovingly and gently with his flock, comforting and cheering them with singing and whistling; for the Arabians (as Alianus writeth,) doe finde that this kind of cattle take great delight in music, and that it doth them as much good as their pasture.” Franzius speaks to the same effect: “When the sheep,” says he, “hear the shepherd’s voice, they all get together into one place, but especially, when he singeth, for they love music exceedingly, and it maketh them feed the better; they are so delighted with it that some think they would not live long if the shepherd did not sing.” This extraordinary writer also says, “the ox is exceedingly delighted in music;” and the remark is true, for fierce bulls have in several instances been calmed into gentleness by music.

Of this musical feeling in oxen, Dr. Southey, in his “Letters from Spain,” mentions a very singular instance:—“The carts,” he says, “of Corunna make so loud and disagreeable a creaking with their wheels, for want of oil, that the governor once issued an order to have them greased; but it was revoked, on the petition of the carters, who stated that the oxen liked the sound, and would not draw without this music.” Professor Bell, in his “History of Quadrupeds,” assures us, that he has “often, when a boy, tried the effect of the flute on cows and some other animals, and has always observed that it produced great apparent enjoyment.”

There is an old song that contains some lines on the cow’s fondness for music:—

“There was a piper had a cow,
And he had nought to give her;
He took his pipes and played a tune,
And bade the cow consider.

The cow consider’d very well,
And gave the piper a penny
To play the same tune over again,
The corn rigs are bonnie.”

Irishman’s Notion of Discount.—It chanced one gloomy day in the month of December, that a good-humored Irishman applied to a merchant, to discount a bill of exchange for him at rather a long, though not an unusual date; and the merchant having casually remarked that the bill had a great many days to run, “That’s true,” replied the Irishman; “but then, my honey, you don’t consider how short the days are at this time of year.”

WINTER EVENING,

OR

GHOST STORIES.

Over vale and over hill
Winter’s bitter breath is sweeping—
In the wood the owlet shrill,
Cries like suffering mortal weeping.
Now the farmer’s door is tight—
Now the crackling hickory burns;
And to cheer the stormy night,
Old cronies tell their tales by turns.

One cold winter evening, three boys happened to be together, named James, Ezra, and Stephen. They sat by the blazing hearth—for I am telling of what happened in the old-fashioned days, of broad flues and hickory fuel—without candles, for the light of the burning logs was sufficient to give the room a cheerful aspect. Out of doors the air was keen and bitter, and though the Moon shone brightly, the light snow wreaths were driving on the wind, and occasionally came in spouts against the windows, rattling like hail upon the panes.

The boys, naturally enough, talked of the weather for a time, and then of the news, and by-and-by of other topics. At last it was proposed that one of them should tell a story. The scene can be best described in the way of dialogue.

James. Come, Ezra, you tell us a story.

Ezra. Well, you tell one first.

J. O, I’m not good at telling a story.

E. Won’t you tell one, Stephen?

Stephen. I’ll tell one after you.

E. What shall I tell about?

S. O, anything—tell a ghost story.

E. Well, I will tell a ghost story.

There was once a house near New London, in Connecticut, situated on a lonely road, about a mile from any other dwelling. The man who built it was a farmer; and here he lived, with his wife and two children, for three years, when at last they began to hear a bell faintly ringing at night, apparently in the walls of the house.

Not much was thought of it at first, but it was so frequently repeated, that it began to attract the attention of the family. They then listened, and every night, about nine o’clock, it began to ring. The people were very superstitious, and soon they were dreadfully frightened. When they went to the spot where the mysterious sound seemed to come from, it appeared to issue from another place. Sometimes it was quick and lively, and again it was slow, and apparently at a distance. At one time it seemed to be in the parlor, and then it was in one corner of the kitchen.

The family became more and more alarmed; when the night set in, they gathered close together, and as soon as the ringing began, their faces grew pale, and they either sat in fearful silence, or whispered to each other, “there it is! there it is!”

Thus matters went on for several months, until at last the farmer and his family became so miserable that they sold the place, and removed to another town. He had not said much about the cause of his removal, for he feared people would laugh at him; and besides, he apprehended that the story might injure the character of the house, and thus prevent his selling it at a fair price.

But, by some means or other, after he had gone, the story got about, and for nearly two years the house was unoccupied. During this period it acquired the name of the “haunted house,” which, together with its lonely situation, rendered it difficult for the person who had bought it, to find any one willing to hire it. But at last a person who did not believe in haunted houses, leased the place, and with his family went there to reside.

For about a month they heard nothing of the awful visiter, and feeling quite secure against his return, they were accustomed to make sport of the fears of their predecessors. While they were actually cracking their jokes upon the subject one winter night, about the hour of nine, there was a sudden tinkling of a bell, distinctly heard, as if in one of the rooms above.

There was a sudden start among all present. “Hark! hark!” was whispered by several voices. They listened intently; all was silent as death, when again the bell was heard, apparently more distant, but still as distinct as before! The cheeks of the wife and children grew pale, and the face of the man himself was touched with a kind of awe.

“It is certainly a bell,” said he, “and no ghost.”

“But who rings it?” replied his wife, drawing her chair close to his, and shivering from fear; “who rings it?”

“I cannot tell, my dear,” said he, “but we will try to find out.” Accordingly he took a candle, and followed the sound from one room to another. He heard it distinctly, though faintly, sometimes near, and sometimes far; but he could by no means detect the cause. At last the sound ceased, and the distracted family went to rest.

The next night the same scene occurred. At the hour of nine, the frightful notes issued again, as if from the very walls of the room, and exciting the fears of all, still baffled every attempt to discover the cause. Unlike the former proprietor, who believed that some ghost or spirit caused the bell to ring, the present occupant rejected such a notion as absurd; and though a cold, creeping sensation would sometimes chill his blood, still he took every opportunity to endeavor to detect the truth.

While he was one evening sitting by the fire, the tinkling sound was heard more distinctly than usual, and instead of issuing from the wall, undefined and spirit-like, it seemed now to come distinctly from a cupboard in one corner of the room. The man arose, went to the cupboard, and opened the door. Instantly a small hand-bell fell from a crevice in the wall, over the cupboard, upon the floor. It had a small string tied to it, and it was now discovered, that by this string the rats were accustomed to pull about the bell in their gambols, thus giving it a tinkling sound, which seemed to issue from the walls, giving it the awful and mysterious character, which had occasioned so much terror and distress.

E. Well, that’s a good story; and it puts me in mind of one which I heard Captain Lewis Smith tell. It happened when he was somewhere in the Jerseys fighting the revolution, as he calls it. It seems there was a sergeant Kitely, who, when he returned to the camp one night, declared that he had seen a spirit. He was evidently frightened, for his teeth chattered as if he was half dead with cold, and for a long time he could not muster sufficient courage to tell the story. At last he was prevailed upon to relate it, which he did as follows:

“It was a raw, blustering night,” said he, “when I had occasion to walk down a lane, to the house of an old woman by the name of Warlock, who washes for the regiment. It was dark, and I had some difficulty in finding the place. At last I found it, and knocked at the door. But there was no answer returned. I lifted the latch, but I could see nobody in the house. The fire was out, but in a corner of the room under the bed were two bright, fiery balls, which I knew to be the eyes of a cat, but they seemed to be twice as large as common.

“This made me a little skittish, for I then happened to remember that the old beldam herself is reputed a witch; and I thought to myself, that perhaps after all, it was she, sitting there under the bed, rolling up her fiery eyes at me, and pretending to be a cat. As I thought this, the eyes seemed to grow bigger and bigger. I then shut the door, and prepared to run.

“Just as I was about to start, I saw a thing as white as the driven snow and in the shape of an old woman, flying and flapping in the air, and lifting up her arms, and seeming to threaten me in the most awful manner. I tried to run, but my feet stuck to the ground. I should have screamed, but my tongue clung to the roof of my mouth, and my hair rose up so as to throw my hat off my head.

“How I contrived to pick it up I cannot say, but I heard the footsteps of some one near, and this I believe gave me courage. I caught my hat and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. A voice called after me, but I felt as light as a feather, and bounded forward like a school-boy’s ball, with a sturgeon’s nose in the centre. It seems to me that I went two rods at every step, and so I soon reached the barrack. But if I live to the age of Methuselah, I shall never forget the fiery eyeballs of the cat, or how old dame Warlock leaped up and down in the heavens, seeming to me as tall as a steeple.”

This was the substance of Kitely’s marvellous story. But as soon as it was told, Captain Smith burst into a loud laugh. This made the sergeant very angry, whereupon the captain proceeded to say that it was he who called after him at the door of old dame Warlock; and that the ghost he saw was only a shirt which the old dame had washed and hung to a clothes-line, and the night being windy, it was frolicing in the gale, and jumping up and down, just as the sergeant had described. This explanation excited a laugh among the company, and though it was at the expense of the sergeant, he seemed really glad to be thus relieved of his terror.

J. Very good—very good indeed, though I can hardly conceive how any one could take a piece of linen for an old woman.

E. Why, I suppose it was because the man’s imagination was excited: he had, no doubt, a touch of superstition in him, and this it was that deceived him. A person who is superstitious—one who believes in ghosts and witches, and such things—is very likely to fancy that he sees them. Such a one is always meeting with wonders, particularly at night: a stump, a post, a bush, to his eye, has arms, legs, eyes and ears; nay, it generally moves about, and often seems to do more than mortals are able to perform.

S. Then you don’t believe in ghosts?

E. Not at all. I believe that all the ghost stories are either the inventions of wicked people, or the delusions of indulged and ill-directed imagination: fancies of those who have first been led to adopt false opinions, and have then become the dupes of these opinions.

S. You are quite a philosopher; but let me tell you a tale of one who was as incredulous as yourself. There was once a physician in Connecticut, who had occasion to stay late at night with one of his patients. It was past one o’clock when he mounted his horse to return home. It was a cold, clear winter’s night, and the moon shone with uncommon brilliancy.

The physician had occasion to pass by a small but lonely grave-yard, situated at the farther extremity of a field, near the road. As he was passing by, he cast his eye toward the grave-yard, and what was his amazement to see a figure, as if of a woman, clothed in dazzling white, proceeding slowly across the field toward the little group of tombstones.

It was almost as light as day, and it appeared impossible that the seeming vision could be an illusion, yet the physician being an habitual unbeliever in ghosts and apparitions, conceived for a moment that his senses must have deceived him. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to clear his eye, and recalled the events of the day, to discover if he was not dreaming. He then looked again, and still the image was there, gliding, as if upon the air, and with a noiseless step, over the snow crust, toward the graves.

For a moment the mind of the physician wavered between a chill, creeping feeling of awe and superstition, and an intense desire to know the truth. At last the latter triumphed; and fastening his horse to a fence, he proceeded directly toward the object of his wonder. It continued to recede from him, but at last it sat down upon a grave stone, near a heap of fresh earth, removed for a tomb.

The physician approached—yet paused a moment to contemplate the mysterious figure. It seemed a woman, and as the clear moonlight fell upon the face, it appeared cold as marble, though touched with an indescribable air of melancholy. With a resolute step he advanced and laid his hand upon the shoulder of the figure. It screamed and fell to the earth.

The physician lifted the form from the ground, and discovered it to be a woman whom he knew, and whose child had died three days before. It had been interred in the little burial ground, and in her sleep the mother had walked across the snowy fields, wrapped in a sheet, to visit the spot where her infant reposed!

E. So, so, master Stephen, your story after all but confirms my theory—that these tales of ghosts are only tales of illusion.

S. True—true; and I agree that your theory of the matter is right. In ancient days, there no doubt was such a thing as witchcraft—but there is nothing of the kind now; and we may be sure that he who tells a tale of ghosts, is no more to be believed than he who tells a tale of fairies. Fairies and ghosts are, in fact, as well authenticated, the one as the other.

The White Bear.

In the cold regions of the north there are a great many wild animals, such as the reindeer, the musk ox, the silver fox, and the wolf.

But the most famous of all the savage creatures in these desolate countries is the white bear. It has a body as large as a cow, but its legs are not quite so long. It lives on the flesh of other animals, particularly that of whales, seals, and walruses, which are thrown upon the shores of the ocean.

In winter, when the ground is covered with snow, these bears resort to the sea, and prowl along its borders in search of food. If the sea is frozen over, they will venture out on the ice, hoping to make a breakfast, dinner, or supper upon the carcass of some great fish, or other sea animal.

It sometimes happens that while the bear is roaming over the ice, the latter is suddenly broken up, and the shaggy monster gets caught upon a floating fragment, where he sails about for some days. If he cannot do better, he jumps into the water and swims to the shore: but he is very loath to do this.

If one of these white bears meets a man in his cold country, he will generally walk away; if, however, he is very hungry, he will frequently give him a saucy look, or perhaps even attack him, and try to eat him up. In these wild regions men usually carry guns, and if the bears are uncivil, they shoot them, as you see in the picture.

In one of the western newspapers, the editor puts his marriages under the general head of anecdotes.

The Story of Hercules.

The ancient Greeks, who flourished two or three thousand years ago, have left behind them a great many curious, and a great many useful records. One remarkable thing in respect to what remains of their writings, is the mixture of truth and fable they contain. Even their histories have as much poetry as fact, and we are often puzzled to separate one from the other.

The story of Hercules, one of their heroes, will serve to illustrate all this. He is represented as a man of prodigious strength, and the Greek poets have delighted to embellish his story with extravagant fictions. It is said that even while an infant in his cradle, Juno, the wife of Jupiter, sent two snakes for the purpose of killing him. His little brother was near him at the time, but he ran away in the greatest terror, while Hercules caught the snakes in his hands and instantly squeezed them to death. I cannot tell you all the marvellous actions that are attributed to this hero; a few of the most remarkable will be sufficient.

It appears that there was a terrible lion in the country where Hercules lived, which threw the inhabitants into the greatest consternation. Hercules determined to kill him, and accordingly went to the place which he frequented. He first assailed him with arrows, but these being of no avail, he attacked him with his club.

The lion retreated, and Hercules followed him to his den. Here the monster struggled for his life, but our hero succeeded in getting his arms round his neck, and by his prodigious strength choked him to death.

There is a tale told of General Putnam, a little like this of Hercules and the lion. The General, it is said, followed the wolf into his den, and after looking him in the face, shot him dead.

It is very probable that, if Putnam had lived in the early ages of Greece, he would have been no less famous than Hercules. We should, doubtless, have had many poems recounting his prodigious feats of strength and courage.

Another exploit of Hercules was the killing the monster with seven heads, called the Lernæan hydra. The particular manners and habits of this beast are not known to us; but he seems to have been exceedingly dreaded by the people of the neighborhood. After some skirmishes, Hercules came to close quarters with him, and beat off two or three of his heads with his club. But what was his astonishment to perceive that the heads grew out again as fast as they were knocked off!

He was a good deal puzzled at this, as I dare say you would have been in such a case; but one of his friends, Jolas, being at hand, Hercules sent him for a red-hot iron, and directed him to sear the places over with it as fast as he beat off the heads. This prevented them from growing again, and the whole seven being beaten off, the monster died.

This will be enough to give you some idea of the wonderful actions attributed to Hercules, and which induced the Greeks, after his death, to worship him as a hero. At the present day we reverence men of superior virtue and wisdom; but in the comparatively barbarous age of which I have been speaking, divine honors were rendered to those whose chief excellence lay in bodily strength.—Parley’s Universal Hist.

Little Chapters for little Readers.

There is little Anne, upon the back of old Growler!

What a good dog he is, to carry his little friend, as if he were a horse or a pony! These dogs are kind creatures; they will do almost anything you wish them to do.

I have seen dogs drawing little waggons along, with boys driving, and looking very wise and sober, all the time as if it was real work, and not all play and fun.

In some countries the dogs really work very hard. Far away to the north, it is winter almost all the year, and there is a great deal of snow. In those places the people have sledges, to which they harness their dogs, and away they go, over the snow-crust, drawing a dozen of the people behind them!

The Lost Friend.

“One week ago, there was a little boy playing here; I wish that I could see him now. I liked that little boy. I did not know why I liked him. I see a great many boys every day, but none looked so gay and so happy as he did. They told me he was ill. He cannot be still ill, for his cheek was soft and fair, and his step was strong. He was as old as I am, but not older; and when sometimes I have been ill, I have very soon got well again. Perhaps this woman can tell me where to find him. I am sure she is kind, for she stayed to give some money to that old man with white hair, who walks with a crutch; and she smiled too, as if she loved to do good. I will ask her, and she will take me to him.

“Good woman, will you tell me where I can find a little boy who played here last week, with bright hair like gold, and eyes that looked kind, and seemed to say that he was happy?”

When little Alice Grey had said this, the woman, to whom she spoke, led her by the hand to where an old church stood; ivy had grown all over its walls, and round it on every side were graves; a great, great many. Some of them had cold white stone over them; others had only flowers planted round, and pretty trees grew there, with long branches bent down, as if they too wept for the dead. There was a little mound of earth, that must have been newly made, for the grass over it was not fresh or green, but looked as if it had been cut up with a spade, and there were no flowers yet round about it.

When the woman came to the grave, she said, in a low, sad voice, “The little boy with the bright hair and the happy eye is laid there to sleep.”

Then Alice wept very much and said, “Mamma has often told me of this, but I did not think it would come so very true;” and she cried a great deal, and sat down beside the little grave, and said, “Six days ago I saw him, and now he has gone away: he will never play any more; yet, then he looked quite well and happy. He did not join with the other boys when they were bad; he did not even run after the blue butterflies; he said it might hurt them. Good little boy! he liked better to gather the wild flowers that grew about; and now, perhaps, he is gathering flowers in God’s own garden, in heaven.” When the woman saw that Alice was herself a good child, she sat down by her side, and took her hand in hers and said, “Yes, God is good, and he puts it into our hearts to hope and to think that the little child is happy in heaven, that we may not be too sorry for his having gone away.

“He never wished to do evil; he loved everybody and everything that was good. He was gentle, and was never heard to speak what was not true; he was good to the poor, and when he had nothing else to give them, he gave them kind words, so that all blessed him; and God too will bless him, for he loves those who love him; so that we should not grieve that he is taken away, but be happy that he was ready to go. God calls the strong as well as the weak; little children as well as old people; and it may be, that you or I may soon be laid by the side of the little child. Shall we pray that by his side, also, we may see God when we rise from the grave?”

Then little Alice knelt by her side, and laid her head on the grave and prayed; and when they got up, she could not go again and play in the very spot where a few days before she had seen that pretty child at play; so that she went home, and put her arms round her mother’s neck, and said, “Mamma, teach me to be good, for God has taken a little child like me to the grave, and, perhaps, he may take me too before I am ready for heaven, if I do not from this very day begin to please him more.”

The Walk.

“My boy, get your hat, and come with me. The day is so fine and dry, that we can walk out. Take hold of my hand, and let us go and feel the warm sun.

“We will go and see a poor man, and take him some food. He is very old and lame, and has no meat, and no bread, and no milk. We will give him some of ours; we can put the milk into a jug, and take the meat in a plate, and you shall also take some bread to him.

“He will be so glad to see us, poor man! He will say, I thank you; and he will eat the nice food that we take him.”

“May we take him some soup too?”

“Yes, it will warm him, for he has got no fire, and he sits in his room, and is often very cold. He is not able to run and get warm, for he is lame. We can take him a book, too, for he can read. Now we have got to his house. Look, the poor man has a cat: she often sits by his side, and curls her tail, and when he pats her she says, ‘purr, purr.’”

“Poor puss! I must feed you, too, and pat your soft back. Do not run away, I will not hurt you.”

“The good old man is not here; he is gone out; so we will put down the food for him and soon come and see him again.”

“Thank you, mamma, I like so much to walk with you.”

Discontented Betty.

One morning as Betty sat milking her cow,

And thinking as much as her time would allow,

A neighbor came by who had known her for years,

To whom Betty confided her cares and her fears.

“Well, Betty, and how do you like your new place?”

Said she, “you’re looking in very good case!”

“Indeed,” replied Betty, “I never was worse,

For I find I am expected to slave like a horse;

By four in the morning I’m up at my work;

(Then there is nothing to live on but cabbage and pork!)

I’ve to wash, and to brew, and to dairy and bake,

And eight or nine beds every morning to make,

Besides keeping clean every place you can look in;

But the greatest annoyance, by far, is the cooking!”

Her friend, who had patiently heard all she said,

Observed, with a sigh and a shake of the head—

“Indeed, my dear Betty, contentment is wealth,

Though you have plenty to do, you have excellent health;

I assure you, (believe it or not as you please,)

I had rather be you, making butter and cheese,

Than the idle fine lady who lives at her ease!”

What boxes govern the world? The cartridge-box, the ballot-box, the jury-box, and the band-box.—New York Paper.

HOPE.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

1.

The lark whose morning song is gay,

At evening hath a pensive lay.

The thrush that caroll’d blithe at morn,

Sits silent now in yonder thorn.

But evening hath no frown for me;
No spectres in its gloom I see—
For hope, fond hope, looks thro’ the night,
And finds beyond its worlds of light.

2.
Then let the sun go deeply down,
And evening o’er the landscape frown—
My thoughts on wings of hope shall rise
To yon fair orbs beyond the skies.

And if, awhile, we tread the glade
Where clouds and darkness cast their shade,
Yet here—e’en here—hope’s wizard wand
Shall stud the gloom with stars beyond.

MERRY’S
MUSEUM.

FEBRUARY, 1843.

Vol. V. No. 2.

Sources of History.

History is a record of past events. Sacred history is the account that is given us in the Bible; this furnishes the only authentic history of the creation of the world and the things that immediately happened. It is the only book that tells us of Adam and Eve; of Cain and Abel; of the tower of Babel, and the confusion of tongues; of the flood of waters; of Noah and his family; of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; of David and Solomon; and generally of the Jewish nation, and the way of salvation to man, through a Redeemer.

Profane history means that which is written by men, in distinction from sacred history, which is written by the inspiration of God. Profane history, when it would tell us of the early ages of the world, has a great mixture of fable, and is very uncertain in its representations. This is the fact with the history of Greece. It is chiefly furnished by the poets, who picked up stories handed down by tradition, and embellished them with fictions of their own. Thus they heard marvellous tales about a man called Jupiter, that lived in remote ages; and was celebrated alike for his wisdom, for his extensive possessions, and the influence he exercised over the people around him. Well, the poets began to weave up stories about Jupiter: one said he did this, another said he did that. So they went on, each trying to exceed the other, in some wonderful tale of this wonderful man.

The people listened eagerly to these stories; and thus encouraged, the poets went on composing songs and ballads, until they had made out Jupiter to be a god who lived in Mount Olympus, manufacturing thunder and lightning, ruling over the land and the sea, controlling the seasons, swaying mankind, and governing the whole troop of gods and goddesses throughout the world. This is the way the fiction of Jupiter was devised and executed, and may serve as a hint at the means by which the whole mythology of Egypt, Greece and Rome, was fabricated.

Thus it is that nearly all the earlier portions of profane history are to be regarded as doubtful. There are, indeed, certain portions of it, which may be received as true; such, for instance, as are derived from monuments now existing, and bearing certain inscriptions. There are in Egypt, in Greece, in various parts of Asia and Europe, very ancient pyramids, obelisks, and edifices, bearing inscriptions or carvings, either of writings or pictorial representations, which furnish us with dates, facts, and occurrences serving to establish epochs, or great events, thus giving consistency and certainty to the leading features of history. It is in this way that the framework of the more ancient parts of history is made out and established; and so much may be deemed worthy of credit. Most of the details and lesser incidents, such as the extraordinary feats of individuals, the extravagant numbers said to be engaged in particular battles; and, in short, all the more marvellous portions of ancient history, are to be deemed entire fictions, or poetic embellishments and exaggerations.

Among the most interesting of ancient remains, which contribute to make out the story of mankind, are the paintings recently discovered in the chambers of the ruins of ancient Thebes, in Egypt. These tell us, without leaving room for doubt, how the Egyptians dressed themselves; what they ate and drank; how they broiled, boiled, and fried; how they combed their heads and arrayed their hair; how they slept; how they amused themselves; what armor they had in battle; how they fought; how they worshipped—and, indeed, how they lived and felt, and thought and acted. Of these curious and interesting witnesses, we have given some account in the earlier portions of Merry’s Museum.

Besides these paintings, the hieroglyphics, or picture writings of the Egyptians, graven on obelisks, and other monuments, afford great aid to the historians. When Bonaparte went with a French army to Egypt, he took a great many learned men with him. These looked at these hieroglyphics with intense interest and curiosity, and longed to find out the means of reading them—for this art had not then been discovered. These persons were infidels, and not believing the Bible, they wished to be able to prove it untrue. “If we could read these inscriptions,” said they, as they stood before the hieroglyphics upon the monuments of Thebes, “if we could read these, we could prove the Old Testament to be false.”

After a few years, a very ingenious Frenchman, by the name of Champollion, went to Egypt and studied profoundly into these mysterious hieroglyphics. At last he happened to hit upon the art of reading some of them, and was thus able to make out their meaning. The result has been very different from what the French philosophers supposed; for, instead of exploding the Scriptures, these Egyptian writings afford very strong additional evidence of their truth.

Another satisfactory source of authentic history, is afforded by the remains of Greek sculptures, found upon the ancient temples. Many of these have been carried to London and deposited in museums, where they have been very thoroughly examined, thus furnishing rich materials for the historian. Other sculptures, particularly statues, have been discovered in Greece, which furnish many interesting facts.

The coins that are found in different parts of the world, have contributed not a little to give certainty to portions of ancient history, particularly that of Rome. In Europe there are antiquarians who have devoted whole lives and ample fortunes to the collecting of coins. For a scarce coin, even of copper, and of itself not worth as much as one cent, hundreds of dollars have often been paid, merely because it was very rare. In some of the European collections, there are complete, or nearly complete, sets of coins of all the emperors of Rome; and as these have the likenesses of the emperors upon them, we have handed down to us, the image and superscription of every one of these successors of the Cæsars.

Besides these sources of history, we have the writings, either perfect or in part, of several ancient authors. Among the Greeks are Aristotle and Plato, who were philosophers; Homer, the greatest of poets; Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon, historians. Among the Egyptians, Ptolemy, the greatest of the ancient astronomers, and the father of geography. Among the Romans, we have Cornelius Nepos, Cæsar, Livy, and Sallust, historians; Plutarch, a biographer, and many others in different branches of literature.

Rome, in its days of glory, had extended her conquests over the most civilized and populous portions of the world. Indeed, she stretched her authority on every side, and brought under her dominion nearly every portion of the known world. All Europe was subject to her sway; all Africa, contiguous to the Mediterranean Sea; all the middle, western and northern portions of Asia. Over these vast dominions her armies marched, and her messengers passed to and fro. The art of writing was then extensively practised, and though printing was unknown, still the means of communicating and diffusing exact knowledge were possessed in all parts of the extended empire. This period of Roman history, therefore, abounded in materials for history.

But in the fifth century of the Christian era, Rome fell, a dismembered edifice, and its trampled ruins were parcelled out and possessed by barbarians. Her arts and her literature were, for a time, buried in the mighty wreck. It was left to the priests in the monasteries, during the dark ages, to delve and dig out these literary treasures. To them we are indebted for preserving nearly all that remains.

In 1444, the art of printing was invented; the art of multiplying records and copies of human writings. This is the art of arts; the triumph of human skill; the greatest civilizer of society. In the next number I shall give a sketch of the discovery and progress of the art of printing, with a portrait of its inventor, and attempt to set forth some of the effects which have resulted from it.

Something about Government.

In the earlier numbers of our Museum, we have told the story of Philip Brusque, the main purpose of which was to show the necessity of some government in society, to ensure peace, order and justice. Mr. Robinson, of New York, has just published a book for schools and families, entitled “The Young American; or Book of Government and Law; showing their history, origin, nature and necessity.” I here insert two chapters of the work, to show that all persons are interested in government, and that all young persons ought to be instructed on this subject, as one of the greatest importance.

The thief.

THE LAW IS EVERYWHERE.

When children are sufficiently advanced, they go forth from the parental roof, and whether in the field, the forest, or the street, they find that everywhere there is government and law.

If a child sees ripe fruit in a neighbor’s garden, he sets out to get it, but is immediately told that he must not. He asks why he must not get it, and is answered that it is against the law. A boy is about to throw down a stone wall around a field, and is told he must not, because it is against the law. A young fellow wishes to ride into a neighbor’s field of grain, but he must not, for it is against the law.

A young person, in reading a newspaper, sees an account of a man who is seized and hurried away to prison for theft, and learns that thieving is forbidden by the law. In another paper the reader finds an account of some pirates being hung, because they robbed a vessel upon the high seas, and this, too, because such robbery is against the law.

Thus the law is seen to be everywhere, upon the land and the sea, in town and country; and the question soon arises, who makes the law? The answer to this is readily given; it is the government? But what is the government? Who is it, what is it, that has spread this net-work of prohibition and requisition over the land, involving every member of society in its meshes? Who administers the government? Who makes the government? By what means or instruments does the government operate? Why do people obey the government? How does it acquire such universal and decisive power?

To some or perhaps all of these questions, which, one after another, arise in the mind, young persons gradually obtain answers; but these are usually imperfect and confused. I propose, therefore, to proceed to describe government, its origin, nature, and necessity; its various forms in different parts of the world, and especially that form adopted in our own country.

In the course of this delineation of government, I shall have occasion to exhibit the origin and sources of laws; the manner of their enactment; and the means by which they are made to regulate the conduct of mankind.

EQUALITY.

As some persons have fancied that society could realize a state of absolute liberty, so some have fancied that a state of absolute equality could be attained. It is said in our Declaration of Independence, that “all mankind are created equal;” and this has often been taken as literally true.

But absolute equality is as impossible as absolute liberty. In the first place, mankind are not born equal in respect to civil condition. Some, as the serfs of Russia, are born slaves; in this country too, in some of the states, certain individuals are born to servitude, while others are born to enjoy freedom.

There are other grounds of inherent and necessary inequality. One person is born with a good constitution; another is sickly from the cradle. One person is endowed with a strong mind, another with a weak one. One person is gifted with beauty, another with deformity. One has natural grace, another awkwardness.

The surface of the earth, thrown into hills and valleys, with mountains whose tops mingle with the clouds, and ravines that never see the sunlight—meadows that bloom with flowers, and deserts that know no living thing—plains and sloping hills, covered with forests—and rocky regions where no tree can root itself—all this diversity of nature presents not more inequality than the conditions in which mankind are born. The whole system of nature and providence, shows it to be the design of the Creator and moral governor, that there shall be diversity in human society, as well as in nature.

Beside, even in those countries where there is the greatest freedom, and the nearest approach to equality in society, even there, mankind are neither born free nor equal, in the view of the law. If we take no account of slaves, still the children of white persons are not born free; they are under the control of their parents till they are twenty-one years old.

Females, who constitute a part of mankind, and whose natural rights are the same as those of men, are never placed on an equality with men before the law. They are never permitted, even in forming the constitution of a country, nor in enacting the laws, nor in choosing rulers, to use the right of voting. They are excluded from all share in the government, by the stronger sex, who proceed to make such laws as they please; and in all countries these laws exclude woman from political power.

It appears, therefore, that mankind are not born free and equal, in a literal sense. In what sense, then, can it be truly said that men are created equal? Only as meaning that all the members of society are born with a just claim to civil liberty—to that freedom which is compatible with the general good, and to an equality of rights. It means to say that those laws which make one man a lord and another a serf—which make one a citizen and debar another, in the same condition, from the right of voting—are violations of the principles of justice and the rights of man.

While, therefore, equality of condition is out of the question, one thing is plain,—that equal rights, equal laws, and an equal administration of these laws—so that the rich and the poor, the high and the lowly, the citizen and the officeholder, shall all stand on the same footing—are the ends and designs of a good government; and every person should so use his power as to establish such ends and designs. Equality does not mean that a woman shall be equal to a man, or a child the same as a man; but that all women, all children, all citizens, shall enjoy the same relative rights, privileges, and immunities.

A Boy lost. A few years ago, a boy, who was sent upon some errand on a cold winter’s night, was overtaken by a dreadful storm, when the snow fell so thick, and drifted in such a manner, that he missed his way, and continued to wander up and down for several hours, nearly perished with cold. At midnight, a gentleman in the neighborhood thought he heard a sound, but could not imagine what it was, until, opening his window, he distinguished a human voice at a great distance, pronouncing, in a piteous tone, “Lost! lost! lost!” Humanity induced the gentleman to send out in search of the person from whom the voice proceeded, when, after a long search, the poor boy was found nearly benumbed with cold. Happy was it for him that he knew his danger, that he cried for help, and that his cry was heard!

Arithmetic. A woman, upon being asked how old her husband was when he died, gave the following arithmetical answer: “I was nineteen years old when my poor mother died; my mother has been dead just twenty-four years last Bradford fair, and my husband was thirteen years older than I am.” Can my young friends tell me how old he was?

Anecdotes of Storks.

There are great numbers of these birds in the south of Russia. Before migrating, which they always do at the approach of winter, they assemble from all parts, and kill the young ones that are not strong enough to accompany them in their long flight. This characteristic is remarkable, and in strong contrast to the affection they generally display towards their young. Of this, the following anecdote, related to me by a merchant of my acquaintance, is an example.

He was on his way to Kharkoff, when he observed, one evening, several peasants assembled around something in a field near a village. Ordering the driver to stop, he alighted from his carriage, and went up to them to see what was going on. Arriving at the spot, he found that they were looking at two dead storks which were lying on the grass, and upon his inquiring the reason of their taking such an interest in these birds, one of the bystanders gave him the following singular account.

The storks had a nest in the field they were then lying in. The hen bird had been sitting that morning; and the male left her as usual in search of food. During his absence, the female, either with the same intention, or to have a bit of gossip with some of the other storks in the neighborhood, also took her departure. No sooner had she left her nest, than a species of hawk, very common in the steppes, seeing the eggs unprotected, pounced upon them and sucked them. A short time after this, the male bird returned, and finding the eggs destroyed, he threw himself down upon the shells, and gave way to every demonstration of grief. The female also returned, but as soon as he observed her, he ran up, attacked her with his beak, and seizing her between his claws, soared up with her to a great height. He then compressed his own wings, and both falling to the ground together, were instantly killed!—Capt. Jesse’s Travels.

Conundrums.

1. What is often on the table, often cut, but never eaten?

2. Why is a pair of skates like an apple?

3. Why do we look over a stone wall?

4. In what place did the cock crow when everybody in the world heard him?

5. Why is sin like a picture-frame?

6. What wine is mock agony?

7. Why is a peach-stone like a regiment?

8. Why is a bat like a king?

9. Why is a dancing-master like a tree?

10. Why is death like the letter E?

11. Why is the letter P like uncle’s fat wife going up a hill?

12. Why is the letter G like the sun?

13. Why are a fisherman and a shepherd like beggars?

14. Why is a woman churning like a caterpillar?

15. Why is a madman like two men?

16. Why is a drop of blood like one of Scott’s novels?

17. Why is a baker like a beggar?

18. If I kiss you and you kiss me, what kind of riddle do we make?

19. Whose best works are the most trampled on?

20. Why is a button-hole like a cloudy sky?

21. If you throw up a ripe pumpkin, what will it become?

22. Why do white sheep produce more wool than black ones?

23. What is handsomer when the head is off?

Artificial Ice for Skating.

One of the most interesting places of amusement in London is the Colosseum. This is an immense edifice, which looks, as you approach it, like a Grecian temple covered with a vast dome.

The purpose of this building is to exhibit spectacles and scenes of various kinds, such as views of famous cities and interesting places, in all parts of the world. The effect is produced partly by painting, and partly by machinery, and the management of the light that is let in through the dome. It is scarcely possible for any person not to be completely deceived by these exhibitions; they are so natural, so truthful and life-like, that the spectator is irresistibly made to feel that he looks upon a reality and not a picture.

The spectators—such as desire it—are taken into a small circular room, which is prepared with seats; this is so contrived as to rise slowly, and imperceptibly to those who are in it, which makes the scene itself appear to change. By this contrivance, the effect of sunrise and evening, upon the landscape, are produced to admiration.

Sometimes amusing scenes occur at the place, on account of the circular room. Not long since a young fellow, from the country, came with his sweetheart, to London, and of course they must go to the Colosseum. In they went, and the girl, desirous to see the best of it, pressed forward into the circular room; John, being left a little behind. Just at that moment, the circular room began to rise, but neither the youth nor the girl noticed it till it had ascended to the height of ten feet—they were so absorbed with the spectacle before them.

At last the girl perceived the ascending motion—and, looking down, beheld her lover, far beneath. Filled with the awful idea of the tricks upon travellers that she had heard of as practised by the Londoners, she immediately fancied that it was a case of kidnapping or abduction, equal to any in the tales of the Arabian Nights. Therefore, spreading forth her beseeching arms, and bending over toward her lover, in a mingled tone of tenderness and terror, she exclaimed—“John! John! John! John!”

The faithful heart of the swain felt that these sounds could come from no one but Hannah—his Hannah! He looked around in amazement; but saw her not. Yet, as he thought very highly of her, and deemed her almost an angel, it was not difficult for him, as the sounds plainly came from above, to seek her in that direction. He turned his eyes upward, and there she was, sure enough, going it—“John! John! John!”

It is singular how differently terror affects women from what it does men. The former are usually rendered more eloquent by its influence—while the latter are often reduced to silence. So it was with our hero now. Deeply impressed with the wonderful event,—his fair friend ascending to the skies, while he stood still upon the earth,—his mind agonized at the idea of separation, and a thousand creeping fears rushing through his heart at the recollection that they were in that wild wilderness—London—so dangerous to wandering love-lorn lasses; thinking and feeling all this, still John said not a word. Insensible to the shout of laughter that burst from the two audiences, the one above and the one below—he gazed and gazed, and said nothing. At last, some one who was standing near, explained the matter to him, and the ladies above, pacified Hannah. So this part of the exhibition was closed.

Among the spectacles of the Colosseum, there was a very interesting one representing the scenery of the Alps in Switzerland. This exhibited the snow-covered mountains; the craggy cliffs topped with the cottages of the Swiss villagers; the dark and deep ravines, shadowed with evergreen trees; and the sparkling rivulets, leaping down the rocky precipices. By means of machinery, the figures of men and women were seen to move, and the ruffling action of the water, with even its flashing in the sunlight, was admirably represented.

Perhaps the most interesting and wonderful exhibition was that which was got up last summer, consisting of a field of artificial ice, made of crystal salts, principally soda; and having not only the glassy look, but the slippery effect of real ice. The Skating Club of London were invited to try it, and they pronounced it excellent. Accordingly, the exhibition was opened in mid-summer, and the spectators, sitting in an atmosphere of eighty degrees, could be amused with seeing a party of skaters before them, gliding about with all the activity and ease attending such a display in winter. In order to render the illusion more perfect, and the scene more picturesque, the surrounding scenery consisted of snow-capped hills and mountains, bearing all the wild and savage aspect of the Alps in winter. The effect was admirable—the deception complete. The spectator, in July or August, coming from a view of Regent’s Park, decked in all the gorgeous livery of summer, in the space of thirty seconds found himself transported to an Alpine scene in the season of the sternest winter. Before him was an icy lake, and skaters were gliding over its surface; while the distance displayed all the chill and ghastly features of Switzerland, in January.

Such a transition was almost a realizing of the tricks which fancy sometimes plays us in dreams, and shows us the admirable power of human art. It shows us that in a great city, where the people are cut off from the pleasures of country life—of pleasant scenery, and fine walks among the fields—that they still contrive by their ingenuity, to rival, if not surpass, the combinations of nature herself.

True Stories.

The Duke of Luxemburg. This illustrious man, on his death-bed, declared that he would then much rather have had it to reflect upon “that he had administered a cup of cold water to a poor worthy creature in distress, than upon all the battles in which he had conquered.” All the sentiments of worldly grandeur vanish in that unavoidable moment, which decides the eternal state of man.

Sabbath-Breaking. A man by the name of Moore, who was executed for burglary some years ago, in England, addressed the spectators in the following words:—“My friends, you have come to see me die. I would advise you to take warning by my fate. The first beginning of my ruin was Sabbath-breaking; it led me into bad company, and from bad company to robbing gardens and orchards, and finally to house-breaking, which has brought me to this place. Many of you are young, and in an especial manner I warn you to beware of Sabbath-breaking.”

Pride must fall. When Bonaparte was about to invade Russia, a person who had endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose, finding he could not prevail, quoted to him the proverb, “L’homme propose, mais Dieu dispose;”—man proposes, but God disposes; to which he indignantly replied, “I dispose as well as propose.” A Christian lady, hearing the impious boast, remarked, “I set that down as the turning point of Bonaparte’s fortunes. God will not suffer a creature, thus with impunity, to usurp his prerogative.” It happened just as the lady had predicted. Bonaparte’s invasion of Russia was the commencement of his fall.

Profanity. The famous Dr. Johnson never suffered an oath to go unrebuked, in his presence. When a libertine, but a man of some note, was once talking before him, and interlarding his stories with oaths,—Johnson said, “Sir, all this swearing will do nothing for our story; I beg you will not swear.” The narrator went on swearing; Johnson said, “I must again entreat you not to swear.” The gentleman swore again, and Johnson indignantly quitted the room.

Trust in Providence. An honest, industrious countryman, in England, had often been brought, by want of employment, into very straitened circumstances; but still he experienced, as he thought, many interpositions of Providence in his favor. In conversing once on the subject of God’s taking care of his people, the man observed, “It is very easy to talk of trusting in God with plenty of provision in the house and money in the pocket; but I do not call that trust! I call it ready money.”

A Word in Season. A pious physician once told a very troublesome patient that it was absolutely necessary he should be bled, to which, however, the man had the strongest objection. Upon hearing this, he sprang up in his bed, and exclaimed impatiently, “God bless my soul.” The doctor said solemnly—“Amen.” The patient was exceedingly struck by the word, thus uttered: he became quiet and said, “Doctor, you have turned into a prayer, what I meant only as an exclamation; you may do with me what you like.” What a striking illustration of the text, “A word spoken in due season, how good is it!”

A delicate Rebuke. As the Reverend Mr. H. was travelling in company with some gentlemen who had accidentally joined him on the road, one of them who was very much given to ridiculing ministers of the gospel, after he had proposed several insulting questions, addressed him thus: “I suppose you are a preacher, sir.” “I am, sir,” was the reply. “And pray, sir,” said the scoffer, in a swelling manner, “what do you preach to the people?” “Why, sir,” replied Mr. H., “I sometimes admonish my hearers to avoid foolish and impertinent questions.” The company could not refrain from laughing; they commended the preacher for his seasonable reply, and Mr. H. was no more troubled by his unpleasant companion.

Power of Kindness. A Grecian, named Arcadius, was constantly railing against Philip, of Macedon. Venturing once into the dominions of Philip, the courtiers suggested to their prince that he had now an opportunity to punish Arcadius for his past insults, and to put it out of his power to repeat them. The king took their advice, but in a different way. Instead of seizing the hostile stranger and putting him to death, he dismissed him, loaded with courtesies and kindness.

Some time after Arcadius’s departure from Macedon, word was brought that the king’s old enemy had become one of his warmest friends, and did nothing but diffuse his praises, wherever he went. On hearing which, Philip turned to his courtiers, and asked, with a smile, “Am not I a better physician than you?”

Good for Evil. Euclid, a disciple of Socrates, having offended his brother, the latter cried out in a rage, “Let me die, if I am not revenged on you some time or other.” Euclid replied, “And let me die if I do not soften you by my kindness, and make you love me as well as ever.”

Forgiveness. In a school in a town in Ireland, an instance occurred some time since, in the master’s accidental absence, of one boy being provoked to strike another, which was, of course, considered a serious ground of complaint. On hearing the accusation stated, the master came to the determination of punishing the culprit; when, to his great surprise, the injured boy came forward and earnestly begged for the pardon of the offender. The inquiry was made, why he should interfere, or wish to prevent so just an example. To which he replied, “I was reading in the New Testament lately, that Jesus Christ said we must forgive our enemies; and I forgive him, and beg he may not be punished for my sake.” Such a plea, under such circumstances, and urged too by a child who manifested a conscientious regard to the commands of Christ, was too powerful to be resisted. The offender was, therefore, pardoned, and it is almost needless to add, the parents of the boy, and indeed many others, were highly delighted at hearing of the interesting circumstance.

Punctuality is but Honesty. A committee of eight ladies, in the neighborhood of London, was appointed to meet on a certain day at twelve o’clock. Seven of them were punctual, but the eighth came hurrying in with many apologies for being a quarter of an hour behind the time. It had passed away without her being aware of its being so late, &c. A Quaker lady present said, “Friend, I am not so clear that we should admit thy apology. It were matter of regret that thou shouldst have wasted thine own quarter of an hour; but here are seven beside thyself, whose time thou hast also consumed, amounting in the whole to two hours, and seven eighths of it was not thine own property.”

Calmness. Socrates having received a blow upon the head, observed, that “it would be well if people knew when it was necessary to put on a helmet.” On another occasion, being attacked with opprobrious language, he calmly observed that “that man has not been taught to speak respectfully.” How much might Christians learn from this heathen.

“A soft Answer turneth away Wrath.” A Christian man, who was hated by one of his neighbors for his religion, was once attacked by him with abusive words, at his own door. He bore for a time the violence of the other’s language, who called him all the ill names he could think of. When, at length, he ceased, being exhausted with passion; the other meekly, but kindly and sincerely replied to him, “Will you come into my house and take some refreshment?” This was too much. The enemy was softened—he was overcome with this Christian conduct, and burst into tears. This was indeed a triumph.

Linnæus. The celebrated Linnæus always testified in his conversations, writings, and actions the greatest sense of God’s omniscience. He was, indeed, so strongly impressed with this idea that he wrote over the door of his library—“Live innocently; God is present.”

“Truth hath a quiet Breast.” When Swift was one day coolly and calmly arguing with a gentleman who had become exceedingly warm in dispute; one of the company asked him how he could keep his temper so well—“The the reason,” replied the dean, “is this—I have truth on my side.”

The Love of Nature.

Let me talk with pretty flowers,
O’er the earth growing,
Through the lovely meads and bowers,
Everywhere blowing.

Let me talk with pretty birds,
Joyfully winging;
Listen to their merry words
While they are singing.

Let me talk with gentle lambs,
Frisking and prancing
Round and round their happy dams,
Skipping and dancing.

Let me talk with summer clouds,
Hear their gay story,
Creeping to the west in crowds,
Sparkling with glory.

Let me talk with mid-day’s light,
Now proudly gleaming;
Whisper to the stars at night,
When softly beaming.

Let me talk with streams and floods,
Winds o’er them flying;
Let me talk with hills and woods,
Echoes replying.

Let me kneel to Him, who lives
Throughout all Nature—
Life and joy, and beauty gives,
To every creature.

True Stories of the Young.

Honesty the best Policy. A little girl was once passing a garden, in which were some pretty flowers. She wished much to have some of them; she could have put her hand between the rails, and picked some, and perhaps nobody would have seen her. But she knew this would be very wicked; it would be stealing. So, after thinking a little while, she resolved what she would do. She went to the mistress of the garden, and asked her very prettily to give her some of those nice flowers. The lady told her she had done right not to take them, and then showed her another garden full of plants and flowers, and gathered her a fine large nosegay.

Now, if this little girl had taken the flowers without leave, she would have been very unhappy; and if her mother had asked her how she came by them, she would most likely have told a lie to hide her first fault. And how uncomfortable she would have been at night, when she lay down and prayed to that great Being who has said, “Thieves shall not inherit the kingdom of God.”

Dr. Watts when a Child. When Dr. Watts was very young, and before he could speak plain, he would say to his mother, when any money was given to him, “A book, a book, buy me a book.” He began to learn Latin at four years of age. When about seven or eight years old, his mother desired him to write her some lines, as was the custom with the other boys, after the school hours were over, for which she used to reward them with a farthing. Isaac obeyed, and presented her with the following couplet:

I write not for a farthing, but to try

If I your farthing writers can outvie.

Obedience. A Polish prince was accustomed to carry the picture of his father always in his bosom; and on particular occasions, he would take it out and say, “Let me do nothing unbecoming so excellent a father.”

The Art of Love. Dr. Doddridge one day asked his little daughter how it was that everybody loved her. “I do not know,” said she, “unless it be that I love everybody.”

A fine Example. Louis, Duke of Burgundy, was a pattern of filial obedience. It was never necessary to threaten or punish him, in order to make him do his duty. A word, or even a look was sufficient. He was always much grieved when his mother seemed displeased with him, or spoke to him less kindly than usual. On such occasions, he would often weep, and say to her, clasping his little hands, “Dear mamma, pray do not be angry with me; I will do what you please.”

a Child’s first Prayer. A venerable minister in New Hampshire, lodging at the house of a pious friend, observed the mother teaching some short prayers and hymns to her children,—“Madam,” said he, “your instructions may be of far more importance than you are aware. My mother taught me a little hymn when I was a child, and it is of use to me to this day; for, I never close my eyes to rest without first saying,

‘And now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.’”

Sound Argument in a Child. A little boy, upon asking his mother how many gods there were, was instantly answered by his younger brother, “Why one to be sure.” “But how do you know that?” replied the other. “Because,” said the little boy, “God fills every place, so that there is no room for any other.”

Heathen Idols. A mother was once describing to her little son the idols which heathen nations worship as gods. “I suppose, mamma,” said the boy, “that these heathen do not look up to the same sun, moon and stars that we do.” “Yes, my dear, they do.” “Why, then,” said he, “I wonder that they do not think there must be a better God than their idols!”

A Child rebukes a Man. A little boy belonging to a Sabbath school in London, was taken by his uncle to walk one Sunday, when the school was over. The uncle, who was a thoughtless man, was anxious to buy something for the child; but little William had been often told how improper it was to buy or sell on the Sabbath day. “Come, Billy,” said his uncle, “I’ll buy you something, some apples or gingerbread; Aunt Mary’s not here, and she’ll not know anything about it.” “Oh, but uncle,” said the boy, “if Aunt Mary does not see it, God will, and it’s very wicked.”

Why should not a Negro read the Bible? A few years ago, in the island of Jamaica, a child, who had been educated in a Sunday school, happened to see a negro mending his net upon the Sabbath day. The child immediately went up to him and said, “Do you not know that it is written in the word of God, ‘Remember to keep holy the Sabbath day?’” “Now, massa,” replied the negro, “if you bring de word of God, and read dat passage, I no mend my net on Sunday any more.”

The child brought the Bible and read it; the negro laid aside his net, and going home to his wife said, “Oh, me nebber see such picaninny as dat; him tell me all about de word of God! I nebber can work upon de Sabbath again.”

A consistent Mother. Some ladies having met at the house of a friend, the child of one of them was guilty of rude, noisy conduct, very improper on all occasions, and particularly so at a friend’s house. The mother kindly reproved her,—“Sarah, you must not do so.”

The child soon forgot the reproof, and became as noisy as ever. The mother said firmly, “Sarah, if you do so again, I will punish you.”

But not long after, Sarah did so again. When the company were about to separate, the mother stepped into a neighbor’s house, intending to return for the child. During her absence, the thought of going home recalled to the mind of Sarah the punishment which her mother told her she might expect. The recollection turned her rudeness and thoughtlessness into sorrow. A young lady present observing it, and learning the cause, said, “Never mind, I will ask your mother not to punish you.” “Oh,” said Sarah, “that will do no good. My mother never tells falsehoods!”

Precept and Practice. There is one thing always to be remembered, by young people as well as old ones. A person must not only have good intentions, but good practice. A person must not only put his trust in God, but he must do as God directs. A man who has no faith, has no good principle of action; a man who has no good practice, has no faith, no sound belief, no confidence in Him to whom he owes every blessing. Good faith and good works, therefore, always go together; good principles and good practice go together. We never find these two apart. A person never does right from a wrong motive; a person never does wrong from a right motive.

Mr. Pope and his Lady—a Game. Any number of boys and girls may engage in this game. It is played with a small round waiter, or plate, which being placed in the middle of the room, one of the little company twirls the waiter round with her thumb and finger, making it spin as long as she can, saying, as she takes it up, “By the leave of Mr. Pope and his lady.” If the waiter falls down the wrong side upwards, the spinner pays a forfeit; and, sometimes, in the hurry of the moment, she forgets to say the proper words, in which case also she pays a forfeit, which forfeits are afterwards redeemed.

Winter.

Oh, why are the leaves all scattered and dead?

And why are the blossoms all blasted and fled?

Why—why are the rivers, once sportive and free,

Now silent and sad—and in slavery!

Oh winter! stern monarch—thy sway is begun—

And thou lovest to undo what the summer hath done.

The fairest, most cherished of blossoms and flowers,

The queen of the meadows—the princess of bowers

The lily and rose—these waken thy spite—

And they fly from thy presence, in terror and blight!

The leaves of the forest turn pale in thy blast—

From thy hail and thy frost the birds shrink aghast—

And the bright robe of green that was woven by May,

Is torn from the landscape, for mantles of gray.

Oh winter! stern tyrant—if such be thy reign,

O’er the mountain and meadow—o’er hillock and plain—

If all that is lovely—’tis thine to o’erthrow—

Let us keep from our hearts, thy frost and thy snow.

Smiles.

Weep not at what the world can do,
Nor sorrow for its wrong,
But wear a smile upon thy brow—
It cannot harm us long;
The cold contempt, the bitter scorn,
The hatred and the guile,
Will not feel lighter if we mourn;—
Oh! then ’tis well to smile.

Then smile at human vanity,
And smile at human pride,
And smile when men do flatter thee,
And smile when they deride.
When some would do thee wrong, then smile,
And care not to condemn;
When some with fairer looks beguile—
Why, have a smile for them.

Smile with the sunshine in his light,
Smile with the gem and flower;
With all that’s fair, and pure, and bright,
Throughout life’s fitful hour;
And lift, in praise, thy smiling eyes,
And, smiling, breathe a prayer
To Him who lives beyond the skies,
And smiles forever there.

The Water-Spout.

The water-spout is a strange meteor, which has attracted a good deal of attention, but the causes of it are not entirely ascertained. Dr. Franklin’s opinion was that a water-spout and a whirlwind proceed from the same cause; the only difference being that the latter passes over the land and the former over the water. This opinion is generally believed to be correct. It is supposed that opposing winds give a whirling motion to the air, which force up masses of water, and produce the phenomena to which we allude.

The engraving represents the appearance of a water-spout. This usually resembles an enormous speaking-trumpet in shape, the mouth end being near the top of the sea. The wind is commonly blowing first this way and then that, causing the spout to bend and writhe and move from one point to another. Beneath, where it nearly touches the water, the sea is agitated and covered with foam. Wo to the vessel that is assailed by one of these meteors! The usual defence at sea, is to fire a cannon shot into the whirling tube, which usually dispels it, and the water falls in a tremendous shower.

Upon land, a water-spout sometimes commits the most fearful ravages: attended both by a furious wind and torrents of water, it often spreads devastation over the country which it visits. In 1839, a considerable district upon the Seine, in France, experienced the most dreadful calamities from a water-spout. It uprooted and carried away trees of the largest size; walls of stone were overturned; and tiles, roofs and even houses were carried away.

Eccentric Old Maid.—Mrs. Sarah Bedwell, spinster, at Woodbridge, died on the 15th ult., aged ninety. She was formerly housekeeper to Mrs. Doughty, and by her penurious habits had accumulated considerable property. In a tin canister were found seventy sovereigns, and memoranda of cash in the bank and mortgages amounting to about 15,000l. She had in her possession 75 chemises, 30 bonnets, 25 silk gowns, four dozen damask table-cloths, and a chest of bed-clothes; and yet she expired, covered with merely a piece of old carpet, without a nightcap, and shockingly infested with vermin.—Ipswich Express.

“Beauty.”

We are not about to write a treatise upon that subtle, yet enticing thing which ladies love to possess, and which men all but worship. No; our business is, just now, to speak of a horse, bearing the name placed at the head of this article, and which, at the present time, is Queen Victoria’s favorite for the saddle. He is a native of Barbary, and is of the finest and most famous Arabian breed. When he was brought to market, the Emperor of Morocco offered as many dollars for him as he could carry—such at least is the story. But he was outbid by an English gentleman, who purchased the animal and sent him to the queen. We give a faithful portrait of this celebrated and fortunate beast.

The Elephant and Fox.

A FABLE.

I am sorry to say, that a great many people listen with more pleasure to a lively tale that is full of cunning, wit, and scandal, than to a wise discourse, which teaches truth and inculcates virtue. This may be illustrated by the fable of the elephant and fox.

These two animals fell into a dispute, as to which had the greatest powers of persuasion; and, as they could not settle the matter themselves, it was agreed to call an assembly of the beasts, and let them decide it. These were accordingly summoned, and when the tiger, porcupine, dog, ox, panther, goat, and the rest of the quadruped family had all taken their places, the elephant began his oration. He discoursed very eloquently, upon the beauty of truth, justice, and mercy, and set forth the enormity of falsehood, cunning, selfishness, and cruelty. A few of the wiser beasts listened with interest and approbation; but the leopard, tiger, porcupine, and a large majority of the audience, yawned, and showed that they thought it a very stupid piece of business.

But when the fox began to tell his cunning knaveries, they pricked up their ears, and listened with a lively interest. As he went on to relate his various adventures, how he had robbed hen-roosts, and plundered geese and ducks from the poultry-yard, and how by various cunning artifices he had escaped detection, they manifested the greatest delight. So the fox went on sneering at the elephant and all others who loved justice, truth, and mercy, and recommending to his listeners to follow the pleasures of thievery and plunder. As he closed his discourse, there was a loud burst of applause, and on counting noses, the majority was found to be in favor of the fox.

The assembly broke up, and some months passed away, when, as the elephant was quietly browsing in the woods one day, he heard a piteous moan at a little distance. Proceeding to the place from which the sound came, he there found the orator fox, caught in a trap, with both his hinder legs broken, and sadly mangled. “So,” said the fox sharply, though he was nearly exhausted with pain, “you have come to jeer at me, in my hour of trouble.” “Surely not,” said the elephant. “I would relieve your pain if I could, but your legs are broken, and there is no relief for you, but in death.” “True,” said the fox, mournfully, “and I now admit the miserable folly of those principles which I have avowed, and the practice which resulted from them. I have lived a gay life, though even my gayety has been sadly shadowed, by perpetual fear of what has now come upon me. Had I been satisfied with an honest life and innocent pleasures, I had not thus come to a miserable end. Knavery, artifice, and cunning may be very good topics with which to delude those who are inclined to be vicious, but they furnish miserable rules to live and die by.”—Parley’s Gift.

The Vain Search.

My little reader, did you ever get lost in the woods? Perhaps not; but many children have. I knew a boy and a girl, named James and Fanny, who lived upon the slope of a mountain, more than a mile from a village.

A large part of the space between their house and the village, was covered by forests; but these children were accustomed to go to school and to church through the woods, and their parents never felt any anxiety about them.

One morning, they set out to go to school; it was August, and the weather was warm and beautiful. In descending the mountain, they came to the brow of a hill, from which they could see a small blue lake.

This was surrounded by the forest, and seemed to be at no great distance. James had often seen it before, and wished to go to it, but, on the present occasion, he could not withstand the temptation to pay it a visit. Accordingly, he set out, having persuaded Fanny to accompany him.

They pushed on through the tangled woods for some time, in the direction of the lake, and at length supposed they must be very near to it, but on coming to a little eminence, and catching a glimpse of the blue water between the trees, it still seemed as distant as before.

They were not discouraged, however, but again went forward for some time. At length Fanny said to her brother, that they had better return and go to school. James replied, that it was too late to get to school in season, and he thought the better way was to make a holiday of it. They would return home at the usual time, and their parents would know nothing about it.

“I don’t like that plan,” said little Fanny, “for our parents expect us to go to school, and if we do not go, we disobey them. Beside, if we spend the day in play, and say nothing about it, and let our parents think we have been at school, we deceive them, and that is as bad as telling a lie.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said James; “we’ll tell them we got lost, or something of the kind. Don’t you be afraid. I’ll manage that matter, so come along.”

Little Fanny went forward, but she was sad at heart; and James, too, conscious of disobedience and deception in his heart, felt unhappy; but he put on a brave face, and sang, or whistled as he proceeded.

Again the two children came to such a position that they could see the little lake, and, strange to tell, it seemed about as far off now, as when they first set out to visit it.

The fact was, they had been deceived; for the lake was much farther than it appeared to be. They had already spent two hours in their attempt to reach it; and after some consultation, they concluded to give up their enterprise, and go back.

But now their task commenced. They had pursued no beaten path, and they had nothing to guide them in their return. The sky, which had been so clear in the morning, was now over-shadowed with thick clouds. Uncertain of the course they ought to pursue, they still went forward, with trembling and anxious haste.

Coming at length to the foot of a cliff, they paused, being overcome with fatigue. James sat down and buried his face in his hands.

“What is the matter?” said Fanny. “We have lost our way, and shall never find our home again,” said James. “We have lost our way, no doubt,” said Fanny, “but I hope and trust we shall find our way out of the woods. This is come upon us, James, because of our disobedience.”

“I know it, Fanny,” said James; “but it was my disobedience, and not yours, and I am so unhappy because my wickedness has brought you into trouble; and beside, I intended to deceive our parents. I cannot but wonder, now, that I should have thought of such a thing.”

“Well, James,” said Fanny, “let this be a lesson to us both; and now we must proceed, and try to find our way out of the wood.” Accordingly, they went forward with great diligence; but having rambled about for nearly four hours, supposing all the time they were going toward their home, they came back to the very spot beneath the cliff, where they had sat down and rested themselves before.

They were now quite discouraged, and almost broken-hearted. They had picked some blue-berries in their rambles, so that they were not very hungry; but their fatigue was so great, that, after lying side by side upon the sloping bank, for a while, they both went to sleep.

It was about midnight, when Fanny awoke. She had been dreaming that she and her brother had wandered away, and got lost in the forest; that, overcome with fatigue, they had thrown themselves down on the earth at the foot of a cliff, and fallen asleep, and that they were awakened from their sleep by hearing the call of their father, ringing through the solitude.

It was at this point of her dream, that Fanny awoke. For a moment she was bewildered, but soon recollected where she was. She cast her eye about, and saw that no shelter was over her, but the starry canopy of heaven.

She looked around, and could see nothing but the ragged outline of the hills against the sky. She listened, and seemed to feel that the voice heard in her dream was a reality, and that she should hear it again. But she now heard only the solitary chirp of a cricket, and the mournful shivering of the forest leaves.

She sat some time, almost afraid to make the slightest noise, yet feeling such a sense of desolation that she thought she must wake up her brother.

She was stretching out her hand for the purpose of waking him, when she seemed to hear the call of her father, as she had heard it in her dream. She listened intently, her little heart beating with the utmost anxiety.

She waited for several minutes, when, full and clear, at no great distance, she heard her father call, “James?” The little girl sprang to her feet, and screamed, with all her might, “Here, here we are, father!” James was soon awakened, and, with some difficulty, the father came down the cliff, and clasped his children in his arms.

I need not say that this painful adventure was remembered by James and Fanny long after they had ceased to be children; and they were both accustomed to say, that it was of importance to them through life, in impressing upon them the necessity of obedience to parents, and the wickedness of all attempts to deceive them.

Let me remark to my youthful readers, that if pleasure ever tempts them to forsake the path of duty, I hope they will remember, that, like the blue lake, which seemed so beautiful and near to the eyes of our little wanderers, and which was yet inaccessible to them, it will probably disappoint their efforts to obtain it.—Parley’s Gift.

Varieties.

Juniper. The ancients consecrated this shrub to their gods. The smoke of its branches was the incense which in preference they chose to offer to their gods, and burnt its berries on funeral occasions to drive away evil spirits. The simple villagers of England superstitiously believe that the perfume of its berries purifies the air, and protects them from the malevolence of evil spirits.

The Chinese delight to decorate their gardens with this plant. It is commonly found growing wild on the outskirts of woods and forests, where it often affords a safe retreat for the hare when pursued by the hounds. The strong odor it exhales is said to defeat the keen scent of the dog. Its branches, bristling with thorns, are covered with thousands of brilliant insects, which seem to imagine this tree is provided as a protection for their weakness.

The Sicilian Vespers. The word “vespers” in the Romish church means evening song, answering to evening prayers. The Sicilian Vespers denote a famous era in French history, 1282, being a general massacre of all the French in the island of Sicily, to which the first toll that called to vespers was the signal. The number destroyed was about 8000.

A tournament is a martial sport or exercise which the ancient cavaliers used to perform, to show their bravery and address. It is derived from the French word tourner, to turn round, because, to be expert in these exercises, much agility, both of horse and man, was necessary. Tournaments made the principal exercises of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries; but being at length productive of mischievous consequences, the princes of Europe gradually discouraged and suppressed them.

The laurel-leaved Magnolia is a splendid evergreen tree, rising in its native country to sixty feet or more, but with us scarcely exceeding thirty or forty feet. The leaves grow from eight inches to one foot long, in form not unlike those of the common laurel; the flowers are white, of a large size, and emit a pleasant fragrance.

“Of what use are all your studying and your books,” said an honest farmer to an ingenious artist. “They don’t make the corn grow, nor produce vegetables for market. My Sam does more good with his plough in one month, than you can do with your books and papers in one year.”

“What plough does your son use?” said the artist quietly.

“Why he uses ——’s plough, to be sure. He can do nothing with any other. By using this plough, we save half the labor, and raise three times as much as we did with the old wooden concern.”

The artist turned over one of his sheets, and showed the farmer the drawing of his much-praised plough, saying with a smile, “I am the inventor of your favorite plough, and my name is——.”

The astonished farmer shook the artist heartily by the hand; and invited him to call at the farm-house, and make it his home as long as he liked.

The Chevalier Bayard was a distinguished French warrior. He was mortally wounded in a battle at Marignan. He ordered his attendant to place him against a tree, with his face to the enemy. While in this situation, the constable of Bourbon, who was fighting against his country, came up to him and expressed his regret that his wounds were mortal. “Do not pity me,” said the dying Chevalier; “it is not I who am to be pitied, but you, who are bearing arms against your king, your country and your oath.” This brave and good man died in the year 1524, aged fifty years.

Superstitions. In the country villages in England, there are many superstitions. Thousands believe that the howling of a dog denotes death; that pigs can see the wind; to put on your stocking wrong side out, is a sign of good luck; and bubbles in your tea tell that you will be rich; when your cheek burns, some one is supposed to be talking of you; when your ears glow, they are telling falsehoods about you; if your nose itches, you will be vexed; if your right eye itches, you will have good luck; should your left itch, it will be bad. It is unlucky to meet a person who squints; if you meet one magpie, it denotes sorrow; two, brings luck; three, a wedding; and four, death. To spill salt is to bring sorrow upon yourself; and horse shoes are nailed at the thresholds of doors to keep out the witch. To lend a friend a knife or scizzors is to cut friendship.

The Cicada. This insect, so greatly praised by the ancients, appears to have been a kind of grasshopper. “Sweet prophet of the summer,” says Anacreon, addressing it, “the muses love thee, Phœbus himself loves thee, and has given thee a shrill song;—thou art wise, earthborn, musical, impassive, without blood—thou art almost like a God!” So attached were the Athenians to these insects, that they used to fasten golden images of them in their hair. They were regarded, indeed, by all as the happiest, as well as the most innocent of creatures. The sound of this insect and of the harp were called by one and the same name. There is a story among the ancients, of two rival musicians, who were striving to excel each other on the harp, when one of them unfortunately broke a string; a cicada at that moment flew upon the instrument, and supplying the place of the string, secured to him the victory. A cicada sitting upon a harp, was therefore the usual emblem of the science of music among the ancients.

Imagination.

Mr. Merry,—

Will you be so kind as to tell us, in your next number of the Museum, what Imagination is?—and you will oblige

Your subscriber,

James —— ——

To be sure I will, with all my heart, Master James. But first look at the picture at the head of this article. It represents a scene in a garden, during the summer. The trees and shrubs are covered with leaves: many of the plants are in bloom, and the little group of children are gathered around a tuft of pinks, upon which they are pouring some water. You look at the picture, and fancy that you actually see such a scene as it presents.

And now go to the door, and look abroad. Behold, it is winter! The leaves are actually stripped from the trees; the green grass is withered; the blossoms are blighted and dead. The garden is frozen and rough, and not a flower is there to enliven its sullen aspect.

The scene thus suggested by the picture,—that scene in the mind, so beautiful and bright—so like the joyous, sweet realities of summer—was but a sort of dream. That magic power which painted it, we call Imagination,—or Fancy. It is a power which can present the loveliest scenes to the eye of the mind, and make them seem like truth, while yet they are only fleeting visions, passing away as lightly as they came.

Imagination can bring us its flowers, though it be winter, and all around us is wrapped in a chill mantle of snow. Though it be night, imagination can paint to the mind the fairest and brightest scenes of day. Though we may be in Boston, imagination may transport our thoughts to Rome, or London, or Jerusalem, or Persia, and for a time we may seem to be there.

Imagination, then, is like a painter who sketches unreal scenes so distinctly as to make them seem like reality. It is a power so captivating that it often leads us to act upon what is illusory and deceptive.

You have heard of persons who walk in their sleep. They are dreaming something, and they go forth, under the influence of their dream. They fancy that they see what they do not see, and are to do what they cannot perform. These sleepwalkers are persons who are led away by dreams: and all who give themselves up to the guidance of imagination, are like sleepwalkers,—misled by dreams.

While the imagination is, therefore, a wonderful power of the mind, and capable of affording great delight, we should be careful to keep it within due bounds. It is a good servant, but a dangerous master. If we indulge imagination in picturing what is good, and beautiful, and virtuous, and happy—we do that which is at once useful and pleasing: but if we indulge it in portraying what is vicious, and vain, and hurtful, we are likely to be led into some fatal pit of ruin.

Sister.

What word in our language is more beautiful than sister? And why is it so beautiful? Because it brings with it so many pleasant ideas. Can any one look at the engraving, and not feel the truth of this?

See the elder girl, taking the little one upon her back, to carry her across the brook! See with what care she puts her arms around her little feet, and poises her on her shoulders. See, too, the true smile of affection and satisfaction, the real bliss, upon her face, in the exercise of this act of care and kindness. Do you not see there the force of that beautiful word, sister?

And the infant too—look at that! Mark the clinging of the little arms around the neck! mark the anxiety pictured in the face, yet softened into trust and confidence. Does not the child feel the meaning of that word, sister?

Burning of the Tower of London.

The Tower of London is one of the greatest curiosities in that famous city. It stands on the north bank of the river Thames, in the eastern part of the city. It consists of several buildings, erected at various times, all enclosed by a high wall, on which cannon are mounted. The wall encloses twelve acres of ground. The middle building is at once the oldest and tallest of the group: it is a large quadrangular structure, with a number of large rooms, and having a tower at each corner. This is called the White Tower, and measures 116 by 96 feet, and is 92 feet high.

Connected with this great building, are the grand storehouse, ordnance office, jewel office, and the chapel, beside many other edifices. In the chapel lie the remains of many celebrated persons, who have been executed here or who died in prison. Among the rest, are Anne Boleyn, the unfortunate; Katherine Howard, the guilty; Essex, the brave but rash favorite of queen Elizabeth.

The tower of London was begun by Edward III., in the thirteenth century, by the construction of the white tower. It was designed as a royal palace, and as such was occupied for a time. In the time of Henry VIII., it had acquired a horrid celebrity as a state’s prison. Here many persons have been incarcerated for years by the government; and it is curious to remark, that many of those who have even perished by the axe in this prison, are now regarded as among the greatest and best of mankind. In the dungeons which are beneath the white tower, it is said that Sir Walter Raleigh wrote his celebrated history of the world.

The whole of the white tower may be termed a storehouse, at the present day. It contains many thousand stand of arms, all kept in perfect order, and beautifully arranged; vast military stores, beside a multitude of papers and documents in what is called the round office.

The armories in the tower consisted of three vast collections, viz., the “Horse Armory,” “Queen Elizabeth Armory,” and the “Small Arms Armory.” The two first are collections of ancient armor; and though chiefly kept as objects of curiosity, they are exceedingly interesting. Here are to be seen almost every kind of armor, from the earliest period of English history.

The horse armory is kept in a building erected for the purpose in 1825. Queen Elizabeth’s armory is kept in an edifice recently erected for the purpose. The Small Arms armory was kept in a splendid building, called the grand storehouse, begun by James II., and finished by William III. It was this vast structure which was burnt to the ground on the night of Oct. 30th, 1841. The engraving represents the building on fire in the foreground, with the turrets of the white tower a little in the distance.

This awful conflagration originated accidentally from an over-heated stovepipe. It burst forth near the middle of the night, and from its elevated position and the vastness of the pyramid of flame, it wrapped the whole of London in a glow of light, and aroused its mingled population with the most intense feeling of interest. “The tower is on fire! the tower is on fire!” rung through every street and lane and archway, sending a thrill of mingled sublimity and fear to every heart.

There is probably no one object in London better known than the tower. It is associated in every mind with some of the darkest transactions in English history. Here the young princes were murdered by Richard III. Here Mary of Scotland was executed. Here, too, every one had been to see the vast displays of armor; the trophies won by Wellington, Nelson, and other heroes, in a thousand battles; the gorgeous jewels of the crown; the menagerie, with its lions, tigers, and other animals of foreign lands. What must, then, have been the emotions excited, when the midnight cry, which announced its destruction, rang through the city, and when the ruddy light of its flames gushed in at every window?

When the fire was first discovered, it appeared as though the whole collection of buildings must be destroyed: but by great efforts the flames were checked, and only the grand storehouse was burnt. This, however, was reduced to a heap of ashes, and with it have been destroyed all those vast stores of arms, and the many triumphant mementos of England’s prowess by land and sea, which have so long rendered it an object of surpassing interest. It contained, on the ground floor, a most extraordinary train of artillery. There were cannon and great engines of war, of almost every nation, and of every age, from the time of the invention of gunpowder down to the present day. Many of them were associated with England’s most glorious military and naval triumphs; others with the names of her greatest commanders, and most illustrious sovereigns. They presented an exhibition as curious to the engineer as interesting to the patriot, and such a one as no country but Great Britain could boast of; but she can boast of it no longer.

On the first floor was the splendid room, known as the “Small Armory,” and one of the grandest apartments in Europe. It contained, exposed to view, and in cases, nearly 150,000 stand of arms. The whole of this building, with the exception of the bare shell, is in utter ruins, its contents blended together in one mass of destruction.

“He who a watch would wear, two things must do:

Pocket his watch, and watch his pocket too.”

The Gleaner.

GOOD MORNING.

The eagle on its rocky height,
He knows the hour of waking,
And waves his pinions in the light,
The midnight dew off-shaking:
And I must shake off sleep and sloth,
Since rosy day is dawning,
And even as the eagle doth,
Will wish the world good morning.

The rose-bud in her woven bow’r
Atwixt the leaves is peeping,
And bares her bosom more and more,
For ’tis no hour for sleeping:
Then is it meet that I repose,
When such as these give warning?—
I’ll look abroad as doth the rose,
And wish the world good morning.

Sagacity of a Cat. It was only a few evenings ago that one of our worthy neighbors, who keeps a shop in Little Underbank, was much surprised at the conduct of his cat. He was standing in his shop, when pussy put her paw on his trowsers, and endeavored to pull him towards the cellar, leading out of the shop. He took no notice at first, but this she repeated three times; and in order to see what could be the cause of her thus troubling him, he took her in his arms, and carried her into the cellar, where he kept a large quantity of leather.

Pussy immediately sprang from him, and jumping upon a piece of leather, began to look underneath it, as if in search of something. Her master raised the leather, and he there found a boy of twelve or fourteen years of age concealed under it. On bringing the young rascal from his hiding-place, he naturally asked him what he was doing there. The reply was, that he had not money to pay for a lodging, and thought he would stay there till morning. The worthy shopkeeper made him remember that a feather bed was preferable to a leather one, by inflicting summary punishment on the offender. Thus the sagacity of this famous cat most probably saved the premises from being robbed, and its master, perhaps, murdered.—Stockport paper.

Coffee. The discovery of coffee, according to the Oriental writers, took place towards the close of the thirteenth century; and, like most other discoveries of importance, it is attributed to chance. An Arab chief, the Scheik Omar, was flying from the pursuit of his own tribe. Having, with a small body of his adherents, taken refuge in the mountainous part of the province of Yemen, all ordinary means of sustenance failed them. In his extremity, perceiving a coffee-bush, the famishing chief essayed to gnaw the berries; but finding them too hard for mastication, he hit upon the expedient of boiling them—drank the decoction—found himself not only refreshed but invigorated both in mind and body; and from him the virtue of the precious berry afterwards became famous throughout the world. But with all its claims to notice, it required upwards of two hundred years for coffee to make its way to general appreciation. Like a prophet in his own village, it long remained slighted and neglected by its own native land. Three centuries elapsed from the date of its first discovery before the use of coffee, as a beverage, was generally adopted in the neighboring state of Egypt and in Turkey; whilst in Europe, as we all know, the introduction of the sober berry is, comparatively of but modern date.

Motion. The common watch, it is said, beats or ticks 17,160 times an hour. This is 411,840 a day, 150,424,560 a year, allowing the year to be 365 days and six hours. Sometimes watches will run, with care, 100 years. In this case it would last to beat 15,042,456,000 times!

The watch is made of hard metal; but I can tell you of a curious machine, which is made of something not near so hard as brass or steel—it is not much harder than the flesh of your arm—yet it will beat more than 5000 times an hour, 120,000 times a day, and 43,830,000 times a year. It will sometimes, though not often, last 100 years; and when it does, it beats 4,383,600,000 times. One might think this last machine, soft as it is, would wear out sooner than the other; but it does not. I will tell you one thing more. You have this little machine about you. You need not feel in your pocket, for it is not there. It is in your body, you can feel it beat; it is—your heart!

Anecdote of Lord Kenyon. Soon after Lord Kenyon was appointed master of the rolls he was listening very attentively to a young clerk, who was reading to him, in the presence of a number of gentlemen of the long robe, the conveyance of an estate, and on coming to the word “enough,” he pronounced it “enow.” “ Hold! hold!” said his honor, immediately interrupting him, “you must stand corrected. Enough is, according to the vernacular custom, pronounced ‘enuff’ and so must all other English words which terminate in ‘ough,’ as, for example, tough, rough, &c.” The clerk bowed, blushed, and proceeded for some time; when coming to the word “plough,” he, with a loud voice, and penetrating look at his honor, called it “pluff.” The great lawyer stroked his chin, and with a smile candidly said, “Young man, I sit corrected.”

Carrier Pigeons, A. D. 1099. The secret of turning to account the peculiar instinct of these birds would appear to have been known and practised in the east at an early period. Maimbourg, in his history of the crusades, relates a curious anecdote on this subject:—“As the Christian army continued its march, by the narrow passage which is between the sea and Mount Carmel, they saw a dove, which, having escaped from the claws of a bird of prey, who had let go his hold at the great noise made by the soldiers, fell half dead at their feet. There was found, tied beneath his tail, a small scroll of paper, in which the emir of Ptolemais wrote to the emir of Cæsarea, to do all the harm in his power to the army of dogs who were about to pass through his territories, as he, more easily than the former, could hinder their passage.”

Power of Music. Prince Cantimir, in his account of the transactions of the Ottomans, relates that Sultan Amurath, having besieged Bagdad and taken it, ordered 30,000 Persians to be put to death, though they had yielded and laid down their arms. Amongst these unfortunate victims was a musician, who besought the executioner to spare him one moment that he might speak to the emperor. He appeared before the sultan and was permitted to give a specimen of his art. He took up a kind of psaltery, which resembles a lyre, and has six sides, and accompanied the sounds of the instrument with his voice. He sung the taking of Bagdad and the triumph of Amurath; its pathetic and exulting sounds melted even Amurath, who suffered the musician to proceed, till, overpowered with harmony, tears of pity gushed from his eyes, and he revoked his cruel orders. Influenced by the musician’s powerful talent, he not only ordered the lives of the prisoners to be spared, but restored them to liberty.

Coleridge. Coleridge was very fond of music, and he has left us an interesting remark or two upon it:—“An ear for music,” he observes, “is a very different thing from a taste for it. I have no ear whatever; I could not sing an air to save my life; but I have the intensest delight in music, and can detect good from bad. Naldi, a good fellow, remarked to me once at a concert, that I did not seem much interested with a piece of Rossini’s, which had just been performed. I said, ‘it sounded to me like nonsense verses;’ but I could scarcely contain myself when a thing of Beethoven followed.”

Instinct. Smellie mentions a cat, which, being confined in a room, in order to meet its mate of the other sex, learnt of itself to open the latch of a door; and I knew a pony in the stable here, that used both to open the latch of the stable, and raise the lid of the corn-chest—things which must have been learnt by himself from his own observation, for no one is likely to have taught them to him. Nay, it was only the other day that I observed one of the horses taken to grass in a field through which the avenue runs, open one of the wickets by pressing down the upright bar of the latch, and open it exactly as you or I do.—Lord Brougham.

A Long Chimney. The largest chimney in the world is at the Soda Ash Manufactory of James Musprat, near Liverpool. It is the enormous height of 406 feet above the ground, 45 feet diameter inside at the base, 9 feet ditto at the top; and contains nearly 4,000,000 bricks.

When Donatello, an Italian sculptor, had put his last finishing touch to his bust of Byron, he cried out to it—“Speak!”

Metals.

“That thimble, Henry, which you are looking at, and think so pretty, is made of silver. Silver is dug out of the earth, and so are all metals. There are a great many metals: I will tell you the names of some of them, but I cannot tell you all. Gold is metal; so is silver, iron, lead, copper, tin, brass, and a great many more. Some are pure metals, that is, not mixed together. Gold is considered the most valuable. Silver is also valuable; but I think we may consider iron the most useful; for what should we do without spades, shovels, rakes, ploughs, and many other things which are made of iron?

“We should have no wheat, unless the earth was ploughed before the seeds were sown. We could not dig up the potatoes without a spade; we could have no fire in our rooms without a grate; besides, the saucepans are made of iron, which could not be made of any other metal. Gold and silver are also very useful. Spoons made of silver are pleasanter to use than iron ones would be. Gold is chiefly used for money and jewelry, although kings and many very rich people have their plate made of gold. Lead is very useful in building; the tops of houses are sometimes covered with lead, to prevent the rain from coming through. Water pipes are made of it; the point of my pencil is made of black lead.”

“Is not your ring made of gold, mamma?”

“Yes, my ring and watch are both gold.”

“And was that gold found in the earth?”

“Some gold is dug out of mines, but not all. Gold is sometimes found amongst the sand and mud at the bottom of rivers; it is found in very small grains, and is collected by the people of the place with much trouble and care. There is not much gold found in Europe; there is more found in America than in any other part of the globe, although a good deal is obtained in some of the rivers of France and Germany. Copper is more abundant in England than elsewhere, and there are mines of iron in most countries.”

The Prussian Exercise; a Game for Children.

In this diverting little game, as many children as wish to play must kneel down beside one another, in a row. The corporal, as she is called, is placed at the head of the line, and the captain stands up in the manner of a captain of a company, and gives them words of command. These must be something ludicrous, such as telling them to pull their noses, slap their faces, clap their hands, cough, and things of that kind. All the little company must try to obey the word of command at the same time, as the real soldier obeys the order of his captain.

After various amusing manœuvres, the captain must tell them to “present arms.” They all then raise their right arm and hold it straight out before them. The next order is to “fire.” Here the corporal, who is in the secret, gives the little girl next her a sudden push, which sends her and all the other little people in the line, tumbling down one over the other. This is a very diverting game, and easy to be taught to very young children.

“If I were so unlucky as to have a stupid son,” said a military man, “I would make him a parson.” “You think differently from your father,” said a by-stander.

Anecdotes of Bonaparte.

Whilst the French troops were encamped at Boulogne, public attention was much excited by a daring attempt at escape made by an English sailor. This person, having escaped from the depôt, and gained the borders of the sea, the woods on which served him for concealment, constructed, with no other instrument than a knife, a boat, entirely of the bark of trees. When the weather was fair, he mounted a tree and looked out for the English flag; and having at last observed a British cruiser, he ran to the shore, with the boat on his back, and was about to trust himself in his frail vessel to the waves, when he was pursued, arrested, and loaded with chains. Everybody in the army was anxious to see the boat; and Napoleon, having at length heard of the affair, sent for the sailor, and interrogated him. “You must,” said Napoleon, “have had a great desire to see your country again, since you could resolve to trust yourself on the open sea in so frail a bark: I suppose you have a sweetheart there.”—“No,” said the sailor, “but a poor and infirm mother, whom I was anxious to see.”—“And you shall see her,” said Napoleon—giving at the same time orders to set him at liberty, and bestowing on him a considerable sum of money for his mother; observing, that she must be a good mother who had so good a son.

At the siege of St. Jean d’Acre, in Egypt, Bonaparte had three aides-de-camp (or officers) killed in advancing with his orders to the same point. It was necessary to send a fourth. He had no officers near him but Eugene Beauharnais and Lavalette. He called the latter, and, without being overheard by the former, said to him, “Il faut y aller; je ne veux pas y envoyer cet enfant et le faire tuer si jeune; sa mere me l’a confie; vous, vous savez ce que c’est que la vie.”—Lavalette set off, and, contrary to every expectation, returned safe and sound.

During the tour of Napoleon and Maria Louisa in Holland, in 1810, the burgomaster of one of the towns which they visited caused the following inscription to be posted on the triumphal arch through which their Imperial Majesties were to pass:

“Il n’a pas fait une Sottise,

En epousant Marie-Louise.”

Napoleon no sooner read the inscription, than he inquired for the burgomaster, and addressed him thus: “So, M. le Maire, they cultivate the French muses in Holland?”—“Sire,” answered the burgomaster, “I write a few verses.”—“Ah! you are the author, then,” said the emperor: “here, do you take snuff? (presenting a snuff-box surrounded with diamonds) take this, and

Quand vous y prenez une prise,

Rappelez vous de Marie-Louise.”

Catching Rabbits. Bacon says, “A company of scholars going to catch conies, carried one with them, which had not much wit, and gave in charge that if he saw any, he should be silent, for fear of scaring them; but he no sooner espied a company of rabbits than he cried aloud ‘Ecce multi cuniculi;’ which he had no sooner said, but the conies ran to their burrows; and he being checked by them for it, answered, ‘Who would have thought that the rabbits understood Latin?’”

Down to the reign of “Old Queen Bess,” the greater part of the houses in fashionable London had no chimneys. The fire was kindled against the wall, and the smoke found its way out in the best manner that it could, at the windows, or at the door; but generally “reclined in blackness” in the room.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. V. MARCH, 1843. No. 3.

Amusements.

It is the part of discretion to learn lessons of wisdom wherever we can find them. In many ways, by looking upon the processes of nature, we can discover hints or examples, worthy of imitation, even by rational beings. As we are now upon the subject of amusements, let us see how nature may instruct us in respect to this.

We look around, and notice that the young of all animals devote a portion of every day to amusement. The calf, the lamb, the puppy, the kitten—all have their gambols. This proceeds from no instruction—no parental injunctions; it is instinct—the mandate of the God who made them.

We find, in children, precisely the same instinct—the same mandate. The desire of active, lively, animating sport—the romp, the laugh, the shout, the chase—is as inherent in children, as much a craving of their nature, as the desire of food. These are as necessary, in order to the health, happiness, and proper development of children, as are fresh air, or pure water.

Another thing we observe in young animals, is that their amusements are suitable to their several conditions. The wrestling of young dogs is fitting to creatures who have often to contend for mastery over other animals; the skipping of lambs, is calculated to qualify them to roam over hills, rocks and precipices; the nimble tricks of kittens train them for that dexterity which is needful in their pursuits as mousers.

Thus far, then, we are instructed, by observing young animals, that amusements are necessary, and that these should be suited to circumstances. And we may safely apply these observations to children. They should all have amusements—cheerful—animating ones. They should have sports which take them into the open air—which draw them over hill and valley—which put to the stretch their feet, eyes, ears and hands. All their young faculties should be roused.

But, hark ye, masters and misses!—don’t take undue advantage of what I say—don’t ask for unreasonable or unsuitable amusements. Of these points, your parents are the best judges. I say to parents—your children need their frolics; I say to children—even in your frolics, obey your parents. It is said, and truly, that “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” It maybe added, that all play and no work keeps Jack always a boy.

As to the girls—they need less training than boys; whether it is that they are more discreet, or more heedful, or more docile, I will not say. Boys require line upon line, precept upon precept—here a little and there a little—or rather a good deal. Don’t scowl, my lads, and think that old Merry is turning preacher. Not a bit of it—and if I say that the girls behave better than you do, surely you have gallantry enough to bear me out.

But as to the girls—while I would enjoin suitable amusements—such as are adapted to their sex—yet I wish to ask one favor in their behalf, of their parents. And what do you suppose this may be? That they may generally spend two hours, each day of winter, in the open air; and at least three, of each day, in other seasons. In this way alone can they ensure enduring health and enduring beauty.

Contradiction.—It was said of a certain Englishman, that so great was his love of contradiction, that when the hour of the night and state of the weather were announced by the watchman beneath his window, he used to get out of bed and raise both his casement and his voice to protest against the accuracy of the statement.

Bull.—An Irishman remarked to his companion, on observing a lady pass, “Pat, did you ever see as thin a woman as that?” “Thin,” replied the other, “bathershune, I’ve seen a woman as thin as two of her.”

All by Themselves.

Gentle Reader! Did you ever hear a flock of children—hearty, healthy hoidens—girls and boys—black eyes and blue eyes—when all by themselves, in an attic, or a barn, or a school-room? Whew, what a racket! But excuse me, reader, if I ask another question. Was you ever, of a summer evening, in the swamp of a southern climate—as that of Okefonoco in Georgia, or one of those which border the southern portions of the Mississippi?

If not—then you have never heard one of the queerest concerts that can be listened to. How shall I describe it? We may pourtray things to the eye by pictures, but we cannot paint sounds. To what shall I compare the swamp serenade of the tropics? Alas, it is without a parallel. The congregated uproar of the poultry yard—roosters crowing, turkeys gobbling, hens cackling—

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

Geese gobbling; ducks quacking; Guinea hens yelling; pigs squealing—this, before I went to Georgia, I thought something—but it is nothing. Reader, you may have heard the soft serenade of a couple of cats beneath your window, sounding all the louder, because of your anxiety to get to sleep, and the death-like stillness around; but this is nothing.

You have heard the shout of a school set free—the hubbub of a Lowell factory—the clatter of steamboat paddles—the rush of some spit-fire engine and its trains upon a railroad track—the tearing fire of a militia muster, “all together”—which means one after another. All this you may have heard. Nay more—by an effort of fancy, you may put them all together, and, worked one into another by Marmaduke Multiply’s table—crossways, and up and down—and yet you have but a faint idea of the clangor made by the frogs, alligators, whippoorwills, chuck-will’s-widows, and other songsters of a southern swamp, when they set up for a real serenade—all by themselves.

We all know that the Italian orchestras undertake to describe storms, tempests, and battles—shipwrecks, love and murder—by music. If one of the opera companies will go to Okefonoco—listen to the performances there—and come back and give us a good imitation, I engage that they shall make their fortune.

Mr. Southey undertook to tell about the cataract of Lodore, and he attempted to convey some notion of the commotion of the waters by the gushing of his lines, and he succeeded very well; but how can any one put the puffing of alligators into rhyme? Old Homer, I am told, has imitated frogs in Greek—but the thing is scarcely possible in English.

After all I have said, gentle reader, I shall not attempt to describe the songs of the swamps aforesaid. This I must leave to yourself. Suppose that you are in Georgia, or Florida, or Louisiana; suppose that it is sunset, of a summer evening. A swampy thicket is before you; around are gigantic plants, of a thousand forms, and gaudy flowers of many hues; gnats, mosquitoes and gallinippers, fill the air, and sting you at every available point. Fire-flies begin to glitter. On every hand, as the darkness falls, the scene around becomes illuminated with myriads of these fleeting meteors.

A strange, loud sound bursts suddenly from a bush at your very ear, exclaiming, “chuck-will’s-widow!” It is repeated—slowly at first—and then more rapidly. Pretty soon another voice, exclaims, “whippoorwill.” “Confound us! confound us!” says a croaking throat in the mud. “Botheration! botheration!” says one at a distance. “Thief! thief!” cries another. Then fifty voices break out, and run into each other like the notes of a watchman’s rattle. The din rises higher and higher. More voices are added to the chorus, while every one speaks louder and quicker—and ever and anon, the deep voice of the alligator is distinctly heard, betwixt a grunt and guffau—seeming like the notes of the kettledrum, or double bass, to this wonderful concert of birds and reptiles, when all by themselves!

Profane Swearing.—I believe there never was a man who made a fortune by common swearing. It often appears that men pay for swearing, but it seldom happens that they are paid for it. It is not easy to perceive what honor or credit is connected with it. Does any man receive promotion because he is a notable blusterer? Or is any man advanced to dignity because he is expert at profane swearing? Never.

Low must be the character which such impertinence will exalt; high must be the character which such impertinence will not degrade. Inexcusable, therefore, is the vice which has neither reason nor passion to support it. The drunkard has his cups; the satirist his revenge; the ambitious man his preferments; the miser his gold: but the common swearer has nothing; he is a fool at large, sells his soul for nought, and drudges in the service of the devil, gratis.

Swearing is void of all plea; it is not the native offspring of the soul, nor interwoven with the texture of the body, nor, anyhow, allied to our frame. For, as Tillotson expresses it, “though some men pour out oaths as if they were natural, yet no man was ever born of a swearing constitution.” But it is a custom, a low and paltry custom, picked up by low and paltry spirits who have no sense of honor, no regard to decency, but are forced to substitute some rhapsody of nonsense to supply the vacancy of good sense. Hence the silliness of the practice can only be equalled by the silliness of those who adopt it.—Lamont.

Ruins of Ancient Rome.

A Roman Story.

During the time of the Roman commonwealth, there lived a noble warrior, whose name was Caius Marcius. He was scarcely less remarkable for the strength and symmetry of his body, than for the heroic magnanimity of his mind. From his earliest youth, he had been trained to feats of war; and his mother, who was a very noble matron, was anxious that he should be distinguished not only for his feats of arms, but for those other heroic qualities, which make a man truly great—such as justice, mercy, truth, honor, integrity, and disinterestedness. When Caius Marcius grew up, he soon proved to his mother that her good lessons had not been thrown away upon him; for, on occasion of an assault upon the town of Corioli, he distinguished himself with such extraordinary bravery, as to astonish all those who witnessed his exploits. Having headed a party which broke through the gates of the city, he entered it; but the gates being suddenly shut, Caius Marcius was left alone within the walls, surrounded by a host of enemies. Resolving to sell his life dearly, he made such an attack upon those within the walls, that they fled, and he was enabled to re-open the gates and let in his companions, who immediately took possession of the city.

After this brave action, honors and rewards would have been heaped upon Caius Marcius, but he refused them all, with the exception of a horse, the prisoners he had taken with his own hands, and the life of a person in the city, of whom he had formerly been the guest. In addition to this, he wished to take the surname of Coriolanus, as a remembrance of his victory, which was also granted him.

Coriolanus from this time signalized himself in a variety of battles, and always displayed the same disinterestedness and magnanimity. As he was above every mean act himself, he could not bear to see meanness in others; and observing the wickedness of the rich, and the hollow-hearted friendship of the common people, he despised both, and thus obtained a character for pride, and made himself a great many enemies.

But, still, Coriolanus was not without friends. An old senator, by name Menenius Agrippa, a very merry old fellow, was warmly attached to him, and wished, if possible, to raise him to the office of consul, which was the highest dignity the Romans could confer. But at this time, there was a great scarcity of bread and food in Rome, and the citizens were in a state of insurrection. Mobs paraded the streets, demanding food, and threatening death to the rich, whom they supposed had passed edicts to make provisions dear, that they might drain the pockets of the people. Menenius met a tumultuous body of the citizens going to pull down the house of Caius Marcius, and to kill him; for they thought that if they did so, they should get corn at their own price. Besides this, they wanted to govern, instead of being governed, and seemed determined to destroy all government, by a universal insurrection. Menenius, to stay them from their purpose, and to gain a little time, offered, if they would hear him, to tell a story which should put the subject of which they complained in its true light.

After a great deal of tumult, the citizens agreed to hear what the old man had to say, who proceeded as follows: “My friends,” said he, “there was a time when all the members rebelled against the stomach, and accused it of living an idle and luxurious life, in the midst of the body, without ever laboring for itself, or taking any trouble concerning the very things by which it was fed and comforted. To this the stomach replied, ‘It is true, I am the storehouse and shop of the whole body, but still, I have labor to perform that you know nothing of; for I have to convert the rude matters that the hands and mouth supply me with, into blood, and to send it in rivers both to the heart and brain, and every other part of the system, without which they could not live, nor could eye and ear, and heart and hand, see, or hear, or feel!’ Therefore, so it is with you, my friends; you feed the governing body of the state, and this sustains you for all the purposes for which you live.”

At this moment Coriolanus approached, and upbraided the citizens with their many vices, particularly with their disaffection and cowardice; and advancing towards them, the determined bearing he put on, so frightened them, that the more fearful fell back, and retired to a remote part of the city. At this moment, a messenger arrived with intelligence that the Volsci, a nation which harassed the Romans, were in arms, and that the city was in imminent danger. Upon this, Coriolanus immediately professed his readiness to head the Roman army against its enemies, and departed for the campaign.

Now, the chief enemies that Coriolanus had in Rome, were two senators, Junius Brutus and Sicinius Velutus, who hated him for his proud reserve, and more especially for his popularity with the aristocratical portion of the state of Rome, and as soon as he was gone, began to plot against him, having formed a resolution to contrive his downfall on the first fitting opportunity.

In the meantime, Coriolanus prosecuted the war against the enemies of his country, and came home, as usual, victorious, preceded by the loudest acclamations of the people. A triumph was granted him; and a splendid triumph, such as Rome had rarely witnessed, was prepared for him. He was first crowned with an oaken garland, and then, mounted on a triumphal car, drawn by eight splendid horses, richly caparisoned, through the principal streets of the city towards the capital. Before him marched the prisoners he had taken in the war, and behind him were wagons richly decorated, and laden with the spoils of the Volsci. But in the midst of all this glorious array, Coriolanus beheld his mother coming towards him, and, descending from his chariot, ordered a way to be made for her, and as she approached, fell down on his knees before her in the lowest humility, that he might receive her blessing—a spectacle far more sublime than those which warriors generally exhibit to the world.

After this, it was proposed by the friends of Coriolanus, that he should stand for the consulship. Now, it was a custom in Rome that when any one desired this high office, he should present himself to the people in the market place, and solicit their votes; he was expected to be very humble and very smooth-tongued, and to ask the office as a great favor, and to boast of his noble deeds, and show his wounds, and declare how uprightly he would act, and how much he would do for the poor. But the heart of Coriolanus grew sick when he thought of this humiliation; and as Brutus and Sicinius knew his disposition, they determined that this part of the ceremony should in no wise be abated, in order that Coriolanus might be led to do or say something displeasing to the people, and thereby incur their dislike. And this, indeed, was actually the case, for instead of complimenting the citizens, he said, “Look at my wounds; see, I got them in my country’s service, when some of you ran away from the noise of your own drums.”

But notwithstanding this haughty bearing, Coriolanus was elected consul; for most of the people, although they did not like to see him so proud, had a great veneration for his character; and a great dependence upon him as a warrior. Brutus and Sicinius, however, determined to oppose him in the senate, when his election should be confirmed, and took the opportunity to influence the popular mind against him, that they might the more effectually oppose him. So when the senate met, Brutus and Sicinius openly charged him with showing contempt for the Roman citizens; while a great crowd collected in the market-place, who vowed the destruction of Coriolanus the instant he appeared among them.

Coriolanus repelled the charges of his enemies with such warmth and indignation that they turned upon him, and being made bold by the shoutings of the mob outside, called him a traitor, and wished the officers to come and apprehend him. He, farther incensed at this audacity, seized Brutus in his gripe, and shook him as if he would shake the bones out of his garment; at the same time, Sicinius ran out, crying for help, and brought out a rabble of citizens, who, with their rude weapons fell upon Coriolanus, with the determination to seize him, and drag him to the Tarpeian Rock, a high hill in Rome, from which malefactors used to be thrown headlong. “Down with him, down with him!” was heard on all sides. But Coriolanus drew his sword, and in a moment, the rabble fell back, as if struck by lightning. A great skirmish now ensued, and Coriolanus drove before him the ædiles and the tribunes and their partisans out of the forum, and passed unmolested to his house.

But the storm was not blown over, for the tribunes of the people, Brutus and Sicinius, determined not to give up their cause till their enemy was destroyed; and accordingly, used every means an their power, to incense the citizens still farther against him. They then summoned him to answer for his rude conduct before the people in the forum! They knew his hot and fiery temper, and determined, when the day arrived, to say something that might provoke him, so that he might, before the whole assembly, give vent to some expressions as offensive as those he had formerly used. Brutus, therefore, when the time arrived, openly charged Coriolanus with being a traitor to the people. Upon hearing the word traitor, the rage of the warrior knew no bounds, and he upbraided, in the most vehement terms, both the tribunes, and uttered the bitterest curses on the people. This was what Brutus and Sicinius had aimed at; and therefore, taking advantage of his passionate indiscretion, they called upon the people to bear witness of his contempt, and to join with them in pronouncing his banishment forever from Rome.

Coriolanus, wound up to the highest pitch of anger and indignation, instead of endeavoring to appease the torrent that overwhelmed him, turned his back upon Rome in the most supreme contempt, after having upbraided the citizens for their ingratitude and other vices. He then departed, with the shouts of execration ringing in his ears. But he had scarcely left the city when news was brought that the Volscians, under Tullius Aufidius, were again in arms, and were approaching Rome with rapid marches and in great numbers. Then would the citizens willingly have called back Coriolanus, but he was gone.

In the meantime, the banished warrior, not knowing where to go, and being without shelter or home, wandered into the camp of Aufidius, and was at last brought before the Volscian general. “Who art thou?” said the chieftain. “I am,” said he, “Coriolanus, who defeated thee at Corioli,—hence my surname, Coriolanus. Fortune hath thrown me upon thy hearth, and now I am ready to bow down my neck to thee: and thou canst, if thou wilt, revenge thy country’s wrongs, and thine own, by shedding my blood, and depriving me of the power of ever more driving thee to thy forests and thy hills.”

Tullius Aufidius was a man of noble bearing, and, instead of taking advantage of the situation of his enemy, offered him the rights of hospitality. “Come to my arms,” said he, “and be to me a brother.” “I will unite with thee,” replied Coriolanus, “against that hateful city, which has spurned me forth; and its ungrateful inhabitants shall perish by fire and sword.” And upon this compact, the two generals embraced each other, and vowed fidelity. They then took measures of preparation for an attack on Rome, having determined to destroy it utterly, and to kill, or sell into slavery all its inhabitants.

When the Roman people heard of the approach of the Volsci, they were greatly frightened; but their terror was increased when they were informed that Coriolanus had joined their enemies; and nothing was heard in Rome but howlings and lamentations. Brutus and Sicinius were greatly discomfited, for the popular fury was turned against them. They were upbraided for the banishment of Coriolanus, and were hooted and pelted by the rabble, in the same manner as Coriolanus had been; so that they were forced to hide themselves from their fury. The former friends of Coriolanus were rejoiced at this, but they were no less in consternation; for the destruction of a city in which we live is a terrible thing, and must be attended with ruin to all who live in it. They could not, however, forbear taunting the guilty citizens with their injustice in banishing so great a man. The poor people, who had before exhibited so much tyranny, now became wofully abject, and in the most humiliating accents begged the friends of Coriolanus to go to him and supplicate for mercy. They went, but their supplication was vain, for Coriolanus received them very coldly, and told them he had taken an oath for the destruction of the city, which he would not break, and nothing could move him from his purpose of revenge.

The city was now encompassed on all sides by the Volscian array, and the despair of the inhabitants was complete; they saw nothing before them but fire and devastation, havoc and slaughter; and after having put up prayers to the gods to avert the dreaded calamity, they went, at last, to the mother of Coriolanus, Veturia, and implored her to intercede with her avenging son. After many excuses, and bitter reproaches towards those who had so unworthily treated Coriolanus, the Roman matron at last consented to make her way to the Volscian camp, to obtain the salvation of the devoted city.

After a solemn fast, and supplication to the gods, Veturia called to her all the patrician ladies of Rome, and urged them to array themselves in deep mourning, and to wear on their heads every indication of profound grief. Everything being arranged, the procession of several hundred ladies, thus arrayed, descended the hill upon which the city was built, and passed through the principal barrier, and the gigantic gates which led to the Volscian camp. They passed along without molestation or opposition into the tent of Coriolanus, who having received information of their approach, sat in his chair of state, fixed, cold, and inflexible, to receive them.

When the Roman general saw his mother coming towards him, he could scarcely refrain from rising at her approach. He had been, from a child, so used to honor his parent, that after a violent struggle with himself, to keep his fierce and unbending look, he at last descended from his seat and threw himself at her feet. “Let me sink in the earth,” said he, “and as I am an uncommon man, let me show uncommon duty to my mother.”

But now there were other suppliants who clung around Coriolanus—his wife and his only child. But the moment they urged a word in favor of Rome, although done amid the most tender embraces, he immediately spoke coldly, and refused again to make any terms with the base spirits who had cast him forth and spurned him from the city. The mother of Coriolanus fell upon her knees before him; this touched him to the heart, and he endeavored to raise her up; but she persisted in kneeling, declaring that she would not rise from the earth till satisfied that Rome was safe from his revenge. His little son also fell down at his feet, and so did his wife, Volumnia; the whole of the Roman ladies also, following the example shown them, did the same; and poor Coriolanus soon found himself encompassed by a host of kneeling women.

“If thou wilt march to assault thy country,” said Veturia, “thou shalt tread on her who brought thee into the world;” while the boy said, “He shall not tread on me; I will run away till I am bigger; then I will fight.” This speech touched Coriolanus very much indeed, and he could not help catching him up in his arms and kissing him. Veturia then said, “Here is thy epitaph, obdurate man: the man was noble, but with his last bold deed, he wiped it out, destroyed his country, and his name remains abhorred to future ages.”

“O mother, mother!” said Coriolanus, who felt his determination giving way; “for you, my mother, for you alone I yield;” and then, after a severe struggle with himself, he said, “Rome shall indeed be saved; but thy son is lost. All the swords in Italy would not have made me yield, but I yield to thee, beloved mother.”

And so Rome was saved from destruction by the intercession of Veturia; but Coriolanus, thus overcome, was immediately upbraided by Aufidius and the other Volscian generals for selling Rome and their dear revenge for a few tears. Coriolanus replied fiercely, and told Aufidius that he should yet see the day when he would again make his countrymen sorry as he did at Corioli; and then called him a boy. This so aroused the Volscian general, that he, with his companions, immediately fell upon Coriolanus, and slew him on the spot. As soon, however, as he was dead, Aufidius,—his passion being over,—remembering his many great deeds, and his noble spirit, burst into tears. “I have slain the noblest heart in all the world,” said he, and then, as the only recompense he could make for his rash act, he ordered the most splendid funeral to be prepared, and followed it as chief mourner.

The Rock of Gibraltar.

Gibraltar is a celebrated fortified rock, at the foot of which is a town of sixteen thousand inhabitants. The space occupied by the rock and town, is about seven miles in circuit. It is almost entirely surrounded by the Mediterranean sea, but it is connected with the continent by a low sandy isthmus.

As seen from a ship, nothing can be more desolate than the appearance of Gibraltar, but when you get upon it, you will find fig trees, orange trees, acacias, and a profusion of odoriferous plants. You will also find woodcocks, partridges, teal, and rabbits in abundance. If you will wander up the rocks, you will also find apes of considerable size frisking about, and seeming quite at home. This is the only spot in Europe where any animal of the monkey kind is found to be a native. It is fancied that these creatures pass through caverns under the sea to Africa, which is some twenty or thirty miles across at the narrowest part. It is unnecessary to say that this is impossible.

The rock of Gibraltar is perforated by a great number of natural caverns. St. Michael’s, on the south-west side, is the most famous. You enter this about one thousand feet above the level of the sea. At a little distance, you come to a spacious hall, supported by stalactite pillars. Beneath this is a series of beautiful grottoes, though difficult of access. It is said, that in some of these grottoes you can hear the sea roaring beneath, through crevices in the rock!

The rock and town of Gibraltar belong to the English. The former is strongly fortified, and is considered impregnable. It came into the hands of the English in 1704, since which they have held it, though it has often been attacked and besieged. The most memorable siege commenced in 1779, and it did not cease till February, 1783. The grand attack took place in September, 1782. Beside stupendous batteries, mounting two hundred guns, there was an army of forty thousand men, led by the celebrated Duc de Crillon, in the presence of two princes of the blood. In the bay, lay the combined fleets of France and Spain. The assault was dreadful. Four hundred pieces of artillery, on both sides, were playing at once. The roar was perpetual, and the rock shook as if by an earthquake. Yet the brave garrison held out, and the attack was unavailing.

The east and north sides of the Rock of Gibraltar, are by their nature inaccessible. Toward the south, also, it is very rocky and precipitous. To the west, it slopes to the town, and here the artificial batteries are erected. These are most formidable. To accommodate the operations of the garrison, there are galleries, leading from one point to another, of sufficient width for cannon carriages, and cut for nearly three miles through the very heart of the rock.

Order and Disorder.

“A place for everything, and everything in its place; that is my motto,” said Miss Steady.

“What stuff!” said Miss Thoughtless. “What is the use of being so precise and old-maidish?”

Miss Steady is a very orderly little girl, and so I must give you an account of her habits.

She is very remarkable for her neatness, and for the nice order in which she keeps her room and her clothes. She has had a very pretty little chamber all to herself since she was six years old; and you may go into it at any time, and not find anything out of its place. If you open any of her drawers, you will find everything laid out smoothly and sorted. There is a separate place for her prayer-book, another for her fan; and, as to her clothes, they are all doubled and folded in the neatest manner.

At eight o’clock Miss Steady goes to bed by herself. She folds up all her clothes very neatly, and puts them in a chair near the bed, with her shoes and stockings always laid by her. She puts all her chairs in order, places all her lesson-books and playthings carefully in her closet, undresses her doll, and folds up her doll’s clothes, and puts her to bed. After saying her prayers, she lays her every-day prayer-book and Bible on the table, where she keeps it.

All this she does by herself; and when she is ready to get into bed, she takes good care to place the extinguisher over her candle.

On Saturday night, she takes her clean clothes out of her drawer, and puts them all in their places; and she can go in the dark, and get anything she may happen to want. At any time, on any occasion, she always knows where to lay her hand on anything. She is also exceedingly polite.

She never asks questions out of order at breakfast or dinner-table. She knows when little girls may speak. She knows there is a place for her questions; by this means she never interrupts the conversation of others.

When she comes home from school, she always puts away her books, and her bonnet and shawl, and thus has never any trouble in hunting for them, as many persons have.

It is, however, very different with Miss Thoughtless; for she is so idle, and disorderly, and negligent, that sometimes she forgets to clean her teeth in the morning, and would, I believe, forget to wash her face sometimes, if she were not told of it.

Then, as to her playthings, they are all crammed together; what you would call higgledy-piggledy, or scattered about in various places. On one occasion her dolls were stuffed into the kitchen drawer, along with greasy dusters, corks, black-lead, whiting, shoe-brushes, and hearthstones.

Then, as to her clothes. At night she slips them off in a bunch, and just as they came off, so they lie; sometimes on the floor, or they are thrown on the bed.

Sometimes she leaves the candle burning after she gets to bed, and on one occasion, she set her bed-curtains on fire.

She is continually calling out to Mary; “Mary, where is my bonnet? Mary, have you seen my shawl?” Once or twice in the morning she came down stairs with only one stocking on, because she could not find the other. She had gone to bed with her stockings over her heels, and one had got wrapped up in the bed-clothes.

Miss Thoughtless rarely does anything for herself. She wants Mary, on all occasions, to pin her tippet, to tie her shoes, or to put on her India rubbers. When she proceeds to do anything, she wants the servants to wait on her.

What a difference between these two young ladies! If you were to see them, you might soon tell which was Miss Thoughtless; because you would see something disorderly in her looks, something disorderly in her dress, and something disorderly in her manner of speaking.

Wisdom from a Jester.—Bishop Hall tells us, that there was a certain nobleman who kept a fool or jester, (a thing common in former days in the families of the great,) to whom one day he gave a staff, with a charge to keep it till he should meet with one who was a greater fool than himself. Not many days after, the nobleman was ill, and near death. The jester came to see him, and his lordship said to him, “I must soon leave you.” “And where are you going?” asked the fool. “Into another world,” replied his lordship. “And when will you come again? within a month?” “No.” “Within a year?” “No.” “When then?” “Never?” “Never!” said the jester; “and what provision hast thou made for thy entertainment there where thou goest?” “None at all.” “No!” said the fool, “none at all! Here, then, take my staff; for, with all my folly, I am not guilty of any such folly as this!”

The Little Mariner.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea?

My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years,

I can remember night and day my mother’s prayers and tears.

I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale;

And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail;

Hers was a patient, silent grief; but fears and long delay,

And wakeful nights and anxious days, were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn’s leaves were red,

I watched with heavy heart beside my mother’s dying bed;

Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbors came to say,

The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save;

My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave.

He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay;

And, spite of grief, the winter-time wore cheerfully away.

He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times and more,

And, sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador.

He knew the Spice isles every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow,

And the aloe towers, a stately tree, with clustering bells of snow.

He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood;

Through Persia, where the peacocks brood, a wild bird of the wood;

And, in the forests of the west, had seen the red deer chased,

And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste.

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told, of lands so strange and new;

And in my ignorance I vowed I’d be a sailor too:

My father heard my vow with joy,—so in the early May

We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Honduras’ bay.

Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind,

With a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman’s cheer behind.

There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand,

And I sat for days on the high fore-top, on the long look-out for land.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning tropic seas,

To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshning breeze.

Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free,

Until we neared the rocky shoals, within the western sea.

Yet, still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night,

The helmsman gave the dreadful word of “breakers to the right!”

The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock,

The ship sprang forward, with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

“All hands aloft,” our captain cried—in terror and dismay,

They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away,

’Twas all in vain, ’twas all in vain! the sea rushed o’er the deck,

And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast,

And leaping ’mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast.

I knew not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim,

A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew was how at morn, on a bleak and barren shore,

Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four.

I looked around like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm,

And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father’s arm.

And with a rigid dying grasp, he closely held me fast,

Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight, on the mast.

With humble hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band,

Praying Him, who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding hand.

And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came,

His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame:

And after months of weary wo, sickness, and travel sore,

He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore.

And now, without a house or friend, I wander far and near,

And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear.

Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea?

The Old Lady and her Cat.

Cats have nine lives, so everybody says. Certainly, they go through more disasters than any other animal, and have more hair-breadth escapes. I have seen cats fall from the top of a house, and get up, and run away as if nothing had happened. That is, you will say, because they always alight on their feet. Perhaps there may be something in this; be that as it may, I am about to relate to you the adventures of a cat, which are as wonderful as they are true.

I wish you could have seen her picture; she seemed as if she were entering into conversation with her mistress. And so she did in her way; she could purr when she was happy, and mew when she wanted anything. But more than this, she could show by her looks, that she understood a good deal the old lady said to her.

She was a good old creature, this old lady, and she loved her cat, because she had nobody else to love, and her cat loved her; and well she might, for the old lady made a pet of her. She fed her every morning from her own table, with new roll and new milk; then for dinner she would have cooked for her a little kidney, or some other savory morsel. At tea time, puss used to stand with her feet on the elbow of the old lady’s chair, and many a nice bit did she receive during that meal, with a saucer of milk before the tea things were taken away.

Then she had a nice bed. A cushion stuffed with wool, by day to repose herself upon, and for night she had a little wicker basket with a hole to creep in at; there she curled herself so snugly, that many a poor creature would have envied her. In the morning she used to run up stairs, the moment the servant came down, and mew at her mistress’s door till she was let in; and there she would stop with her till she was dressed, turning her tail and rubbing against her mistress’s garments, till she came down stairs, as much as to say, I am glad to see you this morning.

But it was not always so with Miss Puss, I assure you: she had seen many adventures, and had many escapes. Few cats had gone through more troubles than she. I will tell you one of the events of her life. I think the story will please you. Well, you must know that Mogette, for that was her name, was, what is called a stable-cat; that is, a cat kept in the stable to look after the rats, that they might not eat the horses’ corn.

Mogette once had five little kittens; and pretty little things they were, and fond enough she was of them. She thought too, she had secured them all from danger by hiding them in a hole in the hay-loft; which she had lined with hay to make it nice and warm. She never left her young ones except she was very hungry; and then only a few minutes, just to keep herself from starving. She would then return, and purr fondly over her kittens, showing how much she loved them.

There was an ugly, ill-tempered stable-boy, named Sturt, and a very cruel boy he was to cats. He was very fond of dogs, and never so fond of them as when they turned a cat on its back, or drew a rat from his hole. His chief delight was in cat hunting.

He had a fierce little terrier dog, which he taught to be as cruel as himself. This dog was always on the watch for cats.

Poor puss, like a wise cat, had secreted her kittens in the hay-loft, on purpose to guard against this dog. But she often heard him bark in the day, and felt quite frightened, although she knew he could not get up into the hay-loft, still she feared that some day, when her kittens grew larger, they would come down and he would tease them.

The dog Snap, for that was his name, never saw puss but he chased her round the stable-yard. On one occasion, this boy, Sturt, set him on, and puss could not get out of the way till she flew up an apple tree, and here the dog watched her, and would not let her come down. Puss thought of her kittens, and at last made a desperate plunge at Snap, scratching his face and eyes most wofully, and ran with all speed to the ladder leading to the hay-loft.

Up this she ran, and Snap after her. When she had mounted three or four of the steps, she turned round and gave him such a parting scratch, as tumbled him off the ladder; while Sturt threw the curry-comb at her, as she made good her retreat into the hay-loft.

Nor was this all; for, feeling incensed at his dog being beaten, Sturt followed puss, and at last found her hiding-place, with the five little kittens. “Oh, oh! marm,” said he, “here are you and your kittens.” With that, he attempted to drag the kittens out; but puss flew at him with the greatest violence, and bit and scratched his hands till they bled profusely.

It was a day or two before the fourth of July, and Sturt had for some time been preparing squibs and crackers for that well known day. It occurred to him that the best way to dislodge the old cat would be to treat her to a squib or two: “for that will bring her out,” he said to himself, “if anything will.”

Full of this notion he hastened down stairs, and groped his hand to the bottom of the oat-bin, where he had his combustibles, for fear of being found; and, procuring a light, he took one of the largest “double-bangers” he could find, and ascended quietly into the hay-loft.

He crept cautiously to pussy’s hole, and having lit the end of the squib, placed the thick part so that it would rush into the hole as soon as it took fire, and retreated to the corner of the hay-loft to see the sport.

Presently the squib ignited, and just as he had supposed, darted into the cat’s hole. But puss never came out, and in a moment the whole of the hay-loft was on fire!

Sturt hastened to run down the ladder; but in his hurry and alarm, missed his step, and put his leg through a hole in the floor of the loft. Before he could extricate himself, the flames were all blazing around him. He called as loud as he could, but all to no purpose. He made, however, towards the outside door—at last he reached it; but he was all of a blaze. He leaped down into the stable-yard, half roasted, and in the fall broke his leg.

As to puss, after the squib exploded, she endeavored to get off; but she could not leave her kittens. First she took one up in her mouth, and then the other; then she tried to take two at once. Oh! if you had seen this poor cat’s affection for her young, how much better you would have thought her, than that wicked boy.

At last, however, poor puss darted off with one of her kittens. She was in a terrible fright, you will believe. She ran up a wooden waterspout, leading in a slanting direction to an adjoining shed, with the kitten in her mouth. She then bore it over the gable end of a house, till she got into a gutter on the other side; along this she travelled, and again mounted another roof; on the top of this she walked, still carrying her kitten in her mouth, till at last she came to a cow-house and hay-stack at the other side of the farm. Into this hay-stack she leaped, bearing her offspring with her in safety.

Poor puss returned for her other kittens; but alas! when she got back, nothing was to be seen but a quantity of red and black rafters, and vast masses of burnt hay. The poor kittens had perished in the flames.

Cornelia.—A lady of Campagnia in Italy, who was very rich, and fond of pomp and show, being on a visit to Cornelia, the illustrious mother of the Gracchi, displayed the diamonds and jewels she possessed, with some ostentation, and then requested Cornelia to permit her to see her jewels. This eminent woman dexterously contrived to turn the conversation to another subject, till her sons returned from one of the public schools; when she introduced them, saying, “these are my jewels!”

A Sliding Party:

A MOTHER’S STORY.

It was one of the finest evenings in January; I can remember it very well. I was then a young girl, and was delighted with such beautiful evenings as the one I am going to tell you about. The moon shone bright, the stars glittered like so many gems in the sky; not a dark cloud was to be seen; there was not a breath of wind, not so much as to shake the tops of the smallest trees. True it was very cold, and the snow laid deep on the ground; and though most of the busy world had retired to their houses, to enjoy a long evening by their wintry fireside, I was tempted to take a stroll out to admire the beautiful prospect. I did not remain out long, as it was the practice of my father to relate stories to amuse us in the evening, while mother and myself sat at work. When I returned home, I found them all seated round the blazing fire, ready; and all seemed happy but my eldest brother John; he was evidently uneasy, and could not sit still long together, and kept looking about and listening, and often going to the window.

At last, he told his father that his playmates were going on the river to slide, and that he should like to go. We all begged him not to think of going out on the ice, and told him it would be better for him to stay at home and hear father’s stories; but all to no purpose; he had made up his mind to go, though he knew how unhappy we should all be while he was away. He promised to be home at nine, and said he would not go near the bridge; for there the current was more rapid, and of course they would not be safe; and his father cautioned him of the openings in the ice, and that he might be liable to fall in and get drowned. John heard all that his father said; but boys love to roam and are fond of adventure; and, I am sorry to say, that, when they set their hearts on anything, it often happens that the advice of parents is of no use to them; and so it was in this case. He had just turned the corner of the house, when he heard the merry shout and laugh of the party; and he waited till they came up, and they all went towards the river. They had a mile to walk, but that was nothing to a set of crazy-headed, self-willed boys; they soon got there, and were busily engaged in their sport.

It was indeed, very fine sliding; and they staid till the clock struck nine, when John proposed to go home; but the rest insisted on staying a little longer, “only a few minutes,” as they said. John had many unpleasant feelings about stopping after the clock had struck nine, for he knew that his father would expect him agreeably to his promise; but he at length yielded to the entreaties of the rest, and tried not to think of the uneasiness his absence would cause at home.

From the time John went, we were all unhappy, and kept asking father if he were not afraid that he would get drowned? So much were we all concerned about our brother, that it made the tears steal silently down our father’s face, and he resolved that in future he would spare us all this anxiety, by using his authority to keep him at home. After the clock had stuck nine, and John did not return, we became impatient, especially our little sisters, who ought to have been in bed long before that time, but they were unwilling to go until they saw their brother return; and father did not compel them, for he was the kindest of fathers, and sometimes a little too indulgent. But when the clock struck ten, the pain of the whole family was extreme. Father would have gone after him to have seen if anything had happened, but he was lame with the gout, and could hardly walk across the room; and we had nobody to send. Oh! what a wretched half hour we spent!

There lived at the public tavern a man whom they called Sailor Jem; he had once been a sailor, and he happened to see the party set off for the river. While he was sitting telling stories and hearing the news, a man came in to warm his feet, and Jem asked him what news he had. “A sad accident,” said he, “has just happened at the bridge; a party of boys were sliding, and one of them is drowned.” Jem heard no more, but came breathless to my father’s. He found us already in trouble, but his story made us half distracted. My father was more composed, and begged of Jem to go directly to the river, or the road which he saw John take, and see if he could make any discoveries.

Jem started immediately; he had only got a quarter of a mile, when he met the boys returning, all safe. So he accompanied John, and saw him restored to his anxious family. Our joy was great when we saw him safe, and father did not interrupt it that night, by talking to my brother about his conduct; but the next morning, at breakfast, he endeavored to show him wherein he had done wrong. They had not been to the bridge, it was true, but then he did not come home at the appointed time.

You will see by this, how much you can do, if you choose, to make a whole family unhappy, by not taking the advice of those whose age and experience enable them to judge better for you, than you can for yourselves. And remember one thing, that promises should be held sacred. Had he come at nine, as he ought to have done, he would have saved us an hour and a half of the most intense suffering; and I hope, if you make a promise, even the most trifling, that you will keep it.

A Roman Judge.—While Octavius Cæsar was at Samos, after the famous battle of Actium, which made him master of the then known world, he held a council, to examine the prisoners who had been of Anthony’s party. Among the rest, there was brought before him a man named Metellus, oppressed with age and infirmities, disfigured by a long beard and a neglected head of hair, but especially by his clothes, which, through adversity, had become ragged. The son of this Metellus was one of the judges, and had great difficulty to recognise his father in the deplorable condition in which he now saw him. At length, however, recollecting his features, instead of being ashamed of his unhappy parent, he ran with tears to embrace him. Then, returning to the tribunal, “Cæsar,” said he, “my father has been your enemy, and I your officer; he deserves to be punished, and I to be rewarded. The favor I ask of you, is, that you would save him on my account, or order me to be put to death with him.” All the judges were touched with compassion at the affecting scene. Octavius himself relented, and granted to old Metellus his life and liberty.

Patrick Henry.—This eminent American left in his will the following important passage:

I have now disposed of all my property to my family; there is one thing more I wish I could leave them, and that is, the Christian religion. If they had that, and I had not given them one shilling, they would be rich; and if they had not that, and I had given them all the world, they would be poor.

The Old Owl.

I.
The owl is a bird that flaps along
With a lonely loud halloo;
He has but one unceasing song,
To whit, to whit, to woo.
In dusky light he takes his flight,
The twilight dim is the time for him,
And when the midnight scowls,—
’Tis then he silently prowls,
And hunts the mice and moles.
II.
A lonely owl once built her nest
In the hole of a hollow tree,
And she with a fine young brood was blest
As ever owl could be.
She loved her young, and as they clung
Beneath her downy wing,
She o’er them oft, on a branch aloft,
As they reposed below,

Would shout and sing, while the woods would ring,

To whit, to whit, to woo.

III.

A boy came by that hollow tree,

With a fierce and wild halloo;

And this the birds, all startled heard,

And answered, to whit, to woo.

As the old bird shrieked, the young ones squeaked;

“Oh ho!” said the boy,
In a frantic joy,
“An owl is the bird for me,
And here are its young ones three.”
Then with eager look,
He that bird’s-nest took;
While plaintive and slow,
Rose a note of wo
From the owl in its hollow tree,
To whit, to whit, to woo.
IV.
That boy now took his victims home,
And put them in a cage;
And cooped up there,
In their despair,
They bit and scratched in rage;
They caught his fingers once or twice,
And made him scream with pain;
And then he vowed,
In curses loud,
That they should all be slain.
He tied them to a stake, and got
An iron pin, and made it hot,
To burn out their young eyes.
“Ha, ha!” said he, “you’ll not bite me,
You’ll not bite me again:”
Then in the sky
A wing flapped by
That seemed to stop his breath;
’Twas the old owl, with a heavy scowl,
Lamenting her young ones’ death—
To whit, to whit, to woo.
V.
That boy grew up—became a man,
A cruel man was he,
His heart had grown as hard as stone,
Which none but God could see.
One dreary night,
In the wan moonlight,
Beneath that hollow tree
He vengeful stood, to spill the blood
Of a hated enemy.
With a furious blow, he laid him low,
Then plunged his knife
To take his life,
Deep to its haft,
And wildly laughed,—
“You will not again plague me.”
But yet as he knelt
O’er that foe, he felt

A shudder that quailed all his blood’s full glow;

For oh, he heard,
On the tree that bird,
The same old owl, o’er that murder foul,
Cry, whit, to whit, to woo.
VI.
He fled—the owl’s reproaching cry
Still ringing in his ears;
But ah, ’twas in vain for the wretch to fly,
So loaded with guilt and fears.
He quick was caught,
And to justice brought,
And soon in prison lies.
And oh, while there,
In his deep despair,
In lonely tears and sighs,
He thought of the iron cage!
And he thought of the cruel rage!!
And the red-hot pin, that he once thrust in,
To burn out the young bird’s eyes.

Condemned to die—’twas his destiny
To die on that hollow tree,
And there as he hung,
And there as he swung
In the night-wind to and fro,
That vengeful bird
Was often heard,
When scarcely a breath the forest stirred,
In screamings high,
All the night to cry,
To whit, to whit, to woo.
To whit, to whit, to woo.

A Fisherman’s Widow.—One of the small islands in Boston Bay was inhabited by a single poor family. The father was taken suddenly ill, and there was no physician at hand. The wife, on whom every labor for the household devolved, was unwearied in her care for her suffering husband. Every remedy in her power to procure was administered, but the disease was acute, and he died. Seven young children mourned around the lifeless corpse. They were the sole beings upon that desolate spot. Did the mother indulge the grief of her spirit and sit down in despair? No. She entered upon the arduous and sacred duties of her station. She felt that there was no hand to assist her in burying her dead. Providing as far as possible for the comfort of her little ones, she put her babe into the arms of the oldest, and charged the two next in age to watch the corpse of their father. She unmoored her husband’s fishing-boat, which but two days before he had guided over the seas to obtain food for his family. She dared not yield to those tender recollections, which might have unnerved her arm. The nearest island was at the distance of three miles. Strong winds lashed the waters to foam. Over the rough billows that wearied and sorrowful woman rowed and was preserved. She reached the next island and obtained necessary aid. With such energy did her duty to her desolate babes inspire her, that the voyage which depended upon her individual effort, was performed in a shorter time than the returning one, when the oars were managed by two men who went to assist in the last offices of the dead.

“Moral deformity seems not in the fiend so horrid as in woman.”

“Holy men, at their death, have good inspirations.”

The Zebu, or Indian Ox.

The most common of the Indian breeds of the ox kind, is the zebu, a humped variety, the smallest specimens of which are not bigger than a full-grown mastiff, while others are found almost as large as the finest of our English cows. The zebu has been considered by naturalists as not a distinct species, but only a degenerate kind of bison, diminished in size by scantiness of food, which has a decided effect upon the bulk of all horned cattle. We see that the horse dwindles into a pony in the Shetland Isles, and why not the ox shrink into a zebu?

The zebu, like the bison, is extremely gentle when tamed, and very useful to mankind, both as affording food and serving for a beast of draught or burden. These animals are employed in pairs to draw a two-wheeled vehicle, called gadee, which holds but one person, and is used by the wealthy Hindoos. When destined for this purpose, their horns, when young, are bent so as to grow nearly upright, inclining backwards a little toward the top. They are often covered with rich carpets; adorned with rings and chains of gold and other metal, and their legs and chests painted with various colors. The women of the lower classes, in India, frequently travel on bullocks, which they ride astride upon a very large saddle. The animals have bells hung round their necks, and are guided by means of a cord passed through the nostrils.

“My dear friend, that woman has been talking about you so again! She has been telling the awfullest lies you ever heard; why, she railed away about you for a whole hour!”

“And you heard it all, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, after this, just bear in mind that it takes two to make a slander; one to tell it and one to listen to it.”

The Bison, or American Buffalo.

As there has lately been an exhibition of a number of bisons through New England, and as no doubt many of our readers have seen them, we think it will amuse them, particularly, to learn something about the manners, habits and nature of these creatures. We hope, too, that all others who may look into our pages, may find it agreeable to read a description of such extraordinary animals.

The bison is very different from the European buffalo,—the latter having very long, spreading horns. The buffalo is also a more fierce and daring animal. Our bison is as large as the largest ox, and roams in vast herds over the prairies of the west. Sometimes several thousand are seen in a flock, and as they proceed, fighting, lowing, leaping, and tearing the earth with their horns, the noise is terrific. The earth at such a time seems to tremble as if shaken by an earthquake. The bison is not now found east of the Mississippi, though it probably inhabited in former times, the whole country to the shores of the Atlantic. It bears considerable resemblance to the German Aurochs. Its horns are short, and it has a prodigious hump over the shoulders. The head, shoulders, and upper parts are covered with long, brownish, woolly hair. The tail is tufted with black.

These animals, while feeding, scatter themselves over the country, but when moving, they form a dense column, which, once in motion, is scarcely to be impeded. Their line of march is seldom interrupted, even by considerable rivers, across which they swim, without fear or hesitation, in the order in which they traverse the plains. They constantly wander about, either from being disturbed by the hunters, or in search of food. They are very fond of the soft and tender grass, which springs up after a fire has spread over the prairie. In winter they scrape away the snow, to reach the grass. They are timid and fly from man, but when wounded, they become desperate and dangerous. The Indians make incessant war upon them for their flesh and skins. Their favorite method of attack, is to ride up to the fattest of the herd on horseback, and shoot them. Sometimes they drive them over precipices, by which they are killed. They also take them in enclosures made of sticks, about a hundred yards in diameter. The herds are attended by packs of wolves, ready to fall upon the sick and wounded. Travellers describe the noise made by the bellowing, the trampling, and galloping of a large herd of bisons, as impressing the mind with an emotion amounting to terror. The bison was the only native animal of the ox kind found by the first settlers in America.

Anecdote.—In a town of western Virginia, a few years ago, an old lady from the country went to a store to procure a few articles. She purchased several of the clerk, and at length, observing a neatly painted and varnished bellows hanging by the post, she inquired what it was. The clerk, perceiving that the old lady was rather ignorant, and being something of a wag, informed her that it was a new-fashioned fan, which he had lately received from the east; at the same time taking the bellows down and puffing with it in his face, told her that was the mode of operation. The old woman repeated the operation on herself, and was so delighted with the new fan, that she purchased it forthwith and departed.

On the next day, the minister had an appointment to preach at a neighboring school-house in the country. The congregation being assembled, while the minister was in the act of reading the first hymn, who should pop in but the old lady with her new-fashioned fan, and having taken her seat, immediately commenced puffing away in good earnest! The congregation knew not what to make of it—some smiled, and some looked astonished; but the ludicrous prevailed over everything else, and to such an extent, that the minister himself was obliged to stop reading, and hand the book to his brother in the desk. After the usual preliminary services, he rose to preach, but there sat the lady with the bellows, and a hand hold of each handle, the nose turned up towards her face, and with much self-complacency puffing the gentle breeze in her face. What to do, or how to proceed, he knew not, for he could not cast his eyes over the congregation without meeting with the old lady. At length, summoning resolution, and trying to feel the solemnity of the duty imposed on him, he proceeded. He finished his discourse, but it cost him more effort than any sermon before or since.—Mt. Vernon Watchman.

A Pious Mother.—It is said, that, in the hand of one of the mummies found in a pyramid, was discovered a bulbous root, which being placed in the earth, grew and bloomed a beautiful but unknown flower, after having been buried for many hundred years. So may the good seed of God spring up after many years. We mention a case in point. Some years since, a venerable old man, upwards of one hundred years old, was the subject of converting grace in an American state. The cause of his conversion was hearing a text of Scripture, which his pious mother had taught him in England, one hundred years before!

“Though seed lie buried long in dust;
It shan’t deceive our hope;
The precious grain shall ne’er be lost,
For grace insures the crop.”

The Medallion.

The subscribers to the Medallion, edited by Uncle Christopher, have already been informed that that paper is discontinued; and it is requested that those who have heretofore given it their support, will now lend their aid to Merry’s Museum. In token of his good will, Uncle Christopher has lent us his countenance, as you see above, and we venture to guess that in the April number, we shall be able to offer one of his pleasing stories.

We have a variety of new tales on hand, some of which are interesting; we shall begin one or two of them in our next.

Good and Evil.

An aged man along the road
Pursued his weary way—
His back was bent beneath a load,
His thin long locks were gray.

The aged man with tottering tread
And many a sigh did go,
And misery seemed to bow his head
And mark his brow with wo.

Yet on his lip there lurked a sneer,
As sorrow, like a spell,
On every traveller he came near,
With clouds and darkness fell.

Still on he sped with restless bound,
As if a fire within
Burned at his heart, which only found
Relief in deeds of sin.

“What is thy name?” a traveller cried—

As he the old man met.

“’Tis Trouble”—thus the seer replied—

“Canst thou my form forget?

“No pilgrim on life’s rugged road
Can fail to feel my wrath;
On every back I lay a load—
Strew thorns in every path.

“Time’s tooth, that crumbles all beside,
These ghastly limbs defy;
No shelter from my form can hide—
No wing my sceptre fly!

“Yet seest thou yonder gentle maid,

That follows with her wiles?

She dares my kingdom to invade,

And turns my tears to smiles.”

While yet the hoary tyrant spoke,
The angel maiden came—
A light around her footsteps broke,
For Comfort was her name.

With anxious look the wizard sped,
And darkness marked his way—
But on his track the maiden fled,
And turned the night to day.

The load that bowed each pilgrim back,
She lightened with her wand,
And if Earth’s sky was hung with black,
She showed a Heaven beyond.

LITTLE LEAVES
FOR
LITTLE READERS.

Under this title, we propose hereafter to devote a portion of each number of our Magazine to the special benefit of our very young friends—the A b c darians—those who have just begun to read. We intend, in fact, to make a little magazine on purpose for them.

And now, at the very outset, we wish to make a bargain in behalf of our littlest friends; those who have just learned to spell crucifix, amplification, &c. It is as follows:

The big Black-eyes and Blue-eyes have a right to read the older part of our magazine, first; after this, the A b c darians must be permitted to read our Little Leaves. We foresee that there will be a squabble between the old aristocrats and the young democrats, if we do not settle this point beforehand. Now, having spoken our will, we trust we shall be obeyed.

If any trespass upon our law, here laid down, occurs—if any little friend of ours is elbowed out of his rights—if his elder brother or sister ventures to peep into the story of Limping Tom, or Inquisitive Jack, before he has read it, we hope the case will be laid before us, and we shall forthwith proceed to hear and adjudge the matter according to law and justice. Hear ye and obey!

The Story of Limping Tom.

You will, perhaps, be surprised to hear that Limping Tom had two as good legs as were ever seen. Why then did he limp? That is a natural question, and I shall proceed to answer it.

Tom was not a boy—but a cat! He was born and brought up in a barn. One day, when he and his little brothers and sisters were frolicking over the barn floor, all alone, a little snappish dog peeped in and saw what was going on.

In he came, and began to chase the kittens. They were awfully frightened, and scampered in all directions. Some dove into a hole in the floor—one hid behind a barrel, and two attempted to climb up the hay-mow. One of these was our hero Tom. But, alas, as he was scratching up, the dog caught him in his back, and gave him a terrible grip with his long sharp teeth.

Tom screamed, and the old cat, who was out behind the barn watching a mouse, heard him. She knew that something bad was going on. She left the mouse in an instant, and ran into the barn. I wish you could have seen her as she approached the dog, who was shaking poor Tom, in his teeth.

Her back was sticking up as well as her tail. The hair of the latter was extended so as to make it look as large round as a lady’s boa. Her mouth was open, her teeth bare, her eyes flashing like fire. She seemed to dance along the floor toward the dog, as if the wind blew her.

Before the dog knew what was coming, puss was upon him with teeth and claws. Now was his turn to squeal. She bit his ears and scratched his eyes, before he could turn round. Then he fled, yelling with all his might. Puss followed, jump for jump, and laying her claws at every leap upon the dog’s hinder quarters, the hair flew as if her paws had been a couple of curry-combs. When the dog came to the street, he laid down his ears, hid his tail between his legs, and, stretching away, at last escaped.

Puss came back, and there lay poor Tom, unable to move. She took him up gently in her mouth, and carried him to the bed. She laid him down, mewed to him with a soft purring voice, as if to comfort him. She then licked off the blood, and finally curled herself around him, to keep him warm. Poor Tom at last went to sleep. What a good mother was old puss, and how much like the kind mothers of little children!

The next day Tom was very stiff and sore. He could not move, or sleep, or eat. Oh, how he did suffer! But puss was by his side, almost all the time. She licked his wounds gently, so as to soothe and not to hurt them. She kept him warm, and purred to him, and did all she could. In three or four days he began to get better. In a month his wounds were healed, but one of his hind legs, being broken, was shorter than the others, and always remained so. It was also rather weak; so that Tom, when he grew up, was lame, and therefore he got the name of Limping Tom.

Now, you might suppose that this defect would be a great evil to Tom, in life. But we shall see how it was. He was taken by a girl named Lucilla, or Lissa, as they called her. Why she chose him, rather than his more perfect mates, I cannot tell; though I guess it was because she had a tender heart, as many pretty girls have, and was guided in her choice by a sweet kindness excited by misfortune.

Well, Lissa carried Tom home. Though lame, he was still a cheerful kit as ever you saw. Some thoughtless people used to laugh at him, as he flew about, for his hinder parts went up and down in a very queer fashion, as he gambolled over the floor or grass. Lissa saw nothing ridiculous in all this; on the contrary, Tom’s limp was really graceful and interesting to her. I believe the girl loved him all the better for his imperfection.

You may be curious to know how this is to be accounted for. I will try to tell you. Tom was really a good, lively little fellow. He was not quite so nimble as other cats, but he did the best he could; he showed a good disposition. This was a great thing, for everybody loves a good disposition. It is not necessary to be smart in order to be loved. Do the best you can, and nobody will ask more. Make the best of everything, and you will satisfy and gratify all around you.

Now, this was the way with Tom; he was good-tempered; he did the best he could; he never had the sulks; whenever his mistress wished to play, he was ready; when she was busy, he kept out of the way. Being lame, he was humble; being good, he was cheerful. So Lissa loved him, and he was happy.

Thus, Limping Tom grew up. And now he was a cat. It was his duty to guard the house, to chase away the rats, and keep the mice in order. He looked grave, and seemed to feel the responsibility of his station. But still, he did not altogether lose his love of fun. Most cats, when they grow old, grow dull and uninteresting. They lay aside their gambols and frolics, and amusements, and accomplishments; they prowl about at night with melancholy cries; doze away life in the chimney corner, and if you chance to tread on their tails, woe be to you!

Not exactly so with Tom. Despite his lameness, he was rather a jolly fellow, still. He did his duty all day—but at night, he regularly came to Lissa, and provoked her into a game of romps. Lissa was now a young lady, and a black-eyed young man came to see her almost every night. Tom was jealous at first—but finding that Lissa liked the young man, as in duty bound, he began to like him too.

At last Lissa and her lover were married. They went to live in a house of their own, and Tom went with them. He was a marked cat, you may be sure. Everybody noticed his limp, and asked questions about him. This led Lissa and her husband to tell his story, and to praise him. So Tom came to be very celebrated, and a universal favorite. His limp actually made his fortune; and the reason was, that instead of growling and snarling about it, he made the best of everything, did his duty, and was good-tempered, industrious and faithful. So it seems that even a natural defect may, by good will and good sense, be turned to good fortune.

The Mourner Comforted.

Poor Phil was once a blithe Canary—
But then his mate was at his side;
His spirits never seemed to vary,
Till she, one autumn evening, died.
And now upon his perch he clung,
With ruffled plumes and spirits low,
His carol hushed, or if he sung,
’Twas some sad warble of his wo.

His little mistress came with seed—
Alas! he would not—could not feed.
She filled the cup with crystal dew,
She called—she whistled—’twould not do;
The little mourner bowed his head,
And gently peeped,—“my mate is dead!”

Alas, poor Phil—how changed art thou!
The gayest once—the saddest now.
The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,
Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave:
Or if thou hadst some softer spell,
Thine ear had stolen from the shell,
That sings amid the silver sand,
That circles round thy native land—
’Twas only when, with wily art,
Thou sought’st to charm thy partner’s heart.
And she is gone—thy joys are fled—
Thy music with thy mate is dead!

Poor bird—upon the roost he sate,
With drooping wing—disconsolate—
And as his little mistress gazed,
Her brimming eyes with tears were glazed.
In vain she tried each wonted art
To heal the mourner’s broken heart.
At last she went, with childish thought,
And to the cage a mirror brought.
She placed it by the songster’s side—
And lo, the image seemed his bride!

Forth from his perch he wondering flew,
Approached and gazed, and gazed anew!
And then his wings he trembling shook,
And then a circling flight he took—
And then his notes began to rise,
A song of triumph to the skies!
And since, for many a day and year,
That blissful bird—the mirror near—
With what he deems his little wife,
His partner still, has spent his life—
Content if but the image stay,
Sit by his side, and list his lay!

Thus fancy oft will bring relief—

And with a shadow, comfort grief.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER I.

Jack’s habit of roaming about—His singular way of satisfying his curiosity—The story of the whortleberry bush—Frogs, tadpoles, and lizards—How to see and investigate—The ant hill—Great days—Dinner.

Here the little fellow sits with his book, for he has now learnt to read. It is evening, and his mother has gone to see one of the neighbors, while he sits by the bed of his little sister, to take care of her, in case she wakes up. How intent he seems in reading his book!

But I must tell you about Jack, when he was quite young, and before he could read. All children have a deal of curiosity, and they ask a great many questions of their parents and others. As for instance: What makes the fire burn? Why does the sun shine? Who made the moon? Why do cats have ears? &c.

Now, Jack had his share of curiosity too; but he took a way to gratify it not common among children. He lived in the country, and his father had several acres of land around the house. Here were high rocks, and some woods, and a little valley where there was a small pond. There was also a ploughed field and a garden.

Now, Jack had a fancy for roaming about his father’s grounds, when he was quite a child, and if I must say it—when he wore petticoats! By the way, if any of my little friends meet with him, I beg they won’t say anything about the petticoats, for he is now a man, and might be ashamed to be reminded of what he once was.

Well, his greatest pleasure was to go alone over the rocks, and through the woods, and to the little valley. He delighted, particularly, to go to the pond, and see the frogs, and fishes, and tadpoles, and leeches, and insects, that made it their home there. He would stand for hours upon the rocks, quite absorbed in noticing the manners and customs of these inhabitants of the pond.

Now, Jack was so much in the habit of living out of doors, and walking about, that the objects he met with became, as it were, companions to him. He never seemed to feel alone, if only some flowers, or bushes, or trees were around him. He was never impatient—never restless—never in a hurry, while sauntering among the objects which nature had created and thrown in his way.

I will tell you an instance, to show his great satisfaction when he was among the bushes.

Just after he had learned to talk, a young lady who was staying at his father’s house, happened to go into the woods, where she found Jack. He was sitting by the side of a whortleberry bush, which was covered with green whortleberries. “What are you doing here?” said she to Jack. “Jack’s waiting for the whortleberries to get ripe!” was his reply.

Now, perchance, some of my sharp little friends will think Jack a silly boy; but wait, lads and lasses, and hear his story, before you decide. I have said that he had a way peculiar to himself, to gratify his curiosity. Instead of asking a bushel of questions, one after another, without waiting for a single answer, he was in the habit of observing things, and investigating things. In this way he gained a vast deal of knowledge.

Perhaps, you may wish to know what I mean by observing and investigating. I will try to make you understand it.

One day in spring, Jack was in the garden, digging up a place to sow some pepper-grass seed. By-and-by he happened to see an ant running along with a piece of a leaf in his mouth. So he stopped his work, and looked at the ant. The little insect paddled along with his six legs very fast, and pretty soon came to a little hillock of earth, about as large round as a small flap-jack, and twice as high.

It seemed to consist of a heap of particles of sand. Now Jack, instead of running away to tell his mother about what he had found, remained to observe and look into the matter, or investigate it. On looking at the little mound, he saw there were a number of holes in it; and into one of them, the little ant with the leaf, plunged head first. “I wonder where he’s gone to?” said Jack. In a minute or two, several ants came out of these holes, and some of them had small white things that looked like eggs. These they laid down in the sun, and went into their holes to fetch more.

Every ant seemed to be busy about something. Jack saw several ants go away from the hill. He determined to observe them, and find out what was going on. He watched one fellow particularly, and he went to the distance of as much as three yards. There was a large dead fly. The ant went to work, gnawed off his head, took it in his teeth, and scrabbled back to the hill. Down he went into one of the holes.

In a few seconds he came back, made another journey to the dead fly, sawed off a thigh, and transported it to the hill. In this way he kept going out and in, and in the course of an hour, the ant had carried the whole carcass of the fly into the hill! “Well,” said Jack to himself, “I guess that fellow’s the butcher, and supplies the ant-folks with meat.” And no doubt Jack was right.

While all this was going on, Jack had time to observe and investigate other things. He saw one ant go as much as a dozen times to a dandelion, and load himself with the yellow powder which he gathered from the blossoms. “I guess that is the baker,” said Jack. He saw several climb up the stalks of tall plants, to get the juice or honey from the blossoms. “I guess these fellows are the grocers!” said the boy.

By-and-by, Jack saw an ant going along, when he chanced to come across another hill. Immediately he began to smell about this way and that—but an ant upon the strange hill saw him. In he went, at a hole, and in two seconds he sallied forth, with five or six other fellows in his rear. They darted forward, heels over head, toward the intruder, the strange ant. He had become apprized of the danger, and was galloping back toward his hill, as fast as his legs could carry him. It was a glorious sight, and Jack looked on, with as much interest as if it had been a fox-chase.

The little red ant that had stirred up this affray, went straight ahead, and pretty soon came to a ball of earth as big as a walnut. Deeming it better to climb over than to go round it, he began to mount, when the leader among the pursuers, a large black fellow, stuck his teeth into his rump! Red turned round, and grappled; both fell backward, and rolled upon the earth! Such a scratching and biting!

At last little Red escaped—having given Black a severe wound. The others now came up, and the chase was resumed. By-and-by the party approached Red’s home. Here he met some of his friends. They carried the alarm to the hill. In a few seconds, at least fifty fellows, all red, sallied forth. “I guess these are the soldiers,” says Jack—and so they were, sure enough.

They took the direction toward the party that had chased our little hero, Red. Black had now recovered, and was at their head. He mounted a small stone to reconnoitre and see the force of the enemy. He perceived that the force was too great, and giving the alarm to his party, they all scampered back, jumping, galloping and tumbling, one after another.

The army of the Reds pursued, and finally approached the city of the Blacks, close upon the heels of the ants that had insulted and abused their fellow-citizen. The blacks were soon made aware of the danger that threatened them. The fellows that had been out on the scout, thumped on the hill, and forty or fifty stout fellows rushed forth. They marched toward the regiment of Reds, and now a fierce battle ensued.

It was claw to claw—teeth to teeth. They pulled and hauled—bit and scratched; and after a few minutes, the battle was over. One large, black ant was killed. He was cut into four pieces, and the Reds carried him home, no doubt for a feast.

While Jack was busy in observing and investigating these things, he heard his mother’s call. Though he had been engaged at least four hours in studying into these things, he was not weary, and would gladly have staid longer; but being an obedient and good boy, he forthwith went to his mother, and found his dinner ready. It was one advantage of his morning exercise, that the fresh air had given him a good appetite. We shall pursue the story in our next.

“Pray, grandfather, read me a story. Grandfather, why don’t you speak to me? Gran’ther, gran’ther! Pray speak to Bell!”

“Well, child, what do you want?”

So spoke the old man to the little child, patting her under the chin. “What do you want?” said he. The child begged him to read her a story. Thus teased, the old man began. Whether he read out of the book, or made up a tale as he went along, suited to his grandchild, I cannot tell; but here is the story.

The Snow Drift.

There was once a boy who kept all the cents that were given to him, till he had laid up two dollars. I can hardly tell the reason why it was so, but Dick Liston really found as much pleasure in putting his cents into a box as most children do in buying sweetmeats with theirs.

The reason was probably this: in the first place, we like to feel that we have it in our power to buy anything; to gratify our wants and wishes; to buy things, not only for ourselves, but for others. The feeling of this power is a very agreeable feeling; and the possession of money gives it to us.

But Dick had another motive, added to this. His father owned a few sheep, and Dick wished to own one himself. So he laid by his money till he had amassed two dollars; he then bought himself a sheep. What pleasure he did take in feeding his own dear sheep! He called her Nan; for everything is dearer, if you give it a name.

Well, Nan must have the best potatoes, and the best turnips, and the sweetest hay,—for it was now winter, you know. She learned to know Dick, and as soon as she saw him, she would gallop to him, expecting of course to get some nice tit-bit. She was seldom disappointed. Thus a great friendship grew up between Nan and Dick.

But, now a new event came to pass. Nan had a lamb! Dick was in a perfect flurry of joy. He ran to his mother to announce the happy circumstance. He flew to his brothers and sisters, to unburthen his bosom. He told the cat of it—he told the dog of it—and away he flew to tell his neighbor, Jack Fletcher, of it. He then went back, boiled some potatoes, and fed Nanny.

Every morning Dick was up bright and early, to feed his sheep and lamb. The latter grew apace. In three days he shook his tail; in a week he nibbled a straw; in a fortnight he leaped and frolicked like a kitten. Each of these events marked an epoch in Dick’s heart, and was duly narrated to mother, brother, sisters, and playmates.

At last, March came, with signs of an early spring. The snow had fled. The sun shone warm and smiling. The blue-birds took it for spring; the hens cackled in the barnyard; the geese gabbled in the brook; the robins began to build their nests; the gardener sowed his lettuce, pepper-grass and peas.

Old Nan was also taken in by the fair show of spring. She went with her lamb to a distant hill-side, where the green grass had sprung up. Here she nibbled for a time, and at evening lay down to rest, her infant lamb at her side. They went to sleep, for the air was mild, and the moon shone bright.

But, by-and-by, the clouds covered the sky; a light rain began to fall. The wind changed to the north-east, and the air became cold. The drizzle was converted into snow, which soon fell thick and fast. The old sheep began to feel alarmed, but it was dark, and she did not like to travel across the woods and fields, to her home, at midnight. So she lay still.

But the storm continued. The air was full of snow, and in the morning it was a foot deep. Dick looked out of the window, and, anxious for his sheep and lamb, ran out to the barn. He could not find them. He looked in this place and that, but he could nowhere discover them. At length, with tears in his eyes, he ran back to the house, and told his sad story. Having taken breakfast, he and his brothers went to look for Nan. All the forenoon they spent in the search, but it was vain. The day passed, and the storm increased.

(To be finished in our next.)

MERRY'S
MUSEUM.

APRIL, 1843.

Vol. V. No. 4.

The Seasons.

WINTER.

Winter is a noisy, blustering, bustling season, though in general he keeps himself cool. Even as early as November he seems already impatient to begin his sway. If you leave a door ajar, he slams it wide open and comes puffing in, and blows the newspaper into the fire, oversets the clothes-horse, and cuts sundry other capers of the sort. He takes advantage of every still night to steal into the garden and pinch off the heads of the flowers. He mounts every black cloud, and from it sends down a flurry of sleet, hail or snow. In December he clutches the reins of government, and in a few days,

——congeals every brook,
That murmured so lately with glee,
And places a snowy peruke
On the head of each baldpated tree;
*   *   *   *   *
And a black wreck of clouds is seen to fly
In broken shatters through the frighted sky.

SPRING.

Though winter seems impatient to begin his work, he is as loath to quit it. In March it is time for him to depart, but he may be compared to a crocodile, who, having paid you a visit and staid as long as he ought, pretends to go away: but while he puts his head and body out of doors, leaves his huge tail writhing, bending and brandishing behind. Thus, during March, winter’s tail is left to annoy us with squalls, gusts, tempests, rain, hail, snow. There often seems to be a strife between the seasons, spring and winter alternately getting the ascendency. But, after a while the latter finds his icicles melting away, and to avoid being reduced to a stream of water, he slowly retreats, first to New England, lingering along the Green Mountains, till, pursued by the Genius of flowers, he goes across Hudson’s Bay and hides himself behind the hills of Greenland, or creeps like a woodchuck, into Symmes’s Hole, till he can venture out again with safety.

One of the first and most delightful signs of spring is the return of the birds. The gentle bluebird comes first, with her liquid notes, chanting at early morn the glad tidings of the departure of winter. Then comes the robin, full of business; then the sparrow and the wren; then the woodpecker is heard drumming in the wood; and then the pigeons are seen shooting swiftly by in thousands; and then the wild geese,

——lone wandering but not lost,

high in the air, night and day, are heard and seen in their long journey to the lakes. Spring, indeed, is so full of pleasant things, that we are well paid for the wearisomeness of winter by its return.

SUMMER.

May glides gently into June, which is the most beautiful of all the months—

In fullest bloom the damask rose is seen,
Carnations boast their variegated dye;
The fields of corn display a vivid green,
And cherries with the crimson orient vie;
The hop in blossom climbs the lofty pole,

Nor dreads the lightning, though the thunders roll.

The vegetable world is all alive;

Green grows the gooseberry on its bush of thorn.

The infant bees now swarm about the hive,

And the sweet bean perfumes the lap of morn.

Millions of embryos take the wing to fly;

The young inherit, and the old ones die.

AUTUMN.

I have heard a person, who had travelled in different countries, say, that he would like to spend the spring in Italy, the summer in England, the winter in the island of Cuba, and the autumn in the United States. It is a season “when the moon stays longest for the hunter;” when

The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe

And busy squirrel hoards his winter store;
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest’s pride,
Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,

‘What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?’

In many minds, however, this season is associated with melancholy images, but they are such as bring pleasure, rather than pain. Who that has read the following lines, descriptive of the close of autumn, has not felt their soothing influence?

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead,

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread,—

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood,

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves—the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours;

The rain is falling where they lie—but the cold November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

THE REVOLUTIONS OF THE EARTH.

Thus I have given you a somewhat poetical view of the four seasons; and by what contrivance do you imagine that so much beauty, comfort and happiness are brought about? It is by mechanism, more ingenious, more wonderful than all the contrivances of man. I will try to make you understand this.

Let it be remembered that the sun is firmly stationed in the centre of a vast circle, called the earth’s orbit. The earth continues to whirl along in this orbit, going entirely round the sun once every year. It is kept in motion very much as a boy whirls an apple tied to a string around his head; as the apple cannot fly away from the boy on account of the string, so the earth cannot fly away from the sun on account of the attraction between the two, which operates as a string to tie the earth to the sun and keep it in its orbit.

Well; now imagine the earth moving around the sun once every year. But you must recollect that the earth is also whirling round every twenty-four hours upon its own axis, and this axis runs north and south. One end of the axis is called the north pole, and points always to the north; the other is called the south pole, and always points to the south. But it so happens, that at one time, this axis inclines more to the sun than it does at another. When the north pole is inclined towards the sun, the rays will fall more directly on the northern portions of the earth. This will cause summer at the north and winter at the south. And when the south pole is inclined towards the sun, it is summer at the south, and winter at the north.

Thus you see the rotation of the sun on its own axis every twenty-four hours produces day and night; and the annual movement of the earth around the sun, with the different inclinations of its axis to the sun, produces the wonderful changes of the seasons, which we have noticed.

Alexander and his Mother.—Olympias, the mother of Alexander, was of so very unhappy a disposition, that he could not employ her in any of the affairs of government. She, however, narrowly inspected the conduct of others, and made many complaints to her son, which he always bore with patience. Antipater, Alexander’s deputy in Europe, once wrote a long letter to him, while he was in Asia, complaining of her conduct; to whom Alexander returned this answer; “Knowest thou not that one tear of my mother’s will blot out a thousand such letters?”

Constantinople.

This city, the capital of the Turkish empire, is situated on the Bosphorus, a narrow channel which connects the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmora. It was anciently called Byzantium, but Constantine built it anew, and made it the seat of the Roman empire, in the year 328. From him it derived its name.

It fell into the hands of the Turks in 1458, and has since been their metropolis. The harbor is one of the finest in the world, and is capable of holding 1200 ships. On account of its curving shape and the rich cargoes in the ships there, this harbor is called the Golden Horn.

As you approach Constantinople, it is extremely beautiful, but when you enter it, you find the streets dark, narrow and gloomy. Every Turkish house is a kind of prison, so arranged as to keep the women in a state of jealous confinement. The men generally live in the front part, they being the jailers of the houses. There are no windows looking into the streets.

It is impossible to conceive of a greater contrast than is presented by the streets of Constantinople in comparison with a European or American city. In the latter, all is life and bustle; the shops are furnished with rich goods, and multitudes of people, men and women, are passing to and fro. Vehicles of various kinds are also moving in all directions. In Constantinople it is quite otherwise. The houses, as we have said, are dark and gloomy; the streets are mostly unpaved; few women are seen, and no vehicles, save now and then a miserable cart drawn by oxen.

There are about 300 mosques in the city, 500 fountains, and 35 public libraries. The seraglio, or sultan’s palace, is a city of itself. The harem, containing the 500 wives of the sultan, is fitted up with the most gorgeous magnificence.

The Turks spend a great part of their time in smoking at the public coffee houses. Here they seem to dream away their time in easy indolence. A modern traveller furnishes us with the following picturesque description.

“Having just landed at Constantinople, and being totally unacquainted with the Turkish language, we entered the first café we encountered, with our interpreter. Two venerable-looking Turks were squatted on a sofa, smoking their long pipes, and exchanging, from time to time, words uttered with the greatest solemnity. The nobleness of their appearance and gravity of their deportment immediately attracted our attention; and our curiosity was so excited, that we asked our interpreter to tell us what was the subject of their conversation. He laughed at our request, but, after being several times pressed, said, smilingly,

“Well, well! I will give you a literal translation of their conversation. The older Turk, with the green turban, is an emir, that is to say, a relation of the prophet; and the one opposite you is one of the magistracy.

“Effendi,” said the emir, “fish has been very dear for several days.”

“You are right,” replied the magistrate.

“Effendi,” said the relation of the prophet, “why has the fish been so dear lately?”

“I don’t know exactly; perhaps the weather has been unfavorable.”

“Would you believe that I paid six piastres for a fish, which I could have purchased the day before for one.”

“And I, alas! gave seven.”

The rest of the dialogue was of a similar nature.

Before we left Constantinople we had every reason to believe that our interpreter had given us a literal translation, although it astonished us at the time.

Wonderful Sagacity.—One day last week, when the crowd of fashionables was greatest at the Union street exhibition, a beautiful girl, who had fed the elephant with sundry cakes and apples, in taking an apple from her bag drew out her ivory card case, which fell unobserved in the saw-dust of the ring. At the close of the ring-performances, the crowd opened to let the elephant pass to his recess, but instead of proceeding, as usual, he turned aside and thrust his trunk in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen, who, as might be expected, were so much alarmed that they scattered in every direction. The keeper at this moment discovered that the animal had something in his trunk. Upon examination he found it to be the young lady’s card case, which the elephant had picked up, and was only seeking out the fair owner.—N.Y. paper.

Tsze Pun Yu!

This is the title of a Chinese collection of tales, romances, fables, &c., a kind of publication in which Chinese literature abounds. In the work mentioned above, there are no less than seven hundred tales, the titles of some of them being, “Ghost of a Fortune Teller,” “A Stolen Thunderbolt,” “The Literary Fox advising Men to become Fairies,” “Elves begging Fish,” “The Man with three Heads,” “The Devil turned Matchmaker,” “A Pig acting the Priest of Taou,” “The Enchanted Tower,” “The Ass of a Mohamedan Lady,” “A Demon bearing Children,” “Vulcan’s Toys,” &c.

The following are translations from this work, made by a youth at Canton, who was studying the Chinese language: they will afford a specimen of a Chinese book of “Small Talk.”

The Sagacious Pig.—In the district of Suhchow, in Keanguan, a man was murdered, and his body thrown into a well. One of the officers, having long sought in vain for the murderer, was riding by the well one day, when the pig came before his horse, and set up a most bitter cry.

His attendants not being able to drive the pig away, the officer said to them, What does the pig want? Whereupon the pig kneeled before him, and made the kow-tow. The officer then bid his attendants to follow the pig, which immediately rose up, and led them to a house, and entering the door, crawled under a bed and began rooting up the ground, and continued doing so until he had uncovered a bloody knife. The attendants immediately seized the master of the house, who, on examination, proved to be the murderer.

The villagers, having deliberated on the case, took the pig and supported him in one of the temples of Budha; visitors came frequently to see him, and gave money for his support, saying, “Such a sagacious pig deserves to be rewarded.” After more than ten years, he died, and the priests of the temple, having procured for him a coffin, buried him with due formality.

The Enchanted Box.—On the banks of the lake Kanning, in the province of Yunnan, some husbandmen, while digging up the ground, discovered a small iron box, on which characters were written in the ancient form (used in the time of the Han dynasty.) The husbandmen did not understand this writing, but the characters by the side of it were intelligible, and were as follows: “Given by a fairy, in the first year of Cheching.”

The husbandmen, not knowing what the box was, broke it open, when they found a small worm, about an inch in length, apparently dead. The boys, collecting, threw water on it. The worm then began to stretch itself, until it became quite long, and then it darted into the air. A hurricane soon came on; the rain fell in torrents; the heavens and earth seemed enveloped in black clouds; in the midst of which appeared a horned monster, fighting with two yellow dragons. Hail mingled with dew descended; and the houses and all property of the husbandmen were destroyed!

The Black Pillar.—Once, in the district Shaouhing, there lived a man whose name was Yen, who was married into the family of Wang, and was taken home by his father-in-law, who had no son of his own. After the ceremony, Yen returned to visit his family. His wife having been suddenly taken ill, after his departure, a messenger was sent by his father-in-law to inform him of it. Yen immediately left his father’s house, although it was in the middle of the night.

By the light of a candle, he was proceeding along the road, when a black cloud, resembling the pillar of a temple, descended between him and a candle. If he moved a candle to the east, the pillar also moved to the east; if he moved the candle westward, the pillar moved with it, as if trying to obstruct the way, and not to permit him to proceed.

Yen, being very much frightened, entered the house of a friend, and having procured a servant and another candle, proceeded, and the black pillar gradually disappeared, while he hastened to his wife’s house. On entering, his father-in-law met him, and said, “You arrived a long time ago,—where have you come from now?”

Yen replied, “Most certainly I have not been in before!” Yen and the whole family fled in astonishment to his wife’s room, where they found a man seated on her bed, holding her hand. As he proceeded to his wife’s side, the stranger disappeared, and his lady soon expired.

Fidelity of Cats.—In Heängning, there lived a lad, whose surname was Wang. His father had an old servant, upwards of seventy years old, who, being extremely fond of cats, kept thirteen in her house, and loved and cherished them like children. Each one had a nickname, and came immediately at her call. In the reign of Keënlung, this old woman died. The poor cats gathered round her coffin, crying bitterly, and refused fish, rice, and every kind of food; and after three days, they all died!

So much for Chinese Romance.

Language of Animals.—The acuteness of the sheep’s ear surpasses all things in nature that I know of. An ewe will distinguish her own lamb’s bleat among a thousand all bleating at the same time, and making a noise a thousand times louder than the singing of psalms at a Cameronian sacrament in the fields, where thousands are congregated—and that is no joke either.

Besides, the distinguishment of voice is perfectly reciprocal between the ewe and lamb, who amid the deafening sound run to meet one another. There are few things have ever amused me more than a sheep-shearing, and then the sport continues the whole day. We put the flock into the fold, send out all the lambs to the hill, and then send the ewes to them as they are shorn. The moment that a lamb hears its dam’s voice, it rushes from the crowd to meet her; but instead of finding the rough, well-clad, comfortable mamma, which it left an hour or a few hours ago, it meets a poor, naked, shivering—a most deplorable-looking creature. It wheels about, and uttering a loud, tremulous bleat of despair, flies from the frightful vision. The mother’s voice arrests its flight—it returns—flies, and returns again, generally for ten or a dozen times, before the reconciliation is fairly made up.—James Hogg.

Fighting Crickets.—In China the people take as much pleasure in cricket fights as the Spaniards do in bull fights. Two crickets are pitted against each other, and crowds of people gather round to witness the combat. The insects rush at each other with great fury, and the spectators, high and low, rich and poor, seem to experience the most lively sensations of delight.

Lying.—This is more common than some people suppose. A man who contracts a debt without a good prospect of paying it when due, is a liar. A man who gives his vote to serve a party, or to serve another person in disregard of public good, is a liar. A mercenary suitor for a lady’s hand, is a liar. An editor, who seeks in any way to make a false impression, is a liar of a thousand tongues.

Signs of the Zodiac.

In a former number of the Museum, I have told you about the Zodiac, but as I wish to make you remember all about it, I will just give you Mr. Cruickshanks’ notions on the subject. He is a merry fellow in London, and thus he draws the twelve signs, in his sportive humor:—

Aries the Ram, is a man ramming down a gun.

Taurus the Bull, is a fat John Bull, reading a paper.

Gemini the Twins, are the famous Siamese twins.

Cancer the Crab, is a boy with a crab biting his toe.

Leo, is a Pope who lived in Italy, by that name.

Virgo the Virgin, is a single woman feeding a parrot.

Libra the Scales, is an old woman weighing fish.

Scorpio the Scorpion, is a fierce woman beating her husband.

Sagittarius the Archer, is a fat Miss shooting at a target.

Capricornus the Goat, is a merry boy mounted on a goat.

Aquarius the Water-bearer, is a boatman on a river.

Pisces the Fish, is two fish dealers blowing their horns.

Gutenberg.

Invention of Printing.

The art of writing is one of great antiquity. At first, it consisted of what are called hieroglyphics—which are pictures of objects, or signs and symbols of objects, or figures, expressing words to the ear. The ancient Egyptians, the Chinese, and the Mexican Indians, all appear to have hit upon this hieroglyphical mode of writing.

The invention of letters, for spelling words, was of later date; and the writing of them was later still. The first writing was probably upon stone, and was used, doubtless, to record great events upon national monuments, as pyramids, obelisks, temples, and other structures. As the art grew more familiar, it was practised upon wood, ivory, metals, and leaves.

The leaves of the papyrus, from which paper takes its name, afterwards came into use, and for a long time were employed for books, letters, &c., as we use paper. The papyrus is a water plant, the root being always immersed in water. It grows eight or ten feet high, with a stout naked stalk: the leaves are eight in number, sword-shaped, and two feet long. They grow abundantly along the marshy borders of the Nile, and in some parts of Sicily. It is still used in the countries where it grows, for sail-cloth and cordage, and sometimes for wearing apparel. Of the stems, closely woven together, basket-fashion, boats are made.

The manufacture of the papyrus into paper appears to have been of ancient date. The skin of the leaves, only, was used. This, which was usually a foot wide, was taken off, by some process, and several layers were pressed together, having been dampened by the water of the Nile. Thus a texture as thick as parchment was formed. It was made into rolls, for books. The city of Alexandria, in Egypt, carried on a large manufacture of this kind of paper, and derived great wealth from it. The making of paper, from cotton and linen rags, did not supersede the papyrus paper till the eleventh century.

Writing was the chief means by which knowledge could be recorded and diffused. Tradition could carry down events for a few generations, but these soon became blended with fictions; and with the destruction of a nation, its traditional records vanished. The art of writing, therefore, was clearly of the utmost importance; and the means of making it cheap and easy were cultivated with care. In the time of our Savior it had become very common, and well educated persons, throughout the vast extent of the Roman empire, were so far acquainted with it as to be able to write letters. Still, nine persons in ten could not write, and consequently, a class of persons, called scribes, made it their profession to write. These scribes were constantly applied to, to write letters and documents of various kinds. If a lover wished to address his mistress, he applied to the professed writers. This trade is still followed in countries where education is confined to a few persons.

As society advanced, and great poets, historians and philosophers arose, the desire of possessing their works, of course, began to prevail. Accordingly, the scribes were called upon not only to prepare business papers, but to make books. These, for many centuries, were only written by the pen. Until the invention of the art of printing, every page, every letter of a book, must be traced with the quill. The making of a single book was therefore a work of great labor. None but skilful and practised writers could pretend to write books. It was a trade, which demanded careful training. Until the invention of printing it required about four years, of close and severe labor, to make a single Bible! A Bible, five hundred years ago, was worth a house and farm of fifty acres! Now you can buy one, and a far better one, for fifty cents! This change is the effect of an invention of which I am now going to speak.

The art of printing, in some form, appears to have existed for ages. Engravings were made on wood, and stamped on brick, at least four thousand years ago, as appears by fragments found among the ruins of Babylon, and Thebes in Egypt. This art of wood engraving, and taking impressions therefrom, was lost for centuries, but was revived, and at the time of the invention of printing, was in common use, for coarse purposes—especially for stamping figures upon playing cards.

This art of wood engraving and printing therefrom, was employed sometimes in lieu of writing; the letters were cut on the wood, and in the print these were white, with a black ground. This process is still in use, for the covers of books, labels, &c., and is called xylographic printing. It is said to have been invented by the Japanese, and was in use in China as long ago as the year 1100 B. C., about the time of king David.

But still, the idea of making separate types, one for each letter, and printing books from them, had not been started. This was undertaken by John Gutenberg, a native of Mentz, in Germany. He appears to have been occupied with it in the year 1436. He then lived at Strasburg, in France, and here for several years he secretly but industriously pursued his experiments.

In 1444, he removed to his native city, and taking one John Faust into partnership with him, he succeeded in printing several works. They soon separated, however: Gutenberg gave up the business, and Faust pursued it. The latter has sometimes been considered the inventor of the art of printing, but it belongs fairly to Gutenberg. In 1555, the “forty-two line Bible” was produced, and was so called because each column consisted of forty-two lines.

Faust soon produced several editions of the Bible. He went to Paris, about this time, and it seemed so impossible, even to the monks, who were educated men, that he could make so many Bibles by human means, that they adopted the idea that he was in league with the devil. It is a curious fact, that most good inventions, of ancient times, were supposed to be produced by the help of the sable fiend. Certain it is that the charge of sorcery was so laid upon Faust that he was obliged to fly for his life.

We may here add, that the art of printing, which has done more for mankind than any other human art, not only thus brought the life of one of its first and ablest promoters into danger, but it has been the special object of persecution from the day of its invention to the present time. We shall pursue this subject in another number.

Comparison

BETWEEN GOOD AND BAD HOUSEWIFERY.

By Thomas Tusser, who died 1580.

Ill huswifery lieth

Till nine of the clock:

Good huswifery trieth

To rise with the cock.

Ill huswifery trusteth

To him and to her:

Good huswifery lusteth

Herself for to stir.

Ill huswifery careth

For this, nor for that:

Good huswifery spareth

For fear ye wot what.

Ill huswifery pricketh

Herself up in pride:

Good huswifery tricketh

Her house as a bride.

Ill huswifery one thing
Or other must crave;
Good huswifery nothing
But needful will have.

Ill huswifery moveth

With gossip to spend:

Good huswifery loveth

Her household to tend.

Ill huswifery brooketh
Mad toys in her head;
Good huswifery looketh
That all things be fed.

Ill huswifery bringeth

A shilling to naught:

Good huswifery singeth—

Her coffers full fraught.

Ill huswifery rendeth

And casteth aside:

Good huswifery mendeth

Else would it go wide.

Ill huswifery craveth
In secret to borrow;
Good huswifery saveth
To-day, for to-morrow.

Ill huswifery pineth,
Not having to eat
Good huswifery dineth
With plenty of meat.

Ill huswifery letteth

The devil take all:

Good huswifery setteth

Good brag of a small.

An Equinoctial Storm; or, Adventures of a Hat.

About the 20th of March and the 20th of September, of each year, the day and night are of equal length, all the world over; that is to say, the day is twelve hours long and the night twelve hours long.

The sun appears at this time to pass from east to west, around the middle of the earth, or over the equator. If you were at Quito in South America, or anywhere near the equator, either on the 20th of March or the 20th of September, the sun would appear, at noon, to be exactly over your head.

These periods of the year are called the equinoxes, and for some reason which cannot be well explained, furious storms are usually experienced about the time they occur. These are called equinoctial storms. I am going to relate a story of one which occurred a good many years since.

It was in March, about the year 1815, that Dr. Pill was riding along toward his house. The wind was high, and the rain fell in torrents. The doctor’s greatcoat was twirled about his ears, and he was himself almost thrown off the horse. He galloped on, however, and came at last in sight of the village steeple, near which was his house.

Just as his eyes gladly caught sight of his house, a furious rush of wind took his hat off his head, and sent it away, skimming like a hawk upon the breeze. The dog pursued the hat for some distance, but just as it appeared to be falling to the ground, a fresh puff of the gale lifted it high in the air, and carried it over the tops of the trees, out of sight.

Poor Dr. Pill could not now stop to pursue his runaway hat—so, with his hair flying in the wind, he galloped home. The storm lasted two days, and then cleared away. But the whole country was drenched with a flood. The rivers rose above their banks, and swept over the plains; bridges were carried away; houses were undermined and torn to pieces; cattle were drowned, and trees torn up by the roots!

It was near a week before the doctor could set out in search of his hat. Taking his dog with him, at last he went to make an effort to discover his lost property. Going to the place where it was taken off his head, and proceeding in the direction whither it had been carried, he made diligent search for it. His dog, Watch, seemed to understand what was wanted, and exerted himself to the utmost in the hunt. But all was unavailing, and Dr. Pill was obliged to return without his hat.

Several weeks passed, until, at length, the doctor was returning home by a bridle path that led through some thick, wild shrubbery. Here his attention was arrested by the barking of his dog, in a manner so vehement as to show that something extraordinary was in the wind. The doctor dismounted from his horse, and pushed through the bushes for about a dozen rods.

Coming up to his dog, and looking in the direction of the animal’s eye, he saw, about eight feet from the ground, his stray hat! He reached up to it with some difficulty, and took it down, while a smile of satisfaction covered his face. But his smile was soon changed to a gaze of horror—for, on looking into the hat, there was an enormous black snake, coiled up, and seeming to think himself quite at home! Soon, however, the creature lifted his head, brandished his forked tongue, and showed signs of battle.

The doctor threw down the hat, and Watch fell upon the snake. He took him by the middle, and shook him so violently that the reptile was dead in a few seconds. The doctor now took his hat, and rode home in triumph. The hat, it seems, had been borne upon the gale, at least half a mile, and then had lodged upon the bushes. The serpent thought it a convenient dwelling, and took up his lodging there, by no means expecting to be so rudely turned out of house and home.

Neatness is a cheap substitute for ornament, and it bestows a charm upon the poorest which diamonds cannot give to the wealthy.

Yellow Hair.

It appears that the women of old Rome were fond of yellow hair, and it is found that they were accustomed to turn it of this color by saffron, and by long sitting, daily, in the sun; others, instead of saffron, sometimes used medicated sulphur.

This art of changing their hair with saffron, was called crocuphantea. Tertullian, observing this artifice of the women of his time, told them that they were ashamed of their country, and would be Gaulish or Germanic women, so much did they disguise themselves. St. Cyprian and St. Jerome, with Tertullian, pronounced the seeking by art to procure red-tinted hair, as presaging to the person who sought it, the fire and red flames of hell.

Galen affirms that in his time numbers of women died with the headache; neither could there any remedy be applied to this evil, because they stood a long time bareheaded in the sun, to render their hair yellow; and he reports that for the same cause some of them lost their hair and became bald, and were reduced to Ovid’s remedy for that defect, either to borrow other women’s hair, or to ransack the graves of the dead for a dishonest supply.

Tertullian, speaking on this subject, says, that women were punished for this their folly, for that by reason of their long stay in the sun, their heads were often most grievously attacked with the headache; and it seems, when this vanity was grown habitual to them, it degenerated into dotage; for Lucian very satirically derides an old woman, who, notwithstanding she was seventy years of age, yet would she have her hair of a yellow tincture; he exhorts her to desist from her folly; for though she could color her silver hair, yet she could not recall her youth!

The Venetian women, even at this day, and the Paduan, and those of Verona, and other parts of Italy, practise the same vanity, and receive the same recompense for their affectation; there being in all these cities open and manifest examples of those who have undergone a kind of martyrdom to render their hair yellow.

Schenekins relates the history of a certain noble gentlewoman, about sixteen or seventeen years of age, who would expose her bare head to the fervent heat of the sun daily, for some hours, that she might obtain long and yellow hair, by anointing it with a certain unguent; and although she obtained the effect she desired, yet she consequently procured to herself a violent headache, and bled every day abundantly through the nose.

Another maiden, also, by using this same art, became almost blind with sore eyes. Painting the hair blue or red, has been anciently noted by many poets, who took occasion to describe it, as may be seen in Pliny and Ovid.

This yellow hair was esteemed so great a rarity, that oftentimes, also, the natural crop was shaven off, and a yellow periwig clapped on instead; this Martial happily ridicules:

The golden hair that Galla wears,

Is hers—who would have thought it?

She swears ’tis hers—and true she swears,

For I—know where she bought it.

This, indeed, is carried to a great extent in the Low Countries, where the Jewish women, who are all black-haired by nature, wear great yellow periwigs instead,—golden-haired Dutch Venuses.

April.

This second month of spring derives its name from the Latin word Aperio, to open, in allusion to the opening of the flowers, or the opening of the earth to receive the seed. Its zodiacal sign is Taurus, which the sun enters on the 20th day of the month. It is true that in April the flowers do not always begin to open, at least among us; but in Italy, and France, and England, and also in the more southern parts of our country, it is a month of buds and blossoms. It is the time for setting out trees and shrubs; for ploughing the fields, and getting the gardens ready for seed.

As this is a season which seems expressly made for the husbandman, let us quote a passage we have met with in relation to him.

“The farmer is a lucky man; he is subject to few cares, diseases or changes. He holds in fee a certain part of this planet, running from the surface down to the centre, together with the atmosphere above it; and if any man should build a tower overhanging his line by a single brick, though a thousand feet in the air, it may be abated as a nuisance. It is a great thing to have a legal and equitable title to a portion of earth, to cultivate it, and to owe a support to the application of strength, rather than the misapplication of wit. The farmer is independent of all but Providence—he calls no man master.

‘He would not flatter Neptune for his pitchfork.’

“He is not only a friend of humanity, but he is kindly disposed towards brutes. An ox is to him in the light of a friend, a cow is a benefactor, and a calf is almost a child. He is clothed by the sheep, and the cosset lamb is a foster brother of his children, who have a heavy day when their mute friend is sold to the butcher. The farmer has little to buy and much to sell; his means are large and his waste little. He is an especial favorite of Ceres and Pomona, but he cares little for Bacchus, Phœbus and other idlers.

“He puts his hand to the plough, and if he look back, it is in a furrow like the wake of a boat. In May he puts a potato or two in the earth, and in October he digs into the same place and finds a peck of them. In spring he covers with earth three or four kernels of maize, and in autumn he finds ears enough on the spot to furnish the materials for many loaves. He hides in the soil a seed, no bigger than a large bedbug, and in a few weeks a vine appears with several pumpkins attached to it, of the capacity of four gallons.”

Who that walks forth, now, and sees grass beginning to spring up from the ground, or the little flowers peeping forth, can refrain from reflecting upon that Power that endows these things with life? The following lines are full of natural thought and feeling:

THE DAISY.
Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we, to prove a God is here;
The daisy fresh from winter’s sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.

For who but He that arched the skies
And pours the day-spring’s living flood,
Who works and dwells in mysteries,
Could rear the daisy’s purple bud?

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin,
And cut the gold-embossed gem,
That sets in silver gleams within?

And fling it, unrestrained and free,
O’er hill, and dale, and desert sod,
That man, where’er he walks, may see
In every step the stamp of God?

Among the birds, that, having spent the winter in a warm climate, return to us during this month, we may mention, as worthy of particular notice, the familiar robin.

This bird sometimes spends his winter among our thick cedar forests, living upon the berries of the cedars; but in general he prefers to go to the middle states, or even farther south, where he lives a quiet and secluded life, till he is advised of the melting of the snows. He is then impatient to return, and often runs the risk of a few snow squalls, rather than be behind his time. He is a familiar bird, and loves to build his nest near our houses. He is a general favorite, and should rather be treated as a friend than an enemy. He never meddles with the corn, though he now and then filches a few cherries. His song, however, is worth more than all he eats.

True Stories.

An Eastern Offering.—The three sons of an eastern lady were invited to furnish her with an expression of their love, before she went a long journey. One brought a marble tablet with the inscription of her name; another presented her with a rich garland of flowers; the third entered her presence, and thus accosted her: “Mother, I have neither marble tablet nor fragrant nosegay, but I have a heart; here your name is engraved, here your memory is precious, and this heart full of affection will follow you wherever you travel, and remain with you wherever you repose.”

George III.—In the prayer book of his Majesty, King George III., where the worshippers implore the Almighty to bless and preserve “thy servant George, our most gracious king and governor,” these words were struck out, and the following written with his own hand: “thy servant George, an unworthy sinner.”

Bishop Heber.—When bishop Heber was seven years old, a party of his young companions were amusing themselves with riddles and cross questions. Reginald was asked this question: “Where was Moses when his candle went out?” “On mount Nebo,” was his immediate reply; “for there he died, and it may well be said that his lamp of life went out.”

Talking too much.—The Rev. John Berridge was once visited by a very talkative young lady, who engrossed all the conversation in speaking of mere trifles. When she rose to retire, he said, “Young lady, I have one piece of advice to offer you; when you go into company again, after you have talked half an hour without intermission, stop awhile, and see if any one of the company has anything to say.”

The Emperor Adrian.—It is commonly said, that “revenge is sweet;” but it can only be so to weak minds that are incapable of bearing an injury. An elevated mind is superior to injuries, and pardons them. The Emperor Adrian, meeting a man who had insulted him before he came to the government, said to him, “Approach; you have nothing to fear; I am an emperor.” This is an example well worthy of being imitated by those who are called to return good for evil.

Peter the Great of Russia.—As Peter the Great, of Russia, was travelling through a village in France, he saw in a garden, belonging to a parsonage, a man in a priest’s garment, with a spade in his hand, digging hard at some beds of vegetables.

The Czar, much pleased at the sight, alighted, and asked him who he was. “Sir,” answered the man, “I am the clergyman of the village.” “I took you for a gardener. Why are you employed in this manner?”

“The revenues of my living being but very moderate, I do not choose to be an expense to my parishioners, but wish rather to have it in my power to assist them; they respect me the more, when they see, that, to procure myself some of the conveniences of life, I improve this garden; and in this humble occupation I spend as much of my time as the duties of my ministry will allow.”

“You are an honest man,” replied the Czar, “and I esteem you the more for thinking and acting in this manner; tell me your name.” He drew out his tablets, and wrote down the name of the worthy clergyman; and after telling him who he himself was, and giving him many proofs of kindness, he took leave of him and returned to his carriage.

When he went back to Moscow, he did not forget this scene, and endeavored to induce the priests in his empire to imitate so virtuous an example.

Alexander the Great.—Alexander the Great, on being asked how he had been able, at so early an age and in so short a period, to conquer such vast regions, and establish so great a name, replied, “I used my enemies so well, that I compelled them to be my friends; and I treated my friends with such constant regard, that they were unalterably attached to me.” He once degraded an officer of distinction, by removing him to an inferior situation. Some time after, he asked the officer how he liked his new office. “It is not the station,” said the officer, “which gives consequence to the man, but the man to the station. No situation can be so trifling, as not to require wisdom and virtue in the performance of its duties.”

The monarch was so pleased with this answer, that he restored him to his former rank.

An Armenian Prince.—The historian Xenophon relates, that when Cyrus had taken captive a young prince of Armenia, together with his young and blooming wife, of whom he was remarkably fond, they were brought before the tribunal of Cyrus to receive their sentence. The warrior inquired of the prince what he would give to be reinstated in his kingdom; and he replied, that he valued his crown and his liberty at a very low rate, but that if the noble conqueror would restore his beloved wife to her former dignity and possessions, he would willingly pay his life for the purchase.

The prisoners were dismissed, to enjoy their freedom and former honors; and each was lavish in praise of the conqueror. “And you,” said the prince, addressing his wife, “what think you of Cyrus?” “I did not observe him,” she replied. “Not observe him!” exclaimed her husband; “upon whom, then was your attention fixed?” “Upon that dear and generous man,” she replied, “who declared his readiness to purchase my liberty at the expense of his life.”

A Female Slave.—The late Rev. Richard Watson, in his defence of missions, states, that a master of slaves, who lived near the Methodist chapel, in Kingston, Jamaica, exercised his barbarities on a Sabbath morning, and interrupted the devotion of those who were assembled for worship. This man wanted money; and one of the female slaves having two female children, he sold one of them, and the child was torn from her maternal embrace. In the agony of her feelings she made a hideous howling, and for that crime, was flogged. Soon after, he sold her other child. This “turned her heart within her,” and drove her into a kind of madness. She howled night and day, in the yard; tore her hair; ran up and down the streets and the parade, rending the heavens with her cries, and literally watering the earth with her tears. Her constant cry was, “Da wicked massa Jew, he sell my children. Will no buckra massa pity neger? What me do? Me no have one child!” As she stood before the window of the missionary’s house, she said, lifting up her hands towards heaven, “My massa, do, my massa minister, do pity me! My heart do so,” shaking herself violently; “my heart do so, because me have no child. Me go to massa house, in massa yard, and in my hut, and me no see ’em.” And then her cry went up to God!

Shops in London.

The shops in London surpass everything of the kind in the world. We do not speak now of the arcades and bazaars, where a whole village of shopkeepers are associated together under one vast roof, but of single shops situated upon the streets.

We give a picture above, of one of the shops of Ludgate Hill, and there are others of equal magnificence in other parts of London. The rooms in these establishments are of great extent, and fitted up in the most elegant and imposing style. At the front, are windows with plates of glass eight or ten feet in length, and of proportional width; the sashes are of polished brass. The doors are of the richest mahogany, and the entrance is altogether in the most sumptuous style.

Within, the shop presents a scene like fairy land. Splendid mirrors are so arranged as to multiply the columns of the room, and throw a long vista before the eye of the beholder: at the same time, the richest and most gorgeous of merchandises are displayed on all sides, so as to strike the eye, and add to the effect produced by the mirrors. When the shop is filled with well-dressed ladies, as is usually the case from ten in the morning till three in the afternoon, there is a bewildering splendor about the scene, and one might almost fancy, that a species of fascination, calculated to make the customer an easy prey to the shopkeeper, is at once the object and the end of these devices.

The wealth displayed in the shops of London is suitable to the metropolis of the world. In one you see heaps of silks, of the richest and most splendid patterns; and if you pause to note their infinite variety, you become at last surfeited and sickened with mere luxury. In another shop you see every species of jewelry—and rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, cameos, and intaglios, are so rife, that you pass on, content that they are not yours.

You come to a window, where gold and silver plate are stretched out before you in such profusion, that they almost look cheap and vulgar! In one window is a display of cutlery, so bright and so fancifully arranged, that it looks like the gaudy figures in a kaleidoscope; in another, there is such an assemblage of furs, that you draw a long breath, with a smothering sensation, just to look at it.

Thus, as you pass on, one after another of these shops presents you with its treasures,—and all attended by every ingenious device, every suggestion of busy fancy, to set them off to the best advantage. There is a perpetual strife between the shopkeepers, to outshine each other: each one is desirous of obtaining notoriety, of catching the public eye, of securing a run of custom—in short, of being in the fashion and making a fortune, of course.

Regent street, at night, seems like an illuminated city. The lights in the shop windows, arranged to display the goods, are exceedingly brilliant; yet they are generally hidden from the sight, while they throw the whole flood of their blaze upon the merchandise. The effect is truly beautiful,—and if any one desires to see the shops of London to the greatest advantage, let them visit Regent street in the evening. And one thing more—if a person wishes to save his money let him defer buying till he has been in London a month; by that time, he is likely to be so surfeited with splendor, as to feel weary of it.

Fishes playing the Jewsharp.

We have often a very queer story from the far South and West. It is a land of wonders; for there they have alligators fifteen feet long; rattlesnakes by the bushel; gallinippers as big as gad flies; birds that cry out at night, “Chuck-will’s-widow!” mocking birds that surpass the far-famed nightingale in song; pigeons in such abundance as to crush the forests; wild deer that stare you in the face from the bushes; bisons as abundant as cattle at Brighton; bears with claws five inches long; and men, and women too, as brave as Julius Cæsar.

Such things there really are, in the far west; but once in a while they tell us tales that are too much for us, sober Yankees, to believe. Perhaps, in these cases, our bush-friends are only quizzing. They have lately sent us the following tale; it is a little too beautiful, I am afraid, to be really true. However, if it turns out a fable, it is a very pretty one. Only think, a tub of cat fishes, turned musicians—and that too after having had their mouths torn by the hook! Bravo! But here is the story, as we find it in the papers.

“One of the wonders of the south-west is the mysterious music at West Pascagoula. A correspondent of the Baltimore Republican, who examined it attentively, thus takes the mantle of romance from it.

“During several of my voyages on the Spanish main, in the neighborhood of ‘Baragua,’ and ‘San Juan de Nicharagua,’ from the nature of the coast, we were compelled to anchor at a considerable distance from the shore; and every evening, from dusk to late at night, our ears were delighted with the Æolian music that could be heard beneath the counter of our schooner. At first, I thought it was the sea-breeze sweeping through the strings of my violin, (the bridge of which I had inadvertently left standing;) but, after examination, found it was not so. I then placed my ear on the rail of the vessel, when I was continually charmed with the most heavenly strains that ever fell upon my ear. They did not sound as close to us, but were sweet, and mellow, and ærial; like the soft breathings of a thousand lutes, touched by the soft fingers of the deep sea nymphs, at an immense distance. To the lone mariner, far from home and kindred, at the still hour of twilight, the notes were soothing, but melancholy.

“‘Although I have considerable ‘music in my soul,’ one night I became tired, and determined to fish. My luck in half an hour was astonishing—I had half filled my bucket with the finest white cat-fish I ever saw; and it being late, and the cook asleep, and the moon shining, I filled my bucket with water, and took fish and all into my cabin for the night.

“‘I had not yet fallen asleep, when the same sweet notes fell upon my ear; and getting up, what was my surprise to find my ‘cat-fish’ discoursing sweet sounds to the sides of my bucket.

“‘I examined them closely, and discovered that there was attached to each lower lip an excrescence, divided by soft wiry fibres, and by the pressure of the upper lip thereon, and by the exhalation and discharge of breath, a vibration was created similar to that produced by the breath on the tongue of the jewsharp.’”

Tea.

The tea plant is a native of China or Japan, and probably of both. It has been used among the natives of the former country from time immemorial. It is only in a particular tract of the Chinese empire that the plant is cultivated; and this tract, which is situated on the eastern side, between the 30th and 33d degrees of north latitude, is distinguished by the natives as the “tea country.” The more northern part of China would be too cold; and farther south, the heat would be too great. There are, however, a few small plantations to be seen near Canton.

The Chinese give to the plant the name of Tcha or Tha. It is propagated by them from seeds, which are deposited in rows, four or five feet asunder; and so uncertain is their vegetation, even in their native climate, that it is found necessary to sow as many as seven or eight seeds in every hole. The ground between each row is always kept free from weeds, and the plants are not allowed to attain a higher growth than admits of the leaves being conveniently gathered. The first crop of leaves is not collected until the year after sowing; and when the trees are six or seven years old, the produce becomes so inferior, that they are removed to make room for a fresh succession.

The flowers of the tea tree are white, and somewhat resemble the wild rose; these flowers are succeeded by soft green berries or pods, containing each from one to three white seeds. The plant will grow in either low or elevated situations, but always thrives best, and furnishes leaves of the finest quality, when produced in light, stony ground.

The leaves are gathered from one to four times during the year, according to the age of the trees. Most commonly there are three periods of gathering: the first commences about the middle of April; the second at midsummer, and the last is accomplished during August and September. The leaves that are the earliest gathered, are of the most delicate color, and the most aromatic odor, with the least portion of either fibre or bitterness. Leaves of the second gathering are of a dull green color, and have less valuable qualities than the former; while those that are last collected are of a dark green, and possess an inferior value. The quality is farther influenced by the age of the wood on which the leaves are borne, and by the degree of exposure to which they have been accustomed; leaves from young wood, and those most exposed, being the best.

The leaves, as soon as gathered, are put into wide and shallow baskets, and placed in the air or wind, or sunshine, during some hours. They are then placed on a flat cast-iron pan, over a stove heated with charcoal,—from a half to three quarters of a pound of leaves being operated on at a time. These leaves are stirred quickly about with a kind of brush, and are then as quickly swept of the pan into baskets. The next process is that of rolling, which is effected by carefully rubbing them between men’s hands; after which, they are again put in larger quantities on the pan, and subjected anew to heat, but at this time, to a lower degree than that at first, and just sufficient to dry them effectually without risk of scorching. This effected, the tea is placed on a table, and carefully picked over, every unsightly or imperfectly dried leaf that is detected being removed from the rest, in order that the sample may present a more even and better appearance when offered for sale.

The names by which some of the principal sorts of tea are known in China, are taken from the places in which they are produced; while others are distinguished according to the periods of their gathering, the manner employed in curing, or other extrinsic circumstances. It is a commonly received opinion, that the distinctive color of green tea is imparted to it by the sheets of copper upon which it is dried. For this belief, there is not the slightest foundation, since copper is never used for the purpose. Repeated experiments have been made to discover, by an unerring test, whether the leaves of green tea contain any impregnation of copper, but in no case has any trace of this metal been detected.

The Chinese do not use their tea until it is about a year old, considering that it is too actively narcotic when new. The people partake of tea at all their meals, and frequently at other times of the day. They drink the infusion in the same manner that we drink it; but they do not mix with it either sugar or milk. The working classes are obliged to content themselves with a very weak infusion. Mr. Anderson, in his narrative of Lord Macartney’s Embassy, relates that the natives in attendance never failed to beg the tea leaves remaining after the Europeans had breakfasted, and with these, after submitting them again to boiling water, they made a beverage, which they acknowledged was better than any they could ordinarily obtain.

The Finland Mother.

Finland is a cold and barren country to the north-west of Russia. The inhabitants are simple and kind-hearted to one another; to strangers they are extremely hospitable. They are frugal in their mode of living, and mild, patient and resigned in their tempers. United with great gentleness of character, the women have a remarkable turn for poetry. It is quite common for one of them, at a party, or entertainment, to compose extemporaneous songs, which are said to be full of feeling and pleasant fancy.

The affection of a Finland mother for her infant is remarkable. The latter is kept in a little box, which answers for a cradle. In this, the child is swung from the ceiling of the house. If, however, the mother has occasion to go to work in the fields, she takes the child and cradle with her. She takes them also to church; and carries them swung to her side, if she goes on a journey twenty or thirty miles.

As a specimen of the extemporaneous poetry of the Finland women, we give the following passage, which is as it was written down by a traveller, who happened to hear a mother addressing her infant:

“Sleep on, little bird of the groves. Sleep softly, pretty red-breast. God, in time, will wake you from your slumbers. He has given you branches to rest upon, and leaves to screen you from the cold blasts. Sleep is at the door, and asks in a mellow-toned voice, ‘Is there not a sweet child here, who is lying in its cradle, and is desirous of sleeping; a little child, enveloped in white garments, whose mild countenance speaks of the repose of heaven?’”

Comets.

As a very splendid comet lately made its appearance among us, it may be interesting to our readers to be told something about these mysterious heavenly bodies.

Comets are a class of celestial bodies, of which, comparatively, little is known; they appear occasionally in the heavens, approaching the sun from one quarter, and, having passed it, disappear in another. Unlike the planets, they seem confined to no particular regions of the heavens, but seem distributed indifferently through space. The planets are confined within certain limits, to the ecliptic, and are never seen beyond a certain distance north or south of it. In their revolutions about the sun, they all move from west to east; yet the comets are governed by neither of these laws, for they approach the sun, and sometimes pass near the ecliptic, sometimes near the poles; some move from west to east, others from east to west, the only law by which they seem influenced being that of gravitation.

Their numbers are very great; several have been seen by the naked eye, and the telescope has increased the number to hundreds. What they are, or what purpose they fulfil in the economy of nature, is unknown. That they are material bodies of some sort, is known from their being attracted by other bodies near which they pass. A few of them are considered as permanent members of the system, as they return at certain periods to the sun, moving in very elliptic orbits, some of which are known. The comet which appeared in 1835, afforded all an opportunity of seeing it. The important point, relative to this, was that its orbit is known, and the interval between its periodical returns has been calculated. Comets of much greater magnitude and more splendid appearance have been seen, yet this, as it relates to astronomy, is the most important of all. The honor of first predicting its return belongs to Dr. Halley, a friend and contemporary of Sir Isaac Newton.

What can be the use or nature of these bodies, is a question which naturally occurs, but to which science can yet give no satisfactory answer; their peculiarities being subjects of much greater wonder to the astronomer, than to the children who gaze on them. They are material bodies, it is true, yet composed of such materials as almost to leave one in doubt as to their deserving the name.

The younger Herschel says that “the most unsubstantial clouds that float in the higher regions of the atmosphere, may be looked upon as dense and massive bodies, compared with the filmy and all but spiritual texture of a comet.” It is even probable that the substance is not to be compared for density with the air we breathe; that if a volume of cometary matter could be weighed, it would not be found so heavy as an equal volume of atmosphere.

I think you will understand some of the reasons that have led to such a conclusion. If you observe smoke, steam, or any vapor, you will find that the farther you are from it, the more difficult it is to see through it. The fog which hides the distant mountains, or even the sun, does not obscure those objects immediately about you; the thin vapor which you see at a distance covering the meadow, disappears on approaching it. A body of vapor, therefore, becomes at a distance perfectly opaque and impenetrable to the direct rays of the sun; so, were the planet Mercury composed of materials of a like nature and density, they would still appear, during a transit, like a black spot on the sun’s disc. The comet, however, instead of obstructing the rays of the sun, offers little impediment to those of a star. No vapory substance perceptible to our senses could maintain any degree of transparency at a comet’s distance, but, if the volume were large enough, would appear as a perfectly dense and opaque mass; yet during the visit of the comet of 1835, a star of about the tenth magnitude was seen through the most dense part of it, within one three hundred and sixtieth part of a degree, of its centre. Through the centres of other comets, stars have been seen, so small that it would require a thousand to make one as large as the smallest of those seen by the naked eye. The conclusion, then, is reasonable enough, that were thousands of these bodies placed between us and the sun, it would obstruct no appreciable portion of its rays, and that it would continue to appear in undiminished splendor.

We shall have a little more to say about comets in our next number.

LITTLE LEAVES
FOR
LITTLE READERS

SEE! EACH MONTH,
OLD MERRY WEAVES,
FOR LITTLE FOLKS,
HIS LITTLE LEAVES!

Things that have happened.

A CHILD’S REASONING.

It is related of a child, that he begged his preceptor to instruct him in the law of God; but he declined, saying that he was too young to be taught these things. “But, sir,” said the boy, “I have been in the burial ground, measuring the graves, and find some of them shorter than myself; now if I should die before I have learned the word of God, what will become of me?”

STEALING.

A man, who was in the habit of going to a neighbor’s corn-field to steal the grain, one day took his son, of about eight years old, with him. The father told him to hold the bag while he looked on to watch if any one were near to see him. After standing on the fence, and peeping through all the rows of corn, he returned to take the bag from the child, and began his sinful work. “Father,” said the boy, “you forgot to look somewhere else.” “Which way, child?” supposing he had seen some one. “You forgot to look up to the sky, father, to see if God was noticing you.”

The father felt this reproof of the child so much that he left the corn-field, returned home, and never again ventured to steal; remembering the truth he had learned from his child that the eye of God always beholds us.

THE MOTHER COUNSELLED BY HER DAUGHTER.

A lady, while weeping on account of the death of one of her children, was thus addressed by her little daughter: “Mamma, is God Almighty dead, that you cry so?” The mother, said, “No.” “Mamma, lend me your glove,” said the child. She gave it to her; and on requesting it back again, the child said, “Now you have taken the glove from me, shall I cry because you have taken your own glove? And shall you cry because God has taken away my sister?”

PRINCESS ANNE.

When the Princess Anne, daughter of Charles I. King of England, who died on the 8th of Dec., 1640, lay upon her death-bed, and nature was almost spent, she was desired by one of her attendants to pray. She said she was not able to say her long prayer, meaning the Lord’s Prayer, but she would say her short one. “Lighten my eyes, O Lord, that I sleep not the sleep of death!” The little creature had no sooner pronounced these words than she expired. She was not quite four years old.

The Blind Beggar and his Dog.

It is a sad thing to be blind; but when one is blind, it is pleasant to know that a little dog may lead one by a string, safely along the road. I will tell you a story of a poor blind man and his dog Snip.

The man was very poor; and he had no money, or children, or friends to take care of him. So he used to go from house to house, to beg his bread and his clothes. He could not see anything at all: it was always dark to him. He could not see the sun, nor the trees, nor the earth, nor the sky.

Snip was a little lively dog, with a full black eye, a nose turned up, and a tail curling over his back. He was so full of life that he used to go on three legs more than half the time, as if it was too easy to get along when he used all four.

The old man had a string tied around Snip’s neck; this he took in his left hand, while he held his cane in the right. The dog trotted forward, leading the way, and the old man followed. Snip knew the road that his master wished to travel; so on he trotted, taking care always to choose a smooth path.

Thus the dog and his master got along very well together. Sometimes Snip would play the old man a trick; for instance, seeing some dog in the path, and having a mind for a frolic, he would give a sudden jump, and jerking the string from his master’s hand, he would scamper off, racing and chasing with his fellow dog, as if he was mad.

In vain would the old man call and scold, threaten and flatter, till Snip’s sport was over. Then he would approach his master, but take pretty good care to keep out of reach of the cane. He would lie down on the ground and whine, and seem to ask to be forgiven.

At last, when the old man’s rage was over, and Snip saw that his kind feelings were apparent, he would run to his side, and jump up and lick his hand, and seem to say—“Pray forgive little Snip, he won’t do so again!” The old man would then pat him on the head, call him good dog—and, no doubt happier for a little bit of a breeze, they would both proceed on their journey.

But, at last, a sad accident befell the poor old man. In the spring, when the river was very high, he was crossing a bridge; one of the planks having been carried away, the old man fell into the stream and was carried down by the waves. Snip jumped in after him, took hold of his coat, and tried to pull him to the shore, but it was in vain.

The poor man was soon drowned, and his body was carried upon a little island. When it was found, Snip was sitting by its side, having an appearance of great sadness. The beggar was buried, but Snip would not leave the spot. The people observed the affection of the dog, and their hearts were touched by it; so they carried the poor creature food. He ate a little, but he wasted away, and in about two weeks, he was found dead upon the grave of his master!

Mother’s Advice.

What do you like best, my little reader? Pies, pears, plums, peaches, cake, or custards? You like all these things—but let me tell you, there is a thing of more value than all these; and that is—your mother’s advice.

If then a mother’s advice or counsel is of such importance, why do children care so little about it—nay, why do they so often dislike it? Tell me that, my young reader—tell me that!

The Snow Drift.

[Concluded.]

We have told, in a former number, how Dick’s sheep and lamb had wandered away, and how a deep fall of snow had come, making the poor boy fear that they were lost.

In two days the snow was three feet deep. It was impossible now to travel about, and Dick gave up the search; but he was almost heart-broken. He was sorry to lose Nan, but his heart was touched, and his tears fell, to think that she and her poor little lamb were probably frozen to death.

The storm cleared away, but the snow was deep, and for three weeks the weather was very cold. Dick had given up all hope of seeing his sheep and lamb. But he happened one day to be talking about them, when one of his playmates said that he saw them grazing on a particular hillside the day before the storm. Dick ascertained the exact spot, and with a feeling he could hardly define, he went to the place.

He roamed about for sometime; but what could he hope to see? The snow was still deep, and covered everything around. At last he came to a snow-drift which rose by the side of a rock to the height of several feet. Up this drift he ran, when the snow-crust gave way, and he tumbled into a deep cavern! What was his amazement to find himself at once in the presence of Nan and her lamb! Dick could scarcely believe his senses; but such was the truth. They had been buried in the snow-drift, and there they had dwelt for three weeks! The old sheep had dug to the earth, and had got a few roots; and she had eaten all the wool off her back, that she could reach. Thus she had sustained life, though she was sadly emaciated.

By stepping and moving round, she had made a room of considerable size in the snow-drift, and it was into this Dick had tumbled. Her lamb had fared tolerably well, but he too was very thin. It was really very affecting to see old Nan welcome Dick. She bleated as if her heart would break; she licked his hands, and looked in his eyes in the most beseeching manner. The whole story of her sufferings and her joy was told in her countenance.

Dick now let Nan out, and she with her lamb followed him home. This was a day of joy for him—and perhaps he had no happiness in after life superior to that which he experienced in finding his sheep and lamb alive; in leading them home; in telling the glorious news; and in feeding the creatures till all traces of their sorrow were wiped away!

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER II.

Jack gets better acquainted with his new friends.—The story of the dead horse-fly.—Aunt Piper.

I have told you in the preceding chapter, how Jack watched the ants in the garden, and how he found out their ways of living. He was very young at this time, and having never been to school, he did not even know how to read: but by observing and investigating things, he had obtained a good deal of knowledge.

As he had now learnt something about the ants, he desired to know more: so he used very often to go and look at them. He did not stamp, with his heel, on the ant-hills, and crush the houses of the little busy creatures, and kill the people in them. Some boys do this, and think there is fun in it; but Jack looked upon all innocent and harmless creatures with a feeling of affection, and he loved rather to help them, than to kill or disturb them.

So it was with the ants. He used to go to their beds frequently, and he carried them little pieces of meat; and after a time, when he came near, the little creatures would run out of their holes, expecting something to eat! In this way they got acquainted with him, and he with them.

One day he found a large dead horse-fly; so he took it and laid it down at a little distance from the ant-hill. Pretty soon he saw one of the ants come near the fly. The little fellow began to smell about, and then went to it. He took hold of it, and tried to carry it. He then pulled and hauled with all his might; but finding it impossible for him to manage it, he set off for the hill.

It was as much as two yards that he had to travel, but he very soon got to the hill. He there met several of his companions. He went close to them, and seemed to touch them with his little feelers. Immediately four of them set off with him, and went to the dead fly. Jack did not hear the ant speak, and, perhaps, he had no voice; but it was quite plain that he told his friends what he had found, and that he wished them to go with him.

When they got to the dead fly, they took hold, and began to drag him toward the hill. It was twice as big as all the five ants put together; but they jerked, and pulled, and twitched, and it was really quite wonderful to see how fast they got the carcass along over the rough earth. Every ant did his best: there was no lazy fellow among them, shirking and shamming so as to put off the hard work upon his companions.

In a very short time, the ants had brought the fly to the hill. As they approached, great numbers ran out, to see what was coming. In a few seconds all was life and bustle, and it really seemed like a city when some great sight has brought all the people into the streets.

But the ants did not spend their time in gazing: immediately they began to cut up the fly, for he was too big to be got into one of their doors. One sawed off’ a leg, another a wing, and another the head; each carrying his piece into the hill. In the space of about five minutes the fly was cut to pieces, and stowed away in the city of the ants.

Jack was greatly delighted with what he saw; he had now found out that ants, instead of being hateful little insects, as most people consider them, are really quite interesting. Every evening he used to tell his father and mother what he had observed during the day, and they were always pleased with his simple stories.

But Jack had an aunt, whose name was Betsey Piper, and who, having no husband or children to take care of, spent a great deal of her time in talking with him. Whenever he met with anything curious, he used always to tell her, the first thing. She was not only kind to Jack, but she had read a great deal, and was therefore able to give him much instruction.

Jack had got so much interested in the ants, that he now begged his Aunt Betsey to go with him and see them. She agreed to go the next day, and Jack went to bed, full of pleasure at the idea of visiting his little insect-friends, the next morning, with his Aunt Piper. We shall tell the wonderful discoveries they made, in another chapter.

CHAPTER III.

Another visit to the anthill.—Honey-dew.—The different kinds of ants, and other things.

As soon as breakfast was over, the next day, Jack and his aunt set out to visit the ants in the garden. Jack soon pointed out a hill, which he had observed before, and they both sat down to watch the little creatures at their work.

As usual, all seemed to be busy. Some appeared to be occupied in bringing out the eggs, which they laid in the sun, so that they might hatch the sooner. Some were engaged in cleaning out the house, for they were seen to bring out small pieces of sand, which they carried to a little distance, and threw them away. One was seen to come up with a pretty large piece of earth, which he rolled along with much difficulty.

While a part of the little people were thus engaged in housewifery, others appeared to be bringing them food. Sometimes these brought flies and pieces of insects; sometimes they appeared to have filled their stomachs, and when they met their friends who staid at home, they would put a part of their food into their mouths, and feed them, as a mother does a child.

As I have said, Aunt Piper had a good deal of knowledge, and she had heard that ants sometimes get a kind of honey from other insects. She was very curious to see this herself. So she watched some of the little creatures, and observed that they went to the dandelions that were growing near by. They ascended the stalks, some of which were covered with what is called honey-dew, a substance deposited by lice, which live in great numbers upon vegetables.

Many of the ants stopped to eat this honey-dew, which they seemed to be very fond of; but others, not finding any of this on the stalks, mounted to the full-blown dandelions, where they found numbers of these little insects imbedded in the yellow down. The ants immediately began to suck the honey-dew from them, and what was wonderful, these creatures kept quite still, and seemed pleased to have the ants lick the honey off from them!

This sight gratified Jack and his aunt very much, and they spent a long time in watching the operations of these curious creatures. After spending two or three hours very pleasantly, they went to the house. Aunt Piper then got a little book and read all about ants to Jack. I will tell you a few wonderful things she read to him.

There are a great many kinds of ants; some are almost an inch long, and others are not bigger than a grain of sand. In some countries the ants build hills twice as high as a man’s head. In Africa there are white ants, that devour trees, and they are so numerous that it is dangerous for men to go among them, unless several can go together and destroy them at once.

The little garden ants are very harmless; they not only eat up a great deal of the honey-dew deposited by lice upon plants, and which would otherwise injure them, but they also devour a vast deal of matter that would putrefy and make the air unwholesome.

In our next number we shall tell some curious adventures between Jack and the beetles.

The Moon.

Here is a picture of the moon, not as it appears to the naked eye, but as it looks when seen through a telescope.

By means of a telescope, we know that the moon is a great round world. It has hills and valleys and mountains upon it; but it probably has no sea.

Whether there are people living in the moon, we cannot tell, but it is probable there are; perhaps, too, that there are animals of various kinds in the moon.

The moon looks bright, because the sun shines upon it. When the moon does not appear to be round, it is because the sun does not light the whole of the surface turned toward us.

It is very pleasant to read about the moon, and the sun, and the stars; and all children who will learn to read well, can know a great deal about these interesting things.

The Meadow Lark.

This is one of the handsomest birds that belongs to our country. Its back is brown, mingled with black; its breast is a bright yellow marked with black. It comes to New England in April. It lives in the meadows; and both at morning and evening, it loves to mount an apple tree, and sing its song.

This consists of a few simple notes, and though they are a little sad, they are not unpleasing. The bird builds its nest on the ground, and hatches three or four young ones at a time.

When autumn comes, the larks gather in small flocks, and proceed to the south, where they spend the winter; but when the cold weather is gone, and the snow has all departed, they come back to the places where they were born and bred, singing their songs, as if pleased to return.

The Bird’s Nest.

Do you see how carefully and how curiously this bird has built its nest? Do you see how neatly it is tied to the tall grass? how nicely it is rounded? how well it is bound together?

This bird has taken a deal of pains to build its nest, and do you not think it would be cruel to destroy it?

The nest is a place where the little bird and its mate expect to hatch their young ones; where they expect to shelter them, feed them, and bring them up, till they can fly away and take care of themselves.

How sad would the little birds be if any one should come along and carry away their pretty home, and destroy all their hopes and happiness!

Would not your father and mother be sorry, if any cruel person should come and destroy their house? Why then shall boys and girls destroy the houses of the pretty birds?

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. V. MAY 1843. No. 5.

Shrine of San Rosalia, at Palermo.

San Rosalia, the Saint of Palermo, in Sicily, and whose shrine is prefixed to this article, was, according to legend, the daughter of William the Good, who reigned in the year 1159. At the age of fifteen, she retired to Monte Pelegrino, in order to spend the remainder of her life in religious solitude, and a period of nearly five hundred years elapsed without her even being heard of. In 1624, a plague, which threatened to depopulate this capital, raged at Palermo. A hermit, whose name is not given in the legend, dreamt that the bones of the saint Rosalia were on the top of Mount Pelegrino, and that if they were carried in procession round the walls of the city, the plague would cease.

After prayers and supplications, he induced a number of individuals to go in procession to the top of the mountain, where the remains of Rosalia were found, it is said, in a cave. Some pretend that the body was fresh, and looked as if she had died at the age of fifteen; while others assert that there were only the bones. Then they were carried round the city walls, and the plague gradually ceased. This was accounted a miracle; and churches were built to her honor. A chapel was erected on the top of the mountain where she was found, and priests appointed to perform divine service.

To facilitate the approach to those sacred relics, the Palermitans, after immense labor, constructed a road up the face of the mountain, which is nearly perpendicular; and though dangerous, that by no means operates as a check to the devotion of hundreds who seek the protection and patronage of the saint.

The pretended bones of this saint are now annually carried about the city in a large silver box, and, according to popular belief, she has several times since her discovery saved the Sicilians from the plague. Long before the celebration of the festival, she becomes the subject of general conversation, and excites the greatest interest. Her triumphal car is made to an immense height, is built on the Marino, and, when completed, is drawn through the principal street by a number of richly dressed mules, preceded by dragoons with trumpets. On the lower part of the machine is an orchestra, and above it is a small temple, in the interior of which are figures of different saints, and on the top of all a large statue of San Rosalia. Every side of the machine is decorated with flowers, and during the ceremony, the street is crowded with people, and the windows, to all of which are balconies, are filled with ladies. At night there is a general illumination.

The amusements at this Palermo rejoicing vary each day: one night the Flora Gardens are illuminated; on another one, the streets; and in the daytime horse-races. The latter, from their peculiarities, are worthy of notice. The horses start from the bottom of the principal street, near the Porto Felice, and run to the Porto Nuovo. They have no riders, but have small bladders fixed on their backs, in which are inserted sharp spikes, serving, by the motion, to urge them on. The prizes run for are generally small, consisting of from ten to fifteen ounces in dollars fastened to a board, and the horse that wins is led in procession with the prize before him.

The illumination of the Madre Chiesa, which is the cathedral church of Palermo, excites the admiration of all travellers. It is here where the box, containing the bones of St. Rosalia, is deposited. The last ceremony is a grand procession, in which the silver box is carried by the principal citizens, who consider it a great honor. Immense crowds endeavor to get near to touch it, for they consider that this act is a remedy for all evils.

The approach of this festival produces general joy and happiness; and the people are so attached to the memory of the saint, that it is supposed that any attempt to suppress her commemoration would be attended with the most serious consequences.

ENGLISH CONUNDRUMS

Why is Mr. Roebuck a nice man?

When is a queen not a quean?

When is a breeze like a pocket handkerchief?

When is winter like a face?

When is a lion like a laundress?

Conundrums to the Queen.

May.

“May, the delicate-footed May, the month of flowers and song-birds, of bland and balmy breezes and genial sunshine, the poet’s month, has come at last.” Yes, it has come; but the first of May, in New England, does not always bring the song of birds, or the bloom of flowers. In England, the spring is a very beautiful season, and May is ever a month of bloom. The first day of the month is one of rejoicing. The people in the villages assemble, erect a pole, and, decked in flowers, they dance around it. In France the people meet together, and one of the girls is chosen queen of the festivity. They have a very gay time of it. Sometimes the season is sufficiently advanced here, to admit of a similar celebration. In Pennsylvania, and the states south of it, May is a season of general bloom.

In New York, the first day of May is usually occupied by the people in getting their furniture from the houses they are going to leave, to those they are going to live in. “The first of May!” says one of the New York editors, “there is something moving in the very name.”

The following lines are descriptive of the occasion:

Bustle, bustle, clear the way,
He moves, we move, they move to-day;
Pulling, hauling, fathers calling,
Mothers bawling, children squalling,
Coaxing, teasing, whimpering, rattling;
Pots and pans, and kettles rattling,
Tumbling bedsteads, flying bedspreads,
Broken chairs, and hollow wares,
Strew the street—’tis moving day.
Bustle, bustle, stir about,
Some moving in—some moving out;
Some move by team, some move by hand,
An annual callithumpian band.
Landlords dunning, tenants shunning;
Laughing, crying, dancing, sighing—
Spiders dying, feathers flying,
Shaking bed rugs, killing bed bugs,
Scampering rats, mewing cats,
Whining dogs, grunting hogs,
What’s the matter? moving day!

Country Pursuits.—How happy is the condition of the farmer, and of country people generally, at this fine season; how great their privileges, living amidst the fields which are now putting on their green attire, the woods whose buds are bursting into leaf, and the flowers which are beginning to display their bloom! How great is their privilege, instead of being amid the din of carts and wagons, to be cheered by the minstrelsy of birds during the day, and soothed at night by the plaintive notes of the frogs, which issue from every valley. How fragrant the air—how cheerful, healthful, peaceful, the occupation of sowing, planting and pruning! Let no man living in the country, envy city people and their fine houses. Let no man, whose lot is to labor with his hands, envy those who live without labor. Of all persons, those who live without bodily labor are most likely to miss the great ends of life—health, peace of mind, and contentment; none so likely to obtain them, as those who toil with their hands. There is many a rich man, who has broken down his constitution by care, anxiety, and mental exertion, that would gladly resign his houses, and horses and carriages, for the good appetite, the sweet sleep, the cheerful serenity of the day laborer. I once heard of a beggar, who applied to a rich man for relief from hunger. “Hunger?” said the rich man;—“hunger! why, my friend, I would give all I am worth for such an appetite. Hunger, indeed!—why, you are infinitely less a beggar than I. Sometimes you suffer, perhaps, for want of food; still, in general, you can get a crust of bread, or a piece of cold meat; and with your appetite, these are delicious. Thus, eating is, after all, a source of great enjoyment to you. But I have no appetite; I never eat but with aversion. Thus, in the midst of abundance and seeming luxury, through loss of health, I am worse than a beggar.”

But let us turn our attention to the practical matters of the farm and garden. May is the season for planting Indian corn, sowing oats, and summer wheat. This latter, as well as winter wheat, has been much neglected in New England for some years, from an idea that it is not a safe crop. But take my advice, and try it again. Be assured that the raising of wheat may be made very profitable in New England.

Fessenden is of opinion that it might be well for the population of these United States, were we to consume as articles of diet more poultry and less butcher’s meat. In France, poultry forms an important part of the live stock of the farmer; and it has been said by well informed persons, that among the French, the poultry yards supply a much greater quantity of food to the mass of the community than the shambles.

You will find much innocent and profitable amusement in your garden, and will please to plant bush beans and pole beans of various sorts, having enriched the soil with horse or hog manure. With regard to pole beans, you will do as well to set the poles first, and then plant the beans round the poles.

In the open ground, plant cucumbers, cabbages, cauliflowers, late peas, early corn, squashes, melons, gourds, &c. Hoe and bush such peas as have come forward, and weed all the plants which have made their appearance.

Let me say a few words in favor of the birds, which, at this time, are on every tree. A notion prevails that birds do great injury in gardens and fields, and hence, many of them are shot, and boys are encouraged to persecute them with stones. A person of long experience has ascertained that birds, in general, do far more good by destroying vermin, than they do harm by the little grain and fruit they consume. In a district of Germany, there was once an order given to kill all the rooks, which are birds of the crow kind. This was complied with, and the consequence was, that the wheat crop was almost entirely destroyed by insects, which the rooks would have devoured.

The Village of Economy.

This is a New England village, and is remarkable for its pleasant, cheerful aspect. Every person who rides through it is delighted; and the place has such a reputation, that the land is worth more, and the houses will sell for more, than in almost any other place of the kind you can name. And this all arises from the good taste, neatness, and order, which characterize the inhabitants. I give you a view of the house belonging to Capt. John Pepperidge; a careful, correct, upright man, who has risen from poverty to ease and competence, by industry, economy, and prudence.

His house stands three or four rods back from the street; the front yard is green and grassy, and decorated with fruit trees. The wood pile is fenced in; the barn yard, pig pen, &c., are also tidily fenced. It is a maxim of Pepperidge’s that there should be a place for everything, and that everything should be in its place. This is his great maxim; and he not only observes it himself, but he requires every man, woman, and child, about him, to observe it also. He says it saves him one hundred dollars a year.

He has other rules, such as a stitch in time, saves nine; and so as soon as a stone falls off the wall he puts it up; when a rail gets out of the fence, he replaces it; when a gate is broken, it is forthwith repaired; if a clapboard is loose, a nail clenches it. Thus matters are kept tight and tidy. Of a wet day, instead of going to the tavern, he spends the time in making little repairs. At odd moments of leisure, he sets out trees and shrubs—thus, year by year, beautifying his place, and rendering it not only more comfortable, but also worth more money, in case he should ever desire to sell it.

Capt. Pepperidge takes great pleasure, and perhaps a little innocent pride, in his place—though, to say the truth, it is by no means costly. He loves better to spend his time in making it more comfortable and pleasant; in setting out trees, improving the grounds, mending the fences, &c., than in going about to talk politics, or gossip upon other people’s business, or in haunting a tavern bar-room. In short, his home is comfortable, pleasant, delightful. It is neat and orderly, inside and out. And he has made it so; though his wife, having happily felt the influence of his example, contributes her share to the good work. His children are well dressed—well educated—well behaved. Can such a man be a drunkard? Can he be vicious? Can he be wicked? Who has so good a chance of health, and wealth and happiness? Who so likely to be respected by his neighbors? Who so likely to do good by his influence and example? Come, Capt. Wideopen, I pray you, and learn a lesson of farmer Pepperidge!

Let us look at the practical effect of Pepperidge’s example. Formerly the village of Economy was called Uneasy-Swamp, and was inhabited by a set of people becoming the name. They were poor, ignorant, idle, and uneasy. They were jealous of all rich people, and considered the unequal distribution of property a dreadful evil. They were equally jealous of the wise, and considered the unequal distribution of knowledge a nuisance to be abated. They were also jealous of the virtuous, and hated nothing so much as a just and honest man. In short, they were, half a century ago, where some conceited but ignorant and uninformed people are now—willing to level everybody and thing to their own standard. If a candidate for office was up, who addressed their prejudices and coaxed them with promises,—though meaning to cheat them—he was the man for them. The more ignorant a magistrate—the more mean—the more base—the more fellow-feeling rendered them kind, and the more ardently they espoused his cause. Such was Uneasy-Swamp, a place which has its image still in some parts of the country.

But Pepperidge came among the people and set them a good example. They persecuted him—reviled him—hated him—ridiculed him—broke down his fences at night—and played him sundry mischievous tricks. But he was patient, and tough in his patience, as the tree that gave him a name. And he overcame them at last. One by one, the villagers began to imitate him. The small brown houses gradually lost their look of squalidness and disorder. The swamp emerged from its shadow, and became a cultivated valley. The little farmers and the humble mechanics rose from their degraded condition; education spread its light; industry, frugality, showered down their blessings, and Uneasy-Swamp became the flourishing village of Economy.

And thus, though none of the people are what is called rich, none are poor. The small houses are neat, and the fruit trees, the blossoming shrubs, the green grass, around them, declare that the people are happy. They are not mad in the foolish chase for riches, which is destroying more peace in this country, than all the bodily diseases our flesh is heir to. They are now, from better knowledge, satisfied that the rich man shall possess his wealth, both because they perceive that generally speaking the laboring classes are the happiest, and that the security of property is the only steady impulse to economy, industry, providence, and the other important village virtues. They are more fond of knowledge, for they perceive that it increases their power of being happy. They respect talent and wisdom, for they know that these are gifts sent by Heaven, for the guidance of man to happiness. In politics they are staunch republicans, but always give their votes for men of sterling integrity. A man who has the general character of being an artful, intriguing office-seeker, has no chance with them. They are perhaps a little prejudiced against cities and city people. If they ever have anything to do with a lawyer, they go to one who has been bred in the country, and one who was in early life a farmer. They think, and think justly, that while this rustic breeding gives a man an habitually honest and plain turn of mind, it also renders him more knowing, sagacious, and favorable in his feelings in respect to country people.

I cannot better close this sketch than by introducing some lines which are much esteemed in the village of Economy; every man, woman and child knows them by heart.

“Let order o’er your time preside,
And method all your business guide.
Early begin, and end, your toil;
Nor let great tasks your hands embroil.
One thing at once be still begun,
Contrived, resolved, pursued, and done.
Hire not, for what yourselves can do;
And send not, when yourselves can go;
Nor till to-morrow’s light delay
What might as well be done to-day.
By steady efforts all men thrive,
And long by moderate labor live;
While eager toil and anxious care,
Health, strength, and peace, and life impair.

“Nor think a life of toil severe;
No life has blessings so sincere.
Its meals are luscious, sleep so sweet,
Such vigorous limbs, such health complete;
No mind so active, brisk, and gay,
As his who toils the livelong day.
A life of sloth drags hardly on;
Suns set too late, and rise too soon;
Youth, manhood, age, all linger slow,
To him who nothing has to do.
The drone, a nuisance to the hive,
Stays, but can scarce be said to live;
And well the bees, those judges wise,
Plague, chase, and sting him till he dies.

“With punctual hand your taxes pay,

Nor put far off the evil day.

How soon to an enormous size

Taxes succeeding taxes rise!

How easy one by one discharged!

How hardly in the mass enlarged!

How humbling the intrusive dun!

How fast, how far, the expenses run!

Fees, advertisements, travel, cost,

And that sad end of all, the post!

This gulf of swift perdition flee

And live from duns and bailiffs free.

“In merchants’ books, from year to year,
Be cautious how your names appear.
How fast their little items count!
How great, beyond your hopes, the amount!
When shelves o’er shelves inviting stand,
And wares allure, on either hand;
While round you turn enchanted eyes,
And feel a thousand wants arise,
(Ye young, ye fair, these counsels true
Are penn’d for all, but most for you,)
Ere fancy lead your hearts astray,
Think of the means you have to pay.”

GOD SEES EVERYWHERE.

A father once said to his son, “Carry this parcel to your aunt’s.” “It is the Sabbath, father,” said the boy. “Well, put it in your pocket,” replied the father. “God can see into my pocket,” answered the child.

Mohammed.

Among the great changes which have been made in the world, not a few have been made by arch impostors, for there seem to be no boundaries to human credulity. Mohammed, the founder of the religion which bears his name, was one of these. Of his history I intend to give my young readers a few particulars, because I think they ought to know something of a man who has given a religion to nearly a third portion of the human race.

Mohammed began his reign A. D. 609, in the fortieth year of his age. He first shut himself up, and fasted and prayed for a considerable time. After this he pretended to have had communications with the angel Gabriel, the particulars of which he related to his wife. Astonished by his vehemence and the boldness of his pretensions, (for these two qualities sometimes completely overpower people,) she began to give out to her friends and neighbors that Mohammed was an apostle of God. Through her instrumentality her uncle or cousin, Wooaka, was gained, who is said to have been a Christian, and well acquainted with the Old and New Testaments. Mohammed’s servant next became a convert; and, a far more important person, his young nephew, Ali, called the Fiery, from the ardor of his temper.

Soon after this, Mohammed gained over Abubeker, a man of excellent character, who stood in high respect, and persuaded ten of the most considerable citizens of Mecca to follow his example. They were all instructed by Mohammed in the doctrine of the Islam, as he styled his new religion; and Mohammed gave from day to day, as from the angel Gabriel, the revelations he pretended to have received.

And now I wish my young readers to understand a fact—namely, that it was to an admixture of much good with his imposture that the importance of Mohammed succeeded. The religion of the people among whom he dwelt was that of an absurd and wicked Polytheism. They were either infidels or worshipped a number of bug-bears which they called gods. Mohammed taught the great truth upon which true religion rests—namely, that there was ONE GOD. He added, that Mohammed was his prophet; thus mixing truth and falsehood so artfully together that it was impossible for the weaker minded of his friends to separate them. Having believed that Mohammed was the prophet of God, they, of, course, believed everything else concerning him. And when he asserted that he put the moon in the sleeve of his dress, his disciples believed him. And at last the Mohammedan, although a profound mathematician and an excellent calculator, placed implicit faith in his pretended journey to heaven on the beast Alborak.

After a while Mohammed incited the members of his family and his followers to a grand feast, and openly announced to them his determination to found a new religion, and asked which of them would undertake the office of vizier. All were silent, till the youthful Ali declared his readiness to do so, and at the same time his determination to inflict vengeance upon all those who dared to oppose his master. How different was the conduct of our blessed Saviour, who, when Peter drew his sword and cut off the ear of the servant of the high priest, said, “Put up thy sword into its sheath; they who take the sword shall perish by the sword.”

Mohammed, like all others who have wrought great changes in the opinions of men, had powerful opponents among those who obtained rank and profit from old errors. On several occasions Mohammed was attacked by the adherents of idolatry with open force, and compelled to change his residence, and often to flee for his life. But these persecutions had the effect, as all persecutions ever have, to spread the faith they were used to put down. Learn this, my young friends, that the more you tread on a mind full of enthusiasm, the more it turns and flies in your face.

At this time occurred Mohammed’s celebrated nocturnal journey to heaven, on the beast Alborak, under the guidance of the angel Gabriel. After this, great numbers of people flocked to him, and he began to have thoughts of founding his religion by the sword. Exasperated at seeing Mohammed and his followers gird themselves with weapons of offence, his enemies formed a conspiracy to murder him; but, warned of the imminent danger, he left Mecca, accompanied by Abubeker alone, and concealed himself in a cave not far distant. There he spent three days undiscovered; after which he arrived safely at Medina, though not without many narrow escapes for his life. This event, from which the Mohammedans commence their era, is known under the name of Hegira, which signifies flight.

In Medina, Mohammed met with the most honorable reception. Thither he was followed by many of his converts; and as the number of the faithful continued to increase, he began making preparations for war. Many of those who followed Mohammed did so for the sake of what they obtained from him; but when the hopes of booty were added to other inducements, thousands joined him. His first great military exploit was the spoiling of a rich caravan, led by Abu Sophian, the chief of the Koreishites. Mohammed surprised them, with an inferior force, in the valley of Beder, and inflicted on them a total defeat. He took a rich booty and numbers of prisoners.

Many other successful enterprises were now undertaken; but in the third year of the Hegira, Abu Sophian, with 3000 soldiers, attacked Mohammed with 950, on Mount Opud, not far from Medina, and a desperate conflict ensued, in which the Moslems were utterly beaten, and the wounded prophet with difficulty saved his life. Mohammed, with the craftiness common to impostors, attributed this defeat to the sins of the Moslems. He then promised Paradise to all that should for the future die in his cause, and announced that everybody had a fate; that it was of no use to endeavor to withstand it; that every one died at his appointed hour, and if he did not die in battle, when the appointed hour came he would die nevertheless. This of course made the poor weak creatures who followed him ready to do anything.

In the following year, Abu Sophian appeared before Medina with 10,000 men; but, by a division among themselves, this army broke up, and Mohammed fell upon some bands of Jews who had united with them. These he cut to pieces, slaughtering nearly a thousand, and carried away the women and children into captivity.

The next act of the prophet was to offer up prayers to God. He then sent a summons to the principal neighboring princes, and also to those of the various districts of Arabia, to embrace the new revelation of the divine law made through him; and many of these princes embraced his doctrine.

But the city of Mecca was a sacred city, according to the religion of the Arabs, and Mohammed knew the importance of making his head quarters, if possible, at so celebrated a place. He craved permission to visit it and its temple as a pilgrim. While at his apparent devotions he converted two men of great renown among the Arabs, called Amru and Othman, and he in consequence became more powerful and raised a larger army. Having made war on the city of Muta, in Palestine, he soon returned to Mecca with an army of 12,000 men; and, having defeated the Koreishites, compelled them, with the point of the sword at their throats, to embrace the Islam. The idols of the Kaba were demolished, and the sacred touch of the prophet made the black stone an object of greater veneration. The temple became the sanctuary of the religion of Mohammed, and its professors were allowed access alone to the holy city of Mecca.

Mohammed now destroyed all the idols he could lay his hands upon; and, going forward in the same course he had begun, and now at the head of 30,000 men, he marched into Syria, claiming homage from all he conquered, and soon became the master of the whole of Arabia. He forced his religion upon the inhabitants, but allowed the Christians free toleration.

In the tenth year of the Hegira, Mohammed took his farewell pilgrimage to Mecca; and on this occasion he was surrounded with the utmost splendor, and attended by 100,000 of his friends and followers. This was the last and most important event of his life; for, soon after his return to Medina, he died, in the eleventh year of the Hegira, and in the sixty-third year of his age.

A Fourth of July Oration

A Fourth of July Oration,[1]

BY ONE ALCOHOL.

Ladies and Gentlemen,—This is a great day—a day of independence. It is a day upon which myself and one Gunpowder, have long been accustomed to make a display. I hope that the foolish attempt to celebrate the fourth of July without us, will be frowned down. Who ever thought of being funny without being fuddled? Who ever thought of being truly independent, and setting all law and gospel at defiance, without my help?

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a great character. Forgive me, if, on this glorious occasion, I set forth my merits. It is one of my privileges, as well as that of my subjects, to be boastful and vain-glorious. I shall, therefore, proceed to speak of myself.

My name is Alcohol! I solicit the favor of your attention to a subject, which lies near my heart. I am a great prince, and, like other distinguished potentates, I have my followers. To thousands and tens of thousands of these, I feel under profound obligations for the homage they have done me. They have loved me to intoxication; and, in doing me reverence, have often fallen at my feet. If the heathen prostrate themselves before stocks and stones, may not Christians prostrate themselves before me?

Allow me to tell you something of my subjects. Let me expatiate upon their merits. Let me set forth some of their characteristics; and then pronounce your judgment—then say, if monarch ever had higher reason than Alcohol to be proud of his people.

And first; my followers are remarkably devoted.

From the standards of Napoleon, Wellington, and even that of Washington, desertion was not uncommon. But, until recently, this crime has scarcely been known in my army. For my sake I have known my friends forsake father and mother, wife and children. Nay, such has been their zeal in my cause, that they have sacrificed property, health, and even life itself. Indeed, I may say, that from a pure devotion to me, thousands have come to an untimely grave.

The most popular monarchs have their enemies. Doubtless, I have mine, particularly in these sad days of delusion and pretended reform. But, then, I have reason to think, that some, and probably the number is large, though ostensibly my enemies, are secretly my friends. From motives of policy, they say they must appear to be against me, but when closeted they assure me that they still love me, and I think they often give no small evidence of the fact. They have a deep intestine attachment to me. Upon these friends I depend to restore me to my former honors, and had they the power, I think I should reign as triumphantly as ever.

Before I proceed farther, I must say a word about my domestic affairs, and which explains the trouble that has grown up in society, in respect to me. Many years ago I was married to Cold Water. We had a large family, the pride of which we called Grog, and a glorious fellow he was too. I hardly knew his equal, unless it was Toddy—the drollest dog you ever met with. Such times as we did have! Toddy, Grog, and the rest, used to fall to and scratch, bite, pull hair, give black eyes, &c. Those were glorious days, and I am sorry to say, that the times have grown very degenerate. I positively fear that a row or a black eye will not be heard of ten years hence.

However, I must go on with my speech. Some evil-minded persons brought about a divorce between me and Cold Water; she then set up for herself, and since that time, there’s been a regular strife between us. We’re now trying to see which shall get the biggest army, and the consequence is that society is torn to pieces. My dear friends, listen to me, and then choose on which side you will enlist.

Let me tell you something about my followers. In the first place they are brave. In a single instance, during the revolutionary war, the English officers mingled gunpowder with the spirit, in order to inspire their soldiers with greater courage. I could have taught them a better lesson than this. They needed a little Fourth proof Jamaica. Fourth proof, you observe—that manufactures the courage. Why, I never yet saw an army or a rabble, whose courage flagged, if they had taken a sufficient quantity of the pure “critter,”—pure, pure, you observe, not weakened down till you couldn’t tell whether there was most water, or most spirit. I have some veterans in my service, which I think would stand an action as hot as Bunker Hill is said to have been. These are my red-eyed and red-nosed soldiers, and whom I keep as a corps de reserve. I think of enrolling them in a regiment by themselves. They are without “fear of things present or things to come.” Promotion is certain in this corps, and all my soldiers get into it, after a proper length of service. My subjects, also, possess strong points of similarity.

And 1st., of their uniform. The uniform adopted by me is red, sometimes bearing upon purple. My subjects look exceedingly well in it, especially when set with jewels, known by the name of carbuncles. A few prefer a pale exterior for their uniform, inclining to yellow. These are those whom I call gin-ites. They are mostly of the softer sex, who have acquired this pallid look by the use of gin or opium, and snuff. To my eye, there is nothing in creation half so beautiful as a woman, under the influence of gin or opium, in the attitude of taking snuff, especially when her fingers scatter it over her dress like a Scotch mist.

2d. Language. My subjects belong to different countries, and consequently speak different languages. But even here strong resemblances may be traced. Whatever be their mother tongue, their accents, inflexions and cadences, especially the latter, are strikingly similar. Some lisp beautifully—some have an elegant clip of their words—others at times are affected with hesitancy and stammering, or perhaps they are unable to speak at all. I have known persons complain that it is difficult to understand them; but it must be remembered, that union is a great thing, and this affection of the speech makes all alike, and therefore cultivates fellow-feeling, which makes us kind to one another.

3d. Attitudes. In this term, I include walking, marching, riding and evolutions in general; in all which my followers exhibit a wonderful sameness. You would at once perceive that they had been disciplined by the same master, and were actuated by the same spirit. The many graces of action are probably better understood by them, than by any other people on the globe. I have often been in ecstasies, in looking at one of my veterans, advancing towards me—he has given me such a delightful idea of Hogarth’s waving line of beauty. But my mounted volunteers are, perhaps, my greatest pride. In elegant horsemanship, they excel. I doubt whether Mohammed himself, when he rode Alborak, presented a finer appearance than some of our Knights of the Bottle. They are so easy—so full of elegant motion—now on this side—now on that—forwards and backwards—lateral, circular, and zigzag, that you would decide it to be equal to any “ground tumbling” you ever met with. And with all their courtesies, for they seldom pass any one without making a profound bow—they seldom lose their balance so as to fall. This I account for, in some instances at least, from the sagacity of their horses, which usually know more than their riders!

A fourth characteristic is Independence. My followers are ever ready to pay me and my family the honors of sovereignty; but here their homage terminates. They are, to a man, freemen, and have taken their oath a thousand times, that they will live freely, however they may die. They sing beautifully, and sincerely, especially such couplets as these:

“He that lives and goes to bed mellow,

Lives as he ought to do, and dies a clever fellow.”

Generally, they feel rich, however poor; and have golden prospects, without the certainty of a single dollar. I have known them, even when lying at the bottom of a ditch, and unable to move a limb—so buoyant with spirits, as to call out to the universe—“to the right wheel, march!”

A fifth characteristic of my subjects is, genius. The tendency of all my influence is to bring the energies of the skull into action. Under my tuition, genius is sure to expand; and I have known even those who were thought to be wanting in common sense, to have heads that would delight Spurzheim himself. Phrenologists often talk about bumps, as indications of great powers. This is sound philosophy, and I have a mode of making bumps by an expeditious process. I assure you, I have known a whole family of geniuses made in one night, at a bar-room or a grog-shop. A jug of the pure thing is superior to a college education, for developments of the craniology.

Finally, my friends, one of my people knows more than anybody else—or he thinks he does, which is the same thing. It is an old adage, that “the drunken man thinks the world turns round.” What a glorious privilege! It is true that he reels and staggers, and perhaps tumbles down; but still, he thinks that he alone is upright, steadfast and perpendicular! while everybody else is tipping and diving as if there was an earthquake! Is not this an enviable superiority? Thus it is, my friends, if you embrace me, you will, in your own heart and mind, be

——“glorious,

O’er all your enemies victorious!”

You may be clothed in rags, tumbled into a gutter—an object of pity and sorrow to all around; yet, strong in your confidence in me, you will remain

“A man superior to his accidents!”

You will think that you know more than anybody else, are better than anybody else, and are alike superior to the restraints of decency, morality, religion and law. This is true independence! This is unbounded liberty. If, the next day, you feel the horrors—take a little more of me. A little more and a little more—is the true way to keep it up. Walk up, gentlemen and ladies! now’s your time. Who’s for King Alcohol and independence! Who’ll enlist under my banner, for time and eternity?

[1] The substance of this was delivered by a youth at a temperance celebration, on the Fourth July last.

Clean Clothes.—Purity of vesture seems to be a principal precept of nature, and observable throughout the animal creation. Fishes, from the nature of the element in which they reside, can contract but little impurity. Birds are unceasingly attentive to neatness and lustration of their plumage. All the slug race, though covered with slimy matter, calculated to collect extraneous things, and reptiles are perfectly free from soil. The fur and hair of beasts, in a state of liberty and health, is never filthy, or sullied with dirt.

Some birds roll themselves in dust, and occasionally particular beasts cover themselves with mire; but this is not from any liking or inclination for such things, but to free themselves from annoyances, or prevent the bites of minute insects. Whether birds in pluming, or beasts in dressing themselves, be directed by any instinctive faculty, we know not, but they evidently derive pleasure from the operation, and thus the feeling of enjoyment, even if the sole motive, becomes to them an essential source of comfort and of health.

Subserviency.—A farmer in Surrey, England, being asked for whom he intended to vote at the next election, naively replied, “Can’t tell; ha’n’t heard from master yet.”

Heathen Mythology.

A great many years ago, the people, over almost all Europe and a large part of Asia, believed in gods whom they called Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Apollo, &c. They believed in goddesses too, such as Juno, Venus, Vesta, &c.

These people built temples in honor of their gods and goddesses, many of which were very splendid. In these temples they had statues of the particular gods to whom they were dedicated. Here, also, there were priests, who offered sacrifices to the gods, such as bulls, sheep, birds, &c.

This system, having its origin in the fancy of man, was called Mythology—which means a religion of fables. It is supposed to have been commenced by the Egyptians, three or four thousand years ago, when the greater part of the world was in a state of barbarism, or perhaps, uninhabited by man.

This mythology, or religion of fables, probably began in this way. Some poet, having heard of the great deeds of some warrior, made a poem about him, and not only told things which he did, but some things which he did not. He represented him as having power above other men, and as performing deeds which man, alone, could not do.

Some other poet, afterwards, took up the story, and added other wonderful tales about this great warrior. The story thus begun, would increase very fast; for it is very easy to tell great stories, and very easy for ignorant people to believe them too. Thus, in the course of two generations, the warrior became a being quite above mankind, and therefore a god.

When once such a system was begun, it was quite natural that it should increase. Every man of lively imagination could invent a god or a goddess, and the people were likely to adopt them, as fast as they could be manufactured. The priests and poets had both an interest in carrying on this business, for they either got a living by it, or gained freedom, fame and consequence among the people.

The Greeks, for many ages after they settled their country, which took place above three thousand seven hundred years ago, held constant communication with Egypt. To this country they went for education and for the arts. They not only imitated their buildings, furniture and curtains, but they adopted the Egyptian religion also. The Greeks were, however, a people of a great deal of genius. Beginning with Egyptian arts and customs, they modified or changed them, by the suggestions of their own taste and fancy. Thus, in time, they soon became superior, in many things, to the Egyptians, who were their schoolmasters.

The mythology of the Egyptians was soon changed, in the hands of the lively and inventive Greeks; and, indeed, it became so different, that it got the name at last of the Grecian mythology. A large part of the poetry and literature of the Greeks was filled with the achievements of their gods and goddesses. Men of the greatest genius, such as Homer, Hesiod, Anacreon, and others, wrote splendid pieces about the fabulous deities; and the people believed them all to be true.

According to these poets, Jupiter or Jove was the greatest of the gods. He was represented in the temples, as sitting on a throne, with the eagle, the most powerful of birds, at his side, as an emblem of his superiority. In his hand, he held thunderbolts, ready to hurl them forth upon his enemies. He was supposed to reside chiefly upon Olympus, a tall mountain of Greece, where he held councils with his deities.

The early history of Jupiter, as told by the poets, is droll enough. The ancients knew very little about astronomy or geography. So they divided the universe into three great kingdoms—the heavens, the earth, and the infernal regions. Titan, a powerful king, gave Saturn the kingdom of the earth, upon condition that he should kill all his male children. Saturn married a woman by the name of Ops. They had several children, but as soon as a boy was born, Saturn always ate him up.

At last little Jupiter was born—and Ops determined to save him. Accordingly she gave Saturn a stone, and told him it was the boy. Saturn devoured it—and did not discover the cheat. This is a hard story, but the Greeks believed it, and we must not laugh at them, for we see things quite as foolish in our day. The Mormons, who live in Illinois, believe that one Joe Smith, a vile and wicked man, found certain brass plates, written over with a revelation from God, which he alone could translate; and they think this translation, which they call the Book of Mormon, is as true as the Bible. There are certain deluded people, even among us, misled by one Miller, who imagines that the world is to be speedily destroyed. These things teach us how easy it is to be deceived in religious matters, and how careful we should be not to adopt new and singular notions upon this important subject.

Jupiter, having escaped his father’s jaws, was nursed by a goat. When he was a year old, he was a prodigious fellow. By this time the Titans had imprisoned his father, Saturn. So Jupiter made war upon them; he released his father, and conquered heaven, earth and hell. The heaven and earth he reserved to himself; the sea he gave to Neptune, and the lower regions to Pluto.

Jupiter was supposed to be immortal, and of boundless power; but he yet had the passions of a man. Many of his actions, as detailed by the Grecian poets, would be regarded by us as very base, selfish and wicked, and worthy of being punished by confinement in the penitentiary. Such is the character of the chief god, in a system of man’s invention. Does not this show us that the religion of the Bible, which reveals to us a God pure, holy, just and good, is of divine origin? Does it not also show us the danger of taking anything for religion, such as Mormonism and Millerism, and all other mythologies which come from man?

Apollo was the name of several gods, and this has led to some confusion. The great Apollo was the son of Jupiter and Latona. Jupiter’s regular wife was Juno, a fierce, proud goddess, who hated Latona, and sent a prodigious serpent, called Python, to torment her. In order to protect her, Jupiter raised up a beautiful island, called Delos, in the sea, to which Latona retired. Here Apollo was born, and when he grew up he became the god of the fine arts, music, poetry, painting, &c. His adventures, as detailed by the ancient Greek poets, are quite interesting.

Vulcan was the god of blacksmiths and all who wrought by fire in iron. He was the son of Jupiter and Juno, and appears to have been so hideous that his mother was ashamed of him. However, he seems to have loved his mother—for on one occasion, she having behaved ill, Jupiter tied her up. Vulcan, however, let her loose; for this he paid dearly, for his father, being greatly incensed, gave him a tremendous kick, which sent him out of heaven. He was no less than nine days and nights in tumbling down to earth; it is no wonder, then, that he broke his leg in falling upon the island of Lemnos, where he alighted. He was lame ever after.

Pluto was the king of hell, or the regions which lay beneath the earth. Here he reigned over his dark, dismal, and gloomy regions, peopled by the souls of departed men. Such was his savage character, and the horrid gloom of his dominions, that nobody would marry him. Still, as he wanted a wife, he determined to have one by hook or by crook. So one day, as he was driving along in his chariot, in the island of Sicily, he saw a beautiful goddess, named Proserpine, surrounded by her nymphs. Pluto drove up, seized the lovely deity, and carried her off. With his trident he opened a passage in the earth, down which he drove headlong, and having arrived at home, Proserpine became queen of hell.

Mercury was the messenger of the gods, especially of Jupiter. He was also the patron of travellers and shepherds, and had a kindness, I am sorry to say it, for thieves, pickpockets, and rogues of all kinds. It would seem that such a god could hardly be respectable; yet I believe that he was rather a favorite with the Greeks.

Mars was the god of war—a fierce and terrible god, indeed. Yet, strange to say, Venus, a handsome goddess, and wife of the old limping blacksmith, Vulcan, liked his company very well. Vulcan made a net of iron links, in which he caught Mars and Venus, and then called in all the gods to look at them! This seems to have made a great deal of fun.

Hercules was a famous hero, who performed wonderful exploits, by his bodily strength alone.

Neptune was the god of the sea. His father, Saturn, ate him up, when a baby—but he was afterwards brought to life, and received his empire from his brother Jupiter.

Minerva was the goddess of wisdom. She was said to be born of Jupiter’s brain. A famous temple was erected to this goddess at Athens, by Pericles, about four hundred and fifty years before Christ. The chief circumstances of her history were beautifully represented in sculpture around this temple. The edifice still remains, though in ruins, a splendid monument of the genius of the ancient Greeks.

RUINS OF THE PARTHENON AT ATHENS.

This is a very brief sketch of some of the deities belonging to the ancient Grecian mythology. For nearly two thousand years this prevailed in Greece, and it was afterwards adopted by the Romans, who added many gods to suit themselves. It became the Roman religion, and was inculcated through that vast empire. It was not till about three hundred and twenty years after Christ, that the Christian religion was adopted, as the religion of the Roman government.

The Elephant.

The elephant, on first view, appears to be a large mass of unwieldy flesh, and on further examination, scarcely gives us any idea but of an animal of extreme stupidity, with small eyes, large pendulous ears, and an enormous trunk. He is generally about ten feet high, but does sometimes attain the astonishing height of twelve or fourteen feet. It is covered with a hide, without hair, which is hard and callous; it has heavy and misshapen legs, with round feet, and a tail with a tuft of hair at the end.

There are two species of the elephant, the Asiatic and African; they are much alike, though there is some difference in the teeth. In Africa, the people never train the elephant to any useful purposes, but in Asia this is quite common. In India, the animal is taught to carry burdens, and it performs a great deal of labor. We know that two thousand years ago elephants were used for war; this does not appear common now. They, however, carry large loads, and often, in hunting tigers, they are very expert.

Though extensively used, the elephant is not so domesticated as to breed in its state of confinement. All those that are employed by men, are taken when wild, and trained to their state of servitude. An elephant will carry three thousand pounds on his back, which is about six times as much as a horse will carry. In its natural state it is a mild and peaceable animal, and will always run away from a man. It seems to have no disposition to quarrel even with the brute creation; and as lions, tigers, and rhinoceroses, usually let the elephant alone, he lets them alone.

Though the elephant looks like a stupid creature, it is in fact very intelligent, and appears to have some faculties and sentiments almost human. It delights in music, and easily learns to beat time; it is fond of sweet odors, and often picks flowers, unites them into a nosegay, and seems delighted with the perfume; it has a delicacy of touch in its trunk, like that of the fingers, by which it can pick up a pin, tie and untie knots, lock and unlock doors, and even write with a pen; it learns to love its keeper, whom it caresses and obeys; it seems gratified with kindness, and distressed by abuse; it has even been known to die of grief, when, in some fit of madness, it has killed its conductor.

The Lion.

This animal, on account of its fierceness and strength, called the king of beasts, is a native of both Asia and Africa. In countries where it lives, all other animals fly before it. Wherever man dwells, he wages war against it, and finally prevails. The lion is, therefore, not found where the country is thickly peopled. But in the vast solitudes of Africa it is common, and reigns monarch of all it surveys.

The lion is called cruel, but he only slays for the purpose of satisfying his hunger. The wolf, tiger, pole-cat, fox, will kill only for the sake of killing—even beyond what they can eat—whereas the lion, when his appetite is appeased, will lie down and let animals, upon which he usually feeds, pass by him unhurt.

There is something very noble in the aspect of a lion; his head is large, and his features have a serious and lofty expression. Though of the cat family, he has nothing of the sly, insinuating look of puss.

The strength of the lion is immense. It is said that he can break the skull of an ox by a single stroke of his paw. It is also said that a lion will carry off an ox that it has killed, dragging it over hills and ravines and across streams, and proceeding at long and rapid leaps with his burthen.

The Gnoo.

This singular animal, which seems to be between the ox and antelope, was formerly regarded as a very rare and strange beast; but of late we have become better acquainted with it. Several of these creatures have been exhibited in the caravans, and beside, many English travellers have lately been in Africa, where they are found, and they have given us many descriptions of them.

They live in herds, like the bisons or buffaloes of the west, and sometimes hundreds or thousands of them are seen scattered over the plains. They are about as large as our common cattle at the age of two years; their color is dark brown; the head and breast are covered with long shaggy hair, and the horns bend forward at the base and backwards at the middle.

They are very timid, and generally fly from the approach of men. They seem to be put in a rage by the sight of scarlet. Mr. Pringle, a traveller in Africa, tells us some very amusing tales as to this. When he and his party met with troops of these creatures, they would hoist a red handkerchief on a pole. At this the gnoos would approach, tear up the ground, lash their sides with their tails, and show signs of violent rage, and then they would suddenly bound away to a distance.

A Swedish Girl.

Gustavus III., king of Sweden, passing one morning on horseback through a village in the neighborhood of his capital, observed a young peasant girl, of interesting appearance, drawing water at a fountain by the way-side. He went up to her, and asked her for a draught. Without delay, she lifted up her pitcher, and with artless simplicity put it to the lips of the monarch. Having satisfied his thirst, and courteously thanked his benefactress, he said:—

“My girl, if you would accompany me to Stockholm, I would endeavor to fix you in a more agreeable situation.”

“Ah, sir,” replied the girl, “I cannot accept your proposal. I am not anxious to rise above the state of life in which the providence of God has placed me; but even if I were, I could not for an instant hesitate.”

“And why?” rejoined the king, somewhat surprised.

“Because,” answered the girl, “my mother is poor and sickly, and has no one but me to assist or comfort her under many afflictions; and no earthly bribe could induce me to leave her, or to neglect the duties which affection requires from me.”

“Where is your mother?” asked the monarch.

“In that little cabin,” replied the girl, pointing to a wretched hovel beside her.

The king, whose feelings were interested in his companion, went in, and beheld, stretched on a bedstead, whose only covering was a little straw, an aged female, weighed down with years, and sinking under infirmities. Moved at the sight, the monarch addressed her: “I am sorry, my poor woman, to find you in so destitute and afflicted a condition.”

“Alas! sir,” said the venerable sufferer, “I should indeed be an object of pity, had I not that kind and attentive girl, who labors to support me, and omits nothing she thinks can afford me relief. May a gracious God remember it to her for good,” she added, wiping away a tear.

Never, perhaps, was Gustavus more sensible than at that moment of the pleasure of occupying an exalted station. The gratification arising from the consciousness of having it in his power to assist a fellow-creature, almost overpowered him; and putting a purse into the hand of the young villager, he could only say, “Continue to take care of your mother; I shall soon enable you to do so more effectually. Good-bye, my amiable girl; you may depend on the promise of your king.”

On his return to Stockholm, Gustavus settled a pension for life on the mother, with the reversion to her daughter at her death.

The Story of “Gander.”

Let us understand each other at the outset, gentle reader. Gander, as you will suppose, was not a goose; but you will be surprised to hear that he was a “horse.” Why the creature got this name, I cannot tell, unless it was that he was white, and was always a leader among the horses. But, however the name originated, the following is a true story of him, as told to me by a gentleman of veracity.

In the year 1825, on a summer’s day, my friend left the vicinity of the Dunderberg mountain, in Rockland county, in the state of New York, with this and another horse, for a town on the Connecticut river. The other horse was bay, small, old, lean, and of a submissive aspect; while Gander, as I said before, was white, and, although somewhat advanced in years, was large, well-built, and quite proud in his bearing. These horses, together with a wagon, my friend had taken of a doubtful debtor, and at the above time left the vicinity of the Dunderberg, as I said, for his home, some hundred miles to the east.

For two reasons “Bay” was doomed to be the drudge on the journey. One was, that Gander and the wagon did not agree; the other was, that my friend chose to give him an easy journey, for the purpose of more readily converting him into cash on his reaching home. Gander, therefore, was tied behind.

“Matters being thus arranged,” my friend proceeded, “we commenced our journey; but we were destined not long thus to be linked together; for although Gander appeared to recognise his new master, he liked not the compulsory method I had taken to assure myself of his company. A single toss of his head was sufficient to break his halter, and he seemed to understand this snapping process to perfection; but, then, instead of running away, and thus securing for a time his freedom, he would stand still, quietly waiting for me to dismount and again attach him to his post.

“His late master had been abundant in commendation of his sagacity and other notable qualities, but assured me he would not be led. Not being inclined, however, to yield my belief without a trial, I had tied him, as above noticed. We had not proceeded far, however, before Gander gave intimation that indeed ‘he would not be led.’ Snap went the halter, again. With much good nature, I again tied it, but with precisely the same result. At length, it was quite plain the animal was willing to acknowledge his allegiance to his new master, although he had not been consulted in the transfer; but his submission must be voluntary—he would not be led like a criminal, especially with a halter about his neck.

“The rope was soon useless; and now necessity became the mother of invention. I slipped the remnant of the halter from his head, jumped into my wagon, and drove on. This movement seemed quite satisfactory to the hitherto disobliged animal; and from his future conduct, it was evident he had obtained his wishes. Immediately he came to the side of the vehicle;—afterwards he chose ‘Bay,’ for a time, as his companion; and thus, side by side, and cheek-by-jowl, with either drudge or master, he jogged on for an hour or two. Finally, however, he fell back to the rear of the wagon, and, singular as it may appear, he kept this spot to the end of his journey, with, perhaps, a single exception, which I shall by-and-by mention; excepting, also, that occasionally he turned upon the road-side, while ascending a hill, to crop a tuft of green grass. At such times, if for a moment he forgot his master till he had disappeared, in a few minutes more his shrill voice was heard, and he recovered his post behind, with all expedition.

“On the morning of the second day, we left Newburgh, and crossing the Hudson at Poughkeepsie, directed our course to Litchfield, in Connecticut. I had not travelled fast, however, and it was quite dusk, when I arrived at the foot of Mount Tom, within eight or ten miles of the end of my journey for the day. I had observed a few heavy clouds in the west, and now these were approaching and increasing with so great rapidity, that I had scarce a hope of escaping the impending storm. I was entirely unacquainted with the road over the mountain, but it was a long distance to any shelter which I had passed. I determined, therefore, to push forward.

“Had ‘Bay’ possessed my fears, I should have had some hope of escaping from the storm; but he was, of the two, the greater philosopher. The distant thunder had no terrors for him; besides, it was an up-hill journey, and this, instead of increasing his energy, seemed to be a good reason for abating his exertions. Consequently, before we had gained half the distance to the summit of the mountain, darkness was upon us; ominous drops of rain were beginning to fall, and the thunder was rolling overhead.

“In this dilemma, although sometimes aided by a flash of lightning, my situation became almost appalling. However, when it was impossible to see the road, I left my wagon, and, after feeling and ascertaining the way a few rods, I managed to guide my horse a short distance. This plan I had repeated several times, and was at the last returning to start again, when Gander, whom before I had scarcely thought of for an hour, advanced from his post, and planted himself immediately in front of ‘Bay.’ This extraordinary movement of the animal, (for he had only once before taken precedence on our journey,) was so very singular, that it at once occurred to me he had some good motive for it. His color was white; did his sagacity teach him that ‘Bay’ could see him, if not the road? Was his sight more keen than my own, and did he discover it? Did his instinct teach him that his color might render him conspicuous, even in darkness, so that we could follow him? Can this be called instinct, or was it reason? Let it be called by whatever name it may, I had before heard of the sagacity of the horse, but I was now to witness it.

“I again seated myself in my wagon, by which time the rain fell in torrents. Gander was not discoverable from my seat when we started, but I drove on. ‘Bay’ now showed less reluctance, and, encouraged by his pioneer, moved forward more rapidly; we soon gained the mountain-top, and the frequent flashes of lightning showed Gander still in his new position, a foot or two in advance of Bay, and in the very centre of the road. Soon after our descent of the mountain commenced, it became so light, that I could just discern my leader; and thus we jogged on for some time, till at length a light was visible in the distance. I had scarcely discovered it, when a shrill neigh from Gander announced his pleasure at the prospect. He guided me safely to it, and to the door of an inn, as it proved, in Bradleyville. I need hardly add, that Gander received, not only the hearty caresses of his master, but an extra quantity of delicacies for his supper, good attendance, and a bundle or two of straw for his bed. He should have had a mattress, had he preferred it.”

The Dog of Montargis.

There is in France a castle by the name of Montargis. In the hall of this castle there is a sculpture which represents a dog fighting with a champion. The story connected with this sculpture is as follows:—

Aubri de Mondidier, a gentleman of family and fortune, travelling alone through the Forest of Bondi, was murdered, and buried under a tree. His dog, an English blood-hound, would not quit his master’s grave for several days; till, at length, compelled by hunger, he proceeded to the house of an intimate friend of the unfortunate Aubri’s, at Paris, and by his melancholy howling, seemed desirous of expressing the loss they had both sustained. He repeated his cries, ran to the door, looked back to see if any one followed him, returned to his master’s friend, pulled him by the sleeve, and with dumb eloquence entreated him to go with him.

The singularity of all these actions of the dog, added to the circumstance of his coming there without his master, whose faithful companion he had always been, prompted the company to follow the animal, who conducted them to a tree, where he renewed his howl, scratching the earth with his feet, and significantly entreating them to search that particular spot. Accordingly, on digging, the body of the unfortunate Aubri was found.

Some time after, the dog accidentally met the assassin, who is styled, by the historians, Chevalier Macaire; when, instantly seizing him by the throat, he was with great difficulty compelled to quit his prey. In short, whenever the dog saw the Chevalier, he continued to pursue and attack him with equal fury. Such obstinate virulence in the animal, confined only to Macaire, appeared very extraordinary; especially to those who at once recollected the dog’s remarkable attachment to his master, and several instances in which Macaire’s envy and hatred to Aubri de Mondidier had been conspicuous.

Additional circumstances created suspicion; and at length the affair reached the royal ear. The king, Louis VIII., accordingly sent for the dog, who appeared extremely gentle, till he perceived Macaire in the midst of several noblemen, when he ran fiercely towards him, growling, and attacking him as usual.

The king, struck with these circumstantial evidences against Macaire, determined to refer the decision to the chance of battle; in other words, he gave orders for a combat between the Chevalier and the dog. The lists were appointed in the Isle of Notre Dame, then an unenclosed, uninhabited place, and Macaire was allowed for his weapon a great cudgel.

An empty cask was given to the dog as a place of retreat, to enable him to recover breath. Everything being prepared, the dog no sooner found himself at liberty, than he ran round his adversary, avoiding his blows, and menacing him on every side, till his strength was exhausted; then, springing forward, he griped him by the throat, threw him on the ground, and obliged him to confess his guilt, in the presence of the king and the whole court. In consequence of this, the Chevalier, after a few days, was convicted upon his own acknowledgment, and beheaded on a scaffold in the Isle of Notre Dame.

Natural Lamps.

The queen beetle is about one inch and a quarter in length, and carries by her side, just about her waist, two brilliant lamps, which she lights up at pleasure, with the solar phosphorus furnished her by nature. These little lamps do not flash and glimmer like those of the fire-fly, but give as steady a light as that produced by a gas-burner, exhibiting two perfect spheres, as large as a minute pearl. These are so powerful that they will afford a person light enough to read print by them.

On carrying this insect into a dark closet in the daytime, no light is emitted at first, but she quickly illuminates her lamps, and immediately extinguishes them, on being brought again into the light. But language cannot sufficiently express the beauty and sublimity of these lucid orbs in miniature, with which nature has endowed the queen of the insect kingdom.

A mind occupied becomes fortified against the ills of life and is braced for any emergency. Children amused by reading and study, are of course considerate and more easily governed.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

The School-Ma’am.

In one of his little books, Peter Parley has told us how Aunt Delight taught him his letters; and I believe that I have given some account of the early lessons that I, Robert Merry, received from Miss Sally St. John.

In old times, children were generally taught their a-b-c, by some good old woman, who was called the “School-ma’am.” Above is a picture of one of these dames, giving a first lesson to a child. How hard the little fellow tries to say his letters! A man laying stone wall, does not make a greater effort.

I have told my readers of some of the pranks of the friend and playmate of my early days, Bill Keeler; but there is one which I have not yet told. It was as follows:—

You should know that Sally St. John, the school-ma’am, having no husband, made a great pet of her cat. This was named Nip, and, strange to say, he used regularly to go with her to school.

Many a child had a “box with five nails in it,” for playing some trick upon Nip, but this was especially the case with Bill. He was always getting into some trouble on account of the cat.

Now Bill had a great love for gunpowder; and of all things, he delighted in what is called a witch-quill. This is made of a quill, filled with layers of wet and dry powder: when set on fire, the quill goes jumping about, hither and thither, all the time spouting forth a stream of fire.

On one occasion he carried one of these to school, and when Aunt Sally’s back was turned, he gave it a toss into the fire. In an instant the quill was lighted, and, starting from the fire-place, darted directly under the school mistress’s chair. Pop—fizz! pop—fizz! it went.

Now it chanced that Nip was under Aunt Sally’s chair at that very moment. He was fast asleep, when the wicked witch-quill popped in, taking its station exactly under his nose. Never was there such horror, as appeared in Nip’s countenance. He stuck up his back, drew his tail out at full length, set apart his jaws, and with glaring eyes gazed at the terrible monster.

The comet that has lately been seen in the sky, with a tail ninety millions of miles in length, never scared any poor Millerite half so much as did Bill Keeler’s witch-quill, Aunt Sally’s cat. Nip didn’t know at all what to make of it. He had seen squirrels with long tails,—rats, moles, bats, owls, and other strange things,—but never, in all his days, had he beheld anything that spouted forth fire—real fire—before.

After gazing at the witch a few seconds, Nip mustered all his courage, spit at it, and gave it a thump with his paw. Fizz—pop! went the quill! Nip’s courage was exhausted—and he ran away with all his might. Strange to say, at that moment the quill started, and shot along the floor, in the exact direction puss had taken.

It stopped, however, about the middle of the school-room floor, and then it began to whirl round, popping, spinning, and fizzing, in a most wonderful style. “What on airth is that?” said Aunt Sally. “Oh dear!” “Oh dear!” “Oh dear!” said a dozen children at once.

“Oh! it’s Bill Keeler! it’s Bill Keeler!” said the school mistress—knowing by instinct where all mischief came from. “Oh dear, I’m shot! I’m popped! I’m fizzed! I’m bewitched! Oh! Bill, Bill, you’ll be the death of me!”

All this time, the wicked witch-quill was spinning and spouting about, in the middle of the floor. The children shrieked, and Bill Keeler laughed as if his sides would split. At last, the witch-quill, with a dying effort, hissed along the floor, and went straight at Nip, who had got beneath a writing bench. With a horrid yell, the cat fled, and leaping upon Aunt Sally’s shoulder, hung on to the flesh with all her claws. The good woman shook and pulled, but Nip held the tighter for all that; and Bill, seeing that things were getting serious, took his hat and ran.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER IV.

A Story about the Beetles.

One day, as Jack was going along in the field, he saw a dead mole lying upon the ground. He took it up, and admired its soft fur, and the rays upon its nose, making it look, in shape, like a star. He looked, also, very carefully to see if it had eyes, for he had been told that moles were blind.

After looking all over the head of the mole, Jack at last discovered two little eyes, as black and shining as beads, very near the creature’s nose. They were deeply hidden in the fur, and for this reason it is that people say that a mole is blind. Jack, by investigating for himself, discovered the truth, which is, that moles have eyes. The reason for having their eyes so small, and so imbedded in fur, is this,—they live under ground, and dig a great deal in the earth; it is therefore very well that they have little eyes, sheltered with fur, so that the dirt may not get into them.

Moles.

Having examined the mole some time, Jack threw it down, and went along. About two or three hours afterwards, he was coming back the same way. As he was passing the dead mole, he noticed that it appeared to be sunk in the ground. He stopped, and looked at it attentively. Pretty soon he saw a large black bug, which we call a beetle, creep from under it, and run around it.

This attracted Jack’s attention, and kneeling down, he watched carefully to see what was going on. After looking about a little, he noticed that there were four or five beetles, all at work, digging a hole under the mole, into which the creature was gradually sinking.

He lifted up the mole a little, so that he might observe them more carefully; but the creatures did not seem to mind him. They went to work again, immediately, digging away the earth, which they threw out at the sides. It was amusing to see how hard they toiled.

The heads of the beetles were shaped somewhat like a spade. With these they dug up the earth, and then clawed it away with their feet. Never did a set of men, digging a cellar, appear more active, busy and efficient.

Jack had always before hated beetles, as being ugly, disagreeable things; but now he was delighted to see them. He immediately ran off to get his aunt Piper to come and observe what was going on. She was very busy, but Jack persuaded her to go with him.

They soon came to the spot, and aunt Betsey now saw that what Jack had told her was all true. The beetles were, indeed, burying the mole. “But what are they doing it for?—are they sextons?” said Jack.

“They are called burying beetles,” said the aunt; “but, Jack, I shall leave you to find out yourself what they are burying the mole for.” So, after a time, Jack and his aunt went away. The next day Jack went to the place, when, behold, the mole was not to be seen! There was a little spot of fresh earth where it had lain, but that was all.

“So,” thought Jack to himself, “so, neighbor beetles, I guess you have buried the mole,—at any rate, we will see.” So Jack began to dig away the earth a little, with his fingers, and about two inches below the surface, there was the mole, sure enough. The beetles were all around the carcass, and every one of them was at work, making a feast. Jack covered up the hole, and left them all to themselves.

Lucy and Ann.

A DIALOGUE.

Ann.
Tell me, dear Lucy,
Tell me true—
What is that thing
Above, so blue?
Lucy.
My little Ann,
We call it sky—
And there, you know,
God lives, on high.

And it is heaven
Far up above,
Where angels dwell,
In peace and love.

And there, when dead,
Good people go,
To dwell with God,
And angels too.
Ann.
’Tis beautiful!
But, sister dear,
Is it in heaven
As ’tis here?

Are there sweet flowers,
And blossoms fair,
And silver streams,
And fragrant air?

And pretty birds,
And butterflies,—
Are there such things
Beyond the skies?
Lucy.
We cannot tell;
We only know,
’Tis happier there
Than here below.

The sweetest thing
On earth is Love;
That fills each heart
In Heaven above.

These things amid,
The birds and flowers,
The butterflies
In blooming bowers,—

All these are fair,—
And yet more blest
Art thou, dear Ann,
On mother’s breast.

’Tis Love, dear child,
That makes thee so,
And Heaven is Love,—
That’s all we know.

The Little Flower Girl.

How beautiful is Spring! See this little girl—she has gone forth into the fields alone, and she has gathered a handful of blossoms—dandelions, buttercups, and pansies.

Why should the little girl gather flowers? Because they are beautiful, you will tell me. And who told you they were beautiful? You cannot tell me that, perhaps; then I will tell you.

It is God, who made us, that has told us flowers are beautiful. He made us with eyes to see, and hearts to feel their beauty. He made these things, and He formed us so that we might love them, and take pleasure in them. How good and kind is it of our Heavenly Father, to spread pleasant things around us, and give us faculties to enjoy them!

Surely, when we see so many lovely blossoms, and so many pleasant things, scattered around us, we should think with gratitude of Him who has arranged all these things; and our hearts being filled with love to Him, we should all try to please Him, by doing as He wishes us to do.

God has done other kind things for us—He has not only made flowers, but He has made truth, charity, kindness, goodness, and other things, which are called virtues. God looks on these things, as we do upon flowers, as very lovely things; and what he wishes of us, is, that our hearts shall be full of these virtues. He likes to look on a virtuous mind, as we do on a flowery garden.

Now, my little reader, you can love these virtues, if you please, and you can adorn yourself with them. When you have learned to love them, it will give you great pleasure to think of them, and if they dwell in your own heart, you will be happy indeed. If you love truth, if you love charity and kindness, if you are fond of everything that is good and amiable, then God will love you, and you will be cheerful and happy.

Dash won’t learn his Lesson!

Here is Dash in his kennel, and Alice by his side. Alice has got a book, and she tries to get Dash to read. Let us listen, and hear what Alice says.

“Oh Dash, you are a naughty dog! Why don’t you say a, b, c? Look on the book! Mind! If you don’t mind, I’ll whip you!

“A’nt you ashamed, Dash, not to learn your letters? What! be a blockhead all your days, and not learn to read? Shame! Shame on you! Why, father says you are six years old, and you don’t know your letters! Naughty Dash!”

To Correspondents.

We are gratified to find from the letters we get from our friends in all quarters, that the “Little Leaves” are acceptable to our subscribers. We are particularly glad to find that our larger readers do not object that so many pages should be devoted to the amusement of “Little Readers.”

To J. L. S., who inquires if the story of Limping Tom is true, we have to reply that if it is not, it sounds very like the truth.

As to R——, who discovers that in our April number we have got in a cut which was inserted last year, we beg to observe, that we had noticed this ourselves, but were afraid to speak about it, lest it should be only an April fool trick of the printer’s boys, and we should get the laugh upon us, thereby.

We say to L——, who wishes to hear something more about Bill Keeler, that we have inserted an anecdote of him in this number. We are glad to find that the story of Inquisitive Jack is approved of. We shall make Jack out a very clever fellow, before we have done with him.

Truth Triumphant.

In a far-off country, there was once a jeweller who left home with some valuable diamonds, for the purpose of selling them in a city at some distance from his own residence. He took with him his son and a slave. This slave he had purchased when quite a small boy, and had brought him up more like an adopted child than a servant.

The merchant at length reached the city whither he was going, and disposed of his diamonds with great advantage. While preparing to return home he was seized with a sudden illness, which in a few hours terminated his life. The merchant was quite a stranger in the city. This his servant knew, and believing himself quite safe, he declared himself to be the son of the deceased jeweller, and entitled to take charge of his property.

The real son was filled with great grief, but what could he do? He had no means of establishing his right to the property, for he had no means of proving himself to be the son of the deceased. The servant was loud in his pretensions, and one circumstance served to favor his claims. He was a young man, quite comely in his person, and polished in his manners; whereas the jeweller’s son was mean in his appearance, and had been seriously injured in his education by the indulgence of his parents. It was, therefore, quite natural that strangers should take part with the servant against the son.

At length, in order to end the dispute, the latter referred the matter to a court of law. There, however, from a total want of proof, nothing could be decided. Each party was equally positive, but neither could do more than to assert his claim. At length the judge declared his utter inability to determine which was the rightful heir to the property.

The novelty of the case, and the great amount of property in question, excited the interest and curiosity of a large part of the city. Divers opinions prevailed, and the subject became a fruitful theme of conversation and dispute. It was thought to be a case of so much importance as to merit the attention of the prince of the country.

The case was accordingly stated to him; but in like manner he also was confounded, and at a loss how to decide the question. At length a happy thought occurred to the chief judge of the prince, by which to ascertain the real heir. The two claimants were summoned before him. He ordered them to stand behind a curtain prepared for the occasion. Through this curtain two openings were made. They were directed to project their heads through these holes, and then each one might tell his story. When the judge had heard them he was to decide the case, and cut off the head of the one whom he should judge to be the slave.

Both agreed to the plan; the son relying upon the honesty and the justice of his cause; the servant, through his confidence in the impossibility of detection.

The judge took his seat, and the parties took their stations. An officer with a drawn sword stood in front ready to strike off the head of the one whom the judge should decide to be the impostor.

They now told their stories. Just as the last one had finished, the judge cried out in a stern voice to the officer, “Enough! Enough! strike off the villain’s head!” The officer sprung towards the young men with an uplifted sword. The impostor, conscious of his guilt, started back behind the curtain; the son, conscious of the justice of his cause, stood unmoved!

The judge immediately decided for the latter, ordered the property to be given to him, and the slave to be punished for his wicked and ungrateful attempt at deception.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. V. JUNE, 1843. No. 6.

Louisa Vinning.

This little artist of nature, who has recently excited the astonishment of the musical world, and claims the admiration of all, as a remarkable instance of precocious powers, was born on the 10th Nov., 1836, at Kingsbridge, Devonshire, England. Her father, John Vinning, is a musician of talent: as violinist and composer, he has acquired celebrity. His two brothers are also musicians, having been induced, by an irresistible inclination for music, to abandon the professions to which they had been bred.

When the little warbler who is now the subject of notice, had reached the age of nine months, it was observed that she derived intense delight from music; and if she was ever fretful, the sound of her father’s violin immediately soothed her; at the same time her whole frame would move in unison with the measure, and her face beam with ecstasy. Her father indulged the child in occasionally playing to her, but the excitement was so intense that he became apprehensive it might injure her. He accordingly took the advice of several medical men, who recommended a moderate indulgence only of the child’s passion.

Before Louisa could speak words, she began to sing tunes with accuracy and effect; and often while asleep, she would warble forth some soft and sweet melody,—an air she had heard, or the impromptu suggestion of a dream. On one occasion the father was called by the mother, whom he found in tears by the bed-side of the sleeping child, who was singing a beautiful air, in a soft and mellow voice. The father remained at the place, and the little warbler repeated it several times. He immediately took a pen and wrote it down. This song was sold to Mr. Burkley, of London, who wrote some lines to it, and it was published under the title of the “Infant’s Dream.” This composition has been much admired. In the morning after the child had sung this song in her sleep, she said to her mother, “Oh, I have seen such beautiful angels in my sleep—all gold—beautiful gold!”

When this interesting prodigy was two years old, she was announced to sing in public in London. Her performances were such as to excite the utmost wonder, even of musicians of the highest standing. The celebrated Thalberg, then in London, Sir G. Smart, and the Misses Moschelles, stated that her singing was astonishingly correct, her voice pleasing and of great compass, her ear correct, and her feeling quick and deep. Such was her fame, at this age, that the queen sent for her to come to Buckingham palace. On hearing the child sing, her majesty was so touched, that she clasped her warmly to her breast, and afterwards placed a large diamond pin in her bosom, as an expression of her delight.

From this time, this little singer continued to attract public attention, and promises, when she arrives at maturity, fully to realize the hopes her early displays and genius have inspired.

Importance of a Fly.

The following facts may give our readers some idea of the vast importance to the British treasury of a little insect, called the hop fly, or Aphis Humelia.

In the year 1822, on the 14th of May, the hop duty, on a fair estimate, according to the prospect of the crop, was laid at £100,000; the fly, however, appearing pretty plentifully towards the end of the month, it was estimated as likely to produce only £80,000. The fly increased, and by the end of June the duty had gone down to £60,000; by the end of July, to £30,000; by the end of August, to £22,000, and by the end of December to £14,000. The duty actually paid this year was £15,463 10s. 6d.

In 1825, the duty commenced at an estimate of £130,000; but, owing to the excessive increase of the fly, it had in July fallen to £16,000; at the beginning of September it rose to £29,000, but towards the end fell again to £22,000. The amount paid was £24,317 0s. 11d.

In the following year, the summer was remarkably dry and hot; the thermometer for several nights continued above seventy degrees all the night through. The crop of hops was immense; scarcely a fly was to be found, and the duty, which was estimated in May at £120,000, rose to £265,000, and the amount actually paid was £262,331 0s. 9d., being the largest amount ever known.

From this, it will appear, that in duty alone, a little insignificant-looking fly has a control over £150,000, or 700,000 dollars, annual income to the British treasury! Supposing the hop grounds of England capable of paying this latter duty annually, which they certainly are, it is very manifest that in 1825 these creatures were the means of robbing the treasury of over £100,000; this seems a large sum, but it is only a small part of the amount actually destroyed, for we here only speak of the tax, and not of the entire value of the hops destroyed. This, no doubt, is three times as much as we have estimated, for the duty alone. In some years it is probable that the hop fly destroys hops in England to the value of nearly two millions of dollars! Is not this driving business on a large scale?

June.

This first month of summer is said to derive its name from Juno, a Roman goddess, in honor of whom a festival was celebrated at the beginning of the month: its zodiacal sign is Cancer, which the sun enters on the 21st. Summer is now fully established, and even in New England the grumblers say nothing of easterly winds, and confess that it is warm enough. In the southern states, the people are beginning to fear the return of fevers; beside, the days and nights are there too hot for comfort—and, therefore, those who can leave home are about departing for the north.

The mower is now in the field with his scythe. At an early hour we hear the merry ringing of the stone upon the steel, as he is sharpening it. How beautiful now is the meadow—the orchard—the wheat field, the maize field, and the forest! How various and how brilliant the flowers; how fragrant the air—how balmy, yet how healthful the breeze!

William the Conqueror.
Henry II.
Edward Longshanks.
Henry I.
Richard of the Lion Heart.
Henry IV.

A Chapter of English Kings.

In the year 1041, the Danes were finally driven out of England, and for a short space the Saxon kings were restored to the throne. The last of these, Harold, was defeated by William, Duke of Normandy, or William the Conqueror, in the celebrated battle of Hastings, in the year 1066.

This decided the fate of England: Harold was killed upon the field, and the Norman line of kings succeeded to the throne. William reigned about twenty years. He was an able warrior, but he ruled with great severity.

He divided the lands of the nobility of England among his followers, and oppressed the people by rigorous laws. They therefore held meetings to devise plots of rebellion, usually in the evening. To suppress them, he ordered a bell to be rung every evening at eight o’clock, at which time they were required to put out their fires and lights. This was called the couvre feu,—French words, signifying cover fire: it is from this that the word curfew has come, which now means, the bell rung at evening, about the time for the people to go to bed.

William endeavored to make the English people live like Frenchmen; he required the French language to be used in the courts of law, and it was spoken by himself and all around the palace.

William took pains to make his new kingdom thrive; he had a careful survey made of the lands and property, and these were registered in a book called the Dooms-day book, copies of which are still preserved.

During William’s reign, the laws were firmly established, and a great deal was done to benefit the people. He was at first hated as a conqueror and oppressor, but he was finally regarded as a sagacious, though severe king. He died at Rouen, in France, 1087, aged 63 years.

William Rufus, or William the Red, the second son of the Conqueror, succeeded his father; he was addicted to field sports, and one day, while pursuing a deer in the forest, he was killed by an arrow, discharged by Walter Tyrrel. The arrow first hit a tree, but it glanced, and struck the king in the breast. This occurred in the year 1100.

Henry First, the third son of the Conqueror, succeeded. He was very despotic, but still he sought to promote the prosperity of his kingdom. He patronised learning, restored the University of Cambridge, and received the title of Beau Clerk, which implies that he was a good scholar. He punished robbers, who were very numerous in his day, with severity; he abolished the hated curfew, established a uniform standard of weights and measures, and granted charters of various kinds, which were the first beginnings of English liberty. He died in Normandy, 1135.

Stephen usurped the throne which Henry had bequeathed to his daughter, Matilda, in 1135. After a disturbed reign of nineteen years, Stephen died in 1154, and was succeeded by Henry II., son of Matilda. He held the kingdom of Brittany, in France, and conquered Ireland, which has ever since been attached to the British crown.

He was a wise prince, but he had great trouble with the clergy. Thomas á Becket, the primate of England, who was thought to be disposed greatly to extend his power, was murdered by some persons in the cathedral of Canterbury. This crime was laid to King Henry, and he was obliged, by the Pope of Rome, to take a solemn oath that he had nothing to do with it, in order to clear himself. He was also obliged to walk barefoot to the tomb of Becket, and to yield to various penances, imposed by the monks of Canterbury. He was severely whipped with rods by the monks, during his penance, and to this he patiently submitted. He died 1189.

Richard the Lion-Hearted, his son, succeeded him, and was crowned 1189. He was a man of great bodily strength, of invincible courage, and possessed many generous qualities. He was seized with the mania of the age, to go and fight against the Turks for the recovery of Jerusalem. In Palestine, he performed prodigies of valor, and on his way back, was taken and imprisoned by the Duke of Austria. He was released after some years, his people paying a heavy ransom. He was afterwards shot by a cross-bow, while besieging a castle in Normandy.

He was succeeded by his brother John, who was so poor as to get the surname of Lackland. John was a weak, vicious king; but one good thing happened during his reign. He signed a paper, called Magna Charta, or Great Charter, in which he yielded some portion of the despotic power before claimed by the kings of England. This was a serious abridgement of the king’s authority, and it opened the way for still further enlarging the liberties of the people. He died in 1216.

Henry III., though but nine years old, succeeded his father John, and reigned fifty-five years. He was a weak and vicious king, and the people took advantage of his folly and weakness, to extort from the crown various concessions, which extended and secured their liberties.

He was succeeded by his son Edward, in 1272, called Longshanks, on account of his uncommonly long legs. He was a famous warrior, and conquered Wales. He made war upon Scotland, and was bravely resisted by the famous William Wallace. While marching with a great army against Robert Bruce, who headed the Scotch, he died, and his son, Edward II., succeeded him in 1307. He led an army of 100,000 men against Scotland, but was defeated with vast slaughter, in the celebrated battle of Bannockburn. He was a foolish king, and his own wife imprisoned him, and caused him to be murdered.

His son, Edward III., began to reign in 1327, at the age of eighteen. He was a brave warrior, and beat the Scotch and the French. His son, the celebrated Black Prince, was not less renowned as a warrior, while he was also distinguished for his kindness and generosity. This prince died 1376, and his father the year after.

Richard II., grandson of Edward III., came to the throne in 1377, being only eleven years old. During his reign, there was a famous rebellion, the leader of which was Walter Tyler, a blacksmith. Walter, in a conference with the king, was so insolent, that William Walworth knocked him down with a club, and one of the soldiers despatched him.

Richard was deposed by the duke of Lancaster, and being imprisoned, was either killed or starved to death. The Duke was crowned king in 1400, under the title of Henry IV. It was during his reign, that the wars of the two roses took place; that is, the war between the houses of York and Lancaster. Their partisans were distinguished, the one by red, the other by white roses. He died 1413, aged forty-six, and was succeeded by his son, Henry V.

We shall have something more to say of English Kings, in a future number.

“Sir, you have had an education, I suppose,” said an illiterate preacher in Maine to a learned clergyman. “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “I am thankful,” rejoined the former, “that the Lord has opened my mouth to preach without any learning.” “A similar event,” replied the latter, “took place in Balaam’s time; but such things are of rare occurrence at the present day.”

True Stories.

Sir Christopher Wren.—When this eminent architect was building St. Paul’s cathedral, he caused the following notice to be affixed to several parts of the structure. “Whereas, among laborers and others, that ungodly custom of swearing is so frequently heard, to the dishonor of God and contempt of his authority; and to the end that such impiety may be utterly banished from these works, which are intended for the service of God and the honor of religion: it is ordered, that profane swearing shall be a sufficient crime to dismiss any laborer that comes to the call; and the clerk of the works, upon a sufficient proof, shall dismiss him accordingly: and that if any master, working by task, shall not, upon admonition, reform the profanation among his apprentices, servants, and laborers, it shall be construed his fault, and he shall be liable to be censured by the commissioners.”

Madame de Genlis.—Madame de Genlis relates the following anecdote, which occurred during her residence at Berlin:—

“My saloon had two doors, one opening into my chamber, and the other conducting to a private staircase, descending to the court. On the platform of this staircase was a door opposite to mine, belonging to the apartments of an emigrant. This man was of a savage disposition, and never saw any one in the house. Some one had given me two pots of beautiful hyacinths; at night I placed them on this platform, between my neighbor’s door and my own. In the morning, I went to take them again, and had the disagreeable surprise to see my beautiful hyacinths cut into pieces, and scattered round the pots which held them. I easily guessed that my neighbor was the author of this deed, who had been excited to it, doubtless, notwithstanding his French politeness, by the libels which were published against me. Not wishing the affair to be known, I did not ask more flowers of the persons who had given me these, but directed a servant to buy me some. Having placed these in the pots, I attached to them a slip of paper, on which I wrote these words:—‘Destroy my works, if you will, but respect the works of God.’ At night I placed them on the platform: in the morning I went with eagerness to see what had been their fate, and saw with great pleasure that some one had been content with simply watering them. I carried them immediately into the saloon, and placing them on the table, perceived that there were attached to them two silk strings, each suspending a cornelian ring.”

A Gentleman in America.—“A man of my acquaintance,” says Dr. Dwight, “who was of a vehement and rigid temper, had, many years since, a dispute with a friend of his, a professor of religion, and had been injured by him. With strong feelings of resentment, he made him a visit, for the avowed purpose of quarrelling with him. He accordingly stated the nature and extent of the injury; and was preparing, as he afterwards confessed, to load him with a train of severe reproaches, when his friend cut him short by acknowledging, with the utmost readiness and frankness, the injustice of which he had been guilty; expressing his own regret for the wrong he had done, requesting his forgiveness, and proffering him ample compensation. He was compelled to say that he was satisfied, and withdrew full of mortification that he had been precluded from venting his indignation and wounding his friend with keen and violent reproaches for his conduct.

“As he was walking homeward, he said to himself to this effect: ‘There must be something more in religion than I have hitherto suspected. Were any man to address me in the tone of haughtiness and provocation with which I accosted my friend this morning, it would be impossible for me to preserve the equanimity of which I have been a witness; and especially with so much frankness, humility and meekness, to acknowledge the wrong which I had done; so readily ask forgiveness of the man whom I had injured; and so cheerfully promise a satisfactory recompense. I should have met his anger with at least equal resentment, paid him reproach for reproach, and inflicted wound for wound. There is something in this man’s disposition which is not mine. There is something in the religion which he professes, and which I am forced to believe he feels; something which makes him so superior, so much better, so much more amiable, than I can pretend to be. The subject strikes me in a manner to which I have hitherto been a stranger. It is high time to examine it more thoroughly, with more candor, and with greater solicitude, also, than I have done hitherto.’

“From this incident, a train of thoughts and emotions commenced in the mind of this man, which terminated in his profession of the Christian religion, his relinquishment of the business in which he was engaged, and his consecration of himself to the ministry of the gospel.”

A Quaker.—A gay young man, travelling in a stage coach to London, forced his deistical sentiments on the company, by attempting to ridicule the Scriptures; and, among other topics, made himself merry with the story of David and Goliath, strongly urging the impossibility of a youth like David being able to throw a stone with sufficient force to sink into the giant’s forehead. On this he appealed to the company, and particularly to a grave Quaker gentleman, who sat silent in one corner of the carriage. “Indeed, friend,” replied he, “I do not think it at all impossible, if the Philistine’s head was as soft as thine.” This grave rebuke reduced the young man to silence.

An Aged Minister.—A venerable minister at H—— preached a sermon on the subject of future punishment. On the next day it was agreed among some thoughtless young men, that one of them should go to him, and endeavor to draw him into a dispute, with the design of making a jest of him and of his doctrine. The wag accordingly went, was introduced into the minister’s study, and commenced the conversation by saying, “I believe there is a small dispute between you and me, sir, and I thought I would call this morning and try to settle it.” “Ha!” said the clergyman, “what is it?” “Why,” replied the wag, “you say that the wicked will go into punishment, and I do not think that they will.” “Oh, if that is all,” said the minister, “there is no dispute between you and me. If you turn to Matt. xxv. 46, you will find that the dispute is between you and the Lord Jesus Christ, and I advise you to go immediately and settle it with him.”

A Countryman.—It has often been a matter of wonder, that the principles and reasonings of infidels, though frequently accompanied with great natural and acquired abilities, are seldom known to make any impression upon thoughtful people. It is said of a deceased gentleman, who was eminent in the literary world, that in early life he drank deeply of the free-thinking scheme. He and one of his companions, of the same turn of mind, often carried on their conversations in the hearing of a religious but illiterate countryman. This gentleman afterwards became a true Christian, and felt concerned for the countryman, lest his faith in Christianity should have been shaken. One day, therefore, he asked him, whether what had so frequently been advanced in his hearing, had not produced this effect upon him. “By no means,” answered the countryman; “it never made the least impression upon me.” “No impression upon you!” said the gentleman; “why, you must have known that we had read and thought on these things much more than you had any opportunity of doing.” “Oh, yes,” replied the man; “but I knew also your manner of living; I knew that to maintain such a course of conduct, you found it necessary to renounce Christianity.”

Rev. S. Wesley.—The Rev. Samuel Wesley, rector of Epworth, and father of the celebrated John Wesley, once went into a coffee-house in London for some refreshment. There were several gentlemen in a box at the other end of the room, one of whom, an officer of the guards, swore dreadfully. The rector saw that he could not speak to him without much difficulty; he therefore desired the waiter to give him a glass of water. When it was brought, he said aloud, “Carry it to your gentleman in the red coat, and desire him to wash his mouth after his oaths.” The officer rose up in a fury; but the gentlemen in the box laid hold of him, one of them crying out, “Nay, colonel, you gave the first offence; you see the gentleman is a clergyman; you know it is an affront to swear in his presence.” The officer was thus restrained, and Mr. Wesley departed.

Some years after, being again in London, and walking in St. James’s Park, a gentleman joined him, who, after some conversation, inquired if he recollected having seen him before. Mr. Wesley replied in the negative. The gentleman then recalled to his mind the scene in the coffee-house; and added, “Since that time, sir, I thank God, I have feared an oath; and as I have a perfect recollection of you, I rejoiced at seeing you, and could not refrain from expressing my gratitude to God and to you.”

John Fox.—When Fox, the well known author of the “Book of Martyrs,” was once leaving the palace of Aylmer, the Bishop of London, a company of poor people begged him to relieve their wants with great importunity. Fox, having no money, returned to the bishop, and asked the loan of five pounds, which was readily granted; he immediately distributed it among the poor, by whom he was surrounded. Some months after, Aylmer asked Fox for the money he had borrowed. “I have laid it out for you,” was the answer, “and paid it where you owed it—to the poor people who lay at your gate.” Far from being offended, Aylmer thanked Fox for thus being his steward.

Intemperance.—A Temperate Man. A man of temperate habits was once dining at the house of a free drinker. No sooner was the cloth removed from the dinner table, than wine and spirits were produced, and he was asked to take a glass of spirits and water. “No, thank you,” said he, “I am not ill.” “Take a glass of wine then,” said his host, “or a glass of ale.” “No, thank you,” said he, “I am not thirsty.” These answers produced a loud burst of laughter.

Soon after this, the temperate man took a piece of bread from the sideboard, and handed it to his host, who refused it, saying he was not hungry. At this, the temperate man laughed in his turn. “Surely,” said he, “I have as much reason to laugh at you for not eating when you are not hungry, as you have to laugh at me for declining medicine when not ill, and drink when I am not thirsty.”

The Western Hemisphere.

Geography.

Geography is that science which describes the earth on which we live; its lands and waters; its mountains and valleys; its hills and plains; its towns, cities, countries, nations, and inhabitants.

The above picture is a representation of one half of the earth, or what is called the Western Hemisphere. On this you see the continent of America, the Atlantic Ocean, the Pacific ocean, the Northern ocean, and the Southern ocean. About three fourths of the surface of the Western hemisphere is covered with water.

The continent of America consists of North America and South America. These are united by a narrow strip of land, called the isthmus of Darien. In the narrowest part, this isthmus is but about thirty-seven miles wide.

North America is separated from Asia at the north-west, by Behring’s Straits, which are about thirty-nine miles wide. North America is separated from Greenland, which is a great island, almost always covered with snow and ice, near the north pole.

The continent of North America is about 9000 miles long, from Cape Horn, to the Northern ocean. It has a vast range of mountains, extending, in a bending line, nearly the whole length of it. This range is the longest in the world. In South America, some of the mountains are about five miles high, and are the loftiest in the world, except the peaks of the Himmaleh mountains, in Asia. It is supposed that there are two hundred volcanoes in America.

The largest river in the world is the Mississippi, which, including the Missouri, properly one of its branches, is about 4000 miles long. The river Amazon, in South America, though not quite as long, spreads its branches wider than any other river in the world, and carries more water to the sea than any other river.

The largest fresh water lake in the world, is that of Lake Superior, in North America.

The Eastern Hemisphere.

The above picture represents the Eastern Hemisphere. It includes the Eastern Continent, which is divided into Europe, Asia, and Africa. Africa is the south-western portion, Europe the north-western portion, and Asia the north-eastern portion. The eastern continent contains about twice as much land as the western continent.

Between Europe, Africa and Asia, is the Mediterranean sea, which is about 2000 miles long, from east to west. The Atlantic ocean lies west of Europe and Africa; the Indian ocean lies south of Asia, and south-east of Africa; the Pacific ocean lies east of Asia.

Between the Indian ocean and Pacific ocean, are many large islands. The largest is New Holland, which is about as extensive as all Europe. This island belongs to the British nation, who have settlements here, occupied by English, Scotch, and Irish people.

There are many curious things upon this island. The natives are a kind of negro, who live in a manner almost as rude and savage as wild bears. Among the animals, are the kangaroo, which goes forty feet at a leap, and the platypus, with fur like a beaver and a bill like a duck; swans which are black, and a kind of bird with a tail shaped like a harp.

Asia is the most populous part of the globe, and has more inhabitants than Europe, Africa, and America, all together. China alone has about three hundred and sixty millions of people.

In America there are only a few great cities, such as New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New Orleans, in the United States; Havana, in the West Indies; Mexico, in the United States of Mexico; Lima, Buenos Ayres, Valparaiso, and Rio Janeiro, in South America.

In Europe there are many great cities, among which London and Paris are the largest; in Asia, Constantinople and Pekin are the largest; in Africa, Grand Cairo and Alexandria are the largest.

Asia was the first part of the globe inhabited by human beings; Africa was next inhabited, Europe next, and America last. America was not discovered by the Europeans, till about three hundred and fifty years ago.

The Bob-o-link.

This is the familiar name of the Rice Bunting. He is about seven inches and a half long, of a deep black color, with the feathers edged with white and yellow. In Massachusetts, it is first seen in May, among the fields and meadows, which at that period begin to ring with its cheerful song. This is familiar to every school-boy, and is composed of sounds which resemble the words Bob-o-lee, Bob-o-linke. Mr. Nuttall, who has written several books about birds, says that as the Bob-o-link rises and hovers on the wing, near his mate, he seems to say—“Bob-o-link, Bob-o-link, Tom Denny, Tom Denny, come, pay me the two and sixpence you’ve owed me more than a year and a half ago! tshe, tshe, tsh, tsh, tshe!” He then dives down into the grass, as if to avoid a reply.

This bird builds its nest on the ground; it is formed of loose withered grass, and can scarcely be distinguished from the earth around it. The eggs are five or six, of a light olive color, spotted with brown. The male keeps up a continued song while his partner is sitting, as if to cheer her in her confinement; but when the young brood appear, this song is less frequent, and he joins his mate in the task of feeding and rearing them.

In August, the whole brood, old and young, set off for the south, where they spend the winter, gathering the wild rice of Delaware as they proceed, and offering great sport to the gunner. They swarm in the rice fields of Carolina and Georgia, and are much disliked by the planters for their voracity. They are excellent eating, being so fat when they reach the West Indies, as to be called Butter birds. Here they spend the winter, but never fail to return in the spring to their native meadows, where they feed on insects, worms, crickets, beetles, and also on grass seeds.

Boys are very fond of catching the Bob-o-link, which they sell for cages; but, although he is tolerably lively in captivity, yet no one who has seen and heard him at liberty, can take any pleasure in his deadened music and dulled plumage. In a state of nature all birds moult, that is, change their plumage, and after a time generally reappear in their former gay attire; but we have been told that the Bob-o-link, in captivity, after moulting once, never resumes the dress he wore in freedom; as if, absent from his mate, for whom alone he sung and plumed himself, it were of no consequence what his appearance might be. Let those of my little readers who have an opportunity of observing, see if this story be true.

The White or Polar Bear.

This formidable animal is generally found within the polar circle. It is a land animal, yet it depends upon the sea for its subsistence. It preys principally upon seals, young walruses and whales, and upon those foxes and wolves which sometimes seek their food among the ice. Its size varies, being from eight to twelve feet long, and weighing from 900 to 1600 pounds. His fur is thick and very long, and, like the feathers of water birds, cannot be wet by almost any exposure to water. He swims at the rate of three miles an hour. He cannot climb trees like other bears, nor does he need so to do, as his habitation is among the icebergs. He is a very formidable and powerful animal, and when attacked, makes desperate resistance.

From the nature of their food, the flesh of the polar bear is rank and fishy, though not unwholesome. The fat resembles tallow, and melts into a transparent oil, which has no offensive smell. The skin is very serviceable, as well as handsome, for a variety of domestic purposes, and it is an article of considerable value to the people of the cold northern regions. The Greenlanders pull it off whole, and make a sack of it, into which they creep, and find a warm and comfortable bed. The natives of Hudson’s Bay make very handsome and pliable garments of these skins.

The Polar Bear may be considered as the most interesting of all bears. Much is said of its great strength, and power of enduring hunger and cold; of the peculiarity of its form and appearance; of the perils and privations to which it must often be exposed; of its great ferocity and daring when attacked, and of its strong attachment to its young. Nothing but death can stop the attentions of the female to her cubs. When they are wounded, she will fondle them, turn them over, lick them, offer them food, and pay them even more tender attentions than some human beings bestow upon their offspring; and when she finds all her efforts unavailing, she makes most piteous moans.

The White Bear is found in the polar regions of both continents.

The Boy and his Mittens.—I was going around the corner of Park street church, in February, 1835. It was the morning of one of those days when the thermometer was hovering about the chill point of zero. I chanced to notice a small boy, standing with his back to the basement wall of the church; his cheeks glistening in the keen wind, the tears flowing down his face, and a kind of blubbering sound issuing from his mouth. His little red hands were bare, but in one of them he held a pair of mittens. He was the picture of distress and imbecility. I went up to him, and asked him why he was crying. “My fingers are cold,” said he. “But why don’t you put on your mittens?” said I. “Oh, because my fingers are so cold!” said he. “But can’t you put them on?” said I. “Oh yes, I can put them on,” said the boy, “but it hurts.”

“The child is father of the man,” thought I. This boy, here, in a matter of his fingers, is acting precisely as many men act in regard to matters of the deepest importance. Rather than bear the slight pain of putting on his mittens, he will run the risk of freezing his fingers. And when I see a man spending his time in idleness, and thus laying up a prospect of future poverty and distress, rather than work and be industrious, I think of the boy and his mittens. When I see a man indulging in a habit of tippling, or any other bad practice, because it is hard to leave off, I think of the boy and his mittens.

Idleness.—If the intellect requires to be provided with perpetual objects, what must it be with the affections? Depend upon it, the most fatal idleness is that of the heart; and the man who feels weary of life may be sure that he does not love his fellow-creatures as he ought.

The Unfaithful Servant.

A noble Duke of Scotland, in one of his walks, chanced one day to see a very fine cow. Having ascertained to whom the animal belonged, he went to the owner, and offered him a handsome price for her. For a time the latter hesitated, but at length accepted it, and promised to drive the cow the next morning.

Not finding it convenient to go himself, the farmer sent his boy to drive the cow. On approaching the house, the animal appeared frightened, and refused to proceed. At the time, the Duke happened to be walking at a short distance, and the boy, not knowing who he was, craved his assistance, in his Scotch brogue.

“Heh, mun, come here, an’ gie’s a han’ wi’ this beast.”

The Duke, perceiving the boy’s mistake, pursued his walk, without appearing to understand it. In the mean time, the cow became still more unmanageable, upon which the lad, with a tone of apparent distress, cried out, “Come here, mun, and as sure’s anything, I’ll gie ye the hauf o’ what I get.”

Pleased with the boy’s manner, and especially with his generosity, the Duke now stepped forward as requested, and lent a helping hand.

“And now,” said the Duke, as they drove the cow forward, “how much do you think you will get for this job?”

“Oh, I dinna ken,” said the boy, “but I’m sure o’ something, for the folk up bye at the house are guid to a’ bodies.”

As they approached the house, the Duke darted by the boy, and, entering by a private way, called a servant, and putting a sovereign into his hand, bid him give it to the boy that drove the cow.

The Duke now returned to the avenue, and was soon rejoined by the boy.

“Well, and how much did you get, my lad?” inquired the Duke.

“A shilling,” said the boy, “and there’s half o’t t’ ye.”

“A shilling!” rejoined the Duke, “only a shilling! you got more.”

“No I dinna,” said the boy with great earnestness, “as sure’s death, that’s a’ I get, and d’ye no think it plenty?”

“I do not,” said the Duke; “there must be some mistake, and as I am acquainted with the Duke, if you’ll return with me, I’ll get you some more money.”

The boy consented, and back they went. The Duke rang the bell, and ordered all the servants to be assembled.

“Now,” said the Duke to the boy, “point out to me the person that gave you the shilling.”

“It was the chap there, wi’ the white apron,” said the boy, pointing to the butler.

“You villain,” said the Duke.

The butler fell upon his knees, and confessed the wicked act.

“Give the boy the sovereign, and immediately leave my house,” said the Duke.

The butler implored.

“No,” said the Duke, “you are no longer to be trusted. You have been detected in an act of villany, which renders you unfit to serve me. You have lost your shilling, your situation, and your character. Go, and henceforth learn that ‘honesty is the best policy.’”

By this time, the boy discovered, to his amazement, his assistant, in the person of the Duke; and the Duke was so delighted with the sterling worth and honesty of the boy, that he ordered him to be sent to school, and to be provided for at his own expense.

Daniel Purcell, the punster, being desired to make a pun extempore, asked, “Upon what subject?” “The king,” was the answer. “O, sir,” replied Daniel, “the king is not a subject.”

The Barber of Paris.

In the city of Paris, there is an ancient street known by the name of Rue de la Harpe. In one part of this street there formerly stood two dwelling-houses, in one of which a crime of a most horrible nature was some years since perpetrated, and the discovery of which was remarkably sudden and providential.

In one of these houses a barber had his shop; a part of the adjoining house was occupied by a pastry-cook.

One day two gentlemen entered the shop of the barber for the purpose of being shaved. These gentlemen belonged to a town some distance from Paris. They were men of wealth, and had come to the city for the purpose of transacting business. It is not uncommon for persons in France, who are well able to ride, to travel on foot. In this manner had these gentlemen come to the city. Their only attendant was a faithful dog.

Before proceeding to execute their business, they called, as I said, at the shop of the barber to get shaved. The barber being employed in shaving another person, the strangers, in the interim, incautiously entered into conversation with each other, during which they alluded to a sum of money which they had about them. The barber overheard them, but appeared to take no notice of the conversation.

At length one of the strangers was called to the chair, and the shaving operation was soon finished. This done, he turned to his companion, and observed, “We have but a short time, you know, to transact all our business; and now, while you are being shaved, I will step down the street and attend to an errand which has been entrusted to me.”

“Return soon,” said his friend.

“Before you are ready to move,” replied he; and upon this he left the shop, and hastened forward to perform the errand.

After a short absence only, he was again at the door of the barber’s shop; on opening which, he was informed that his friend was already gone.

“Gone!” said the other with some surprise. But as the dog, which belonged to his friend, was still sitting without the door, he ceased to wonder; and, as his friend would probably be back soon, he seated himself, and chatted with the barber, till he should return.

A half hour had passed, and he began to be impatient. At length, he went out, and walked up and down the street; but nothing could he see or learn of his friend. Again he returned to the shop, and again interrogated the barber. “Did my friend leave any message for me?” “No,” said the barber, “all I know is, that when he was shaved he went out.”

“It is strange,” said the man.

“It is singular,” said the barber. “I wish I could help you, my friend. Pray command my services, as you please.”

But the stranger knew not what measures to adopt. At length, the singular movements of the dog, still there, attracted his notice. He appeared restless and watchful; and, at intervals, uttered a low and piteous howl. This startled the stranger, and the suspicion of foul play crossed his mind. He hinted his suspicion, delicately indeed, but the barber took fire and ordered him to quit the shop.

The manner of the barber rather increased than allayed his suspicion. And then the dog—his conduct was inexplicable. Nothing would induce him to quit the place. The poor animal appeared kind to the remaining stranger, but nothing would induce him to stir from the spot.

The distress of the stranger now amounted to agony. At length he ventured to make known his story to some passers-by. They stopped and listened. Others came up and listened also. A crowd was soon collected.

By some it was proposed to send for the officers of the police. Others said, “No, let us search the house.” This latter course was at length agreed upon. Accordingly, a competent number of men entered, and as the people greatly increased without, they barred the door, and began to examine. No discovery, however, was made, and the search was relinquished.

All this time, however, the dog continued at his post. At length, when the search was through, and nothing found, the barber requested the people to leave his shop, which they did. Now, coming to the door, he began to assure the people of his innocence. At this moment the dog descried him. In an instant he sprang and caught him by the throat. Persons flew to his assistance, and, at the hazard of their lives, rescued him from the grasp of the dog, who seemed urged on with indescribable madness and fury.

What could this mean? Was the dog really mad, or had the barber secretly made way with his master? One opinion only prevailed. There had in some way been foul play, and the dog was only acting out the sagacity which the God of nature had given him. It was agreed that the dog should have his liberty and be allowed to pursue the course he pleased.

The crowd fell back, the doors were opened, and the dog let loose. He sprang to the threshold, and entering the shop, smelled his way down a pair of stairs into a dark cellar, which he filled with his howlings.

The noise of the dog was heard without. Several persons entered the shop—lights were procured, and on searching the cellar, a door was found which communicated with the cellar of the adjoining house. Information was immediately given to the people above. They forthwith surrounded the house. That cellar was also searched, and there was found the murdered remains of the unfortunate stranger. On his trial, the barber confessed his guilt.

The World within a Plant.

“The fragrance of a carnation,” says a fine writer, “led me to enjoy it frequently and near.” While inhaling the powerful sweet, I heard an extremely soft, but agreeable murmuring sound. It was easy to know that some animal, within the covert, must be the musician, and that the little noise must come from some little body suited to produce it. I am furnished with apparatus of a thousand kinds for close observation. I instantly distended the lower part of the flower, and placing it in a full light, could discover troops of little insects, frisking and capering with wild jollity among the narrow pedestals that supported its leaves, and the little threads that occupied its centre. I was not cruel enough to pull out any one of them, but adapting a microscope to take in, at one view, the whole base of the flower, I gave myself an opportunity of contemplating what they were about, and this for many days together, without giving them the least disturbance.

Under the microscope, the base of the flower extended itself to a large plain; the slender stems of the leaves became trunks of so many stately cedars; the threads in the middle seemed columns of massy structure, supporting at the top their several ornaments; and the narrow places between were enlarged into walks, parterres and terraces.

On the polished bottom of these, brighter than Parian marble, walked in pairs, alone or in large companies, the winged inhabitants; these, from little dusky flies, for such only the naked eye would have shown them, were raised to glorious glittering animals, stained with living purple and with a glossy gold, that would have made all the labors of the loom contemptible in the comparison.

I could, at leisure, as they walked together, admire their elegant limbs, their velvet shoulders, and their silken wings; their backs vying with the empyrean in its hue; and their eyes, each formed of a thousand others, out-glittering the little planes on a brilliant. I could observe them here singling out their favorite females, courting them with the music of their buzzing wings, with little songs formed for their little organs, leading them from walk to walk among the perfumed shades, and pointing out to their taste the drop of liquid nectar, just bursting from some vein within the living trunk. Here were the perfumed groves, the more than myrtle shades, of the poet’s fancy realized; here the happy lovers spent their days in joyful dalliance; in the triumph of their little hearts, skipped after one another from stem to stem among the painted trees; or winged their short flight to the shadow of some broader leaf, to revel in the heights of all felicity.

Nature, the God of nature, has proportioned the period of existence of every creature to the means of its support. Duration, perhaps, is as much a comparative quality as magnitude; and these atoms of being as they appear to us, may have organs that lengthen minutes, to their perception, into years. In a flower, destined to remain but a few days, length of life, according to our ideas, could not be given to its inhabitants; but it may be, according to theirs. I saw, in the course of observation of this new world, several succeeding generations of the creatures it was peopled with; they passed under my eye, through the several successive states of the egg and the reptile form, in a few hours. After these, they burst forth, at an instant, into full growth and perfection in their wing form. In this, they enjoyed their span of being as much as we do years; feasted, sported, revelled in delights; fed on the living fragrance that poured itself out at a thousand openings at once before them; enjoyed their loves; laid the foundation for their succeeding progeny, and, after a life thus happily filled up, sunk in an easy dissolution. With what joy in their pleasures did I attend the first and the succeeding broods through the full period of their joyful lives! With what enthusiastic transport did I address to each of these yet happy creatures, Anacreon’s gratulations to the cicada:

Blissful insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning’s sweetest wine,
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy fragrant cup does fill;
All the fields that thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with ripening juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough,
Farmer he, and landlord thou.
Thee the hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year;
To thee alone, of all the earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy creature! happy thou
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But when thou’st drank, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
Sated with the glorious feast,
Thou retir’st to endless rest.

While the pure contemplative mind thus almost envies what the rude observer would treat unfeelingly, it naturally shrinks into itself, on the thought that there may be, in the immense chain of beings, many, though as invisible to us as we to the inhabitants of this little flower whose organs are not made for comprehending objects larger than a mite, or more distant than a straw’s breadth, to whom we may appear as much below regard as these to us.

With what derision should we treat those little reasoners, could we hear them arguing for the unlimited duration of the carnation, destined for the extent of their knowledge, as well as their action. And yet, among ourselves there are reasoners who argue, on no better foundation, that the earth which we inhabit is eternal.

The Kildeer Plover.

This bird is so called from its cry, resembling the word kildeer, and is well known in all parts of the United States. It builds its nest in level pastures which afford pools of water, or on sandy downs near the sea. Its nest is a mere hollow, lined with straw or weeds; the eggs are four, cream-colored, and spotted with black. The bird is about ten inches long, is of an olive-gray color, and has long legs, which enable it to wade in the water, of which it is very fond.

While rearing its young, the kildeer makes an incessant noise, and if any one approaches its nest, it flies around and over him, calling kildeer, kildeer, te dit, te dit, te dit, seeming to evince the utmost anxiety. If this clamor does not frighten away the intruder, it will run along the ground, with hanging wings, pretending to be lame, in order to draw off attention from the nest. It seems to be a sleepless bird, for it may be heard very late at night, in the spring and fall.

The kildeer feeds on grasshoppers and insects which it finds in fields and in pools of water, wading in search of them. It is very erect, runs with great swiftness, and flies very high in the air. Toward autumn, large flocks descend to the seashore, where they are more silent and circumspect.

Force of Truth.—Some years ago, a motion was made in the house of commons, in England, for raising and embodying the militia, and for the purpose of saving time, to exercise them on the Sabbath. When the resolution was about to pass, an old gentleman stood up and said, “Mr. Speaker, I have one objection to make to this, which you will find in an old book called the Bible.” The members looked at one another, and the motion was dropped.

Early Impressions.

A STORY FOR PARENTS.

FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

A gentleman and lady, the parents of an only daughter about three years old, residing in one of our southern cities, proposed, a few months since, a visit to the lady’s friends at the north. She was particularly anxious once more to see an aged mother, who, during her absence, had experienced a long and distressing sickness, and whom, considering the distance which separated their residences, she could not hope to see many times more. One day, she told Augusta, her little daughter, of the journey, and inquired how she should like it. Of course, the child was delighted with the project, and from that time it occupied many of her thoughts and much of her conversation. She should see her friends, of whom her mother had made frequent mention, and especially her grandmother, who, of all the rest, was of course an object of the greatest interest. Augusta’s inquiries, about her in particular, were often repeated, and almost daily the question was renewed when her father would be ready to start.

After her usual round of inquiries about the journey and her mother’s friends, Augusta, one day, concluded by saying, “My grandmother will be glad to see me—don’t you think she will, mother?” “Certainly,” replied the mother. “Don’t you think she will be very glad to see me?” “Yes,” said the mother, “she will almost eat you up.”

The reply was inconsiderate, but who has not heard it a hundred times? Nothing more common—but it sunk deep into the heart of the child, and from that time, though she continued daily to talk of the contemplated journey, it was with diminished joy, and sometimes with positive reluctance. The idea of being devoured, and by one with whom she had associated so many ideas of tenderness and love, preyed, as it was afterwards discovered, upon her imagination, and nearly annihilated her hitherto happy anticipations. She frequently spoke of her grandmother’s devouring her, and on one occasion gave her father a pretty serious practical idea of the manner in which she expected her aged relative would proceed. She began by telling him what her mother had said—that her grandmother loved her so well that she would eat her up. “When she sees me, she will do so,” said Augusta—applying her sharp little teeth to his cheek, which brought the blood to the surface, and at the same time sent a pang to the extremities of his frame—“she will do so!”

The time set for their departure at length arrived, and Augusta and her parents, in a few weeks, reached the place of their destination. From motives of convenience, the grandmother had, some months before, left her own residence, and was at lodgings in the village of W——. Consequently, the parents of Augusta sought quarters at a friend’s in the immediate neighborhood.

After a few hours’ rest, a call upon the grandmother was proposed, and Augusta was to accompany her parents. But she did not wish to go. “Why, my daughter,” inquired the mother—“do you not wish to see your dear grandmother?” Augusta was silent. “You were delighted,” continued the mother, “with the idea before you left home—what has changed your mind?” Augusta made no reply—but she did not wish to go. Thinking that her reluctance was the offspring of a childish whim, or at most the effect of timidity at meeting one who, notwithstanding her relationship, was indeed a stranger, but which would be removed in a single half hour’s acquaintance, she insisted upon her going.

A walk of a few minutes brought them to the residence of this object of love and tenderness to the mother, but of distrust and terror to the daughter. They were ushered into her presence. The meeting of the younger and of her more aged mother was tender and mutually affecting. They embraced each other after the lapse of years, and each imparted and each received a kiss of friendship and affection. Tears flowed in copious streams, if not along the cheeks of her aged mother, down those of her daughter.

Augusta, young as she was, was an intent and interested spectator of the scene. She watched every look—marked every action—weighed every word. Her own time of being welcomed soon came, when the caresses of the grandmother were transferred from the daughter to the grand-daughter. She shuddered in the embrace—and her eyes, generally large and brilliant, rolled more widely and wildly; but she escaped the anticipated mastication, and at length breathed more at her ease!

Augusta was delighted, as she bounded forth from the gate into the path that led back to her lodgings, and was as much inclined to expedite her return, as she had been slow and reluctant in going.

Up to this time the intensity of her feelings was unknown, and even the nature of them was scarcely if at all suspected. But the secret was gradually developed, and at length the parents were able to explain many a circumstance and many a declaration in regard to Augusta’s change of feelings towards her grandmother, which, perhaps, with more consideration, they might have explained before, but which had been set down rather to the whim of the child than the unguarded expression of the mother.

On reaching her quarters, a young lady, to whom the casual mention had been made that Augusta expected her grandmother would eat her up, said to her—

“Well, Miss Augusta, your grandmother, it seems, didn’t eat you up.”

“No, she didn’t eat me,” said she, “but she tried to eat mother.”

Some circumstance at the moment intervening, the conversation was interrupted, but on the following day, it was renewed by Augusta herself, who, approaching her mother, said:

“Mother, what did grandma’ do to you yesterday?”

“She kissed me, my dear.”

“She didn’t kiss you mother—she bit you.”

“No, my daughter, you mistake, she did not bite me, but she kissed me affectionately.”

“She did bite you, mother—I’m sure, I saw her, and she made you cry.”

“My daughter—why!”

“You said, mother, one day when we were at home, that grandmother would eat me up, but she tried to eat you.”

The grandmother, as already intimated, had kissed her daughter fondly—with a mother’s ardor. Augusta saw her lips impressed on the mother’s cheek, and the tears starting fast, and rolling down; and she mistook the kiss for a bite, and thought those tears of joy were tears of pain. The whole mystery now vanished. “She will love you so much as to eat you up,” misconstrued, had been for weeks and months a sort of death-note sounding in the child’s imagination. This story, however improbable it may seem, is literally true, and may show how careful of early impressions, a parent should be.

C. G.

About the Chicadees,

FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

A good many years ago, a man named Alexander Wilson, a Scotchman by birth, wrote a large book, called “American Ornithology,” in which he described almost all the birds belonging to this country, and gave an account of their nests and eggs, their food and habits, and migrations, or removing from one part of the country to another, &c. He also made pictures of all the birds described in his book, which were beautifully colored with the natural colors of the birds themselves. Since then, another celebrated naturalist, (as those men are called, who study the works of nature,) Mr. John J. Audubon, has made a still larger book, with pictures, of the size of life, of all the birds described by Mr. Wilson and many others, and colored also in the same beautiful manner, and sometimes having several pictures of the same bird, in different attitudes, and showing its different habits, such as procuring its food, building or sitting on its nest, defending its young, &c. One copy of these books, (which consists of five very large volumes, as large as a small table, besides the volumes which contain the descriptions and accounts of the habits or biography of the birds,) costs the very great sum of one thousand dollars. It is very beautiful indeed, and I hope all Robert Merry’s black and blue-eyed friends will one day have an opportunity to look at either this or Mr. Wilson’s book, and see such beautiful pictures as they contain.

As almost all good boys and girls are fond of seeing birds, and hearing about them, I think they will like to read something more about them in Merry’s Museum; and this is the reason why I propose to write about some of them. I hope, too, that none of those children who read the Museum, will be guilty of wantonly killing the little birds, or robbing their nests of the eggs and young, as some cruel boys do, but will learn to love them and treat them kindly. I will here copy a short story from Mr. Audubon’s book, that I have been telling about.

“On the 4th of January, we stopped at Bonnet Carré, where I entered a house to ask some questions about birds. I was received by a venerable French gentleman, whom I found in charge of about a dozen children of both sexes, and who was delighted to hear that I was a student of nature. He was well acquainted with my old friend Charles Carré, and must, I thought, be a good man, for he said he never suffered any of his pupils to rob a bird of her eggs or young, although, said he with a smile, ‘they are welcome to peep at them and love them.’ The boys at once surrounded me, and from them I received satisfactory answers to most of my inquiries respecting birds.”

This shows what feelings good children should have towards birds.

I will now say something about the Chicadee, or Black-capped Titmouse, as the naturalists name him. He is a beautiful bird, although his colors are very plain and simple. His head is covered with a black spot, that looks like a cap; from which he takes the designation of Black-capped. Why he is called Titmouse, I cannot tell. The sides of his head and neck are of a very pure white, but he has another black spot on his throat, which ends in a point on each side of his neck. The contrast of the deep black spots on his head and neck with the pure white around them, gives him a beautiful appearance. His back and wings are brownish ash-color, or bluish-brown, the wings rather darker, and underneath he is a brownish white. I presume almost all my little readers, in the country especially, know him and call him the Chicadee; for he is so called from his note or song, which sounds very much like Chicadee-dee-dee, Chicadee-dee-dee-dee, and which you may hear almost continually while he is hopping about from tree to tree, and from limb to limb, and exhibiting himself in almost every imaginable position, gathering his food.

Mr. Wilson has a beautiful picture of one hanging on the under side of a twig and bending his black-capped head over it to pick something from it, as you may frequently see them do. Mr. Wilson says in his book, “They also frequently visit the orchards, particularly to fall, the sides of the barn and barn-yard in the same pursuit,—trees in such situations being generally much infested with insects. We, therefore, with pleasure, rank this little bird among the farmer’s friends, and hope our rural citizens will always recognise him as such.” In the same account he tells us how they make their nests, &c., as follows: “About the middle of April they begin to build, choosing the deserted hole of a squirrel, or woodpecker, and sometimes, with incredible labor, digging out one for themselves. The female lays six white eggs, marked with minute specks of red; the first brood appear about the beginning of June, and the second towards the end of July; the whole of the family continue to associate together during winter.

“They always go in little flocks, or companies, probably, in general, of more than one brood, and frequently are accompanied with the white-breasted nuthatch, or tomtit, as he is sometimes called in the country, and also with the small woodpecker, and sometimes, in spring and fall, with the golden-crested wren,—a beautiful and very small bird, with a bright flame-colored spot on the crown of his head,—and sometimes by the brown creeper. Their food consists, in a great part, of insects, though at some times in the year, partly of seeds and of various kinds of oily substances. They frequently in the winter come around our houses and woodsheds, to pick among whatever offal is thrown out from the kitchen, and often become very familiar. I sometimes hang up bones and little bits of meat by my woodshed, to which many of them continue to resort and pick at them, day after day. Sometimes they venture into my wash-room; and one day this winter, they were so bold that I clapped my hand on one as he was feeding, and caught him and took him into my kitchen, where, after a few minutes, he began to feed upon a bone that I hung up there. He also sung his chicadee-dee-dee several times while I kept him in the house.

“He has another note or song, which, although not so merry and cheerful as his common one of chicadee, is much softer and sweeter, but is not so often heard. On fine pleasant days of summer, and especially on a delightful spring morning, you may hear him, perched on the top of a tree, utter at short intervals a note of two syllables, sounding like the word Phe-be,—the sound rising on the first syllable, and falling on the last, and sounding delightfully sweet.”

The Two Travellers.

A FABLE.

FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, FROM THE FRENCH.

A cunning fellow named Thomas, and his friend Lubin, were going to a neighboring city, on foot. Thomas found upon the road-side a well-filled purse. Lubin, with a contentful face, exclaimed, “What a windfall for US!” “For US is not quite right: say rather for ME,” replied Thomas. Lubin said no more, but in leaving the plain, they discovered some robbers hid in the adjacent wood. Thomas trembled, but not without cause, and turning to Lubin, said, “We are lost.” “We is not the true word, but YOU,” replied Lubin, and then scampered away. Thomas, almost petrified with fear, stood still, and was soon caught and gave up the purse.

Moral.—He who only thinks of himself in his happy days, will have very few friends in his unhappy ones.

G. V. K.

To our Correspondents.

We are under many obligations to our little friends, who write us letters, and pay the postage. If they do not pay the postage, they do not often come to us; and when they do, they receive no notice.

We insert the letter of our Providence admirers, and will comply with their request in part; they shall see a piece of music in the next number.

We have many letters on hand, not seeming to require a particular reply; we hope this acknowledgment will be sufficient for all our unanswered correspondents.

Providence, April 7, 1843.

Mr. Robert Merry:

Sir—You will oblige a large number of yearly subscribers, if you will put some music in your Museum. We have seen only one piece of music in all the numbers that you have issued for the year 1843. If you will put a piece of flute music in your next number, you will oblige a number of your Providence friends. They set a great deal by your work here, and if you would put a piece of music in it, you would have a great many more subscribers. We shall do all in our power to get you some, and we presume many others will. Mr. J. E. Risley is your agent here; he says he is doing very well.

We remain your interested and obligated friends,

George J——s.

Charles J——s.

John Brown F——s.

Jacob P——n.

Joseph W——d.

J. H——s.

Sandwich, April 10, 1843.

My dear friend Merry.

I am very much pleased with your Museum, and I hope your stories may do me good. I am going to Boston soon, and I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I like the story of the Siberian Sable-Hunter, and Thomas Trotter, very much. I go to school all the time now, and my time is so taken up with my studies that I hope you will pardon me when I say that I have not yet read quite the whole of Philip Brusque. I feel sorry for this, but I am not yet ten years old. I hope you will allow me to say, and take it kindly, that I am often much disappointed in not getting my number in season. Many little girls get theirs sooner than I get mine; and I wish you would say to those who have the care of sending the Magazine to the various subscribers, that I should like to have mine sent sooner, and directed to me instead of my father. I have tried to get subscribers for you, but have not succeeded; but I will try again during this volume,—for I think you offer a handsome reward. I have been much pleased with your allegories, and particularly with the Garden of Peace, and I hope they will make a good impression on my mind, and I have no doubt it was your design they should. I am sorry we do not have painted pictures in the Museum now, for it made the Natural History more interesting. I must tell you, when they bound my numbers, they kept all my painted pictures, and did not put them into the volume which they bound. This grieves me much, and I thought I would tell it to you. I have a little sister, almost three years younger than myself, and she likes to read your Little Leaves very much, and thinks you are very kind to remember such little ones. Please excuse all mistakes.

From a blue-eyed friend, Emily C. C——s.

PUZZLE.

Blue-eyed Mary, of N. Y., sends us this. Can any one guess it?

I am a word of twelve letters.

- My 7, 8, 4, 5 is a kind of feeling often manifested.

- 8, 6, 7 is a kind of wood.

- 1, 8, 6, 6 is a kind of fish.

- 6, 8, 7, 8, 12, 11 is a deserted tract of country.

- 1, 12, 11, 6, 6 is a common metal.

- 7, 5, 8, 12, 4 is a part of the body.

- 6, 7, 2, 3, 3 is a covering to an article of food.

- 8, 12, 4, 6 has done much to enlighten the world.

- 1, 5, 3, 4 is a part of a dress.

- 12, 8, 4 is a troublesome animal.

- 1, 5, 4, 6 have ruined thousands.

- 1, 5, 3, 3 is used to give warning.

- 2, 11, 6, 4 is a point of the compass.

- 8, 6, 6 is a useful animal.

- 1, 5, 6, 4 is the superlative degree.

- 9, 5, 1, 12, 8 is a beautiful animal.

- 6, 11, 3, 4 is an article used in cookery.

- 3, 8, 4, 7 is used in buildings.

- 4, 11, 1, 3, 2 is an article of furniture.

- 7, 5, 3, 3 is what all men should shun.

- 3, 8, 6, 4 is an article used by shoemakers.

- 6, 11, 12, 8, 7 is a common name among females.

- 5, 8, 6, 4, 2, 12 is a day much celebrated by the church.

- 3, 11, 4, 7, 5 is an instrument used by turners.

- 6, 7, 11, 8, 12, 6 is used by tailors.

- 4, 5, 3, 3 is the name of a hero.

- 7, 11, 4 is a covering for the head.

- 11, 1, 5, 3 is a celebrated antediluvian.

- 7, 8, 12, 5 is the name of an animal.

- My whole is the name of a good man.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

Good morning, my little friends, Black-eyes, Blue-eyes, and Gray-eyes! It is now June. What a beautiful month it is! How lively and happy are the birds! How pleasantly the grasshoppers sing! How sweet is the air, how many thousand flowers are blossoming around! How green is the meadow, the hill-side, and the forest! How blue is the distant mountain! Indeed, June is a beautiful month.

Do you see the picture at the head of this page? Do you notice the boys and the girls in the garden? Do you see the flowers around, and observe how happy these children seem to be?

I am afraid Bob Merry will hardly be welcome, when everything out of doors is so lovely. Well, be it so; let the Museum lie on the shelf till a wet day, and then, my little friends may take it up, and read about Inquisitive Jack, and the spiders, and such other matters as please them.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER V.

About spiders.—How they make their webs, set their nets, and other things.

There are a great many people who imagine that such little things as bees, bugs, butterflies, spiders and other insects, are unworthy of their notice; but this is a great mistake.

All these creatures have eyes, legs, feet, and other organs. They are all curiously contrived, like little machines, to creep, crawl or fly. They have all wonderful faculties; by which they are able to get a living, and to make themselves happy. They are, therefore, very interesting to all persons who will inquire into their structure and their habits.

These creatures are so common that we are apt to overlook them as unworthy of our notice; but Inquisitive Jack, the hero of our story, did not fall into this error. He had an inquiring mind, and nothing was beneath his observation.

He had already discovered that there were many curious and wonderful things, even in insects, flowers, and other common objects; and in the study of these, he found never-ceasing amusement.

These things were like a pleasing book, full of pretty stories and curious pictures, and every day he found some new and interesting page.

One morning, very soon after the sun had risen, he was walking along among some bushes; it was early summer, and a heavy dew had fallen. As he was going along, the thread of a spider, strung from one bush to another, came across his nose, and he broke it as he passed along.

Pretty soon, he met with other instances, in which the spiders’ threads were extended from one shrub to another. Now, Jack was always asking himself how such and such a thing is done; and he therefore began to inquire how these spiders could stretch a line across from one tree to another; for he observed that these threads were sometimes ten, or even fifteen feet from the ground, and that they extended often to as great a distance from the branch of one tree to that of another.

Jack’s habit of investigation had made him very ingenious in explaining things; but here was something quite beyond his reach. He could in no way explain what he saw.

“Strange!” said Jack to himself, “that these little insignificant spiders should know more than I do. I like to find out things myself, but I can’t explain this; so I must go and ask aunt Piper about it.”

As Jack turned on his heel to fulfil his resolution, he noticed another spider’s web, covered with dew. His attention now being excited to the subject, he turned round, and saw as many as fifty others, set like nets among the bushes and the tall grass.

Jack had seen these things before, but his attention had not been excited, and therefore he had not investigated them. He now set about the inquiry, with all the ardor of youthful curiosity.

He spent some time in observing the different kinds of webs, and then proceeded to his aunt to ask her about them. She accordingly sat down, took her knitting-work, and while she worked briskly at her needles, she gave Jack the information he desired. The best way to tell the story, is to put it in the form of a dialogue.

Jack. Oh! aunt Betsey, I’ve found something so curious! Do you know I’ve been looking at the spiders, and I want to have you tell me about them. Pray, where do they get their threads? and how do they weave their nets so curiously? and how do they fasten their thread to the leaves? and how do they stretch their threads from one tree to another? and what do they do it all for—for fun, or for business?

Aunt P. One question at a time, if you please, Jack.

Jack. Why, I want you to tell me all about the spiders.

Aunt P. But where shall I begin?

Jack. Oh! I don’t care where you begin—I want to have you tell me everything.

Aunt P. Well, Jack, I’ll tell you what I know, and I shall answer your last question first. The spiders, I suppose, make their nets both for fun and business, for pleasure and profit. These creatures are made to live chiefly upon flies, but they are themselves destitute of wings. They are, therefore, provided with the means of making nets, by which they can catch as many flies as they want.

Thus you see that God, who made the spiders, has provided them with a good trade, by which they can get a living. So it is, dear Jack, that Providence provides for everything—the wants of even the insects are supplied; nothing is overlooked, and we shall see, on investigation, what wonderful ingenuity and contrivance the Creator has resorted to, in order to take care even of such insignificant creatures as spiders.

Jack. I thank you, aunt Betsey, for that idea—it makes the spider much more interesting, when we consider it as the work of God.

Aunt P. Yes, that is true, my boy. Now, as the spiders spread their nets in order to get a living, or for business, as you express it, they do it also for pleasure—for business and pleasure usually go together.

It may be very agreeable to children to scamper about, just for the sake of a frolic, but, generally speaking, the path of pleasure is the path of utility—in other words, there is more real satisfaction in doing something that is useful, than in mere idle sport. It is so with human beings, and, no doubt, it is so with spiders.

Jack. Well, aunt Betsey, you have answered one of my questions; but pray tell me where the spiders get their threads. They must have an immense manufactory of it somewhere. Are any of them rope-makers?

Aunt P. Yes, Jack, every one of them. Each one spins his own thread, and this is the most wonderful part of the whole story. You observe that the lower part of a spider’s body consists of a round ball.

In this, nature provides the insect with a gummy substance, which is spun into thread. It somewhat resembles melted glass, for a coarse thread of it is brittle, when it becomes dry; while a fine thread is as flexible as the fibres of cotton or silk.

The manner in which this gum or paste, is twisted into threads, has occupied the attention of many philosophers. By looking at the process through magnifying glasses, it has been discovered that even the finest thread in the web of the spider consists of many hundred strands.

These are drawn out from the body of the insect, being then in a soft state, like paste, but they immediately unite, and form one compact cord. In some instances, it is said that a single thread consists of four thousand strands.

Jack. Whew! that sounds like a whapper.

Aunt P. Still, it is no doubt true. There are many things invisible to the naked eye, which are revealed to us by the aid of magnifying glasses.

With the naked eye, we cannot see more than a thousand stars in the sky; with a telescope, we can see millions of stars. To the naked eye, a glass of pure water is perfectly transparent; yet a microscope will show that it is full of little animals.

With the naked eye, we can see nothing but fibres in the stalk of a flower, but by the aid of a microscope, we can see there myriads of creeping things. So, by the aid of a microscope, we can easily discover the thousand strands of which the spider’s thread is composed.

Jack. Well, aunt Betsey, I am not going to dispute you, for I know that you have always a good reason for what you say. But, pray tell me, how do the spiders tie their lines to the leaves and grass?

Aunt P. They stick them on with a kind of glue, with which nature has provided them.

Jack. Well, how do they stretch their lines across from one tree to another?

Aunt P. When a spider wishes to build a bridge from one shrub to another, he climbs up to a certain height, and draws out a long, loose line, taking care to have it in such a situation that the wind will carry it across to some other tree.

The end of the floating line is provided with a gummy substance, and fastens itself at once to whatever it touches. When the spider finds that his line has caught, he pulls it, to see if it is fast. If it is loose, he draws it up till it is straight, and then fastens it with gum.

Having secured the line, the spider makes a bridge of it, and crosses over in perfect safety. He now goes backwards and forward, each time adding a thread, for the purpose of giving it strength.

This line is like the rope to a fisherman’s net, and the spider immediately begins to weave his net upon it. He proceeds to set several strings round somewhat like the spokes of a wheel, and these he binds together by a series of circular threads.

When the whole is done, he weaves a hole in some sly corner, into which he retreats; but the moment that a fly gets entangled in his net, he darts forth, binds him round and round like a prisoner, and carries him off to his den.

Such was the main part of the dialogue that passed between Jack and his aunt. The boy expressed great satisfaction for what she had told him, and then went away to take another walk in the fields.

The Hoop; or Look ere you Leap.

See this boy with his hoop! How the hoop flies, and how the little fellow enjoys the fun! But take care, George! take care—there is a ditch before you!

But, alas, George is like other boys, so eager in his sport that he thinks of nothing else. On goes the hoop, and on goes George after it.

By-and-by, he comes to the ditch. The hoop bounds across, and poor George tumbles in! What a sight he is when he comes out—all over mud! Next time, George, look before you leap—or, in other words, be not so absorbed in your sport, as to forget everything else. Look a little before you, and see that you run into no danger.

This looking before, is what we call prudence. This heedless running on, without seeing where one is going, we call imprudence. A prudent person will seldom get into trouble; an imprudent person is very likely to get into a great deal.

George was an imprudent boy, and tumbled into the ditch. Let my young friends take warning by his mishap; let them cultivate prudence; in other words, let them look ere they leap.

Hay-Making.

It is very pleasant to see the men at work making the hay and getting it into the barn. Do you not love to hear the mower whetting his scythe? Do you not love to see him swing his blade through the grass, and see it fall before him?

And how sweet is the fragrance of the new-mown hay! When it is dry, do you not love to see the men rake it into heaps; then toss it on to the cart and carry it away?

Hay-making is, indeed, a pleasant business, and it is very useful also. What would the poor cows and horses do in winter if they had no hay?

In winter, the grass is dead, the leaves have fallen from trees and shrubs, and the earth is covered with snow. If there were no hay in the barn, the horses, the cows, and the sheep would all perish.

We should then have no horse to draw us along in the sleigh; no cow to give us milk; no sheep to supply us with wool for clothing. Hay-making is therefore very important business.

What do you think the people do in very cold countries, where no grass grows? They are obliged to use reindeer, who feed on moss, and do not need hay. These creatures give milk, like cows; they draw sledges, like horses; and their flesh is as good as the beef of the ox.

The Moth.

The moth looks like a butterfly, but it is not so beautiful. The moth usually flies by night, and the butterfly by day.

There are many kinds of moth; some are large and some are small. You often see moths flying into the lamp or candle, of a summer evening.

Persons who are so fond of pleasure as to injure themselves in the pursuit of it, are compared to the silly moth, which is dazzled with the light, flies into it, and perishes.

Pleasure is a good thing, and I love to see children pursue it—but some kinds of pleasure are dangerous, and are as fatal to young persons as the blaze of the lamp or candle to the heedless fly or moth.

Chapter on Spices.

Q. What are nutmegs?

A. The nutmeg is the kernel of a large, handsome tree, like a walnut. It is enclosed in the same sort of spongy coat as the walnut; the husk opens at one end, when the fruit is ripe.

Q. What is mace?

A. That which is found between the outer coat of the nutmeg and the kernel.

Q. What is cinnamon?

A. The dried bark of a tree which grows in the East Indies and the island of Ceylon.

Q. What is pepper?

A. The produce of a creeping plant which grows in Java, Sumatra and Malacca.

Q. What is ginger?

A. The root of a plant which grows in the East Indies.

Q. What are cloves?

A. The flower buds of a tree which grows in Malacca.

Q. What are carraway seeds?

A. The seeds of a plant growing wild in many countries.

IDLE MARY.

Oh, Mary, this will never do!

This work is sadly done, my dear;

And then so little of it too!

You have not taken pains, I fear.

Oh no, your work has been forgotten,
Indeed, you’ve hardly thought of that;
I saw you roll your ball of cotton
About the floor to please the cat.

See, here are stitches straggling wide
And others reaching down so far;
I’m very sure you have not tried
In this, at least, to please mama.

The little girl who will not sew,
Must neither be allowed to play;
And then I hope, my love, that you
Will take more pains another day.

The Balloon.

Here is a picture of a balloon! It is a great silk bag, with a net around it. Fastened at the bottom of the net, is a little car, in which a man sits.

The balloon rises into the air, and the man in the car goes up with it. He sails along like a cloud; at first the balloon looks large, but it seems to grow less and less, and by-and-by it looks no larger than a fly. Then it disappears and is seen no more.

Now, what do you think it is that makes the balloon rise up into the air? It is a kind of gas, which is very light. The balloon is filled with this gas. You know that smoke is so light as to rise up in the air; but this gas is still lighter than smoke.

Perhaps you desire to know how the man gets his balloon down, when he has risen in it up to the clouds. I will tell you; he lets out a little of the gas, and down he comes. He must be careful to let out only a little at a time, so as to come down gradually; if he lets out too much, he will come down with a terrible thump.

SLEEPY HARRY.
“I do not like to go to bed,”
Sleepy little Harry said;
“Go, naughty Betty, go away,
I will not come at all, I say!”

The little birds are better taught,
They go to roosting when they ought;
And all the ducks and fowls, you know
They went to bed an hour ago.

The little beggar in the street,
Who wanders with his naked feet,
And has not where to lay his head,
Oh, he’d be glad to go to bed.

MAMA AND BABY.

What a little thing am I!

Hardly higher than the table;

I can eat, and play, and cry,

But to work I am not able.

Nothing in the world, I know,

But mama will try and show me:

Sweet mama, I love her so,

She’s so very kind to me.

And she sets me on her knee,

Very often, for some kisses:

Oh! how good I’ll try to be,

For such a dear mama as this is.

The Harrow.

This is a picture of a man with a harrow. A harrow consists of several iron spikes fixed in a frame. When this is dragged over the ground, the spikes break the earth in pieces, and thus fit it to receive the seed.

If the seed be sown, then the harrow is used to cover it up in the earth. Perhaps my little readers do not care to hear about the harrow, but how can they have bread and butter without it?

We cannot have bread without wheat to make it of; and we cannot have wheat, unless the ground be duly ploughed and harrowed. So my young readers will see that the harrow is a good friend of theirs, however little they care about it.

Handsome is that handsome does.

John. Mama, I want something to look at; what can I have?

Mother. Why, my dear, cannot you find something in the room to look at—some pretty story-book, or amusing puzzle?

J. No, mama, I don’t want to read, or be puzzled either; and I have looked at the shells and fossils on the mantelpiece, and the gold fishes in the globe, and counted the window-panes and the flowers on the carpet twenty times, and I’ve been looking into the looking-glass for the last half hour.

M. Into the looking-glass, John! for what purpose?

J. That I might know how handsome I am, mama.

M. Why, do you really think that you are handsome?

J. Yes, mama; do not you?

M. Only sometimes.

J. Why—only sometimes, mama?

M. Because, John, you are only handsome when you are good; when you are naughty, you are a very ugly little fellow!

J. Why, mama, my hair is always curled, and my hands always white, and I am sure that my clothes are always very pretty.

M. Yes, my dear, that may be; but does any one love you more on this account?

J. I should think they do, mama.

M. Then let me tell you, my dear, that if a child be ever so pretty, and dressed ever so fine, he cannot be loved unless he is good. No person is pleasing to look at, who is naughty. A person who is naughty has a bad heart, and a bad heart usually spoils the face.

ROBERT MERRY’S
MUSEUM.

EDITED BY

S. G. GOODRICH,

AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY’S TALES.

VOLUME VI.

BOSTON:
BRADBURY, SODEN, & CO.,
No. 10 School Street.
1843.

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

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VI.

JULY TO DECEMBER, 1843.

A Midsummer Morning, | 1
Listening, | 2
Eugene Aram, | 3
Bald Eagle, | 10
Gallantry in a Dog, | 11
Charon, | 12
A Civilized Bear, | 13
The Palisadoes, | 14
A Real Hero, | ”
A Revolutionary Story, | 15, 100, 133, 162
Having a Good Time, | 16
Examination at Bow-street, | 18
Honest Tar, | ”
July, | 19
Jumping Rabbit’s Story, | 20, 54, 65, 118, 140, 179
Passage of Mountains in India, | 23
Whistling Tom, | 24
Little Leaves, | 25, 90, 121
The Giraffe, | 25
The Arbor, | 26
Fire-works at Rome, | 28
Careless Nancy, | ”
Charity, | 39
Inquisitive Jack, | 30, 60, 94, 126, 152, 183
The 4th of July, | 31
To Correspondents, | 32
Hindostan, | 33
Peter Somebody, &c., | 34
George Washington, | 35
London, Past and Present, | 36
Whale Stories, | 36, 78
The Life of Columbus, | 41, 80, 114, 148, 171
Ancient Castles, | 46
Æronautics, | ”
Eccentric Characters, | 51, 71, 111
A Lost Elephant Found, | 53
Anna Maria Schurman, | ”
An Indian Youth, | ”
Shenstone and the Robber, | 56
George IV. and Lord Roden, | ”
The Old Oaken Bucket, | 57
France, | 58
The Moose, | 59
The Race, | 62
The Swing, | 63
A Strange Bird, | ”
Letter, | 64
September, | 65
The Smuggler, | 68
The Poet’s Dog, | ”
A Shark Story, | 69
Mirage, | 70
Punch and Judy, | 73
Attakullakulla, | 74
A Droll Mimic, | 77
Turn the Carpet, | 82
A Monkey Trick, | 83
The Light of all Nations, | 84
Varieties, | ”
Precocity of Frenchmen, | 86
September Thoughts, | 87
Politeness, | 88
Chinese Filial Piety, | ”
To our Correspondents, | 89
A True Story, | ”
Christ Healing the Sick, | 90
Going to School, | 92
The First Sailor, | 93
A Child’s Philosophy, | 96
October, | 97
The Island of Hong Kong, | 99
Tippoo Saib, | ”
The Blue Bird, | 104
Keicher, | 105
Green, | 106
What is it to be Polite, | ”
Early Rising, | 107
Pope Julius II., | 108
Questions, | 123
Old Age, | ”
The Sun, Moon and Stars, | 124
What is Habit, | 128
The Chickadee, | ”
A Long Chapter upon November, | 129
Pierre Ramus, | 131
The Musical Snuff-Box, | 138
John Hancock, | 139
The New London Exchange, | 143
The Imperial Joss, | 145
A Salt Water Scene, | 147
The Shoulder of Mutton, | ”
Stomach of the Horse, | 154
Patriotism, | 155
The Wooden Horse, | 156
Hannibal Crossing the Alps, | 157
The Home of our Childhood, | 158
Blessing on a Child, | ”
Varieties, | 159
Our Correspondence, | 160, 188
December, | 161
Christmas, | 168
Tasso’s Wish, | 170
The Cat and the Mouse, | 173
Fable of the Humming Bird and Butterfly, | 177
Washington Irving’s Cottage, | 179
The Close of the Year, | 187

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VI. JULY, 1843. No. 1.

A Midsummer Morning.

Who can tell the pleasures of a midsummer morning! In order fully to enjoy these, you must be up before the sun: you must hear the robin, when it timidly begins its song; and the sparrows, when, with a gentle peep, peep, they say good morning to one another,—and hop from bush to bush to see if all is well; and the boblink, when he clucks in the grass, just before he enters upon his song of “Tom Denny, Tom Denny;” and you must see the first red light which the sun throws upon the clouds and hill tops; you must hear all the joyous sounds that rise upward to heaven, as if in thanksgiving, from the birds, the insects, the cattle upon a thousand hills, and the voices of glad human beings, far and near; and you must have a heart to appreciate all this, as a sweet anthem of praise to God.

And you must have an eye that takes in the beauty of flowers and dew-drops around you, as well as of far-off landscapes, embracing hills and vales, cloud, sky and sea; your soul must be a pure canvass for the Almighty’s pencil; your ear a justly tuned instrument, for the touch of a Divine musician. Who can go forth of a midsummer morning, and not deeply feel the loveliness of nature, and the benignity of that Being, who in goodness has made it all?

It is well to hold communion with nature in her gentler moods; and I always esteem those persons happy who are brought up in the country, among green fields and shady woods, especially if they have friends around them, who can lift their thoughts, step by step, from nature up to nature’s God. This world, without a God, without a Creator, a Governor, a Preserver—would be indeed a mystery; but when we can connect all the wonders we behold with a great and good Being, who is at once our Father in heaven, and the Architect of the earth and the skies—these things acquire a new and touching interest.

Look at the children in the picture. The dew hangs on the stems of flowers and the leaves of shrubs, like myriads of trembling diamonds; the sun-light is gushing through the trees—a glorious flood of silver; the birds are pouring out their songs of merriment and affection. All around is beautiful. Happy children—lovely midsummer morning!

Listening.

Much has been said of the art of speaking, and comparatively little on the art of listening. Not to listen is an offence against the laws of politeness. Conversation is a species of commerce, where every one has a right to bring and to dispose of his commodities, and to supply others with what he supposes they stand in need of: therefore it ought to be an exchange—a barter.

If to listen is a duty towards others, it is also of the greatest utility and importance to ourselves. Complaisance in listening marks a wish to learn; he who does not like to listen, does not wish to learn the truth. He who speaks, sows; he who listens, reaps.

Nothing is more acceptable and pleasing than the art of listening. We often see men of superior abilities prefer the society of those who are inferior, because they listen with respect. This does not originate in pride or vanity, but the mind is raised and inflamed by awakening attention and curiosity.

No one, on the contrary, is so displeasing and offensive, as he who refuses his attention, or who listens with a total want of respect and politeness. Some persons, as soon as you open your mouth, pretend to know what you would say, and appear impatient till you have done. Some take the words out of your mouth and contradict you sharply. Others will begin to talk to another person, call the servants, scold the children, or perhaps turn their backs and leave you.

An eastern sage was once relating his misfortunes to a statue. “Fool,” said a traveller, “do you suppose that cold marble hears you?” The sage replied, “I know the marble hears me not; but, at least, it does not interrupt me.”

There is a proper way of listening; not that of the stupid and ignorant, who, at every trifling word, open their eyes and cry out, a miracle; nor that of those who smile and applaud as soon as you begin to speak. These resemble some persons who would applaud at a theatre as soon as the candles are lighted. We must esteem those who listen to us, in order to aspire to their praises, and to acquire in their company the fire of eloquence, and the desire to please.

Listening properly is appearing to observe, to approve, and to be pleased; a sensible remark, a delicate compliment, a few words apparently suggested by those of others, a single word introduced with propriety, and even an intelligent and animated look, a smile of approbation; in short, that air of attention, of interest, of esteem, when a person is talking to us, is the greatest compliment we can pay.

Eugene Aram.

The life of this man is fraught with deep interest, and affords a striking moral. Though born in humble circumstances, and therefore only provided with the means of a narrow education, by the force of talent and industry he improved his mind and made himself master of a wide field of knowledge.

His station was now respectable in the eyes of the world, and he had all the requisite means to ensure happiness. One thing, only, did he lack; yet, that thing which is necessary to the preservation of every earthly good—virtue. In an evil hour he was tempted to the commission of a horrid crime. Though this was shielded by darkness; though years rolled away without suspicion or detection; though a fair outside was carefully preserved; though he left the scene of his depravity, and doubtless believed he had forever buried his guilt in oblivion—still the All-seeing Eye was upon him, and He who rules over events, as if to show how vain is human ingenuity in attempting to shelter the murderer, at last brought him to justice. On his trial he displayed wonderful powers of reasoning, but even these, now, only served to heighten his guilt in the eyes of mankind. How short-sighted is the man who attempts to attain happiness by unlawful means; which, even if successful, must make every cup of life bitter as gall; and, if unsuccessful, must bring judgment, and agony, and shame.

During the confinement of this remarkable person on the charge of murder, he wrote an account of his own life, from which we learn that one of his ancestors had been high sheriff of Yorkshire, in the reign of king Edward the third; but the family, having been gradually reduced, his father occupied a humble station in life. The son, however, was sent to a school near Ripon, where he perfected himself in writing and arithmetic, and then went to London to officiate as clerk to a merchant.

After a residence of two years in town, he was seized with the small-pox, which left him in so weak a condition, that he went back to Yorkshire for the recovery of his health. On his recovery, he found it necessary to do something for immediate subsistence; and, accordingly engaged himself as usher to a boarding-school; but, not having been taught the learned languages in his youth, he was obliged to supply by industry what he had failed to obtain from neglect. Thus, while teaching writing and arithmetic, by employing all his leisure hours in the most intense study, he at length became an excellent Greek and Latin scholar. In the year 1734, he engaged to officiate as steward of an estate belonging to Mr. Norton, of Knaresborough; and while in this station he acquired a competent knowledge of the Hebrew. At this period he married, but was far from being happy in his matrimonial connection.

We shall now relate the circumstances which led to the commission of the crime which cost Aram his life. Daniel Clarke, a shoemaker at Knaresborough, after being married a few days, circulated a report that his wife was entitled to a considerable fortune, which he should soon receive. Hereupon, Aram and Richard Houseman, conceiving hopes of making advantage of this circumstance, persuaded Clarke to make an ostentatious show of his own riches, to induce his wife’s relations to give him that fortune of which he had boasted.

Clarke was easily induced to comply with a hint so agreeable to his own desires; on which he borrowed and bought on credit, a large quantity of silver plate, with jewels, watches, rings, &c. He told the persons of whom he purchased, that a merchant in London had sent him an order to buy such plate for exportation; and no doubt was entertained of his credit till his sudden disappearance in February, 1745, when it was imagined that he had gone abroad or to London, to dispose of his ill-acquired property.

When Clarke was possessed of these goods, Aram and Houseman determined to murder him, in order to share the booty; and on the night of the 8th of February, 1745, they persuaded Clarke to walk with them in the fields, in order to consult with them on the proper method to dispose of the effects.

On this plan they walked into a field, at a small distance from the town, by the name of St. Robert’s Cave. When they came into this field, Aram and Clarke went over a hedge towards the cave, and when they had got within six or seven yards of it, Houseman (by the light of the moon) saw Aram strike Clarke several times, and at length beheld him fall, but never saw him afterwards. This was the state of the affair, if Houseman’s testimony on the trial is to be credited.

The murderers, going home, shared Clarke’s ill-gotten treasure, the half of which Houseman concealed in his garden for a twelvemonth, and then took it to Scotland, where he sold it. In the mean time Aram carried his share to London, where he sold it to a Jew, and then engaged himself as an usher at an academy in Piccadilly; where, in the intervals of his duty in attending to scholars, he made himself master of the French language, and acquired some knowledge of Arabic and other eastern tongues.

After this he was usher at other schools in different parts of the kingdom; but as he did not correspond with his friends in Yorkshire, it was presumed that he was dead. The sudden disappearance of Clarke had long been forgotten; but, in the year 1758, as a man was digging for limestone near St. Robert’s Cave, he found the bones of a human body, and a conjecture hereupon arose that they were the remains of Clarke, who, it was now presumed, might have been murdered.

Houseman, having been seen in company with Clarke a short time before his disappearance, was apprehended on suspicion; and, on his examination, giving but too evident signs of his guilt, he was committed to York castle. The bones of the deceased being shown to him, he denied that they were those of Clarke, but directed to the precise spot where he said they were deposited, and where they were accordingly found. The skull, being fractured, was preserved, to be produced in evidence on the trial.

Soon after Houseman was committed to the castle of York, it was discovered that Aram lived at Lynn, in Norfolk; on which, a warrant was granted for taking him into custody; and, being apprehended while instructing some young gentlemen at a school, he was conveyed to York, and likewise committed to the castle. At the Lent assizes following, the prosecutors were not ready with their evidence; on which he was remanded till the summer assizes, when he was brought to trial.

When Houseman had given his evidence respecting this extraordinary affair, and all such collateral testimony had been taken as could be adduced on such an occasion, Aram was called on for his defence; but, having foreseen that the perturbation of his spirits would incapacitate him to make such a defence without previous preparation, he had written the following, which, by permission, he read in court:—

“My Lord:—I know not whether it is of right, or through some indulgence of your lordship, that I am allowed the liberty at this bar to attempt a defence, incapable and uninstructed as I am, to speak. Since, while I see so many eyes upon me, so numerous and awful a concourse, fixed with attention, and filled with—I know not what expectancy, I labor not with guilt, my lord, but with perplexity. For having never seen a court but this—being wholly unacquainted with law—the customs of the bar, and all judiciary proceedings, I fear I shall be so little capable of speaking with propriety in this place, that it exceeds my hope if I shall be able to speak at all.

“I have heard, my lord, the indictment read, wherein I find myself charged with the highest crime—with an enormity which I am altogether incapable of—to the commission of which, there goes far more insensibility of heart, more profligacy of morals, than ever fell to my lot. And nothing possibly could have admitted a presumption of this nature, but a depravity not inferior to that imputed to me. However, as I stand indicted at your lordship’s bar, and have heard what is called evidence adduced in support of such a charge, I very humbly solicit your lordship’s patience, and beg the hearing of this respectable audience, while I, single and unskilful—destitute of friends, and unassisted by counsel, say something perhaps like argument in my defence. I shall consume but little of your lordship’s time. What I have to say, will be short, and this brevity, probably, will be the best part of it; however, it is offered with all possible regard, and the greatest submission to your lordship’s consideration, and that of this honorable court.

“First, my lord, the whole tenor of my conduct in life contradicts every particular of this indictment. Yet, I had never said this, did not my present circumstances extort it from me, and seem to make it necessary. Permit me here, my lord, to call upon malignity itself, so long and cruelly busied in this prosecution, to charge upon me any immorality of which prejudice was not the author. No, my lord, I concerted no scheme of fraud; projected no violence, injured no man’s person or private property; my days were honestly laborious, my nights intensely studious. And I humbly conceive my notice of this, especially at this time, will not be thought impertinent or unseasonable, but at least deserving some attention; because, my Lord, that any person, after a temperate use of life, a series of thinking and acting regularly, without one single deviation from sobriety, should plunge into the very depth of profligacy, precipitately, and at once, is altogether improbable and unprecedented, and absolutely inconsistent with the course of things. Mankind is never corrupted at once; villany is always progressive, and declines from right, step after step, till every regard of probity is lost, and every sense of all moral obligation totally perishes.

“Again, my lord, a suspicion of this kind, which nothing but malevolence could entertain and ignorance propagate, is violently opposed by my very situation at that time, with respect to health; for, but a little space before, I was confined to my bed, and suffered under a very long and severe disorder, and was not able, for half a year together, so much as to walk. The distemper left me, indeed, yet slowly and in part; but so macerated, so enfeebled, that I was reduced to crutches; and so far from being well about the time I am charged with the fact, that I never, to this day, have perfectly recovered. Could then a person in this condition, take anything into his head so extravagant? I, past the vigor of my age, feeble and valetudinary, with no inducement to engage, with no ability to accomplish, no weapon wherewith to perpetrate such a feat; without interest, without power, without motive, without means.

“Besides, it must need occur to every one, that an action of this atrocious nature is never heard of, but, when its springs are laid open, it appears that it was to support some indolence, or supply some luxury; to satisfy some avarice, or oblige some malice; to prevent some real or some imaginary want: yet I lay not under the influence of any of these. Surely, my lord, I may, consistently with both truth and modesty, affirm this much; and none who have any veracity, and know me, will ever question it.

“In the second place, the disappearance of Clarke is suggested as an argument of his being dead; but the uncertainty of such an inference from that, and the fallibility of all conclusions of such a sort, from such a circumstance, are too obvious and too notorious, to require instances; yet, superseding many, permit me to procure a very recent one, and that afforded by this castle.

“In June, 1757, William Thompson, for all the vigilance of this place, in open day-light, and double-ironed, made his escape; and, notwithstanding an immediate inquiry set on foot, the strictest search and all advertisement, was never seen or heard of since. If, then, Thompson got off unseen through all these difficulties, how very easy was it for Clarke, when none of them opposed him? But what would be thought of a prosecution commenced against any one seen last with Thompson?

“Permit me next, my lord, to observe a little upon the bones which have been discovered. It is said, which perhaps is saying very far, that these are the skeleton of a man. It is possible, indeed, they may; but is there any certain criterion, which incontestably distinguishes the sex in human bones? Let it be considered, my lord, whether the ascertaining this point ought not to precede any attempt to identify them.

“The place of their depositum, too, claims much more attention than is commonly bestowed upon it; for of all places in the world none could have mentioned any one, wherein there was greater certainty of finding human bones than a hermitage, except he should point out a church-yard; hermitages, in times past, being not only places of religious retirement, but of burial too. And it has scarce or never been heard of, but that every cell now known, contains or contained these relics of humanity, some mutilated and some entire. I do not inform, but give me leave to remind your lordship, that here sat solitary sanctity, and here the hermit or the anchoress, who hoped for that repose to their bones, when dead, which they here enjoyed when living.

“All the while, my lord, I am sensible this is known to your lordship and many in this court, better than to me. But it seems necessary to my case, that others who have not at all, perhaps, adverted to things of this nature, and may take an interest in my trial, should be made acquainted with it. Suffer me, then, my lord, to produce a few of many evidences, that these cells were used as repositories of the dead, and to enumerate a few in which human bones have been found, as it happened in this question; lest to some that accident might seem extraordinary, and, consequently, occasion prejudice.

“1st. The bones, as was supposed of the Saxon, St. Dubritius, were discovered buried in his cell, at Guy’s Cliff, near Warwick, as appears from the authority of Sir William Dugdale.

“2d. The bones, thought to be those of the anchoress Rosia, were but lately discovered in a cell at Royston, entire, fair, and undecayed, though they must have lain interred for several centuries, as is proved by Dr. Stukeley.

“3d. But my own country, nay, almost this neighborhood, supplies another instance, for, in January, 1747, were found, by Mr. Stovin, accompanied by a reverend gentleman, the bones in part of some recluse, in the cell at Lindholm, near Hatfield. They were supposed to be those of William of Lindholm, a hermit, who had long made this cave his habitation.

“4th. In February, 1744, part of Woburn abbey being pulled down, a large portion of a corpse appeared, even with the flesh on, which bore cutting with a knife; though it is certain this had lain above two hundred years, and how much longer is doubtful; for the abbey was founded in 1145, and dissolved in 1538 or 39.

“What would have been said, what believed, if this had been an accident to the bones in question?

“Farther, my lord, it is not yet out of living memory, that a little distance from Knaresborough, in a field, part of the manor of the worthy and patriotic baronet who does that borough the honor to represent it in parliament, were found, in digging for gravel, not one human skeleton only, but five or six, deposited side by side, with each an urn placed at its head, as your lordship knows was usual in ancient interments.

“About the same time, and in another field, almost close to this borough, was discovered also, in searching for gravel, another human skeleton; but the piety of the same worthy gentleman ordered both pits to be filled up again, commendably unwilling to disturb the dead.

“Is the invention of these bones forgotten, then, or industriously concealed, that the discovery of those in question may appear the more singular and extraordinary? whereas, in fact, there is nothing extraordinary in it. My lord, almost every place conceals such remains. In fields, in hills, in highway sides, in commons, lie frequent and unsuspected bones. And our present allotments for rest for the departed, are but of some centuries.

“Another particular seems not to claim a little of your lordship’s notice, and that of the gentlemen of the jury; which is, that perhaps no example occurs of more than one skeleton being found in one cell; and in the cell in question was found but one; agreeable, in this, to the peculiarity of every other known cell in Britain. Not the invention of one skeleton, but of two, would have appeared suspicious and uncommon.

“But it seems another skeleton has been discovered by some laborer, which was full as confidently averred to be Clarke’s as this. My lord, must some of the living, if it promotes some interest, be made answerable for all the bones that earth has concealed, and chance exposed? and might not a place where bones lay, be mentioned by a person by chance, as well as found by a laborer by chance? or is it more criminal accidentally to name where bones lie, than accidentally to find where they lie?

“Here, too, is a human skull produced, which is fractured; but was this the cause, or was it the consequence of death? was it owing to violence, or was it the effect of natural decay? If it was violence, was it before or after death? My lord, in May, 1732, the remains of William, lord archbishop of this province, were taken up, by permission, in this cathedral, and the bones of the skull were found broken; yet certainly he died by no violence offered to him alive, that could occasion that fracture there.

“Let it be considered, my lord, that upon the dissolution of religious houses, and the commencement of the reformation, the ravages of those times affected both the living and the dead. In search after imaginary treasures, coffins were broken up, graves and vaults dug open, monuments ransacked, and shrines demolished; and it ceased about the beginning of the reign of queen Elizabeth. I entreat your lordship, suffer not the violences, the depredations, and iniquities of those times to be imputed to this.

“Moreover, what gentleman is ignorant that Knaresborough had a castle; which, though now a ruin, was once considerable, both for its strength and garrison? All know it was vigorously besieged by the arms of parliament; at which siege, in sallies, conflicts, flights, pursuits, many fell in the places round it, and where they fell, were buried; for every place, my lord, is burial earth in war; and many, questionless, of these, rest yet unknown, whose bones futurity shall yet discover.

“I hope, with all imaginable submission, that what has been said will not be thought impertinent to this indictment; and that it will be far from the wisdom, the learning, and the integrity of this place, to impute to the living, what zeal in its fury may have done; what nature may have done; what nature may have taken off, and piety interred; or what war alone may have destroyed, alone deposited.

“As to the circumstances that have been raked together, I have nothing to observe, but that all circumstances whatever, are precarious, and have too frequently been found lamentably fallible; even the strongest have failed. They may rise to the utmost degree of probability, yet they are but probability still. Why need I name to your lordship the two Harrisons, recorded by Dr. Howel, who both suffered upon circumstances, because of the sudden disappearance of their lodger, who was in credit, had contracted debts, borrowed money, and went off unseen, and returned a great many years after their execution? Why name the intricate affair of Jacques de Moulin, under king Charles II., related by a gentleman who was counsel for the crown? and why the unhappy Coleman, who suffered innocent, though convicted upon positive evidence, and whose children perished for want, because the world uncharitably believed the father guilty? Why mention the perjury of Smith, incautiously admitted king’s evidence, who, to screen himself, equally accused Faircloth and Loveday of the murder of Dunn; the first of whom, in 1749, was executed at Winchester; and Loveday was about to suffer at Reading, had not Smith been proved to be perjured, to the satisfaction of the court, by the surgeon of the Gosport hospital?

“Now, my lord, having endeavored to show that the whole of this process is altogether repugnant to every part of my life; that it is inconsistent with my condition of health about that time; that no rational inference can be drawn that a person is dead who suddenly disappears; that hermitages were the constant repositories of the bones of the recluse; that the revolutions in religion, or the fortunes of war, have mangled or buried the dead; the conclusion remains, perhaps no less reasonably than impatiently wished for. I, at last, after a year’s confinement, equal to either fortune, put myself upon the candor, the justice, and the humanity of your lordship, and upon yours, my countrymen, gentlemen of the jury.”

Aram was tried by Judge Noel, who, having remarked that this defence was one of the most ingenious pieces of reasoning that had ever fallen under his notice, summed up the evidence to the jury, who gave a verdict of guilty; in consequence of which he received sentence of death.

After conviction, a clergyman was appointed to attend him, and to exhort him to an ample confession. Aram appeared to pay proper attention to what was said, but after the minister had retired, he formed the resolution of destroying himself; and when the morning appointed for his execution arrived, the keeper, on proceeding to take him out of his cell, was surprised to find him almost expiring through loss of blood, having cut his left arm, above the elbow and near the wrist, with a razor. A surgeon being sent for, stopped the bleeding; but when he was taken to the place of execution, he was so very weak as to be unable to join in devotion with the clergyman who attended him.

On the table in his cell was found the following paper, containing his reasons for attempting to commit suicide:—“What am I better than my fathers? To die is natural and necessary. Perfectly sensible of this, I fear no more to die than I did to be born. But the manner of it is something which should, in my opinion, be decent and manly. I think I have regarded both these points. Certainly nobody has a better right to dispose of man’s life than himself; and he, not others, should determine how. As for any indignities offered to my body, or silly reflections on my faith and morals, they are, as they always were, things indifferent to me. I think, though contrary to the common way of thinking, I wrong no man by this, and hope it is not offensive to the eternal Being that formed me and the world: and as by this, I injure no man, no man can reasonably be offended. I solicitously recommend myself to the eternal and almighty Being, the God of nature, if I have done amiss. But perhaps I have not; and I hope this thing will never be imputed to me. Though I am now stained by malevolence, and suffer by prejudice, I hope to rise fair and unblemished. My life was not polluted, my morals were irreproachable, and my opinions orthodox. I slept sound till three o’clock, awaked, and wrote these lines:—

“Come, pleasing rest, eternal slumber, fall,

Seal mine, that once must seal the eyes of all;

Calm and composed my soul her journey takes,

No guilt that troubles, and no heart that aches;

Adieu! thou sun, all bright like her arise;

Adieu! fair friends, and all that’s good and wise.”

In some of the accounts published of Aram’s trial, a letter is quoted, as written to one of his friends, confessing his guilt; but this document is understood to have been forged for the purpose of pleasing the illiterate jurymen who condemned him, and who were incapable of appreciating the admirable reasoning contained in his defence. He was executed near York, on the 6th of August, 1759, and afterwards hung in chains in Knaresborough forest.

“A little word in kindness spoken,
A motion or a tear,
Has often healed the heart that’s broken,
And made a friend sincere.

A word, a look, has crushed to earth
Full many a budding flower,
Which, had a smile but owned its birth,
Would bless life’s darkest hour.

Then deem it not an idle thing,
A pleasant word to speak;
The face you wear, the thoughts you bring,
A heart may heal, or break.”

Bald Eagle.

The White-headed or Bald Eagle is spread over nearly the whole northern part of America, but abounds particularly near the falls of Niagara, where it subsists on fish and on such animals as are accidentally floated down the stream. It also feeds upon pigs, lambs, fawns, and other small animals that it can overpower. It builds its nest on the top of a tall tree, of sticks, weeds, and moss. The young are usually three in number, and do not, like many other birds, leave the nest till they are fully fledged. The parent birds are very fierce in their defence, and feed them with the greatest assiduity.

This splendid bird is about three feet long, and seven feet from the tip of one wing to the other. The head, neck and tail are pure white, the rest of the plumage is nearly black. The representation of the Bald Eagle forms the national emblem of the United States. The mode in which this bird obtains his prey is thus graphically described by Audubon. The scene is in Mississippi, and the eagle is perched on the top of the tallest tree, on the margin of the stream.

“The wild, trumpet-like sound of a yet distant but approaching swan is heard. The eagle shakes the whole of his body, and with a few touches of his bill, he arranges his plumage in an instant. The snow-white bird is now in sight; her long neck is stretched forward; her eye is on the watch, vigilant as that of her enemy; her large wings seem with difficulty to support the weight of her body, although they flap incessantly. So irksome do her exertions seem, that her legs are spread beneath her tail to aid her flight. She approaches, however. The eagle has marked her for his prey. As the swan is passing, he starts from his perch, in full preparation for the chase, with an awful scream, that, to the swan’s ear, brings more terror than the report of the large duck-gun.

“Now is the moment to witness the eagle’s powers. He glides through the air like a falling star, and like a flash of lightning comes upon the timorous quarry, which now, in agony and despair, seeks, by various manœuvres, to elude the grasp of his cruel talons; it mounts, doubles, and willingly would plunge into the stream, were it not prevented by the eagle, which, long possessed of the knowledge that by such a stratagem the swan might escape him, forces it to remain in the air by attempting to strike it with its talons from beneath.

“The hope of escape is soon given up by the swan. It has already become much weakened, and its strength fails at the sight of the courage and strength of its antagonist. Its last gasp is about to escape, when the ferocious eagle strikes with his talons the under side of its wing, and, with unresisted power, forces the bird to fall in a slanting direction upon the nearest shore. He presses down his powerful feet, and drives his sharp claws deep into the heart of the dying swan. He then, with his mate, gorges himself with the blood of the luckless victim.”

Gallantry in a Dog.

The following anecdote, told by Mr. B. S. Johnson, is very curious, as evincing another proof of the sagacity of the dog.

“When twelve years old, my dog had attained a greater size and strength than ordinary, and, prior to this period, had shown many indications of astonishing sagacity. He had become exceedingly attached to the female part of my family, and particularly to the children. A little daughter, a child about six years old, attended a school at the distance of quarter of a mile, to which the dog uniformly accompanied her every morning, as well as at noon; and as soon as he had conducted his charge safely into the house, he returned home.

“Pursuing this system for a short time, he was soon not content with guarding the child to school, but began to escort her home. Twelve o’clock was the hour at which the children left the school, for the purpose of returning home to dinner; a few minutes before which, Frank,—for that was the name by which the animal was distinguished,—trotted away, with elevated tail, and placing himself in front of the school, waited patiently till the little throng came out, when he eagerly selected his charge, and guarded her home with all the pride imaginable.

“At five o’clock in the afternoon, a similar scene took place. It was amusing, indeed it was highly interesting, to witness the performance of these operations, by this sagacious and affectionate creature. I have many times watched it with unspeakable pleasure. About ten minutes before twelve and five o’clock, (how the creature contrived to calculate the time so accurately, I am not able to say,) Frank left my premises, and in a minute or two appeared before the door of the school, where, squat on his haunches, he attentively waited the opening of the door.

“On such occasions, the children are crowded together, and Frank might now be observed among them busily employed in selecting his charge. Dogs never appear fully satisfied of the identity of any one, till they have exercised their olfactory organs, as well as their orbs of vision, on the subject of their solicitude; and therefore Frank always took a few grateful sniffs before he took his order of march, which was a few yards in advance, with elevated tail, and evidently in all the pride of satisfactory duty.

“On the appearance of any person or animal from which danger was to be apprehended, the dog came close to the child, and forbade near approach; he was particularly suspicious of the proximity of a beggar, or any mean or ruffianly person.”

Charon.

In a former number, we have given some account of the heathen deities: we must now say a few words of old Charon, whom the ancients considered one of the gods of Hell. He was supposed to be the son of Erebus or Darkness, and Nox or Night,—and his duty was to conduct the souls of the dead in a boat over the river Styx, to the infernal regions. He was, therefore, a ferryman, and received a penny for each passenger. Such souls, however, as had not been honored with a funeral, were not permitted to enter Charon’s boat, without previously wandering on the shore for one hundred years. Accordingly, the ancients thought it a dreadful thing to have no burial.

If the soul of any person presented himself to cross the Stygian river, he could not be admitted before he showed Charon a golden bough, which he had received from the Sibyl. This law was so strict, that Charon was once imprisoned for a year, because he ferried over Hercules, without the passport. It did not matter that he was forced to do it by the hero.

Charon is represented in the ancient descriptions as an old robust man, with a hideous countenance, long white beard, and piercing eyes. His garment is ragged and filthy, and his forehead is covered with wrinkles. As all the dead were obliged to pay a small piece of money for their admission to the boat, it was always usual among the ancients to place under the tongue of the deceased a piece of money for Charon.

This fable of Charon and his boat, which became a part of the religious creed of the Greeks and Romans, was borrowed from the Egyptians, whose dead were carried across a lake, where sentence was passed upon them, and, according to their good or bad actions, they were honored with a splendid burial, or left unnoticed in the open air.

A Civilized Bear.

In New Hampshire, a species of bear is found, black in color, small in size, and in general of a peaceable disposition. These animals live on wild honey and fruits, and never attack man or the lesser animals, except when pressed by hunger, in the very severe winters. On one occasion, some years ago, a boy found a very young bear pup near Lake Winnipeg, and carried it home with him. It was fed and brought up about the house of the boy’s father, and became as tame as a dog.

Every day its youthful captor had to go to school at some distance, and, by degrees, the bear became his daily companion. At first the other scholars were shy of the creature’s acquaintance, but ere long it became their regular playfellow, and they delighted in sharing with it the little store of provisions, which they brought for their day’s sustenance in small bags. After two years of civilization, however, the bear wandered to the woods, and did not return. Search was made for him, but in vain.

Four succeeding years passed away, and in the interval, changes had occurred in the school alluded to. An old dame had succeeded to the ancient master, and a new generation of pupils had taken the place of the former ones. One very cold winter day, while the schoolmistress was busy with her humble lessons, a boy chanced to leave the door half way open on his entrance, and suddenly a large bear walked in.

The consternation of the old lady and her boys and girls, was unspeakable. Both schoolmistress and pupils would fain have been “abroad,” but the bear was in the path, and all that could be done was to fly off as far as possible, behind the tables and benches. But the bear troubled nobody. He walked quietly up to the fireplace, and warmed himself, exhibiting much satisfaction in his countenance during the process.

He remained thus about a quarter of an hour, and then walked up to the wall where the provender bags and baskets of the pupils were suspended. Standing on his hind feet, he then took hold of these successively, put his paws into them, and made free with the bread, fruit, and other eatables therein contained. He next tried the schoolmistress’s desk, where some little provisions usually were; but finding it firmly shut, he went up again to the fire, and after a few minutes’ stay before it, he walked out by the way he came in.

As soon as the schoolmistress and her pupils had courage to move, the alarm was given to the neighbors. Several young men immediately started after the bear, and as its track was perfectly visible upon the snow, they soon came up with it and killed it. Then it was that, by certain marks upon its skin, some of its pursuers recognised in the poor bear no enemy, but an old friend of their own recent school days. Great regret was felt at the loss of the creature. It was like killing a human friend, rather than a wild animal.

The Palisadoes.

Some of the finest scenery in this country is found on the banks of the Hudson river; but the Palisadoes, as they are called, are not only beautiful, they are indeed one of the curiosities of nature. They consist of steep rocks, formed like a vast wall, and constituting the western bank of the river, from twelve to twenty miles above the city of New York.

As you pass by in the steamboat, the Palisadoes cannot fail to excite your wonder. Though the rocks are so high as to seem almost like mountains, yet they are often so regular as to look like works of art. You can hardly persuade yourself, indeed, that they are not cut by the hand of man. If, however, you go upon these rocks, you will see that they are too vast a work for any other than an Almighty hand.

A real Hero.

A great inundation having taken place in the north of Italy, owing to an excessive fall of snow in the Alps, followed by a speedy thaw, the river Adige carried off a bridge near Verona, except the middle part, on which was the house of the toll-gatherer, or porter, I forget which, and who, with his whole family, thus remained imprisoned by the waves, and in momentary danger of destruction.

They were discovered, stretching forth their hands, screaming and imploring succor, while fragments of the remaining arch were continually falling into the water. In this extreme danger, a nobleman who was present, held out a purse of one hundred sequins, as a reward to any adventurer who would take a boat, and deliver this unhappy family. But the risk was so great of being borne down by the rapidity of the stream, or being dashed against the fragments of the bridge, or of being crushed by the falling stones, that not one, in the vast number of spectators, had courage enough to attempt such an exploit.

A peasant passing along was informed of the proposed reward. Immediately jumping into a boat, he, by strength of oars, gained the middle of the river, brought his boat under the pile, and the whole family safely descended by means of a rope. “Courage,” cried he; “now you are safe.” By a still more strenuous effort, and great strength of arm, he brought the family and boat to shore.

“Brave fellow!” exclaimed the count, handing the purse to him; “here is the promised recompense.” “I shall never expose my life for money,” said the peasant. “My labor is a sufficient livelihood for myself, my wife and my children. Give the purse to this poor family, who have lost all!”

A Revolutionary Story.

CHAPTER I.

A little to the west of the point where Connecticut river pours itself into Long Island Sound, lies a small, circular piece of land, called Duck Island. It is some two miles in circuit, and perhaps two miles from the shore, which here consists of the fine old town of Saybrook.

It is now about seventy years since this place was the seat of a hospital for the small-pox. At that period the kinepox, since employed to check the most fearful and formidable disease that ever afflicted mankind, was unknown. The only mitigation of small-pox was obtained by inoculation, which produced the disease in a milder form. Those who caught it by infection, or had it the natural way, to use the common phrase of that period, were always supposed to be in imminent danger of losing their lives.

The hospital of Duck island was therefore resorted to by persons who wished to be inoculated for the small-pox. The reason for selecting such a situation was, that no danger of the infection could arise when there were no inhabitants near.

The island itself was originally a barren, sandy knoll, without trees; but the proprietor, Dr. Joinly, had taken pains to cultivate and embellish it, and, at the time of which we speak, it possessed a fertile and inviting aspect. Two large and handsome buildings, with a variety of out-houses, were erected upon the island, and furnished accommodations for the patients of the hospital. The establishment had acquired great reputation, arising from the high professional standing of the proprietor, and the admirable manner in which it was conducted. Nearly a hundred patients were constantly in the hospital, which, with the necessary attendants, made the little island seem like a small city in the midst of the sea.

It might seem that an institution so benignant in its operation should find shelter even from the ravages of war; but it was not so. The revolutionary struggle commenced in 1775, and soon pervaded the whole country. The British fleet, under Lord Howe, fled from Boston in the spring of 1776, and in the course of the summer, after severe fighting, New York fell into the hands of the enemy. Long Island Sound was soon occupied by British ships of war. The hospital on Duck Island was respected for a time,—as much, perhaps, from a fear of infection, as from sentiments of humanity. But this at last fell a victim to the ruthless spirit which animated the foe.

A British ship of war was one day passing near the island. In mere wantonness she opened her battery, and the deadly cannon shot came ploughing up the soil and rending the out-buildings of the hospital. All within the establishment was instantly converted into confusion and uproar. The sick patients leaped from their beds and fled screaming through the passages; while shot after shot now struck the houses, and, piercing them through and through, rendered the whole a scene of indescribable terror and misery. Two or three children were killed, and their blood was spattered upon the walls of the rooms where patients lay, too sick to move from their beds. Some expired from fright, while others, almost naked, and wasted to a shadow, leaped up in frenzy and went raving forth into the open air.

We need not dwell upon this fearful scene, which is only one of the common fruits of the great game of war—a game which has made Alexander and Cæsar and Napoleon so glorious. Dr. Joinly did everything in his power to calm his agitated patients, but in vain. The time of trial was, however, short; the commander of the ship of war only desired to clear out his guns, which had been loaded for some time, and when he had done this, and had some fine sport, he and his iron battery passed on. What was sport to him, however, was agony and death to others. The hospital of Duck Island was destroyed; the buildings were torn to rags by the cannon shot; several persons were killed outright, and others died of agitation and exposure. It was in vain to think of continuing the establishment, when it was exposed to occurrences like this; the patients were removed to the main land, the island was deserted, and the buildings were left to moulder into dust.

It was scenes like this, proceeding from the wanton cruelty of the British forces, that roused the American people to resistance, and united them, heart to heart, for liberty or death. The feelings which the British officers brought to this country, were composed of hatred and contempt; they hated us as rebels, and despised us as Yankees, which, in their ignorant prejudice, meant everything mean and cowardly. They made war upon us, as the sportsman pursues noxious game, which it is a pleasure not only to kill, but to worry, irritate and torment. The attack upon the hospital of Duck Island no doubt passed for a good joke among the British officers; but if so, it was a joke somewhat dearly bought, as we shall see.

The indignation of the people of Saybrook, and indeed of the people generally along the Connecticut shore, on account of the destruction of the hospital, knew no bounds. A movement was immediately made to raise a body of troops, and despatch them against the enemy, now quartered upon Long Island. A regiment was soon assembled, and Dr. Joinly was chosen as colonel. Their proceedings we shall relate in another chapter.

Having a Good Time.

On the opposite page is seen an engraving from one of the pictures of the celebrated Scotch painter, David Wilkie. This artist was a faithful painter of scenes in rustic life; he represented things, honestly, as they are—and he has here given us a picture of what may be called Having a good time; a very common and familiar incident, in many countries. And what is this having a good time?

Look at that man in the picture—by the side of the horse-trough—beastly drunk. Reader, man is an immortal being; he has a soul, destined to live forever; and yet such a being has found the art of making himself, soul and body, that disgusting thing which you see in the picture. And this is called having a good time!

Alas, how fearfully has society strayed in the path of error, to have reached this point! That drunkenness should be thought happiness; and that scenes of this kind should have become so familiar and so little disgusting, as to be selected by the painter with a view to pleasure the world—is a fearful evidence of the strength and pervading nature of those bonds under which a dreadful vice has laid society.

The truth, however, is beginning to manifest itself. That intoxicating liquors are poisonous; that drunkenness is an abomination; that temperance is the path to health and wealth, to happiness here and hereafter, are truths now beginning to be felt by every member of society. Who is there, among us, so dead to truth, so indifferent to human happiness, as not to join heart and hand in the glorious cause of temperance; that great cause which aims at the banishment of the most fruitful sources of human misery; and which aims at the elevation of man to that dignity, peace and happiness for which his Creator, when he formed him after his own image, designed him!

Reader, there is an old-fashioned mode, adopted by the pilgrim fathers of New England, to determine what is right and what is wrong. Anything, said they, is wrong, for the success of which we cannot pray to God. Let us apply this in the present case. Can any one pray for the success of the grog-shop?

Can any one pray for the success of the bar-room—the tippling room? Can any one pray for the success of the distillery? Can any one pray for the success of the wine cellar—the brandy trade—the rum voyage? What does the success of these things mean? Their success means the degradation of mankind; the destruction of soul and body; the gradual preparing of human beings to commit crimes—theft, burglary, robbery and murder; the preparation of human beings to become insane—to be the victims of disease—to be outcasts and paupers. The success of the rum trade—the wine trade—the cider trade—in all their forms, retail and wholesale, means all this. Who, then, can pray to God for the success of these trades? and who will venture to promote or follow a system which they know excites the frown of Heaven, and must finally bring the curse of mankind?

Examination at Bow Street.—A prisoner being brought up to London, the following dialogue passed between him and the sitting magistrate: “How do you live?”—“Pretty well, sir; generally a joint and pudding at dinner!”—“I mean, sir, how do you get your bread?”—“I beg your worship’s pardon; sometimes at the baker’s, and sometimes at the chandler’s shop.”—“You may be as witty as you please, sir; but I mean simply to ask you, how you do?” “Tolerably well, I thank your worship; I hope your worship is well.”

Honest Tar.—John Barth, the Dunkirk fisherman, rose by his courage and naval skill to the rank of commodore of a squadron in the navy of France. When he was ennobled by Louis XIV., the king said to him, “John Barth, I have made you a commodore.” John replied, “You have done right!”

July.

Now comes July, and with his fervid noon
Unsinews labor. The swinkt mower sleeps;
The maid walks feebly; the warm swain
Pitches his load reluctant: the faint steer,
Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along
The slow encumbered wain in mid-day heat.

Such is the picture of this month, drawn by an old English poet. With us the heat is still greater than in England; yet the farmers keep busily at work in the fields; and, to say truth, it is about as comfortable to be at work as to be idle. You see in the picture that our fat friend, who is only looking on, wipes his face and seems as hot as those who are in the field at work, hoeing the corn.

Leigh Hunt, an elegant English writer, says: “The heat is greatest during this month, on account of its duration. There is a sense of heat and quiet all over nature. The birds are silent. The little brooks are dried up. The earth is parched. The shadows of the trees are particularly grateful, heavy and still. The oaks, which are freshest because latest in leaf, form noble, clumpy canopies, looking, as you lie under them, of a strong, emulous green, against the blue sky. The traveller delights to cut across the country, through the fields and the leafy lanes, where, nevertheless, the flints sparkle with heat. The cattle get into the shade or stand in the water. The active and air-cutting swallows now beginning to assemble for migration, seek their prey among the shady places, where the insects, though of differently compounded natures, ‘fleshless and bloodless,’ seem to get for coolness, as they do at other times for warmth. The sound of insects is likewise the only audible sound now, increasing rather than lessening the sense of quiet, by its gentle contrast. The bee now and then sweeps across the ear with his gravest tone.”

On the 24th of this month commence the dog-days, which are a number of days preceding and following the rise of Sirius, or the dog-star, in the morning. There were formerly many superstitions concerning the dog-star. Some old authors say, that “On the first day that this star rises in the morning, the sea boils, wine turns sour, dogs begin to grow mad, all animals feel languid, and the diseases it occasions in men are fevers, frenzies and hysterics.” The Romans used to sacrifice a brown dog, every year, to the dog-star, on his first rising, to appease his rage. The heat of the weather during the dog-days is very great; the sun darts his rays almost perpendicularly upon the earth, and some diseases are consequently at that time more to be dreaded. But the exaggerated effects of the rising of Sirius are quite groundless.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

CHAPTER I.

The beginning.—My earliest recollections.—My home.—My parents.—A fearful scene.

Kind reader, as you and I are about to take a ramble together, I beg leave to settle one or two points at the outset. In the first place, then, I shall tell you my story in a very simple, plain way; for the circumstances of my life have qualified me to speak in no other fashion. In the next place, I shall endeavor to make my story the means of giving you some useful information. I have been a wanderer over the Far West; have seen the rivers, the mountains, the valleys, the wild animals, the tribes of Indians that are there; I have crossed the Rocky Mountains, and stood upon the shore of the broad Pacific; and I have thus picked up a good deal of information. While, therefore, I shall give you an account of my adventures, I shall endeavor to make you acquainted with some matters relating to the geography, the natural history, and the manners and customs of the great West. Thus, while I shall try to amuse you, I will try also to give you some little knowledge. I hope this arrangement will suit you; for if I give you cake, to which I compare tales of adventure, you should be content to take, now and then, a slice of solid bread and butter, to which I compare such useful matters as geography and natural history.

And now to begin. At the period of my earliest recollection, I must have been about six years old. My father was then living on the White river, about one hundred miles west of the Mississippi, and in what is now the state of Arkansas. His house, which was only a log cabin, was four or five miles from any other white man’s dwelling. There was no town or village in that quarter; excepting a few scattered settlers here and there, the country was still uninhabited, except by native wild animals, or roving tribes of Indians.

The latter were at peace with the whites for a long period, and therefore we had no fear of them. We frequently saw parties of Indian hunters, and occasionally considerable numbers came into the region where we dwelt. They often visited our cabin, but never gave us any annoyance. But the time arrived when a change took place. We heard fearful stories of Indian massacres, and more than one family, in the region where we lived, were entirely cut off.

I remember that one night my father came home and told my mother that a party of Kickapoos had been in the neighborhood and killed every member of the family which lived nearest to us. He, of course, expected they would be upon us before morning. What was now to be done? The number of the savages was over a dozen, and it seemed quite hopeless to attempt either resistance or escape. If we were to fortify the house, we might make a brief defence, and kill a few of the enemy, but we must yield at last, and fall into the hands of our exasperated foe. If we were to fly, the savages, keen as bloodhounds in following their prey, would soon track us out, and we should become their easy victims.

People who are brought up in quiet and secure towns, free from the dangers of the wilderness, and who only hear of adventures with the Indians, can hardly appreciate the feelings of those who are inured to every species of danger and trial. I remember the looks of my father and mother upon that fearful night, when they expected the savages to be upon their dwelling in a few hours, and to see themselves and their children become the victims of their bloody vengeance. They were brave people, and, though their countenances looked troubled, there was more of courage than fear in their faces.

There were four of us children: my brother Dick, about fourteen years old; my sister Jane, two years younger, and little Harry, a year younger than myself. The decision of our parents being to fortify the house and make the best defence in their power, we were all, except Harry, employed in the preparations. The latter was the only one who did not comprehend what was going on. While the rest of us were busy in bringing in the axes, hoes, spades, and other implements capable of being used for a deadly encounter, Harry was running about, seeming to enjoy the flurry and rejoice in the spirit of activity that animated the scene.

Everything that could be done was at last accomplished. The windows were strongly barred; the door was barricadoed; the wide-mouthed chimney, down which an Indian might easily have slid, was defended by large sticks crossed and jammed into the crevices of the stone work of the fire-place. Near the door sat our dog, Tiger; he was stretched upon his belly at full length on the floor, with his chin between his extended fore legs. He was not asleep, for it was evident that he understood that something fearful was in the wind. An erect forecorner of his ear showed that he was listening intently; and his eye, steadily bent toward the door, betokened the expectation of danger in that direction.

My father loaded the old gun, now our chief hope, with care; he picked the flint, examined the priming, looked at his stock of powder and ball; and now, as if everything was prepared, sat down. I remember how he looked, when he now turned round and viewed my mother and us children. I remember how she looked too. My father’s lips trembled, and his eyes seemed to grow dim, for he lifted his hand and brushed it across his brow; but in a moment he looked again at his priming, glanced at old Tiger, and fixed his eye on the door and sat still. His face now became as stern as marble. My mother sat on a bench in one corner, and we children behind her upon the floor. By her side was an axe. She was very pale, and her eye turned often, first on father and then up to Heaven. Once in a while, she looked round on us, and especially upon little Harry, with a long gaze, as if it might be her last, and then a kind of shudder came over her. I think my mother was a very beautiful woman, for never in any dream has anything so like an angel visited my fancy, as my faint remembrances of my mother in that fearful hour. Her eyes were blue, her hair light, and her whole appearance soft and gentle. Never did she seem so gentle as when she looked around on us; yet, as she gazed on the axe at her side, and stole a glance around upon the defences of our little fort, her look changed, and she had the aspect of a hero.

We sat for more than an hour in breathless silence. Every ear was stretched to catch the slightest sound, until the effort became painful. At last, Tiger lifted his head and uttered a low growl. In an instant after, he sprang to his feet, his eye glittering like fire, every muscle of his body being stretched for action. My father looked through a crevice he had left for observation. It was a clear moonlight night, and soon he saw four dusky figures gliding through the edge of the adjacent forest. He turned to mother, and said, in a firm tone, “They are coming!” She reached for the axe; I saw her fingers tremble as she grasped it. Dick, with a stout club, moved forward and stood by my father. He was a noble fellow; black-eyed, black-haired, and daring as a wild-cat. His look gave tone and courage to us all. He was stout for his years, and as he turned round to look at the group in the corner, there was something in his manner which seemed to say,—“You shall have a brave defence!”

There was silence for some time, when suddenly the most fearful yell burst upon our ears! It seemed to come from a hundred voices, and filled the forest with its terrific echoes. The scream of the panther is not so terrible as the war-cry of the savage, especially when heard at night, and by those who are exposed to his fury. Nearer and nearer came the yell, and at last we heard the enemy around our dwelling. My father, who kept his eye steady at the crevice, now slowly thrust the muzzle of his gun through the hole, and taking a deliberate aim, he fired. There was one wild yell, a heavy fall, a brisk scampering, and then a death-like silence. This continued for some time, when again the war-whoop burst from the forest, and at least a dozen savages immediately surrounded our dwelling. They encompassed it with dry leaves and branches, and set them on fire. In a few minutes the smoke began to issue into the room, and shortly the outside of our little cabin was wrapped in a sheet of flame.

Up to this time, my remembrance of the scene is very distinct; but what immediately followed, I cannot clearly recall. I have a faint recollection, or fancy, of my father, rushing out through the blaze, and struggling with a tall Indian in the flames, till they both fell exhausted and involved in the conflagration. I have a dim remembrance of my mother, bursting out through the falling timbers, carrying little Harry on her back, and leading Jane and myself through the flames. But I was suffocated with smoke and overwhelmed with the terrors of the scene. From this point my memory of that dreadful night is a blank—save one incident alone. Old Tiger and Dick went before my mother, as if they were her peculiar guard. The poor dog was dreadfully singed, for he had already had one or two deadly tussles with the Indians in the flames. The long silken hair of his ears and tail was burnt off, and the latter stuck out straight and stiff, looking actually as if it had been cooked. In that fearful hour, I remember to have thought that it had quite a ludicrous appearance.

The poor dog, however, had his senses about him, and kept with my mother and Dick, till we had proceeded a considerable distance. We were concealed from the view of the Indians by a dense cloud of smoke, that rolled between us and them. We had not gone far, however, before we were discovered, and two savages immediately pursued us. Coming up with us, they fell upon Dick, who defended himself for a time, but receiving a blow upon the head, he was laid prostrate on the earth. Tiger, half dead as he was, sprang upon his body, and stood erect for his defence. One of the savages struck him over the head, and, with a sad moan, the poor creature lay dead by the side of his master. A sickness now came over me. I tottered, and fell unconscious to the ground.—(To be continued.)

Passage of Mountains in India.

Armies sometimes find it necessary to pass over the mountainous districts of India. In such cases their cannon, tents, and baggage are transported by means of elephants. It is always a difficult, and not unfrequently a dangerous business; the elephants being so clumsy, and withal so heavy, that a single misstep might prove fatal not only to them, but to all who accompany them. The following is an account of the manner in which the guns belonging to a regiment were conveyed, by means of elephants, over a high hill, or ghaut as it is called.

Having cut a good deal of the most prominent part of the hill away, and laid trees on the ascent as a footing for the elephants, these animals were made to approach it, which the first did with some reluctance and fear. He looked up, shook his head, and, when forced by his driver, roared piteously. There can be no question, in my opinion, that this sagacious animal was competent instinctively to judge of the practicability of the artificial flight of steps thus constructed; for the moment some little alteration had been made, he seemed willing to approach.

He then commenced his examination and scrutiny, by pressing with his trunk the trees that had been thrown across; and after this he put his fore leg upon them with great caution, raising the fore part of his body, so as to throw its weight on them. This done, he seemed satisfied as to their stability. The next step for him to ascend by was a projecting rock, which we could not remove. Here the same sagacious examination took place, the elephant keeping his side close to the side of the bank, and leaning against it. The next step was upon a tree; but this, on the first pressure of his trunk, he did not like. Here his driver made use of the most tender epithets, such as, “Wonderful, my life!”—“Well done, my dear!”—“My dove!”—“My son!”—“My wife!” But all these endearing appellations, of which elephants are so fond, would not induce him to try again. Force was at length resorted to, and the elephant roared terrifically, but would not move. Something was then removed; he seemed satisfied, as before; and thus in time ascended that stupendous ghaut. On his reaching the top, his delight was visible in a most eminent degree; he caressed his keepers, and threw the dirt about in a very playful manner.

Another elephant, a much younger animal, was now to follow. He had watched the ascent of the other with the most intense interest, making motions all the while, as though he was assisting him by shouldering him up the acclivity; such gestures as I have seen some men make, when spectators of gymnastic exercises. When he saw his comrade up, he evinced his pleasure by giving a salute something like the sound of a trumpet. When called upon to take his turn, he seemed much alarmed, and would not act at all without force. When he was two steps up, he slipped, but recovered himself by digging his toes in the earth. With the exception of this little accident, he ascended exceedingly well. When this elephant was near the top, the other, who had already performed his task, extended his trunk to the assistance of his brother in distress, round which the young animal entwined his, and thus reached the summit of the ghaut in safety.

Having both accomplished their task, their greeting was as cordial as if they had been long separated from each other, and had just escaped from some perilous achievement. They mutually embraced each other, and stood face to face for a considerable time, as if whispering congratulations. Their driver then made them salam or bow to the general, who ordered them five rupees each for sweetmeats. On this reward of their merit being ordered, they immediately returned thanks by another salam.

WHISTLING TOM;

A FORECASTLE BALLAD.
MUSIC AND WORDS COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

1
Did you never hear of poor whistling Tom,
A sailor who loved the sea?
As brave as a lion was whistling Tom,
And blithe as a lark was he!
2
A gale was a frolic to poor old Tom,—
He called it a cracking breeze,—
And gaily he whistled whenever the blast
Drove the maddened ship o’er the seas.
3
His trill was soft as a nightingale’s song,
Yet you heard it above the roar:

Though the vessel dashed and the billow flashed,

Tom only whistled the more.
4
If reefing a topsail that shivered aloft,—
While the yards dipped deep in the spray,—
Like a careless bird in his stormy swing,
He whistled and worked away.
5
But the bravest must die, and poor old Tom
One night made the wave his pillow—
He sleeps there yet, though he whistles oft,
When the tempest lashes the billow.
6

I have heard his note in the midst of the blast—

It wailed like a spirit’s tone—
He seemed aloft on the staggering mast,
And whistled—“poor Tom’s alone!”
7
As the tempest rises the strain grows wild,
And shrieks in the ocean’s roar—
When the storm is past it dies away,
And poor Tom is heard no more.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

The Giraffe, or Camelopard.

Here is a picture of the tallest animal that is known. He measures almost six yards from the ground to the top of his ears. He is as tall as a small house.

The giraffe lives in the wilds of Africa; he is never tamed and put to work like the horse. His skin is fawn-colored, with black spots. He is a timid creature, and runs away as fast as he can scamper whenever a man comes near.

Sometimes the lion attacks the giraffe; his only defence in such a case is to turn round and kick the lion as hard as he can. Sometimes he succeeds in defending himself in this way, but often he falls a victim to the fierce king of beasts.

The giraffe is occasionally caught and carried to Paris and London and this country. There have been several in the United States; but they are tender creatures, and are very apt to die if taken away from their native country.

The Arbor.

Here are two girls and a boy in the arbor; one of the girls is reading, and the others are listening. It is a pleasant thing to be beneath a roof of green leaves, and to be surrounded by sweet-scented flowers. It is a very pleasant thing to sit down in such a place with an agreeable book. Do you not envy the children in the picture?

And what book do you imagine they are reading? Perhaps it is one of the numbers of Parley’s Cabinet Library, which Messrs. Bradbury & Soden have just published. No doubt you have read them; but I will tell you about one of the volumes that is to be published in a few days.

It is entitled Curiosities of Human Nature, and it gives an account of a great many wonderful people. It tells about Zerah Colburn, who was a natural arithmetician. One day, his father heard him, while he was a little child playing among the chips, saying the multiplication table to himself. His father then began to examine him, and he found that he could answer almost any question in arithmetic, although he was only six years old, and could not read, and had never been taught anything.

His father took Zerah to Boston and New York, and other places, and the child astonished everybody, by his wonderful answers to arithmetical questions. He could tell how many minutes there were in two thousand years; how many steps, three feet long, it would take to go round the earth; he could find the square root and the cube root of any number. His performances were indeed amazing.

Mr. Colburn, finally, set off with his son for England; here the child was visited by thousands of people. They then went to France, and he excited such an interest there, that Bonaparte had him put into one of the colleges of Paris.

I cannot tell you the whole story of Zerah, but you will find it, and many other curious and wonderful lives, in the number of Parley’s Cabinet Library of which I speak. You will find the story of a miser, who shut himself in a vault with his money, and where, though surrounded with silver and gold, he perished miserably for the want of bread and water. You will find the story of the great Sir Isaac Newton, who, when a child, made a little mill, and put a kitten in it, whom he called the miller; you will find the story of Elijah Thayer, who went, a few months since, to see Victoria, queen of England, and tell her that she would very soon be obliged to wash her own dishes.

Among other things in Parley’s book, you will find the story of a very wonderful man named Joseph Clark. This person could twist his face about so that his most intimate friends would not know him. He could also distort his body in the most strange manner. Here is a picture of him.

Clark was a pleasant, funny fellow, and he often amused himself and others with his queer tricks. One day he went to a tailor to have a coat made. When the tailor measured him he had a huge hump on his right shoulder. When he went to try on the coat, the hump was on the left shoulder. The tailor was greatly astonished—begged pardon for his blunder, and straightway undertook to alter the coat. When Clark went again to try it on, behold the villanous hump was in the middle of his back!

Fire-works at Rome.

All my little readers have heard of the great city of Rome, in Italy. It was begun about 2500 years ago, and a great many wonderful events have taken place there.

Rome is not so large and splendid as it once was, but it is still a great city. The pope, who is the head of the Catholic church, lives there, and the ceremonies of that church are very grand and imposing in Rome. I could tell you a great deal about these ceremonies, but I have not time now.

I will, however, say a word of what is called the Carnival. This is a time in which the Catholics have feasts, dances and frolics. Some of them dress up in strange attire, and go about, making a great deal of sport. The carnival in Rome is really a great time. Thousands of people, from all the countries round about, flock to the city, where they amuse themselves in various ways.

One of the most wonderful things that takes place, is the fire-works. Perhaps you have seen fire-works on Boston common, but those of Rome are far more splendid. St. Peter’s Church is suddenly illuminated, and the great castle of St. Angelo sends up a vast flood of rockets,—red, blue, purple and yellow. The air seems filled with golden lights; the skies appear to be showering down stars of every hue; and while all this is going on, the glad voices of thousands of people are applauding the scene.

Fire-works at Rome.

Careless Nancy.

Carelessness is a sad thing. How many troubles flow from it! Look at the picture—and see what has happened!

Nancy left her best bonnet in the chair, and the dog, Flirt, has got it. Here’s a pretty kettle of fish! See how the puppy munches the straw-braid, and how he mumbles the boquets of ribbons!

Now, who is to blame for all this? Is Flirt to blame?—why, he is only a puppy—a young creature so full of fun and frolic that he hardly knows what to do with himself. But Nancy is a rational creature; she has been told to be careful; she knows that Flirt is a playful rogue, and is very likely to seize upon anything left in his way.

Oh, Nancy, Nancy! you scold Flirt, and you box his ears, and lay the ruin of your nice new bonnet to him; but, my dear child, it is you who are in fault.

Charity.

Charity is a beautiful word, and means many beautiful things. Here, in the picture, is a poor old man; he is lame, and cannot hardly walk. He sits by the way-side and holds out his hat to those who are passing by; and you see that the boy is dropping a piece of money into his hat. Thus the poor old man gets a living.

This giving to the poor is called charity, or alms-giving. It is our duty to give a part of what we have to those who are poor and needy. But there are other kinds of charity, which it is our duty to practise.

We should not only give money to the poor, but we should give to all, kind thoughts, kind wishes, kind words. This is a noble species of charity, and while it tends to make others happy, it cultivates sweet peace in our own bosoms. Let all my young friends practise this species of charity.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER VI.

Jack visits the bee-hives.—Swarming.—Hiving.

One day Jack was going along by a row of bee-hives, which belonged to his father, when he observed an unusual confusion among the bees of one of them. A great many bees were going in and out at the holes of the hive, buzzing with their wings, and seeming to be in the greatest flurry. Besides this, the bees had collected on the outside of the hive in a great mass, at least an inch deep in one place.

Jack had seen the bee-hives so often that he had not thought much about them; but now his attention was fixed. He stopped and began to look at what was going on, particularly among the bees of the hive we have mentioned. “I guess it’s Sunday,” said Jack to himself, “among these creatures, or perhaps it’s election day, and they are going to choose a governor or president. Oh—I recollect—aunt Piper told me once that the bees were governed by a queen; and perhaps they are now going to choose one.”

Saying this, Jack sat down upon the grass, and, hitching pretty close to the hive, quietly contemplated the scene. The buzzing of the bees made a roar all around the hive, and though those which had settled into a heap were quiet, there were many who reminded one of the marshals on the 17th of June, in managing the procession to Bunker Hill: they were flying hither and thither—back and forth—up and down—round and round—in and out—appearing to be brim full of something very important, but really doing nothing, after all. With them it was buzz, buzz, buzz!

Jack had looked quietly on for about half an hour, when he saw an unusual agitation in the bees that had congregated upon the outside of the hive; they began to flutter their little wings, and run this way and that. All at once a portion of them took to flight, and rising about forty feet in the air, whirled round and round for a few minutes, and then streamed away upon the wind. They were followed by others, so that a continued line of bees was distinctly visible in the air.

Jack, greatly excited, followed the runaway bees, thinking to himself—“if you are about to desert in this fashion, I guess I’ll find where you are going to!”—so he followed the stream, and, at the distance of about fifty rods, he found that they began to light upon an apple-tree. Here they collected very fast, and pretty soon he could see them gathered in a large dark mass upon one of the limbs. He now ran home and told his father what was going on.

Jack’s father set out with another man for the scene of action, having provided a new hive and a brass kettle. When they came to the apple-tree, they began to beat the kettle, under the idea that such kind of music is apt to induce bees, when swarming, to settle down the more readily. Pretty soon the whole company had arrived and alighted upon the limb. They were collected one upon the other, and the whole mass looked about as large round as a man’s arm.

The new hive was now placed upon a bench beneath the tree, and some honey was put near the holes. At evening, the limb upon which the bees were clinging was carefully cut down, and placed near the hive. In the morning the bees began to leave their place upon the bough, and to enter the hive. In a short space they had all taken up their abode in it, and immediately they began to build cells, in which to store their honey. That evening the hive was removed and placed upon the same platform as the other hives. Its inhabitants seemed all pleased with their new home, and very soon they had stored it with honey.

These events made a strong impression upon Jack’s mind, and turned his attention to the study of bees. He learned a great many curious things about them, but still he was obliged to ask his aunt Piper a multitude of questions, in order to gratify his curiosity. I may as well tell the substance of what he learned about bees, in another chapter.

The 4th of July.

What a great day is the 4th of July! In the morning the bells are set a-ringing and guns are fired. During the day, the people get together, and some one makes a great speech to them.

This is called independent day. Do my readers know why the 4th of July is thus noticed? Perhaps not—so I will tell them.

A great many years ago, our country was ruled by the king of England. The people did not like this; they wished to be free; to govern themselves in their own way, and live as they pleased.

Accordingly, a great dispute arose between the people of our country and the king of England. The people said they would not obey the king, and the king said they should obey him. He sent his armies over here to compel the people to submit.

All this made a great ferment in the country. A great battle took place at Bunker Hill, near Boston, on the 17th of June, 1775, and hundreds were killed on both sides. It is on account of this battle that the monument is erected there, the completion of which was so beautifully celebrated on the 17th of last June. A great many of my readers, no doubt, saw the splendid procession, on that occasion, consisting of the president of the United States, and the governor of Massachusetts, and many other distinguished men; several thousand soldiers; the members of a great many societies; together with a great many other persons. It was indeed a splendid sight.

Although the king of England sent his soldiers to fight our forefathers, they were not frightened. They mustered armies, and sent them to fight the British armies. They also sent some of their wisest men to Philadelphia to consider the state of things and determine what was best to be done.

On the 4th July, 1776, these wise men determined that it was best for the country to be free. They therefore sent forth a famous paper, called the Declaration of Independence. This sets forth the wrongs which the country has suffered at the hands of the king of England, and declares the solemn purpose of the American people thenceforward to become a free, sovereign and independent nation.

The people received this declaration with joy. They celebrated it with bonfires, and music, and processions, and rejoicings. Ever since that day, the 4th of July, being the day in which this declaration was passed by the congress at Philadelphia, has been noticed as a day of rejoicing. It is considered the birth-day of our national independence, and as such, it is regarded as our great national anniversary.

To Correspondents.

We have several letters from our correspondents, for which we offer thanks. To C. H. H., of Andover, who wishes to hear more about Bill Keeler, we can only say that as soon as convenient, we will attend to his request. Several of our friends have sent us correct answers to the puzzle in the June number of the Museum. The following deserves insertion. Our Providence friends will see that a piece of music is given, as promised. We hope it will please them, as well as our other readers.

North Bridgewater, June 14, 1843.

Mr. Robert Merry,—I have taken your Museum for two years past, and I like it very much. I think that the story of the Siberian Sable Hunter is very interesting, and I think that the June number is very interesting; and so I thought I must answer the puzzle that is in it. I have always studied them out, and have thought I should like to answer them, but I never have until now; I shall give the answer in the form of an acrostic, and if you think it deserves a place in your Museum, you can put it in.

Bass is the name of a fish much admired,

East is the point of compass the wise men desired,

Lathe is an article used under mortar,

The Table is furnished with food and with water,

Easter is a day that is kept by the church of Rome,

Sahara is a desert a great way from home,

Hatred is a passion much to be deplored in the mind,

Arts have done much to enlighten mankind,

Zebra is a pretty animal, but not very stout,

Z was the letter which I had to guess out,

Abel, the antediluvian, was killed by Cain,

Rat is a troublesome animal to man;

The whole is the name that king Nebuchadnezzar

Gave to Daniel the prophet, and called Belteshazzar.

From a blue-eyed friend, B. W. P.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VI. AUGUST, 1843. No. 2.

Hindostan.

Hindostan is a vast country in Asia, containing almost one half as much territory as the whole of Europe, and one hundred and forty millions of inhabitants.

Yet Hindostan is governed by Great Britain, which is almost ten thousand miles distant—which has but twenty-four millions of people, and a territory not more than one tenth part as large as that of Hindostan.

How is Great Britain able to govern such a vast country—so superior in extent and in population, and at the same time so distant? It is done by the superior knowledge, energy and skill of the English people. The people of Hindostan are ignorant and indolent; they are content to dwell in houses made of bamboo-cane, covered with palm leaves: they love to sit for hours in indolent repose, careless of the past and the future: they are satisfied with a little rice for food, and a tea-cup full will suffice for a day. Such a people become an easy prey to such busy, grasping people as the English. A few thousand British soldiers keep one hundred and forty millions of Hindoos in subjection. It is indeed a wonderful thing, and it shows what a mighty difference there is between an educated and industrious people and an ignorant and lazy people.

Peter Somebody and the Woodpecker’s Nest.

The following story is sent to us by one who affirms that he knew Peter in his boyhood—and he assures us that this story is true, every word of it.

Peter Somebody was the companion of my youth, and at an early period of his boyhood commenced that series of observations in the field of nature which has enabled him in maturer years to tell so many stories about the objects of nature.

Almost from his infancy, he delighted in being out of doors. He loved to wander through the fields—in the forests—through the wild and uncultivated glen—to climb the mountain’s top and walk along the giddy precipice.

Nor were these idle rambles. In the course of them he made himself acquainted with birds and insects and creeping things—whatever was rare and singular engaged his attention, but most of all was he pleased with those plans which led to adventure. In his excursions he was often attended by several other boys, belonging to the neighborhood, of whom he was always the leader—the first to move forward and the last to get tired out. It may well be said of him, what was said of another choice spirit:

“If e’er a pleasant mischief sprung to view,
At once o’er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.”

Bird-hunting and egg-gathering were among the favorite sports of our boyhood. Often we collected quite a quantity of eggs, thus robbing the poor birds of their rightful property, and a proper place for which it had cost them much labor to provide. I do not mention this because I now approve of the practice, but for the purpose, among other things, of expressing my regret for the example which I then set. It is considered, ofte-times, great sport by unthinking boys, but what is sport to them is the source of sorrow and mourning to the harmless beings, whose labors and hopes they thus destroy.

But to my story. We were wont, as I said, to make frequent excursions after eggs. Those of the red-headed woodpecker were sought for with peculiar zeal, not only on account of their singular beauty, but from the great number which the nest of that bird often contains.

This nest is generally a hollow place in the trunk or limb of a tree, formed by the natural process of decay, or dug out by the perseverance of the bird itself. The manner in which it digs its hole is quite worthy of notice. First, it digs horizontally into the body of the tree for five or six inches, and then downwards in a sloping direction, for about a foot.

One day, I well recollect that Peter and myself, with another companion, were abroad in chase of adventure, when suddenly a woodpecker was seen flying round a tree, apparently in great distress. Its hole was some distance up the tree. The cause of its distress was unsuspected—but Peter, ever ready for investigation, threw down his coat and prepared to ascertain the cause. Access to the hole was quite difficult, and his companion, with myself, seriously remonstrated against the undertaking.

“Not so easily discouraged as all that,” said Peter. “What would you chicken-hearts do on the mast in a gale of wind?—come, give us a boost, and I’ll soon see what is the cause of the red-headed gentleman’s distress.” “May be,” said Seth, (our companion, who never went by any other name, and who was as fond of a joke as Peter ever was,)—“may be, his wife is sick.”

“Well,” replied Peter, “here the doctor comes”—and with this he began his upward progress; Seth and myself tugging as hard to raise him as sailors would to raise a fast anchor. I would not intimate, however, that Peter’s climbing powers were by any means small. Once started, whatever difficulties lay in the way, it was all railroad to him. He was therefore soon up the tree, as the saying is, and was busily occupied in making the desired search.

The hole of the woodpecker is often quite small. This, Peter well knew from his former experience. He had therefore stripped up his shirt-sleeve and inserted his bare arm. Seth and myself were at the bottom, eyeing the operation most intently, as in such cases is most common. All at once, Peter uttered a wild sort of exclamation, and for a moment we thought he would come tumbling down.

“Hold on, hold on!” we both at the same time exclaimed, “hold on!”

“I’ve got you,” said Peter; his countenance indicating the grasp with which he had clenched something—at the same time mingled with some discomposure of spirit.

“What is it?” inquired I—“what have you got?”

“Is the old lady sick?” said Seth, in his dry and caustic manner.

All this time, Peter was trying to extract his hand with his clenched booty, and severe was the rake which he gave it, before he succeeded. But at length, with a sort of desperation, it came, and with it a hideous black snake! Fortunately he had seized it in the precise part which he could have wished—a little below the throat. Such had been his grasp that the mouth of the snake was wide open, and he looked as wildly and in as much of an agony as Sam Patch did in his leap from the Genesee falls.

Peter hurled the snake to the ground, where he soon followed. I imagine that he looked for once somewhat pale, but his usual flush again returned, and he was soon ready for fresh adventure.

George Washington.—When George Washington, afterwards the president of America, was about six years of age, some one made him a present of a hatchet, of which being, like most children, immoderately fond, he went about chopping everything that came in his way; and going into the garden, he unluckily tried its edge on an English cherry tree, which he barked so terribly, as to leave little hope of its recovery.

The next morning, his father saw the tree, which was a great favorite, in that condition, and inquired who had done this mischief, declaring he would not have taken five guineas for the tree; but nobody could inform him. Presently after, George came, with the hatchet in his hand, into the place where his father was, who immediately suspected him to be the culprit.

“George,” said the old gentleman, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden?” The child hesitated for a moment, and then nobly replied, “I can’t tell a lie, pa; you know I can’t tell a lie; I did cut it with my hatchet.” “Run to my arms, my boy,” exclaimed his father, “run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you killed my tree, for you have paid me for it, a thousand fold. Such an act of heroism is, my son, of more worth than a thousand cherry trees, if blossomed with silver, or bearing fruits of gold!”

London, Past and Present.

London, the capital of the British Empire, and by far the most splendid city on the globe, is about two thousand years old. It has long been the principal city in England, but its increase has been much greater of late years than formerly.

Notwithstanding the antiquity of its origin, almost everything now existing in London is of recent construction. The Tower, Westminster Abbey, and a few other edifices, are of some antiquity, but by far the larger portion of this vast metropolis is less than a century old. We give a view of a portion of London, as it was almost two hundred years ago. Not a single edifice which appears in that picture, is now standing; and the hills which are visible in the distance, are now entirely spread over with a dense mass of buildings.

The increase of London, within the last twenty years, is amazing. Hundreds of acres are now covered with buildings, which twenty years since were open fields; multitudes of streets and squares, displaying the utmost magnificence, are now seen, which a dozen years ago were not thought of. London now contains nearly two millions of people; they pay two millions of dollars a week for labor; use forty millions of gallons of water a day; devour two millions of sheep, ten millions of gallons of milk, four millions of herrings, four millions of mackerel, and two millions of lobsters, every year! What will London get to be, if it goes on a century more, increasing as it has done for the last few years?

London two hundred years ago.

Whale Stories.

NO. I.—DESTRUCTION OF A VESSEL BY A WHALE.

A remarkable story is related of the ship Essex, which belonged to Nantucket, an island lying off the coast of Massachusetts, long celebrated for the enterprise of its inhabitants, in the whale fishery.

This vessel, commanded by Capt. Pollard, sailed from Nantucket in 1820, for the Pacific Ocean. On her arrival at the place of her destination, the crew began to fish for whales, and for a time went on prosperously. One day, the seamen harpooned a young whale. In this species of fish, the affection of the mother for her young is very strong; and, on this occasion, that affection was exhibited in a striking manner.

Having discovered that her child—if we may so denominate it—was killed, she withdrew to some distance from the ship, and then, rushing through the water with great violence, drove furiously against the stern of the vessel. Such was the force of the shock, that several of the timbers were loosened, and the vessel pitched and reeled, as if struck by a whirlwind.

Not satisfied with this exhibition of her displeasure, she retired again, to the distance perhaps of a mile, and then, shooting through the waves with incredible swiftness, came like a thunderbolt upon the bow of the vessel. The timbers were instantly beaten in, and the ship began to fill with water. Scarcely had the crew sufficient warning to throw themselves into the boat, before she went down.

This transition, to the seamen, was as distressing as unexpected. Just before, they were all animation; but in a moment, as it were, a dark prospect spread before them. A wide, heaving and perilous ocean lay all around them. An open boat was their only hope, and hundreds of miles separated them from land.

In such a situation, what could they do? For some time, they momently expected the return of their exasperated foe; and in such an event, the “dark unfathomed caves of ocean,” they were sure, would be their grave.

But a merciful providence protected them from the anticipated danger. They saw no more of the wrathful monster. But, nevertheless, they suffered much, for many days, from boisterous weather, but more from the want of both food and water.

At length, one day, their weary eyes caught the sight of a distant ship. They instantly made sail towards her, and, fortunately, were descried by her crew. They were taken on board, where they were kindly treated; and after other vicissitudes, which we have no time to relate, reached their respective homes in safety. Surely they that go upon the wide ocean see great wonders, and often experience wonderful preservation!

NO. II.—DEATH OF A HARPOONER BY A WHALE-LINE.

In the year 1822, two boats, belonging to the ship Baffin, went in pursuit of a whale.

Of one of these boats, a seaman by the name of John Carr was harpooner and commander.

As they pursued the whale, it continued to flee, until, at length, it mingled with a vast shoal of other whales, which they estimated at not fewer than a hundred. Fearful of alarming them, without being able to strike one, they remained for a time motionless.

At last, one rose not far distant from Carr’s boat, upon which he ordered a pull for it. At this time, the fish was approaching them, and on passing, the whizzing harpoon was imbedded deep within its body.

In an instant following, the whale shot nearly with the rapidity of lightning by the boat, and in so doing jerked the line out of its place over the stern, and threw it upon the gunwale. This caused the boat to dip, and nearly to fill with water.

It was a moment of great peril. Carr, who was a brave and active seaman, seized the line, and endeavored to relieve the boat by restoring it to its place; but, by some circumstance, which was never accounted for, a turn or coil of the line flew over his arm, dragged him overboard in an instant, and drew him under the water, never more to rise.

So sudden was the accident, that only one man, who was watching him, saw what had happened; so that when the boat righted, which it immediately did, though half full of water, the whole crew, on looking round, inquired what had become of Carr.

This was a sudden and awful exit from the world. He had not time even for a single exclamation. The man, who saw his removal, observed, that it was so quick, that, though his eye was upon him at the moment, he could scarcely distinguish his figure, as he disappeared. How painful to hear of such a sudden and unexpected summons of a fellow-being from time into eternity! How important to be prepared for death, since, when we least expect it, we may be called to our final account!

It may be added, that when the crew had in a measure recovered from their consternation, they applied themselves to restore things to order. In the mean time, the wounded whale rose to the surface, upon which a harpoon from the other boat was thrown, and several lances were applied; but it was all in vain.

The awful catastrophe, just witnessed, so wrought upon the minds of the seamen, that they had no spirit to follow up the advantage which they had gained. The whale was suffered to remain some minutes unmolested, till, having recovered a degree of energy, it burst away by means of desperate efforts, and effected its escape.

NO. III.—PERILOUS SITUATION OF A BOAT-STEERER.

During a voyage of the ship Resolution, in 1806, in pursuit of whales, in a very high latitude, one was discovered at some distance, upon which a boat put off for the purpose of capturing it.

Before coming up with it, it dived; but soon again making its appearance, the crew succeeded in plunging a harpoon into its body. The wound being less severe than was intended, the whale in its rage struck the boat at the stern with its tail, and knocked the steersman overboard.

As the line in a moment dragged the boat beyond his reach, the crew flung several of their oars towards him, for his support, one of which he fortunately seized. The ship and boats being at a considerable distance from him, the harpooner cut the line, with the view of rescuing him from his dangerous situation.

But no sooner was this done, than they discovered that they had but a single oar remaining in the boat. The wind was high, and with only one oar it was impossible to reach their comrade. Signals were made to the other boats, but it was a long time, owing to their distance, before they could render any assistance, although the crew strained every nerve.

At length a boat reached the now exhausted steersman. He was stretched out upon the oar, but was past exertion, and almost devoid of sensation.

Having taken him in, they pulled for the ship. On their arrival the poor man was found to be in a truly pitiable condition. His clothes were frozen like mail, and his hair looked like a helmet of ice. He was immediately conveyed to the cabin, his clothes taken off, his limbs and body dried and well rubbed, and a cordial administered. These attentions being paid to him, he was put to bed. After a few hours’ sleep he awoke, and appeared considerably restored. But the shock which his constitution received proved to be greater than had been anticipated. In a short time, he again appeared among his fellows, and engaged in his ordinary pursuits; but many months elapsed before he was perfectly restored.

NO. IV.—A BOAT UPSET.

In the year 1810, a vessel, called the Aimwell, while cruising in the Greenland seas, discovered several whales, one of which was harpooned.

It is usual for a whale, on receiving a wound, to sink; but this one dived only for a moment, and came up directly under the boat, which it struck with its fins and tail, upset it, and immediately disappeared.

The crew, consisting of seven, were of course tumbled into the sea; but they contrived to get upon the bottom of the boat. The waves being high, and the lines rolling about, caused the boat itself to roll so much as repeatedly to dislodge the poor seamen, and plunge them into the water. Four of them, after each immersion, recovered themselves, and clung to the boat; but the other three, one of whom was the only person who could swim, were drowned, before assistance could arrive.

At length, the four men on the boat being rescued from their perilous situation, the attack on the whale was renewed, and two more harpoons struck. But having been greatly irritated, and not materially injured, the exasperated creature put forth a surprising exhibition of power. Its lashing of the deep was terrible. On every side, the sea was in a foam. In rage and agony, it burst away, and clearing itself from the flukes of the harpoons, it made its escape.

A similar story is related of a boat’s crew belonging to the Henrietta, during a voyage in 1812. A fish which was struck very near the ship, by a blow of its tail stove a small hole in the boat’s bow. Every individual shrinking from the side on which the blow was given, aided the rocking of the boat, and both together caused it to upset.

With great effort, however, the crew got upon the bottom of the boat, and could immediate assistance have been rendered, they might all have been saved. But the line, which was still attached to the harpoon in the whale, became entangled in some part of the boat, and it was drawn under. A part of the poor fellows went down with it, and were seen no more. Two only arose; and, although greatly terrified, and soon nearly exhausted, they succeeded in buoying themselves up, till a boat from the ship reached them and took them in.

NO. V.—WHALING AMONG ICE.

The whale fishery is sometimes carried on in the vicinity of large fields of ice; and when the weather is fine, and the ships lie in a secure place, it proves an agreeable and profitable business.

In these extended sheets or fields of ice, air holes abound, at which the whales make their appearance, and blow or breathe. When one is observed in this act, the men hasten across the intervening ice, and attack it with lances, with the intention of driving it out into the open sea.

In the year 1813, the ship Esk lay by the edge of a large sheet of ice, in which there were several thin places, and some holes. In one of these a whale was seen sporting in fine style. Immediately, a party repaired to the spot, and harpooned it. At once, it dashed away, and continued to run till it had dragged out ten lines, or two thousand and four hundred yards.

At length, being unable to continue longer under water without breathing, and yet not finding a convenient hole in the ice, it broke through, and reared up its head where the ice was not less than a foot thick. Having taken breath, the monster pushed forward, ploughing up the ice, and rolling it up in mighty furrows on either side, until at last it reached a kind of basin in the field, where it floated on the surface without any incumbrance.

The harpoon was still in its back; but it was momently expected that it would become disengaged. What should be done? The creature was highly exasperated, and not materially injured. It was dangerous to approach to it; and yet the prize was too valuable to be lost.

Added to this, the party had no other harpoon at hand. The only alternative left them was to abandon the pursuit, or to cut the harpoon from its back, and imbed it still deeper.

This being made known to the party by the officers, a young man stepped forward and offered to hazard the attempt. It was a daring experiment—a hundred chances to one, he might fail, and be carried by the maddened monster under the ice. Several remonstrated, and attempted to dissuade him from the perilous enterprise.

But he would hear to no remonstrance; and having pulled from his pocket a large jack-knife, opened it, and passing round to the edge where the whale lay, leaped upon its back, and in a few seconds liberated the harpoon.

A fellow-seaman now ran to his assistance, and likewise leaped upon its back, held up the line, while the other, raising the harpoon, drove it deep into its flesh.

Before they had finished, the monster was under way. But, straining every nerve, they leaped, and dashing through the water, seized hold of the ice, and once more obtained a firm footing.

Smarting under his new wound, the whale plunged against the ice, which it continued to break for some distance, when, exhausted, it gave up the contest, and sunk to the bottom of the water. It was subsequently hauled up, and proved to be a whale of the largest class.

The Life of Columbus.

CHAPTER I.

Introduction—Early life—Commences a sea-faring life—Columbus goes to Lisbon—His views about undiscovered land in the west—He pursues measures to go on a voyage of discovery—He applies to the court of Spain.

Who has not heard the name of Christopher Columbus—the bold navigator, or sailor, who first discovered America? Yet few children in the United States, perhaps, have read the story of his life. It is full of interest. Columbus was a remarkable man—remarkable for his courage—for his enterprise—for carrying through whatever he attempted. Few ever made greater exertion—few ever passed through severer trials and dangers—few, by one single act of their lives, were ever more useful to the world.

By the children of the United States, the name of Columbus should be had in honor. But for his enterprise, America would probably have remained unknown for many years longer. Before the voyage of Columbus, no one had crossed the Atlantic Ocean. At the present day, such a voyage is little more thought of than a journey to Quebec or Niagara. But at that time no one had ventured upon the undertaking. No such continent as America was known to exist, and the uncertainty of finding land, cast so much gloom upon a western voyage that few were willing even to think of it.

But with Columbus the case was different. He was a brave man. He was fitted for the boldest adventures. Although the existence of land to the west was uncertain, Columbus had so much faith that he determined to make the experiment. He therefore, boldly launching forth, stretched westward upon the swelling waters of the Atlantic. What was the result?—the discovery of a new continent—of a western world—of a land in which are now situated, among other countries, the United States. In some one of these states, little reader, you was born—here you live—here you enjoy a thousand blessings with other children—all to be traced back, under a kind providence, to the single voyage of Columbus about which I am going to tell you.

But before I tell you of that voyage, I will tell you some particulars of the early life of Columbus; and when you have read what I shall write, you will, I think, wonder that he should have ever undertaken it.

Columbus was born about the year 1435. His birth-place was Genoa, a city of Italy. His father was a poor but respectable man. He followed the business of wool-combing. Columbus was the eldest of four children. He had two brothers and one sister.

When young, he was considered a bright boy. He enjoyed few opportunities for study, but he diligently improved those he had. He excelled in a knowledge of geography, of which he was fond. In after life his attainments in this study were of signal use to him.

Having devoted as much time to study as his father’s means would allow, he returned home, and for a time worked at wool-combing. But of this he was never fond. His genius was better fitted for more active employment, and as soon as permitted he sought occupation abroad.

The bent of his inclination was to follow the sea. He was yet young, being at this time but fourteen years of age, to embark upon so dangerous a course of life. But he had courage and resolution, and now eagerly embraced the opportunity of entering the service of a sea captain by the name of Colombo, a distant relative of his father.

Colombo himself was a bold, hardy, rough seaman. In the service of such a man, the native courage and enterprise of Columbus were not likely to droop. The voyages of his master were confined to the Mediterranean sea. Sailing in this sea, at all times dangerous by reason of the storms which sweep across it, was at that time doubly dangerous, since, in addition to storms, it was thronged with pirates.

With Colombo our young sailor made several voyages, but of the particulars of these, little is known. Some time after, Columbus enlisted into the service of a nephew of his old captain—a corsair, or pirate, and a most bloody man.

Soon after his enlistment, his new master received the news that four vessels, with rich cargoes, were about sailing from a certain port. Their great value was quite a temptation to run some hazard in the attempt to take them. With this object in view, the vessels of the corsair proceeded to sea. In a short time the merchant vessels were discovered, and a descent was made upon them.

The vessel on board of which Columbus was, coming up with one, began the attack. This was boldly met. On both sides the contest was spirited and bloody, and lasted from morning till night. During the engagement, these two vessels, coming in contact, were fastened together by means of chains and what are called grappling irons. The parties now fought not only with guns, but with sabres, and with every kind of weapon found on board. The butchery on both sides was appalling. At length one of the vessels took fire, and both were soon wrapped in flames.

To those who survived there was now but one way of escape—to plunge themselves into the sea, and to reach the shore if possible by swimming. What became of the rest, I know not, but of Columbus we are told that as he rose from the water into which he had leaped, he discovered an oar, upon which stretching himself, he succeeded in reaching land, after swimming a distance of six miles.

The next that we hear of Columbus is at Lisbon, in Portugal, where he arrived about the year 1470. The fight of which I have given an account took place at no great distance from Lisbon, and hence it is supposed that on getting ashore Columbus was induced to visit Lisbon, on account of the spirit of enterprise which more than in most other places abounded there.

Not long after reaching Lisbon, he became attached to a lady of rank, whom he married. She was the daughter of a distinguished sea captain, now dead. Columbus and his wife, for a time, lived with her mother. This lady had in her possession many charts and journals, belonging to her late husband. These she presented to Columbus, and from them he gained many new and important ideas in relation to discoveries which had been made, and of land which it was thought might exist at a distance in the oceans.

Columbus now continued to follow the seas, making several voyages to the coast of Guinea, in Africa. But at length he removed to the island of Porto Santo, in the vicinity of the island of Madeira. Porto Santo had then recently been discovered. This island lies about 700 miles south-west from Lisbon.

For some years before Columbus removed to Porto Santo, much had been said about lands to the west. No such lands were known to exist; but many thought it probable that they did.

Columbus heard what was said, read what was written, and his thoughts were fixed upon the subject. After his removal, he still dwelt upon it. At this time, the most western lands known were a group of islands called the Azores. These islands lie in the Atlantic Ocean, about half way between the eastern and western continents. They were discovered about the year 1450.

It was a question, and one of great interest, what lay beyond the Azores, to the west. Was it water only, or was there land? And by taking a westerly course could not a passage be found to India?

Columbus, as I said, dwelt long upon the subject, and at length became convinced that there must be land. In this opinion he was strengthened by certain discoveries which had been made by vessels which had sailed some distance westward into the Atlantic Ocean. These discoveries consisted in one case of a piece of carved wood, and in another of trunks of pine trees, unlike any which grew upon the Azores—but more than all, of two dead men’s bodies, cast upon Flores, one of the Azore islands, after a westerly wind, which differed in their appearance from any race of people then known. These, and several other circumstances, about which I have not time to be more particular, satisfied Columbus that there were lands to the west of the Azores. Thus, having formed his opinion, his next object was to contrive some plan to ascertain the truth of his conjectures.

As he was now near to the king of Portugal, he first made application to him. He had strong reasons to hope for success, chiefly on account of the spirit of enterprise which prevailed at that time in Portugal, on the subject of discoveries. King John listened to the views of Columbus with interest. He was himself nearly ready to patronize the project, but some of his chief advisers thought the plan a wild one.

King John, however, was not satisfied. His council, therefore, advised him to get Columbus to reveal his views and his plans, and to keep him in doubt, while a vessel was dispatched for the purpose of discovering the land which Columbus was so sure existed to the west.

All this was designed to rob Columbus of the honor which he would have, should he actually make such a discovery. This was mean, ungenerous and wicked. Columbus, however, knew not the design. He frankly gave his views—disclosed the route which he designed to take. Like an honest man, bent on effecting a good purpose, and trusting to the honesty of others, he told all he knew—all he designed.

The crafty Portuguese had now obtained possession of his secret,—all they wanted. Columbus was therefore put off for a time.

In the mean while a vessel was hastily and secretly fitted out and dispatched, with the hope of making the discovery, and of robbing Columbus of the glory of the enterprise.

The vessel in question sailed, as I said, but shortly after returned, her crew being too timid to encounter the dangers of an untried ocean.

Columbus at length heard of the infamous manner in which he had been treated. He felt insulted—was grieved, but his spirit remained unbroken. He determined to quit a kingdom in which he had been so much abused. No ties bound him to it. His wife was now dead. With his only son, whom she had left to him, and whom he named Diego, he departed for Genoa.

Genoa, however, was not in a favorable situation to patronize the undertaking.

From Genoa he proceeded to Spain; but in what manner, or by what route, is now unknown.

The most that we know is, that one day a stranger, humbly clad, and on foot, leading a little boy, called at the convent of La Rabida, not far from a seaport in Andalusia, and requested food for the lad. It was Columbus and Diego.

They were noticed by the chief man of the convent, who entered into conversation with Columbus, who told him the story of his adventures. This greatly interested the friar or chief of the convent, who persuaded him to tarry some time with him, and who entered with deeper and deeper interest into the plans of Columbus, the more they were disclosed to him.

In the spring of 1486, Columbus, having made arrangements to have Diego educated at the convent of La Rabida, took leave of the worthy father, and proceeded to the court of Spain to solicit assistance in carrying his plans into execution.

Ferdinand and Isabella were at this time the sovereigns of Spain. We shall not detain our readers with an account of the many troubles and vexations which Columbus experienced before his request was granted. Several years passed in a fruitless urgency of his petition. Spain was at war, and her sovereigns pretended that they could not attend to him. Not a few distinguished Spaniards were jealous of him, and envious of his expected honor. They, therefore, endeavored to dissuade the king and queen from lending their patronage to him.

But at length the time arrived when, the war being over, the king and queen appointed persons to arrange a plan with Columbus. These persons, however, pretended that he was too extravagant in his demands, and the negotiation was broken off. Grieved and mortified, Columbus hastily left the court, and proceeding towards Cordova, intended thence to sail to France.

A friend to Columbus, finding he had departed, hastily repaired to the queen, and entreated her that he might be recalled, and that an enterprise which promised so much honor to Spain might be accomplished.

The king would not listen to the proposal. His funds had been exhausted by the war, and he felt himself unable to meet the expense. Isabella hesitated. But at length her generous spirit was victorious over all objections. She offered to fit out the expedition at her own expense, and directed that Columbus should be recalled.

While this was passing, he, disappointed, and no doubt dejected, was pursuing his journey towards Cordova. A messenger was dispatched to convey to him the happy turn in his fortune. The messenger overtook him—handed him the recall—and shortly after Columbus was again at Santa Fe, where the king and queen then resided.

He was received with kindness both by Ferdinand and Isabella, especially the latter. An arrangement was soon formed between Columbus and the queen. By this, the former was appointed governor-general of all lands which he might discover. He was to be entitled to one tenth of the gold and silver, pearls and precious stones, which he might find. The queen promised to fit out two vessels, and allowed him to furnish one.

These arrangements being made much to the satisfaction of Columbus, he set about preparing for the voyage.

It was determined that he should sail from a small sea-port by the name of Palos. This lies exactly east from Jamestown, in Virginia. Little did Columbus imagine that in a little more than one hundred years from that time, a settlement should be begun at a spot exactly west from where he then was, on a continent which he should discover, and which should be the beginning of a noble republic, such as we see at this day in the United States.

Little did he think of it. Yet he proceeded with as much zeal in preparing for his voyage, as if he had foreseen all the consequences of his enterprise.

He now made a visit to the convent of La Rabida, where he was welcomed by the kind father, who expressed his joy at the success of his friend. Here he took up his quarters, it being at no great distance from Palos, while the vessels were fitting at the latter place for the voyage.

I said the queen agreed to furnish two vessels, and Columbus was permitted to furnish one. He was unable himself to advance the necessary funds, but a friend kindly offered to do it for him.

The vessels provided for the voyage, were such as no seaman at the present day would think safe out of sight of land. Only one of them had any deck. This one, which was the largest, was called the Santa Maria. It was commanded by Columbus himself. The second was called the Pinta. Her captain was Martin Alonzo Pinzon. Nina was the name of the third, and was commanded by Vincente Yanez Pinzon. All the souls on board the three amounted to one hundred and twenty.

Lucius Valerius Pudens.—Lucius Valerius was born at Hisconium, in the reign of Trajan. At thirteen years of age, he became a competitor for the prize of poetry. This prize was a beautiful gold medal and an ivory lyre, which was every five years adjudged to the author who produced the best poem. Valerius, though opposed by a number of poets double his age, was victorious. Among other honors paid to him, it was determined to erect a bronze statue, which should be placed in the most conspicuous part of the city. The day of the presentation of this statue to the public view, presented a trait in the character of Valerius, still more lovely than his talents.

At the moment when the chief magistrate was placing a crown of laurel on the head of the statue, Valerius perceived a young man who had contested the prize with him,—and who was, in the opinion of many, little inferior to him,—looking upon this scene with a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Valerius instantly discovered the cause of his chagrin, and determined to remove it, which he did in the following manner. He seized the laurel crown, and, pressing towards his disappointed rival, placed it on his head, saying, “You are more deserving of it than I am; I obtained it more on account of my youth than my merit, and rather as an encouragement than a reward.” This generous conduct called forth enthusiastic admiration from the spectators; and the astonished youth, who thus unexpectedly received the crown of victory from the hands of the victor, was overcome with gratitude and joy. To preserve the remembrance of an action, which evinced at once so much modesty and such kind feelings, the people conferred on Valerius the surname of Pudens, which signifies modest,—an honor greater even than that which he derived from his poetry.

Ancient Castles.

In ancient times, when war was common, kings and chiefs used to live in strong places, called castles. These consisted of high stone walls, built so as to enclose a square piece of ground in the centre, called the court. They were, in fact, quadrangular buildings, with a great many rooms in them. They were contrived so that the king or chief to whom they belonged, might shut himself in, with all his soldiers, and thus defend himself from armies without.

The castle had always a well for water; stables for horses, and room for their food; it had places for soldiers; dungeons for prisoners; and apartments for many hundreds of people. In time of war, all the people round about would flock to the castle, and there they would live, sometimes for months.

Castles were usually built upon lofty pieces of ground, the access to which was very difficult. These were generally surrounded by deep ditches, filled with water, across which an enemy could not easily pass. Over this was a bridge for the use of the people of the castle, which was taken away whenever any fear of an enemy was entertained.

Castles had towers, generally at the four corners, and sometimes each side of the gate. These were of a circular form, and had loopholes, like narrow windows, out of which the soldiers within, shot their arrows.

Sometimes a castle would be besieged for months, by armies encompassing it. The army without would try every means to get into the castle, or kill the people. They would shoot their arrows with cross-bows, and endeavor to knock down the walls with battering-rams.

In travelling over Europe, the ruins of many castles are still to be seen. Few are met with which are in good repair, as over all Europe the people are now governed by laws, which afford protection, without resorting to castles. These are, therefore, but little used at the present day; and even in cases where they are still occupied, it is only as dwellings, and not as strong-holds for safety against enemies.

Manner of attacking a castle in the middle ages.

Æronautics,

OR ART OF NAVIGATING THE AIR WITH BALLOONS.

Although this subject has little practical importance, yet, in view of its interest, especially to the young reader, we shall devote a few pages to a notice of some of the most splendid ærial voyages which we find on record.

The fundamental principles of this art have long been known; but the application of them to practice is a modern discovery. About the year 1765, Mr. Henry Cavendish made his celebrated discovery of the existence of inflammable air, or, as it is called, hydrogen gas. Common air is eight hundred times lighter than water; hydrogen gas seven times lighter than common air. This is the material now used for the purpose of filling balloons. It is obtained in several ways; but the best methods are by applying acids to certain metals. Iron, zinc and sulphuric acid (oil of vitriol) are most commonly used. The acid must be diluted with five or six parts of water. Iron may be expected to yield in the common way about seventeen hundred times its own bulk of gas, or four and a half ounces of iron, the like weight of sulphuric acid, and twenty-two and a half ounces of water, will produce one cubic foot of hydrogen gas; six ounces of zinc, an equal weight of acid, and thirty ounces of water, are necessary for producing the same quantity.

In the year 1782, Mr. Cavallo made the first experiments with hydrogen gas to raise bodies in the air. He first tried bladders; but not succeeding, he used China paper, in which also failing, he was under the necessity of being satisfied with soap-bubbles, which were the first kind of inflammable air-balloons that were ever made.

For balloons formed on a large scale, and of rarefied air, we must direct our attention to France, where the two brothers, Stephen and Joseph Montgolfier, paper manufacturers at Annonay, about thirty-six miles from Lyons, distinguished themselves by exhibiting the first of those ærostatic machines which have since excited so much attention and astonishment. The first idea of such a machine was suggested to them by the natural ascent of the smoke and clouds of the atmosphere, and the first experiment was made at Avignon, by Stephen, towards the middle of November, 1782. Having prepared a bag of fine silk in the shape of a parallelpiped and in the capacity of about forty cubic feet, he applied to its aperture burning paper, which rarefied the air, and caused it to ascend rapidly.

Other experiments, with still greater success, soon followed, and at length inflammable air, or hydrogen gas, was used, to the complete satisfaction of the experimenters. From this time, numerous balloons were sent up; but the first person who made an ascension was M. Pilatre de Rosier, from a garden in the Fauxbourg St. Antoine, Paris.

Though several experiments on the ascensive power of balloons had been made in England, during the course of the year after their discovery, the first ærial voyage, which was undertaken by Vincent Lunardi, an Italian, did not take place till September, 1784. His balloon was thirty-three feet in diameter, and shaped like a pear. It was made of oiled silk, with alternate stripes of blue and red, having the car suspended from a hoop below the balloon, by forty-five cords.

In January, 1785, an ærial voyage across the English channel, the most adventurous that had hitherto been projected, was made by Mr. Blanchard and Dr. Jeffries. They left Dover castle on the 7th of that month, at one o’clock. The balloon for some time rising majestically in the air, they passed over several ships, and enjoyed a grand prospect of the numerous objects below them. They soon, however, found themselves beginning to descend, and were under the necessity of throwing out half of their ballast, when they were about one third of the way from Dover. When half way across the channel, the balloon again descended; upon which they threw out all their ballast, and also some books, which they had carried along with them. At half an hour after two they were obliged to throw away every part of the apparatus that could possibly be spared: but still the balloon was descending, in spite of all their efforts. The anchors and cords were then thrown out; and, as the last expedient in their power, the æronauts stripped themselves of their own clothes. This, to their infinite satisfaction, changed the sinking tendency of the balloon; and reaching the French coast, they passed over the highlands between cape Blanc and Calais, and landed in the forest of Guiennes.

Encouraged by the successful issue of this enterprise, M. Pilatre de Rosier and M. Romaine ascended from Boulogne, in July, with the intention of crossing the English channel. To insure the power of ascent and descent at pleasure, they availed themselves of the combined effect of two balloons; one filled with inflammable air, about thirty-seven feet in diameter, and another with rarefied air, whose ascensive power was about sixty pounds. The latter was suspended below the other, at such a distance as precluded all apprehension of danger from the fire which was under it. They had not, however, been long in the air, before the spectators perceived the balloon swelling very quickly; and when they had attained the height of nearly three quarters of a mile, the whole apparatus was observed to be in flames. This disaster was attended with fatal consequences to the unfortunate adventurers. They were precipitated from their car and dashed to pieces upon the ground.

The fatal accidents to which the æronaut might sometimes be exposed, induced philosophers to devise expedients for diminishing the danger. So early as the year 1783, M. le Normand made the experiment of leaping from the height of a first story with a parachute, thirty inches in diameter, in his hand; and so much did it break the force of the fall, that he was hardly sensible of any shock upon reaching the ground. He thence calculated that a parachute, fourteen feet in diameter, attached to a man, might protect him against all possible injury, though falling from the regions of the clouds. During M. Blanchard’s ascent from Strasburg, 26th August, 1787, he dropped a dog, connected with a parachute, from the height of six thousand feet. A whirlwind, however, interrupted its descent, and bore it above the clouds. M. Blanchard afterwards met the parachute, when the dog, recognising his master, began to bark; and just as M. Blanchard was going to seize it, another whirlwind suddenly carried it beyond his reach. Having passed vertically over Zell, he terminated his voyage; the parachute, still waving in the air, came down twelve minutes afterwards. He also sent up several small balloons, containing parachutes to which dogs were attached, and constructed them in such a manner as to burst on arriving to any great height. When the balloons were burst, the parachutes were necessarily set at liberty, and conveyed the animals in perfect security to the ground. In a daring experiment, however, which he had the courage to make on himself, he was less successful; for on hazarding a descent by a parachute at Basle, he unfortunately broke his leg.

On the 7th April, 1806, M. Mosment, an experienced æronaut, undertook an ærial voyage from Lisle. He ascended at noon, waving a flag decorated with the imperial eagle of France, amidst the shouts of the assembled spectators. The commencement of his career was so rapid, as to bear him in a very short time beyond the vision of the crowd. During his ascent he dropped an animal attached to a parachute, which came safely to the ground. About one o’clock something was observed slowly descending through the atmosphere, which proved on its fall to be the flag which M. Mosment had carried along with him. Very soon afterwards, a murmur circulated through the crowd, and the body of the unfortunate æronaut was discovered in one of the fosses of the city, lifeless, and covered with blood. The balloon reached the ground on the same day, at the distance of twenty-five leagues from Lisle; the car containing nothing except an unloaded pistol, a little bread, and a piece of flesh. M. Garnerin ascribes this melancholy disaster to the extreme shallowness of the car, and the too great distance between the cords which attached it to the balloon; and is of opinion that M. Mosment, when leaning over the car to drop the animal, had lost his balance, and was precipitated to the earth.

Of all the voyages which the history of æronautics presents to our notice, the nocturnal ærial excursions of M. Garnerin must be ranked among the most enterprising and adventurous. At eleven o’clock in the evening of the 4th August, 1807, he ascended from Tivoli, at Paris, under the Russian flag, as a token of the peace that subsisted between France and Russia. His balloon was illuminated by twenty lamps; and to obviate all danger of communication between these and the hydrogen gas, which it might be necessary to discharge in the course of the voyage, the nearest of the lamps was fourteen feet distant from the balloon, and conductors were provided to carry the gas away in an opposite direction. After his ascent, rockets, which had been let off at Tivoli, seemed to him scarcely to rise above the earth, and Paris, with all its lamps, appeared a plain studded with luminous spots. In forty minutes he found himself at an elevation of thirteen thousand two hundred feet, when, in consequence of the dilation of the balloon, he was under the necessity of discharging part of the inflammable air. About twelve o’clock, when three thousand six hundred feet from the earth, he heard the barking of dogs; about two, he saw several meteors flying around him, but none of them so near as to create apprehension. At half past three he beheld the sun emerging in brilliant majesty above an ocean of clouds, and the air being therefore expanded, the balloon soon rose fifteen thousand feet above the earth, where he felt the cold exceedingly intense. In seven hours and a half from his departure, M. Garnerin descended near Loges, forty-five leagues distant from Paris.

The same intrepid æronaut undertook a second nocturnal voyage, on the 21st of September, 1807, in the course of which he was exposed to the most imminent danger. M. Garnerin, prognosticating an approaching storm, from the state of the atmosphere, refused to be accompanied by M. de Chassenton, who earnestly requested it. He ascended therefore alone from Tivoli, at ten o’clock, and was carried up with unexampled rapidity to an immense height above the clouds.

The balloon was then dilated to an alarming degree, and M. Garnerin, having been prevented by the turbulence of the mob, before his ascent, from regulating those parts of his apparatus which were meant to conduct the gas away from the lamps on its escape, was totally incapable of managing his balloon. He had no alternative left, therefore, but with one hand to make an opening two feet in diameter, through which the inflammable air was discharged in great quantities; and, with the other, to extinguish as many of the lamps as he could possibly reach. The æronaut was now without a regulating valve, and the balloon, subject to every caprice of the whirlwind, was tossed about from current to current. When the storm impelled him downwards, he was forced to throw out his ballast, to restore the ascending tendency; and at last, every resource being exhausted, no expedient was left him to provide against future exigencies. In this forlorn condition, the balloon rose through thick clouds, and afterwards sunk; and the car, having struck against the ground, with a violent impulse rebounded from it to a considerable altitude. The fury of the storm dashed him against the mountains, and, after many rude agitations and severe shocks, he was reduced to a state of temporary insensibility. On recovering from his perilous situation he reached Mont Tonnerre, in a storm of thunder. A very short time after his anchor hooked in a tree; and, in seven hours and a half, after a voyage which had nearly proved fatal to him, he landed at the distance of three hundred miles from Paris.

The advantages hitherto derived from ærial navigation have by no means proved adequate to the expectations excited by the novelty and promising aspect of the science. This failure, in their utility, may in a great degree be ascribed to the art of steering balloons being yet undiscovered. And we may here add, that no probability exists that the art will ever be attained.

The French, indeed, once instituted an academy for the purpose of improving the state of æronautics, and a corps of fifty young men were selected, and for a time trained to the service. A balloon thirty-two feet in diameter was provided, and in favorable weather was often sent up to the distance of from one hundred and sixty to two hundred and forty yards, with some of the young æronauts in it. The institution, however, is now abandoned.

Balloons are uniformly constructed of silk lustring. From the price of this article, the expense of only a moderate sized balloon is great. A balloon of only twelve feet in diameter will require fifty square yards; a balloon thirty feet in diameter requires three hundred and fourteen yards of cloth, and when filled its ascensive power will be five hundred and eighty-one pounds.

A parachute, which is much like an umbrella, is sometimes employed to descend from a balloon in case of accident. The parachute by which M. Garnerin descended from Paris, in 1797, was twenty-five feet in diameter, and was made of cloth; and that by which he descended in London, in 1802, is said to have been a large umbrella, consisting of thirty-two gores of canvass, twenty-three feet in diameter, and without ribs and handle. At the top there was a round piece of wood, ten inches in diameter, having a hole in the centre, which was fastened to the canvass by thirty-two short pieces of tape. About four feet and a half from the top of the canvass, a wooden hoop, eight feet wide, was put on and tied by a string from each seam. Several ropes, about thirty feet long, proceeding from the edge of the parachute, terminated in a common joining. From this point there issued shorter ropes, to whose extremities was fastened a circular basket, in which M. Garnerin himself was stationed. The parachute and basket were immediately disunited from the balloon, by the cutting of a cord which communicated with the net-work, and in falling downwards, the parachute naturally expanded, by the resistance of the air.

Eccentric Characters.

We propose to give to our readers a few chapters upon eccentric characters. We cannot better begin than with the

CHEVALIER DESSESSAU.

Among the singular personages who have occasionally attracted public notice in London, the individual just mentioned is not the least remarkable. He was a native of Prussia, and bore a military commission in the service of that country; but a quarrel with a brother officer resulted in a duel, in which he wounded his antagonist. Uncertain of the result, he sought refuge in England, and conceiving a partiality for the country, he resolved to pass the remainder of his days there.

The singularity of his dress and character soon drew the attention of the curious. He affected literature, and wrote poetry, which he used to recite to his friends. Of this, we have only been able to discover the following couplet, which evinces no small stock of that comfortable commodity, self-complacency.

“In all the world but heroes two I know,

Prussia’s famed king, and Chevalier Dessessau.”

He was well acquainted with Burke, Johnson, Murphy, Goldsmith, and most of their contemporaries, eminent for genius and talent in the walks of literature and the drama. These persons seemed to find great amusement in the quaint humors and amiable eccentricity of this singular personage. The preceding sketch gives an idea of the dress in which he appeared abroad. His clothes were black, and their fashion had all the stiff formality of those of an ancient buck. In his hand, he carried a gold-headed cane, a roll of his poetry, and a sword.

Toward the latter part of his life, the count was reduced by misfortunes to a residence within the walls of the Fleet prison. Yet such was the confidence placed in his honor, that he was permitted to go where he pleased. He died in 1775, aged seventy, having bequeathed a “curious sword, a gold medal, and a curious picture, to a great personage”—probably the king of Prussia.

JOHN BIGG, THE DINTON HERMIT.

This strange man lived in England, about one hundred and twenty years ago. He was a person of some wealth and learning, and was clerk to Simon Mayne, one of the judges who passed sentence of death on Charles I. After Charles II. was restored, he grew melancholy, perhaps on account of the turn public affairs had taken, and retiring to a cave in Dinton, he spent the remainder of his life there, as a hermit.

He was often visited, and lived upon charity. It is curious that he never asked for anything but leather. When a piece was given to him, he would nail it to his clothes. Thus he became, at length, thatched over with pieces of leather. He kept three bottles hung to his girdle—one for strong beer, one for small beer, and one for milk.

He was regarded as a great curiosity in his time. His shoes were preserved so late as 1712; they were enormous, consisting of near a thousand small bits of leather, each. After his death, the cave was dug over, in the expectation of finding money, or some relics of the hermit, but without success. He died in 1696.

A lost Elephant found.

A female elephant belonging to a gentleman at Calcutta, being ordered from the upper country to Chotygore, broke loose from the keeper, and was lost in the woods. The excuses which the keeper made were not admitted. It was supposed that he had sold the elephant; his wife and family, therefore, were sold for slaves, and he was himself condemned to work upon the roads. About twelve years after, this man was ordered into the country to assist in catching wild elephants. The keeper fancied he saw his long-lost elephant, in a group that was before him. He was determined to go up to it; nor could the strongest representations of the danger dissuade him from his purpose. When he approached the creature, she knew him, and giving him three salutes, by waving her trunk in the air, knelt down and received him on her back. She afterwards assisted in securing the other elephants, and likewise brought with her three young ones, which she had produced during her absence. The keeper recovered his character; and, as a recompense for his sufferings and intrepidity, had an annuity settled on him for life. This elephant was afterwards in the possession of Governor Hastings.

Anna Maria Schurman.—Anna Maria Schurman was born in the year 1607. Her extraordinary genius discovered itself at six years of age, when she cut all sorts of figures in paper with her scissors, without a pattern. At eight, she learned to draw flowers in a few days, in a very agreeable manner. At ten, she took but three hours to learn embroidery. She was afterwards taught music, vocal and instrumental, painting, sculpture and engraving, in all of which she succeeded admirably.

She excelled in miniature painting, and in cutting portraits upon glass with a diamond. Hebrew, Greek and Latin were so familiar to her that the most learned men were astonished at it. She spoke French, Italian and English, fluently. Her hand-writing in almost all languages was so beautiful, that the curious preserved specimens of it in their cabinets.

An Indian Youth.—A native gentleman of India, in relating his history to one of the missionaries, said:

“My father was an officiating priest of a heathen temple, and was considered in those days a superior English scholar; and by teaching the English language to wealthy natives, realized a very large fortune. At a very early period, when a mere boy, I was employed by my father to light the lamps in the pagoda, and attend to the various things connected with the idols. I hardly remember the time when my mind was not exercised on the folly of idolatry. These things, I thought, were made by the hand of man, can move only by man, and whether treated well or ill, are unconscious of either. Why all this cleaning, anointing, illuminating, &c.?

“One evening, these considerations so powerfully wrought on my youthful mind, that, instead of placing the idols according to custom, I threw them from their pedestals, and left them with their faces in the dust. My father, seeing what I had done, chastised me so severely, as to leave me almost dead.

“When I recovered, I reasoned with him, that, if they could not get up out of the dust, they were not able to do what I could; and that, instead of being worshipped as gods, they deserved to be down in the dust, where I had thrown them. My father was implacable, and said he would disinherit me, and, as the first step to it, sent me away from his house. He relented, however, on his death-bed, and left me all his wealth.”

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

CHAPTER II.

I am carried to an Indian village.—The scene described.—Am insulted by the young Indians.—They get well punished.—Painful thoughts.

I do not know how long it was after the scene I have described, when I so far recovered my senses as to notice the objects around me. When my consciousness returned, I was lying on the ground, and no one appeared to be near me. I attempted to rise, and nearly got upon my feet, when I became giddy, and was obliged to sit down. I was distressed with a pain in the head and a burning thirst.

I now saw at a little distance a group of Indians, and about the same time one of them noticed me. He spoke and pointed to me, upon which an Indian woman and two children ran towards me. I held out my hands and begged them to have pity on me. The woman spoke to me, but I could not understand her. The children, who were Indians, and fierce-looking creatures, stood at a little distance for a time, as if afraid of me. Pretty soon they came nearer, and, in order to discover what kind of a creature I might be, one of them took a stick and gave me a pretty sharp poke in my back.

I writhed and groaned, for it hurt me; but this only made the young Indians laugh. The woman scolded them, however, and as the youngsters gave me another poke, she flew toward them, and aimed a blow with her hand at the head of the aggressor. It missed, however, and the two imps ran laughing to a distance. There, in safety, they stood gibbering and jeering, like two monkeys, till the woman, in a rage, set out after them; but diving into a thicket, the young rogues easily escaped and disappeared.

The woman now helped me upon my legs, and took me to a tent, around which were several Indians, mostly women and children. I noticed, also, several other tents, and knew that I was in an Indian village, or encampment. How I had been brought hither, I did not know, nor did I ever afterwards ascertain. It is probable, however, that it was by the care of the Indian woman, in whose charge I now was. She took me into a tent, and procured me some water. This refreshed me greatly, and I was soon able to take notice of the things around me.

The tent was made of dried deerskins, and was supported by poles about twelve feet long. The whole tent was about fourteen feet across. There were in it, a few skins of bears and buffaloes, a bow and some arrows, two or three gourd-shells, a small brass kettle, a buffalo’s pate with the horns attached, a bunch of long, crooked bear’s claws, and a bundle of human scalps. These were all the articles I noticed.

After a while I felt very sleepy, and lying down, I had a long nap. When I awoke, I felt nearly well, and went to look out of the tent. There were, at least, fifty tents around, occupying a space of several acres, upon the edge of a small prairie, bordered by forests. The scene was quite lively; for two or three hundred Indians were before me, nearly all, however, being women, children, and old men. I was afraid to go forth, and was about to creep back into the tent, when the woman before mentioned came, and taking me by the arm, led me out.

I was very soon surrounded by a host of people, and such a chattering I never heard before. A ring was formed around me, and every one seemed to have something to say. If I had been a new monster under the sun, there could not have been more wonder expressed. I imagine that they treated me very much as a parcel of Boston boys would treat a young alligator, should they happen to catch one. I looked in the faces of many of these persons, but I saw not one look of kindness. At last a boy about my own age, who had a small bow in his hand, shot an arrow at me, which, being pointed with a bit of sharp iron, entered the flesh of my arm. A moment after, two or three of the little savages set upon me, and began to tear off my clothes. They pulled me hither and thither, and in a short space I was entirely naked.

For a time, I made no resistance, for I had an idea that natural pity would teach even these creatures to spare one so helpless as myself. But finding that they had no pity, my anger began to rise; and when the boy who had shot his arrow into my arm, came up and began to pinch me, I struck him by the side of his head, and he went reeling and tumbling, like a smitten nine-pin, upon the ground. This caused a loud laugh, and I saw that a feeling of interest and respect was instantly created in my behalf by my resistance. This taught me a lesson, and instead of waiting for Indian pity and sympathy, I determined to obtain the regard of my captors by my spirit. When, therefore, the little imps set upon me again, as they soon did, they paid dearly for it. I was very strong and active for my age, and when, at last, an Indian lad, much larger than myself, came softly behind me, and gave my hair a twitch, I turned to punish him. The fellow fled and I pursued. The ring opened to give him space, and he struck into the little plain encircled by the tents. I hung close at his heels. It was a tight race, and such yells broke from the congregation of Indians as I had never imagined. The fellow went nearly across the plain, and, dodging this way and that, sought to throw me off. At length he passed round one of the tents, and returned toward the point from which we started. I followed, and finally, just as he reached the ring, I seized his hair, and gave it a jerk which made him yell like a catamount. This completely sealed my triumph. The looks of contempt around, were exchanged for those of admiration, and I was borne back to my tent with shouts of praise and exultation.

It was but a few weeks before I was at home among the Indians. I was adopted as the son of the woman who had taken care of me, in the place of one she had lost. By degrees I became accustomed to Indian sports and pastimes, and gradually learned their language. I was generally well treated after the fashion of savage life. There is little family government among these people; everything between the children is settled by strength; those principles of kindness, justice, pity and tenderness for the weak, which are so strongly inculcated among civilized people, being unknown to them. Matters are regulated very much as between animals—a herd of bisons for instance, or a pack of wolves. I had, therefore, to fight my way, and being very strong, I not only fared pretty well, but I obtained no little applause. At first, I was taunted and sneered at for being white, but I always punished such impudence, and at last these gibes ceased.

I often thought of my father and mother, my sister and brother, and longed to know their fate—for I was uncertain whether they had escaped or had perished on that fearful night in which our house had been reduced to ashes. Of these things, however, I could obtain no information. I knew too little of the Indian tongue to ask these questions, which often arose in my own mind. Sometimes, and especially at night, the thoughts of home and my kindred stole over me, and the tears would come into my eyes; but in the morning these painful thoughts would subside, and perhaps be forgotten in the pursuit of present objects.

[To be continued.]

Shenstone and the Robber.—Shenstone, a well-known English poet, was one day walking through a wooded retreat with a lady, when a man rushed out of a thicket, and, presenting a pistol at his breast, demanded his money. Shenstone was surprised, and the lady fainted. “Money,” said the robber, “is not worth struggling for; you cannot be poorer than I am.” “Unhappy man,” exclaimed Shenstone, throwing his purse to him, “take it, and fly as quickly as possible.” The man did so—threw his pistol in the water, and instantly disappeared. Shenstone ordered his servant to follow the robber and observe where he went.

In two hours, the man returned, and informed his master that he followed the robber to the house where he lived; that he went to the door, and peeping through the key-hole, saw the man throw the purse on the ground, and say to his wife, “Take the dear-bought price of my honesty;” then taking two of his children, one on each knee, he said to them, “I have ruined my soul to keep you from starving,” and immediately burst into a flood of tears. Shenstone, on hearing this, lost no time in inquiring the man’s character, and found that he was a laborer, oppressed by want and a numerous family, but had the reputation of being honest and industrious. Shenstone went to his house,—the poor man fell at his feet and implored mercy. The poet took him home with him and provided him with employment.

George IV. and Lord Roden.—When George IV. was in Ireland, he told Lord Roden that on a particular morning, he was coming to breakfast with him. He accordingly set out, and taking two or three of the nobility with him, he happened to arrive just as his lordship and family had assembled for family worship. Lord Roden, being told that his guest had arrived, went to the door, met him with every expression of respect, and seated him and the gentlemen that accompanied him in the parlor. He then turned to the king and said, “Your Majesty will not doubt that I feel highly honored by this visit, but there is a duty, that I have not discharged this morning, which I owe to the King of kings—that of performing domestic worship, and your majesty will be kind enough to excuse me, while I retire with my household and attend to it.” “Certainly,” replied the king; “but I am going with you,” and immediately rose and followed him into the hall where his family were assembled, and taking his station in an old arm-chair, remained during the family devotions.

This anecdote reflects honor both upon his lordship and his majesty; while it exhibits in the one the dignity of unyielding Christian principles, it displays in the other the courtesy of a gentleman, and the regard felt for a consistent religious character.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

The Old Oaken Bucket.

What Yankee, brought up in the country, does not remember the old oaken bucket? It is the fashion now, in New England, to draw the water from the well by means of a windlass; but twenty or thirty years ago, it was the custom to draw it up with a long pole, set across an upright beam. To one end of this pole, swung a rope or long stick, and the bucket was attached to this.

There is a beautiful song, about the old oaken bucket, written by Mr. Samuel Woodworth, a native of Scituate, in Massachusetts. It is very well known, and many of my readers have no doubt seen it, but I wish them all to learn it by heart.

Such pretty songs as this, not only give a great deal of innocent pleasure, but they are useful, in a high degree. They make us more fond of that place which we call home; they serve to attach us to our country; they serve to make us content with the simplicity of early times and of country life. If we think how many thousand times this song has been sung; what an immense amount of enjoyment it has given, and how much real good it has done, we shall see that there is great reason why we should all remember Samuel Woodworth with pleasure and respect.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view;

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew;

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;

The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well.

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure,

For often at noon, when return’d from the field,

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.

How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing,

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell,

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips;

Not a full blushing goblet would tempt me to leave it,

Though fill’d with the nectar which Jupiter sips.

And now far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well.

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket which hangs in his well.

France.

There is a country in Europe, called France. It lies east of the United States, and you must cross the Atlantic Ocean to get there. There are almost forty millions of people in France, and they have many splendid towns and cities. Paris is the capital of the country, and a charming city it is. It has as many inhabitants as the whole state of Massachusetts, and they have a thousand ways of amusing themselves.

The people who live in the country and labor on the lands, called peasants, are generally poor, and work very hard. If you ever travel in France, you will often see old women at work in the fields, carrying burthens of sticks, grass or hay. You will see them hoeing, digging, ploughing and harvesting.

A peasant woman in France gets but about three or four cents a day for her labor, and with this she can buy but few things to live upon. She usually goes barefoot, or wears heavy wooden shoes. She seldom eats meat, and often has no other breakfast than a glass of water and a few cherries, or grapes, or perhaps an apple. This is indeed poor fare.

In travelling in France, you will often see women in the fields taking care of the cows, and I have seen a woman spend the whole day in attending a single cow, which was grazing along the road-side. But while the woman watched the cow, she spun a little twine out of flax, by means of a stick, which she kept twirling between her fingers.

There are few countries in which the people, at large, are so happy as in our own country. The rich people fare very well in all countries, but the poor people are not happy in England, or France, or Germany, or any other country than ours. Should we not be thankful that a good Providence has cast our lot in America?

The Moose.

Here is a picture of a moose, a huge animal of the deer kind, which is found in the state of Maine, and in Canada. It is sometimes six and even seven feet high, to the top of his shoulders; and the points of his immense horns, when he holds up his head, are ten feet from the ground.

There is something very queer about the appearance of the moose. His body is short, his legs are long, his neck is thick, his countenance is dull, his mouth is large, his nostrils wide. His whole aspect is stupid—and yet he wears upon his head a pair of spreading horns or antlers, of the most fantastic shape. They are branched like some kinds of seaweed, or like coral, that grows in the bottom of the sea.

It really seems, at first sight, as if nature intended a joke, when she contrived the moose—for he reminds us of a very stupid-looking person, bedizzened with an enormous head-dress. But we must not go too much by looks—for the moose, however he may appear as we see him in the picture, is a very fleet animal, and if you see him in his native woods, with the Indians or the hounds at his heels, he will show you that he is a pretty smart fellow, after all.

The moose sheds his horns every year, and it is not uncommon to find them in the woods of Maine. Sometimes the creature gets his horns so entangled in the branches of the trees, that he cannot get away, and he then dies, or is caught by the hunters.

The Indians of Maine hunt the moose in winter: when the snow is deep, he cannot travel very fast, for his feet sink in the snow, and he is soon run down. The flesh of the moose is often brought to the Boston market.

There is an animal in the north of Europe, called the Elk, which is very like the moose, but it is believed, by learned men, not to be exactly the same kind of creature.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER VII.

About the Bees.

In the preceding chapter we have told how Jack became interested about the bees: in this, we have promised to relate some of those curious things which his aunt Piper told him,—respecting the manners and customs of these ingenious and wonderful insects.

The bees, being domesticated by mankind, have been carefully studied by many learned and curious persons; but M. Huber, a Swiss gentleman, has done more than any other man to make us acquainted with them. And yet Huber was blind! His wife assisted him in his observations; and thus, by making use of her eyes, he was able to pursue his studies with great success. Is it not interesting to think of this blind philosopher, who, while all was darkness and night to him, was yet able to amuse himself, and prepare a book which should continue long to please and enlighten mankind?

There are three different kinds of bees in every hive. First, the laboring bees, which make up the far greatest number, and are thought to be neither male nor female, but merely born for the purposes of labor and continuing the breed by supplying the young with provision while yet in their helpless state.

The second sort are the drones; they are of a darker color, longer, and more thick by one third than the former; they are supposed to be the males; and there are not above a hundred of them in a hive of seven or eight thousand bees. The third sort is much larger than either of the former, and there is never but one permitted to live in a swarm. These are called queen bees, and lay all the eggs from which the whole swarm is hatched in a season.

In examining the structure of the common working bee, the first thing that attracts our attention is the trunk which serves to extract the honey from flowers. It is not formed like that of other flies, in the form of a tube by which the honey is to be sucked up; but like a broom to sweep, or a tongue to lick it away. The animal is furnished also with teeth, which serve it in making wax. This substance is gathered from flowers, like honey; it consists of that dust or farina, which contributes to the fruitfulness of plants, and is moulded into wax by the little animal at leisure.

Every bee, when it leaves the hive to collect its precious store, enters into the cups of the flower, particularly such as seem charged with the greatest quantities of this yellow farina. As the animal’s body is covered with hair, it rolls itself within the flower, and soon becomes quite covered with the dust, which it soon after brushes off with its two hind legs, and kneads into two little balls.

In the thighs of the hind legs there are two cavities, edged with hair, and into these, as into a basket, the animal sticks the rolls or pellets which it has collected. Thus employed, the bee flies from flower to flower, increasing its store and adding to its stock of wax, until the ball upon the thigh becomes as big as a grain of pepper; by this time, having got a sufficient load, it returns, making the best of its way to the hive.

The lower part of the body or belly of the bee is divided into six rings, which sometimes shorten the body by slipping one over the other. It contains within it, besides the intestines, the honey-bag, the venom-bag, and the sting. The honey-bag is as transparent as crystal, containing the honey that the bee has brushed from the flowers; of which the greater part is carried to the hive, and poured into the cells of the honey-comb, while the remainder serves for the bee’s own nourishment; for, during the summer, it never touches what has been laid up for winter.

The sting, which serves to defend this little animal from its enemies, is composed of three parts; the sheath, and two darts which are extremely small and penetrating. Both the darts have several small points or barbs, like those of a fish-hook, which render the sting more painful, and make the darts rankle in the wound. Still, however, this instrument would be a very slight defence, did not the bee poison the wound. The sheath, which has a sharp point, makes the first impression, which is followed by that of the darts, and then the venomous liquor is poured in.

The sheath, with the barbs, sometimes sticks so fast in the wound, that the animal is obliged to leave it behind; in consequence of which, the bee soon after dies, and the wound is considerably inflamed. It might at first appear well for mankind, if the bee were without its sting; but upon recollection it will be found that the little animal would then have too many rivals in sharing its labors. A hundred other lazy animals, fond of honey, and hating labor, would intrude upon the sweets of the hive; and the treasure would be carried off for want of armed guardians to protect it. As the bee lays up a most delicious store, it was obviously necessary that it should have some extraordinary defence, and so the sting was provided. Is it not easy to see wisdom in this provision of nature?

The most interesting point of view in which we can regard bees, is not as separate individuals, but as societies or communities. In this light, they indeed astonish us. It being necessary that their hives should be tight, the first thing is to stop up all the crevices, which they do with a kind of resinous gum, which resists the weather.

They then proceed to form their cells, which we call honey-comb. These are built in hexagons, or six-sided figures; and mathematicians tell us that this form is the very best, as it unites the greatest strength with the greatest capacity. The philosophers found out this fact by deep study—but who told the little bees of it? They never went to college to learn mathematics. How then should they always build their cells in hexagons?

This was one of the questions put by Jack to his aunt Piper, and she answered it as follows. Bees are provided with wonderful knowledge, which we call instinct. It is born with them, and as soon as they go to work, they proceed according to this instinct. This is a part of their nature, and it is given to them by God who made them. He knows everything—he knows that a hexagon is the best form for the bees to build their cells in, and so he furnished them with an instinct, which leads them to follow this method of building. Is it not interesting to see the Almighty God thus displaying his knowledge and skill, for the benefit of even the little bees?

I have more to tell you on this subject, but I must defer it for another chapter.

The Race.

Here are two boys running a race. They seem to be striving to see which can run the swiftest; which can outstrip the other.

It is pleasant to run a race, if one is young and has a good pair of legs. I should make a bad business of it,—old and decrepit as I am,—and having a timber toe beside. Still, I can well recollect how I used to delight in trying my speed with my youthful companions, when I was a boy.

I remember very well, that, when I was young, there was a boy at school by the name of Rufus, and it chanced that he and myself were rivals in almost everything. We were always striving to see which should run the swiftest; which should hop the farthest; which should excel in writing, arithmetic, &c.

Now all this was very well, except one thing. Our rivalry at last went so far, that we desired victory more than anything else. We did not wish so much to do things well, as to triumph over our competitors. Nor was this all: we began at length to dislike each other, and a very bad feeling was therefore begotten by our strife, in our bosoms.

This was certainly wrong, and young people as well as old people should be careful never to indulge in any strife which leads to hatred. We should love all around us, for love is the chief source of happiness. Anything which interferes with this is wrong.

The Swing.

Here are children indulging themselves in swinging. ’Tis a very pleasant amusement, and is as near to flying as anything we can do. What a thrill passes through the heart, half pleasant and half painful, when we go up, up, up—and then down, down, down!

In the western country, the children do not have to make swings of ropes, for they are provided by nature. The grape vines climb up the trees, often to the height of twenty feet, and then afford good swings for the children. If you ever visit Kentucky, or Ohio, or Missouri, or any of those great states in the west, you will probably see children amusing themselves in grape vine swings.

A Strange Bird.

Not long since, a man in Connecticut shot an eagle of the largest kind. The creature fell to the ground, and being only wounded, the man carried him home, alive.

He now gave him to another man, who took good care of the wounded bird, and pretty soon he got quite well. The eagle became attached to the place where he was thus taken care of, and though he was permitted to go at large, and often flew away to a considerable distance, he would always come back again.

He used to take his station in the door-yard, in front of the house: if any well-dressed person came through this yard, to the house, the eagle would sit still and make no objections; but if a ragged person came into the yard, he would fly at him, seize his clothes with one claw, and hold on to the grass with the other, and thus make him a prisoner.

Often was the proprietor of the house called upon to release persons that had been thus seized by the eagle. It is a curious fact that the bird never attacked ragged people going to the house the back way: it was only when they attempted to enter through the front door, that he assailed them. What renders this story very curious is, that the bird had never been trained to act in this manner.

This eagle had some other curious habits. He did not go out every day to get a breakfast, dinner and supper: his custom was, about once a week, to make a hearty meal, and that was sufficient for six days. His most common food was the king-bird, of which he would sometimes catch ten in the course of a few hours—and these would suffice for his weekly repast.

This bird at last made such havoc with the poultry of the neighbors, that the proprietor was obliged to kill him.

It seems that the aversion of this eagle to ragged people, was not altogether singular; for a person who writes to the editor of the New York American, says that he once knew a Baltimore Oriole, that would always manifest the greatest anger if a shabby person came into the room. This bird also disliked colored people, and if he could get at them, he would fly in their faces, and peck at them very spitefully—while he did no such thing to white people.

The following letter has been some time in hand. Will our little friend, the writer, forgive us for not inserting it sooner? Our correspondents must remember that we have many things to attend to, and if some of their favors seem to be overlooked, we hope they will not scold.

My dear Mr. Merry:

I have been long wanting to write to you, so many of your subscribers have been writing to you. I could not write to you sooner, because I did not know my letter would go by the mail.

Many of the stories in the Museum are quite interesting. I have often tried to read your history of your own life, through. I should have begun when your Museum first came out, but it happened that I did not. “Philip Brusque” I began too, but, as my brother was going up the river in a steamboat, he wanted to take the number, so that I had to leave off reading it.

In your number before the last I liked the “Two Friends.” Many of the children like “The Siberian Sable-hunter,” but I do not fancy it much, as there are so many hard names in it.

I am one of your little black-eyed subscribers: my brother Benjamin is one of your blue-eyed subscribers. He does not read as many of your Museums as I do, for he is away from home a great part of the time, and when he gets home he hardly ever thinks of reading them. I am always glad when I hear that your Museum is come, and yet, the last time, they kept it from me for a day and a night. Was not that very hard?

My little sister, Lydia, is yet too young to read, and does not even know her A, B, C; but I know them well enough. I like your plain, simple stories best. I believe my brother likes the ones that are not simple. In your number, a great while ago, is a song by the name of “Jack Frost,” which I like very much, and many other pieces of your poetry. “Discontented Betty” I like too. I have been hurrying off with my lessons, so that I could write to you; but, pray, do not think that I write this myself, for I do not even know how to make a letter. My sister writes for me.

I am in constant fear that we shall have to give up your Museum, but I hope we shall not. I thought that I would have to send my letter by the man that brought the Museum, but my father told me that I need not, but that I should send it by the mail. I hope your Museum will not end very soon, but will keep on a long while. I have found out three of your names, Parley, Merry and Goodrich. I want to see you very much. My sister Mary is collecting autographs, and has got one of yours, which I think to be quite a decent hand for such an old man. I hope this letter will reach you safely. I wonder if the one my brother William wrote to you, a long time ago, ever reached you.

I have read some of your other books, as we have got some others. I consider myself a very poor reader, if others do not. I had a beautiful book given to me on New Year’s day, by the name of “Flower People.” But I cannot think of anything more to say, and so, Mr. Merry, good-bye.

E. O. B.

P.S. I have thought of one other thing to say, Mr. Merry, and it is that I wish you would answer this letter.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VI. SEPTEMBER, 1843. No. 3.

September.

We have now reached the ninth month in the year—the first month of autumn—September—the pleasantest month of all the twelve. It is true the leaves of the trees are beginning to turn yellow; many of the birds are departing for more southern climes; the evenings are getting chilly; the summer flowers are gone; and all around there is an air of soberness, almost of sadness. Yet there is something in all this, that makes the heart content, tranquil and happy.

The earth is now abounding with fruit. The peaches, the plums, the pears, the apples, the grapes, are ripe, and seem to invite us to taste them. How pleasant it is to be in the country now! Say, my little friends, is not September the finest of all the months?

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

CHAPTER III.

The return of our party.—Sports and festivities.

After I had been about a month in the village, a swift Indian, despatched by the warriors who had been absent on an expedition against some distant tribes, came in, and announced that the whole party were near at hand, and would enter the village the following morning. Preparations were therefore made to receive them.

All was bustle and activity, though this seemed to consist more in running about, and chattering like a set of magpies, than anything else. The children leaped, frolicked, shouted, and fought mimic battles as well as real ones, in which they bit, scratched, kicked and pulled hair, in honor of the coming celebration. The women went about from tent to tent, talking with great animation and keeping up the hum, which might be heard at the farther extremity of the village.

Evening at last came, but there was no cessation of the excitement. The greater part of the night was spent in talking, squabbling, dancing, jumping, leaping and yelling. At length the morning came, and just as the sun was rising, an Indian, painted blue and red, carrying on his head the skin taken from the pate of a grizzly bear, was seen creeping along in the edge of the adjacent wood. He was soon followed by another, painted in a similar manner, with the horns and pate of a buffalo upon his head. Others succeeded, all of them painted and dressed in the most wild and fantastic manner, until about a hundred warriors had gathered in the thickets of the forest, close to the village.

A pause of at least half an hour ensued. All within the wood was silent, and not a trace of the savages that lurked in its bosom, could be discovered. The women, children and old men of the village had gathered in the open space encircled by the tents, where they awaited the coming spectacle in breathless expectation.

At last, a wild yell, as if a thousand demons filled the air, broke from the forest. In an instant after, the warriors started from their cover and ran toward the village with the greatest swiftness. Approaching the group of women and children, they formed themselves in a circle and began to dance in a most violent manner. They leaped, jumped, ran, brandished their weapons, screamed, chattered, and appeared more like infernal spirits than human creatures. They were all on foot except about a dozen, who were on horseback, and attired in the most fantastic manner. These rode round the circle with great swiftness, flourishing their long spears, and performing a sort of wild mimic battle.

Nothing could be more fierce and frightful than the whole scene, yet the women and children were greatly delighted, and evinced their ecstasy by uproarious acclamations. The warriors were excited by this applause to greater feats, and for about an hour they kept up their savage revel. They seemed to be as proud of their greasy paint and their savage foppery, as a well-dressed company of militia marching on a muster-day through one of our villages. A bear’s or buffalo’s pate was fully equal to a cocked hat; a raccoon’s or oppossum’s hide was equivalent to a pair of epaulettes; the bow and arrow were an offset to the sword.

But the Indian warriors had one advantage over our training-day soldiers. They had been in actual service, and carried with them evidences of their victory. Several of them bore in their hands large bundles of bloody scalps, which they had taken from their enemies, and these they flourished in the faces of the admiring spectators. It is obvious that the same vanity and foppery which are found in the fair-weather soldiers of towns and cities, belong to the savage warrior of the wilderness.

At length, the ceremony was over, and the savages dispersed themselves to their several wigwams. The next day, however, they had a great exhibition, which was a kind of war-dance, in which the warriors attempted to exhibit their several battles and exploits. It was in fact a sort of pantomime, in which several of the Indians displayed great powers of mimicry. Though I was not much accustomed to these things, I understood a good deal of what the Indians meant by their performances.

One of these fellows amused me very much. He seemed to be fond of fun, and, like the clown in a circus, appeared to think more of making a laugh than anything else. It seemed from his representation, that, on one occasion, he was sent to spy out the situation of a party of Indians, whom they intended to attack. It was night, and as he was proceeding along a deer path in the forest, he chanced to see a skunk immediately before him. The creature stood still, and positively refused to stir a step.

The Indian hesitated for some time what to do, but at last he put an arrow to the bowstring, and shot the impertinent animal to the heart. The air was, however, immediately filled with the creature’s effluvia, and the Indians, whom the spy was seeking, being ever on the watch, were startled by the circumstance, and the spy himself was obliged to retreat for safety. This whole story was easily comprehended from the admirable mimicry of the actor. Nothing could exceed his drollery, except the applause of the spectators. He seemed to have the reputation of an established wag, and, like Andrews at the late Tremont Theatre, he could hardly turn his eye, or crook his finger, but the action was followed with bursts of applause.

There was one thing that characterized all the warriors, and that was a love of boasting and self-glorification. Every one represented himself as a hero and as performing the most wonderful feats of strength and valor. Boasting, I suspect, is a thing that naturally belongs to those who have little refinement, and modesty is doubtless the fruit of those finer sentiments which belong to civilization.

For several days there were sports and festivities, and every one seemed to give himself up to amusement. The warriors had brought home with them a young Indian prisoner, who was about eighteen years old. He was a fine, proud-looking fellow, and when he was brought out and encircled by all the Indians, he seemed to survey them with a kind of scorn. He was tied to a stake, and the young Indians, stationed at a certain distance, were allowed to shoot their arrows at him. Several of them hit him, and the blood trickled freely down his body. He stood unmoved, however, and seemed not to notice the wounds. The women then surrounded him, and jeered at him, making mouths, and pinching his flesh, and punching him with sharp sticks.

At last, it was determined by the warriors, to let him loose upon the prairie and give him a chance of escape. The warriors were to pursue him. If he was retaken, he was to die; if he outran his pursuers, he was to have his liberty.

The prisoner was unbound and placed at the distance of about six rods in advance of those who were to pursue him; the signal was given, and he departed. He seemed fleet as the mountain deer, and life was the wager for which he ran. He was, however, pursued by more than a dozen Indians, scarcely less lightfooted than himself. He struck across the prairie, which lay stretched out for several miles, almost as level as the sea, and in the distance, was skirted by the forest.

He kept in advance of his pursuers, who strained every nerve to overtake him. On he flew, casting an occasional glance backward. The yells broke often from his pursuers, but he was silent. It was for life that he fled, and he would not waste a breath. On he sped, and as he and his followers seemed to grow less and less in the distance, my eyes grew weary of the scene. But such was the interest that I felt for the poor fugitive that I kept my gaze bent upon the chase for almost an hour.

The Indians seemed at last in the remote distance to be dwindled to the size of insects; they still strained every limb, though they seemed scarcely to move; they still yelled with all their might, but only an occasional faint echo reached our ears. At last, the fugitive plunged into the forest; his pursuers followed, and they were lost to the view. After the lapse of several hours, the pursuing party returned, without their prisoner. He was at liberty in the unbounded forest.

The Smuggler.

Who would imagine that a dog had been made serviceable as a clerk, and thus made for his master upwards of a hundred thousand crowns? And yet an incident like this happened upwards of forty years since. One of those industrious beings who know how to live by skinning flints, determined, in extreme poverty, to engage in trade. He preferred that species of merchandise which occupied the least space, and was calculated to yield the greatest profit. He borrowed a small sum of money from a friend, and repairing to Flanders, he there bought pieces of lace, which he smuggled into France in the following manner.

He trained an active spaniel to his purpose. He caused him to be shaved, and procured for him the skin of another dog, of the same hair and the same shape. He then rolled his lace round the body of his dog, and put over it the garment of the stranger so adroitly, that it was impossible to discover the trick. The lace being thus arranged, he would say to his docile messenger, “Forward, my friend.” At the words, the dog would start, and pass boldly through the gates of Malines or Valenciennes, in the face of the vigilant officer placed there to prevent smuggling. Having thus passed the bounds, he would wait his master at a little distance in the open country. There they mutually caressed and feasted, and the merchant placed his rich packages in a place of security, renewing his occupation as occasion required. Such was the success of this smuggler that in less than five or six years he amassed a handsome fortune and kept his coach.

Envy pursues the prosperous. A mischievous neighbor at length betrayed the lace merchant; notwithstanding all his efforts to disguise the dog, he was suspected, watched, and discovered.

But the cunning of the dog was equal to the emergency. Did the spies of the custom-house expect him at one gate,—he saw them at a distance, and instantly ran to another. Were all the gates shut against him,—he overcame every obstacle; sometimes he leaped over the wall; at others, passing secretly behind a carriage or running between the legs of travellers, he would thus accomplish his aim. One day, however, while swimming a stream near Malines, he was shot, and died in the water. There was then about him five thousand crowns’ worth of lace—the loss of which did not afflict his master, but he was inconsolable for the loss of his faithful dog.

The Poet’s Dog.

The manner in which Pope, the great English poet, was preserved by the sagacity of his dog, is truly remarkable. This animal, who was called Marquis, could never agree with a favorite servant of his master’s; he constantly growled when near him, and would even show his teeth whenever this servant approached. Although the poet was singularly attached to this dog,—who was a spaniel of the largest species,—yet, on account of his extreme neatness, which he pushed almost to excess, he would never allow him to remain in his chamber. Nevertheless, in spite of positive orders, the spaniel would frequently sneak, towards evening, into the apartment of his master, and would not be driven from it without the greatest difficulty.

One evening, having slipped very softly in without being perceived, the animal placed himself under the bed of his master, and remained there. Towards morning, the servant rushed hastily into the chamber of Pope. At this moment, the dog suddenly left his post and leaped on the villain, who was armed with a pistol. The poet started from his sleep; he threw open the window to call for assistance, and beheld three highwaymen, who had been introduced by his servant into the garden of his villa, for the purpose of robbing him. Disconcerted by this unforeseen accident, the robbers hesitated a moment, and then took flight. The servant, thus betrayed by the watchful dog, was sentenced to forfeit his life.

The same dog, shortly after this singular event, exhibited another proof of his remarkable instinct. Pope, reposing one afternoon in a little wood about twelve miles distant from his house, lost a watch of great value. On returning home, the poet wished to know the hour, and found his watch was not in his fob. Two or three hours had elapsed, and a violent storm was just commencing.

The poet called his dog, and making a sign, which Marquis very well understood, he said, “I have lost my watch—go look for it.” At these words Marquis departed, and repaired, no doubt, to every spot at which his master stopped. It happened that the poor animal was so long occupied in the search as to create great anxiety, for midnight had arrived, and he had not returned. What was the astonishment of Pope, when, on rising in the morning, he opened his chamber door, and there beheld his faithful messenger lying quietly and holding in his mouth the splendid jewel, with which he had returned perfectly uninjured, and which was the more highly valued by the poet, as it had been presented to him by the queen of England.

A Shark Story.

Some years ago, while sitting on the quarter-deck of a West Indiaman, borne rapidly along before the trade wind, the captain and passengers were amusing themselves by telling stories and cracking jokes to beguile the sameness of the voyage. It came at last to the turn of a gentleman remarkable for his love of cigars and taciturnity; one who enjoyed a good anecdote, but abhorred the trouble of relating it himself. He was, however, so strongly importuned on this occasion, that with much reluctance he related the following, by fits and starts, filling up each pause by vigorous whiffs of his favorite weed:—

In the year 1820, the good ship Rambler sailed from Greenock, with goods and passengers, towards Jamaica. She had crossed the tropic. One day, when nearly becalmed, the steward, who had the care of the captain’s plate, had occasion, after dinner, to wash some spoons and other articles in a bucket, and thinking he had taken all out of the water, he chucked it over the gangway, when, to his vexation, he found he had thrown out with it a valuable silver table spoon. He saw it shining through the clear blue ocean, and wavering from side to side as it sank from his view. Several sharks had been observed near the ship, and it is known they generally dart upon anything white, a piece of rag often serving for a bait. He did not, however, observe any of them near the spot at the time; and the captain being a testy man, he kept the secret of the loss to himself, and the matter was soon forgotten.

The ship in due time reached Jamaica, and when the circumstance became known, the value of the spoon was deducted from the wages of the steward. The vessel lay some time at Kingston, received on board a cargo of sugar, and proceeded on her homeward voyage. When crossing nearly the same spot on the aqueous world where the spoon was lost, a number of sharks again showed their tail fins above the water as they cut along the ship’s side, or in her wake; and a shark hook being baited with a piece of salt pork, was lowered over the stern. Presently one of the largest of these devouring monsters, or, as the sailors call them, “Sea Lawyers,” half turning on its side, took the huge bait into his pig-like but tremendous jaws, and was securely hooked.

The fish was with difficulty hauled alongside and hoisted on deck, where it flapped about and showed prodigious strength and tenacity of life. When its struggles were ended by a blow on the head with a mallet, one of the men proceeded to open it. His jack-knife soon came in contact with something in its belly, and—said the narrator, with earnestness, “what do you think was really found?” “Why, the spoon, of course!” exclaimed the listeners simultaneously. “The spoon!” he rejoined, with a smile, “No! no!” “What then?” they hastily inquired. “Why, nothing but the entrails, to be sure!”

The taciturnity of the waggish messmate was not again disturbed for another story during the voyage.

Joyful Meeting.—A few days since, at Buffalo, a boat load of Germans landed from the canal, evidently direct from Germany. Among them was an old lady and some three or four children, quite grown up. Several tavern-keepers were around the boat, as is customary, to solicit patronage from the emigrants, and one of these approached the old lady, who, immediately upon seeing him, threw herself upon his neck and wept. The children also embraced him, and tears and smiles alternately bore their sway.

The explanation of the scene given was, that the old lady was on her way to Detroit in search of her husband, who had emigrated some years previous, and she had thus unexpectedly fallen upon him at this place. What a meeting!

Mirage.—Brig. Wm. Ash, 6th July, 1843, 8-1/4 P. M.—Being at anchor off the Pilgrims, river St. Lawrence, to wait the tide—fine weather and light wind, I was called to by our pilot, Wm. Russell, saying there was a ship sailing in the air. When, looking in the air, in the direction pointed out, I distinctly saw the appearance of a full-rigged ship, under full sail, passing very swiftly over the land, in a S. S. W. direction. I watched it with the spyglass, until, to my view, it vanished into smoke. It was witnessed also by the pilot’s apprentice, Dennis Glen.

Wm. Morrish, Master.

“Our Father”—said a bishop, who was benevolently teaching the Lord’s prayer to a poor beggar boy, to whom he had just given a hard crust of bread. “What,—not our Father,” said the boy. “Yes,” said the bishop, “our Father.” “Then we are brothers; and an’t you ashamed to offer your brother such a crust as this?”

Eccentric Characters

OLD BOOTS, OF RIPON

Among the infinite variety of human countenances, none was ever better calculated to excite laughter, than that of the person whose portrait we have given above. He was servant of an inn at Ripon, in Yorkshire, England, where it was part of his duty to wait upon travellers and take charge of boots and shoes. Hence, he went under the title of Old Boots.

It was his custom to introduce himself into the room, with a pair of slippers in one hand and a boot-jack in the other. His features at once amazed and diverted every visitor; for nature had given him such length of nose and chin, and brought them so near together, that he could hold a piece of money between them, like a thumb and finger, or a pair of nippers. This feat he was always ready to perform, and he became, in fact, the great curiosity of the place.

CAPTAIN SNARLY.

There is nothing more easy than to find fault, particularly after a little practice; for the thing grows upon us as we get used to it. Of all countries, there is none that furnishes such inveterate fault-finders, as England. Many of them are very much addicted to grumbling, even in their own country; but when out of it, everything goes wrong. The other day I saw a boy with a snapping turtle, which he had just taken out of a muddy pond. The creature was very savage—and if you pointed your finger at him, he would snap at you in the most spiteful manner. Nothing could move around him, but he would snap at it. I must confess that when I looked at the creature, he put me in mind of Captain Hall, Mrs. Trollope, Major Hamilton, and other English travellers, who have visited our country, and gone home and reviled everything they saw.

But we must now turn to the subject of the present article, Joseph Cappur, whose portrait is placed at the head of this article, and whom we call Captain Snarly. He lived at a place near London, called Kensington, and though he was rich, his habits were exceedingly stingy. He was chiefly famous for his love of finding fault; and he loved nothing so well as a snarling companion. One day, as he was walking about the place, he came to a small tavern. He entered, and asked the landlord if he could furnish him lodgings. “No!” said the landlord, fiercely—and then ordered him out of the house. This pleased old Snarly so much, that he immediately took up his abode at the place, and there he lived for twenty-five years. His greatest sport was to poke fun at the landlord and make him mad with fury.

Old Snarly was a great politician and a champion of the king. He would let nobody speak ill of either. He hated the French, and one of his chief occupations was to kill flies, which he called Frenchmen. He died at the age of seventy-two, and left one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to his relatives, whom he would not see while he was living.

JOHN BAKER.

This man was wonderful for the power he had over the muscles of his face. Though he had not a long nose, yet he could move it in such a manner as to take a piece of money up from a table between his nose and chin, and hold it there firmly. Nay more, he could draw his nose down in such a manner as to take it into his mouth, and then his under lip appeared even with his eyes and forehead! He could also put the stem of a tobacco pipe through his nose, and then take up a wine glass and hold it between his nose and chin, as shown in the portrait.

The performances of this man astonished all who saw him, and several eminent medical men expressed great wonder at his feats. He was both a sailor and a soldier, in the British service, and served in the revolutionary war, in America. He was twice married, and had a family of thirteen children. His life was one of great vicissitude, and when an old man, he was famous at Wapping, for his stories about what he had seen and done. He had a good opinion of himself, and used generally to wind off his long tales with the declaration that his equal was not to be found in the whole world!

Punch and Judy.

There are some wise old people, who, when they hear the music of the showmen in the streets, are very much annoyed, and wish to have the vagrants sent off to the work-house. Gently—gently—Mr. Snarl. This very exhibition of Punch and Judy, has given more innocent pleasure than almost any other that was ever invented.

The story of Punch and his wife Judy, had its origin in Italy. As it is a pleasant story, I will tell it. In the district of Acezza, near Naples, the people are very much addicted to the making of wine from grapes; and it is curious that from antiquity they have been famous for their love of droll wit and comic fun.

Well, many years ago, in the season of the vintage, which is a time when everybody seems to be full of joke and frolic, some comic players came along, through Acezza. They began to poke fun at the vintagers, and in the war of wit, the players got the worst of it.

Now there was, among the vintagers, a fellow with an enormous red nose, long and crooked like a powder horn; and he was the very drollest and wittiest of the whole company. The players were so tickled with his witty sayings, all set off by his odd face and very queer air and manner, that they almost cracked their sides with laughter.

After they went away, they began to think that this droll fellow would be a great accession to their company: so they went back and made offers to him. These he accepted; and such was the success of his efforts that the company acquired great fame and a great deal of money. Everybody went to see this witty buffoon, and all were delighted.

This example led to the establishment of a droll or buffoon in all companies of comedians; and he was always called after the original one, whose name was Pucco d’Aniello. This was, in the course of time, softened into Polecenello; the French made it Polichenel, and the English, Punchinello. After a time, the English, for the sake of brevity, left off the latter part of the word, and called it plain Punch.

How Judy originated, history does not tell us; but it is easy to smell out her story. Such a merry fellow as Punch has as good a right to a wife as anybody, if he can get one. Why not? You may think that his beet-like nose would stand in the way of his finding a woman willing to marry him; but his wit is a fair offset to this. Women are fond of wit, and Punch would play his part ill, if he could not make it cover his nose.

Well, we now suppose Punch to have a wife, and also suppose her name to be Judy. What, then, is more natural than for this amiable couple, now and then, to have a bit of a breeze? They live a wandering life, and do, like other people in their station, take a little liquor to raise their spirits. After the effect is over, feeling a little peevish, they fall to calling each other hard names, and hard blows follow, as natural as life. So here is the whole history, fairly made out.

Gentle reader! if you are young, you will not quarrel with the showmen, nay, you will stand by, clap your hands and pay your pence. If you are old, consider that you were once young, and tolerate the innocent exhibition, in behalf of those who are now what you were some half century ago.

Petrarch.—Petrarch, the celebrated Italian poet, recommended himself to the confidence and affection of Cardinal Coloma, in whose family he resided, by his candor and strict regard to truth. A violent quarrel occurred in the household of this nobleman, which was carried so far that recourse was had to arms. The cardinal wished to know the foundation of this affair; and, that he might be able to decide with justice, he assembled all his people, and obliged them to bind themselves by a most solemn oath to declare the whole truth. Every one submitted to the examination; even the cardinal’s own brother was not excused. Petrarch, in his turn, presented himself to take the oath; the cardinal said, “As to you, Petrarch, your word is sufficient!”

Attakullakulla.

On the river Tennessee, in former times, there was situated a fort, called Fort Loudon. This fort was far back in the woods, 500 miles from Charleston, and at a distance from any white settlement. It was built in 1756, for the purpose of preventing the encroachments of the French, who used to steal down from Canada, and annoy the white English inhabitants, who were forming settlements in that part of the country. At the same time, it was a safeguard against the Indians, numerous tribes of whom lived round about. These Indians, at all times savage and cruel, were particularly hostile to the whites; and more so, as they perceived them forming settlements in their neighborhood.

In the above fort, at the time my story commences, there were but few soldiers. This fact the Indians, by some means, discovered, and they determined to make an attack upon it; and, if possible, to massacre the soldiers.

The plan was conducted, as usual, with much secrecy and cunning; and, before the soldiers were aware, the fort was surrounded by a large number of savages, thirsting only for their blood. The fort was strong, however; the gates were shut, and the Indians found it impossible to enter. But they could watch it. They might perhaps in time force the soldiers to surrender, because their provisions could not last always. A guard was, therefore, constantly kept round about; and so vigilant were they, that not a single white man durst venture abroad, nor could any come to their assistance.

For a time, the provisions in the fort held out well; but, at length, the soldiers were obliged to resort to the flesh of their horses and dogs, which, by reason of scanty food, had dwindled away nearly to skeletons. For two long months, however, the soldiers bore up under the pressure of confinement, and stinted fare. The enemy that surrounded them, they well knew, were at all times savage and cruel; but now they would be doubly so, having become exasperated by watching for so long a period.

The soldiers had stout hearts and good courage; but, at length, they told their officers, that they could hold out no longer. Upon this, the officers came together, and, after due consultation, it was agreed to surrender, and to obtain the best treatment from the Indians they were able.

There was one man among them, whom the Indians esteemed. His name was Captain Stewart. He was accordingly selected to inform the Indians that they had held out sufficiently long, and were willing to surrender, provided they were treated kindly.

In reply, the Indians told Captain Stewart that they might march out with their guns, and a little powder and shot; but that they must leave the fort that very day. The Indians added, that they would accompany them to Fort George, where their white brethren lived.

As these were better terms than were expected, the English officers did not hesitate to accept them. They marched out accordingly, and that very day set out upon their journey for Fort George. It was noon when they left the fort, and night before they paused.

Wearied with their toilsome march, they soon laid themselves down to rest. Just as they were doing this, they perceived that the whole body of Indians were leaving them. The object of this movement they were unable to explain; but, well knowing how cunning and treacherous the Indians were, they could sleep no more. A few, perhaps, more weary than the others, were occasionally lost for a few minutes; but the painful state of anxiety in which they were, made their sleep short and unrefreshing. Several hours passed in this state of suspense; but as no Indians came near them, they began to indulge the hope, that the enemy had left them, to return no more. They, therefore, generally laid themselves down, and one after another became lost in sound sleep. About the dawn of day, one of the men, who had been placed as a guard, came running, in great haste, to inform them that a large body of Indians were secretly approaching.

The alarm was instantly given, and the men ordered to stand to their arms. The summons, however, was so sudden, and the terror so universal, that not a single soldier had his gun loaded when the tremendous war-whoop broke upon them. The onset of the savages, upon this comparatively feeble and unprepared band, was so furious, that resistance was in vain. Some were killed, and the rest taken prisoners. Captain Stewart had his hands tied behind him, and at the head of the others, was led back to the fort.

On their arrival, an Indian chief, taking Captain Stewart by the hand, conducted him to his own hut, unbound his arms, and fed him from his own bowl. This was Attakullakulla. A few days following, the Indians held a great council about the disposal of the prisoners. The chiefs were all present, and, though some differed for a time from others, in conclusion, they sent for Captain Stewart, and informed him that they were about proceeding to the attack of Fort George. “You and your men,” said they, “will accompany us. You will fight with us. This is the result of our talk!”

“You must do more,” added they. “Write to the captain of Fort George—tell him of our coming—tell him that if he surrenders the fort peaceably, it is well—if not, we will strip his friend Captain Stewart, and burn him before his eyes.”

This was indeed cruel. Captain Stewart seated himself; and, in the presence of the savages, wrote the letter required; but he thought within himself, that before he would fight his brethren, he would undergo the pains, even of savage torture. On returning home, said he to Attakullakulla, “You are my friend. You have shown your friendship, in the hour of danger and of trial. Now, can you show it again?—I cannot fight my brethren—I must escape, or I must die.”

Attakullakulla replied, “I have been your friend once; I will be so again. You must not fight your brethren. The red men must not kill you. Come with me, and I will take you far from the reach of the bloody tomahawk.”

Before the next morning, Attakullakulla and Captain Stewart were far on their journey, in the depths of the wilderness. By day, they travelled with great expedition, and at night slept upon the open ground. The sun and moon served as guides to the sagacious Indian chief; and, as they kept on over hills and mountains, valleys and rivers, Captain Stewart wondered where their journey would end. On the fourteenth day, they saw fires at a distance, and they knew that men were near. As they came nearer, they met a party of soldiers, who told them that they were in Virginia, and that this was the camp of Colonel Bird. They told them to go on further, where they would see Colonel Bird himself. When they came up to this officer, Captain Stewart introduced himself and his Indian friend to the colonel. He was delighted to hear of his escape, and was much pleased with the friendship which the Indian had shown to the white man. “This,” said he, “is true friendship, which shows itself in action, not in words.”

When Attakullakulla said he must depart that night, the two officers begged him to remain with them for a few days. But the old man said, “No.” When they found that he could not be persuaded, they loaded him with presents of all kinds, and bidding him “Farewell,” they saw him depart for his home. On his return to his tribe, he met some soldiers, who told him they had been sent from Fort George, the place which the Indians were going to attack. They said that the captain of Fort George had received their letter, and had heard that they were coming to fight him. But he desired Attakullakulla to inform his brethren, that they must not come to Fort George; for that there was much powder and ball buried in holes around the fort to blow up any enemies, who might come; and that if they dared to come, they would certainly be blown in pieces.

The chief promised the soldiers that he would tell the Indians of this, and again proceeded on his way. On reaching Fort Loudon, he called the Indians together, and told them of the word that the white men had sent them. They were much frightened, when they heard of the powder and shot, and blessed the Good Spirit that he had not permitted them to attack the fort, as they must all have been killed.

But to return to Capt. Stewart. Now that he had himself escaped, he began to think of the poor soldiers whom he had left in captivity. For a time he could hear nothing of their fate; and was in doubt, whether his escape might not have led to the massacre of them all. But, at length, he had the pleasure to know, by means of one who had escaped like himself, that they were alive, though still in captivity.

Upon this intelligence, he collected such articles, as he thought would be acceptable to the Indians—beads, buttons, red belts, &c., and sent them to his old friend, Attakullakulla, and begged him to divide them among the chiefs, and to ask them that their white prisoners might be sent to him in return. The presents proved acceptable to the Indians; and, in the fulness of their joy, they said they must send something in return to their friend Captain Stewart; but for an appropriate present they were quite at a loss. Attakullakulla told them he could help them out of their difficulty, and now informed them of the request of Captain Stewart. To this, they unanimously assented, and forthwith communicated to their prisoners that they were at liberty.

The joy of the prisoners need not be told. Under the guidance of the man whom Capt. Stewart had sent with the presents, they were conducted in safety to Fort George, where they had the pleasure to meet once more their friend and benefactor, Captain Stewart, and to thank him in person for his kind remembrance of them in the land of their captivity.

From the above story it may be useful to remark, that although Indians have many bad traits of character, yet they are not destitute of good ones. This good chief, Attakullakulla, saved, by his faithfulness, the life of his friend, and was the means through him, of saving all the other prisoners. It is an excellent thing to be faithful to our friends. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”—So Captain Stewart found it.

A Droll Mimic.

A clergyman of some distinction once had a tame baboon which became so fond of him, that wherever he went it was always desirous of accompanying him. Whenever, therefore, he had to perform the service of his church, he was under the necessity of shutting it up in his room.

Once, however, the animal escaped, and followed his master to the church; where, silently mounting the sounding-board above the pulpit, he lay perfectly still till the sermon commenced. He then crept to the edge, and overlooking the preacher, imitated his gestures in so grotesque a manner that the whole congregation were unavoidably made to laugh.

The minister, surprised and confounded at this levity, severely rebuked his audience for their conduct. The reproof failed of its intended effect; the congregation still laughed, and the preacher, in the warmth of his zeal, redoubled his vociferation and action; this last the ape imitated so exactly that the congregation could no longer restrain themselves, but burst out into one long and continued roar of laughter.

A friend of the preacher at length stepped up to him and pointed out the cause of this apparently improper conduct; and such was the arch demeanor of the animal, that it was with the utmost difficulty that the parson himself could maintain his gravity, while he ordered the servants of the church to take the creature away.

Whale Stories.

CONTEST ABOUT A WHALE.

It is a custom among whalemen, that whenever a whale gets loose, even although it may have once been taken by a crew, it is considered a free prize to any one who can seize it.

Several years since, two ships, which were in search of whales, happened at the same time to approach one, which was dead, and which was lying in some broken ice, not far distant from a large field of ice.

No sooner had the respective crews discovered the whale, than each made all possible sail to reach it before the other. On each bow of the two ships was stationed a harpooner with his appropriate instrument, in readiness to discharge it the first moment they should be sufficiently near. But it so happened that the ships came in contact with each other, when within a few yards of the fish, and being under full sail, the shock was so severe, as to do considerable damage to both.

The harpooners, however, intent on their prey, both discharged their harpoons at the same instant; and both fell short of their mark. Observing this, a hardy seaman belonging to one of the ships leaped overboard, and urging his way through the water, reached the fish, and seizing one of its fins, proclaimed it a lawful prize.

But the fish being greatly swollen, and withal quite slippery, the sailor was unable to climb upon it but was obliged to remain in the water, until assistance could be sent. This was no pleasant sport, for the water was intensely cold, and the poor fellow was seen quite benumbed.

Elated with this good luck, his captain forgot to send a boat, as he should have done, to relieve him; but gave orders to moor the vessel to an adjoining piece of ice.

In the mean time, the other vessel tacked, and the master stepping into a boat pushed off and rowed towards the dead fish. On reaching it, and observing the poor fellow still holding on to the fish, but quite benumbed, he observed, “Well, my lad, you have a fine fish here.”

“Why, yes,” replied the seaman, “something of a fish, to be sure.”

“But an’t you cold here in the water?”

“That I am,” said the shivering sailor—his teeth chattering so that he could scarcely utter the words. “Will you let me come on board your boat until ours arrives?”

This was readily acceded to, and the poor fellow was assisted over the boat’s side. But no sooner was he fairly on, than the captain seized a harpoon, and darting it into the fish, raised a flag and claimed it as his lawful prize.

Though it was a hard case, by the rules of whale-fisheries this was considered altogether right. The disappointed captain, having no redress, withdrew his vessel, leaving to his competitor a valuable prize, which he had lost through a very foolish neglect.

DISTRESSING ADVENTURE OF FOURTEEN WHALEMEN.

In the year 1813, the ship Volunteer, meeting with a severe gale, near a large piece of ice, in a high latitude, the captain deemed it expedient to set an anchor in the ice, to prevent his ship from being driven out to sea.

For this purpose a boat was manned with fourteen men, who proceeded to the ice with the anchor. At the same time, the ship was brought as near as possible; but no sooner was the anchor fastened to the ice, than a wave, dashing against the vessel, pulled the anchor from its fastenings, and she went adrift.

Before the sails could be properly set, she had reached a considerable distance. In attempting to near and return, the ship fell to leeward, and was driven out to sea.

This, to the poor seamen left behind, was a terrible disaster. The air was intensely cold. They were fourteen in number—with only a small open boat, insufficient to support them in such a gale as was prevailing—without shelter—without food—and on a detached piece of ice, which was liable every hour to float out to sea.

In this distressing situation, what should they do? Some advised to remain on the ice; but this might be broken by the increasing swell. Others were anxious to attempt to join the ship, while she was yet in sight; but the force of the wind, and the violence of the sea, rendered such an attempt little short of madness.

At length, however, the majority decided on the latter course; and having embarked, they launched forth on the swelling tide. But soon it was perceived to be all in vain—the boat could not live even a quarter of an hour, and their only safety lay in again returning to the ice. But even this was found to be impracticable. Each one now viewed his situation as desperate; and every moment expected to be engulfed in the rolling waters.

At this critical juncture,—this moment of deep despair,—suddenly and almost miraculously, as it seemed to them, a ship hove in sight. She was indeed bounding over the tumultuous waves—but she was advancing directly towards them.

But would she see them, and if seen, could they be taken on board in such a storm as was sweeping over the main? Fortunately, a small flag was in the boat. This was unfurled, and, streaming as it did in the wind, attracted the notice of the people on board the ship. The humane captain and his crew, from the first moment, determined, if possible, to afford them relief. This was difficult, and even perilous. But it might be done—and it was done. A kind Providence smiled upon the attempt, and the poor seamen, to their inexpressible joy, were rescued from a watery grave.

The ship proved to be the Lively, from the same port as their own vessel; and from their townsmen and acquaintances they had the pleasure to receive every token of kindness and affection which their pitiable condition required.

The Life of Columbus.

CHAPTER II.

Columbus sails on his first voyage—He continues his course.

The third of August, 1496, was a memorable day to Columbus and to the world. On the morning of that day the sails of the three vessels were seen by the inhabitants of Palos, spread for the voyage. To Columbus it was a joyful occasion,—to many of the people it was a season of gloom. Several of them had friends on board. They were now to bid them farewell, and they could not believe but that it would be final. They had little confidence in the success of the enterprise. Even the sailors appeared dejected. Many tears, it is said, were shed that morning, and loud lamentations were heard as the sails rose to the wind.

All things being in readiness, orders were issued to make sail. The vessels were soon gallantly ploughing their way through the deep, while the flag of Columbus was streaming to the wind on board the Santa Maria.

Many a bright morning is soon overcast by clouds. It was so with the prospects of Columbus. He was scarcely out of sight of land, before a signal of distress was made from the Pinta. She had unshipped her rudder, which was found to be broken. Columbus was not without his suspicions that the misfortune was the effect of design, in consequence of the reluctance of some on board to continue the voyage. The misfortune made it necessary for him to steer for the Canary islands. These islands are thirteen in number.

Three weeks were here spent in attempting to find a vessel to take the place of the Pinta. The effort was unsuccessful. The broken rudder of the Pinta was therefore supplied by a new one.

The vessels being again in readiness, Columbus left the island of Gomera, where the above repairs had been made, on the 6th of September. He now directed his course westward into the broad Atlantic.

On the 9th, Ferro, the most western of the Canary islands, was discovered, but before the setting in of night no trace of it remained in sight.

They had now taken leave of their country. Before them rolled a wide waste of waters, in the billows of which many expected to find a grave. Gloom and dejection seemed to rest heavily on the brow of many a rugged seaman—some of whom, even in this beginning of the voyage, broke out into loud complaints.

Columbus soothed and flattered them. He was himself confident of success, and spread before them the prospect of wealth and honor which he was sure they would realize.

On the 11th of September, they computed the distance run from Ferro at about 450 miles. At this time a mast was discovered in the water. The ill-boding seamen doubted not that it belonged to some unfortunate vessel; and from this fragment of the wreck, drew the conclusion that a similar fate was at no great distance to attend themselves.

September 14th, two birds were seen, a heron and a water-wagtail. These were supposed not to venture far from land: hence, the joy of the seamen was great. In this instance, however, their expectations were not realized.

In the course of a few days they fell in with the trade wind. This wind is so called because it favors trade. In the Atlantic Ocean, between the tropics, the trade winds blow constantly from the eastward to the westward.

They now went on prosperously and rapidly. The wind was so steady that for several days not a sail was shifted. The sailors would have been delighted but for one circumstance. If the wind blew so constantly from east to west how would they ever be able to return?

On the 18th of September, the wind from the east still wafting them forward, Columbus, from frequent experiments, was of the opinion that the water of the ocean was hourly growing fresher as they proceeded. If so, were they not approaching land?

The thought infused fresh animation into the crews. Every sail was spread—every possible exertion made by each to outstrip the others. At the same time, every eye which could be spared, was busily intent in looking for the expected land. There was a double reason for this—one was the ardent desire to attain the object of the voyage—the other was a promise of a reward of thirty crowns, or nearly one hundred and twenty dollars, to the man who should first descry land. The Pinta, being the best sailor, generally took the lead, and a signal from her, that a flock of birds was seen, served to add to the belief that land was not far distant.

The prospect of land, however, died away, and the sailors again began to be uneasy and dissatisfied. Every day’s sailing—every propitious wind, was carrying them farther from home and from friends. All served to strengthen their belief that in the wide waters they would find a last dwelling-place.

On the 23d of September, the wind changed and became nearly ahead. This impeded their progress, but it encouraged the sailors, as they inferred from it, that perchance they might be able to get back again. Other circumstances at this time also aroused their spirits. Several birds alighted upon the ships. These were so small as to induce the belief that land could not be far distant, as their strength would not admit of long-continued flight. Besides this, they sung so sweetly and with so much life, that the sailors thought they could not fear but that they could get back to land.

But again, soon after, the apprehensions of the crews were all alive. The sea appeared on every side to be covered with weeds. This they supposed to be an evidence of their approach to shoals and rocks. These apprehensions were still farther increased, on the 25th of September, by an unusual and distressing swell of the sea. Columbus told them that it was the effect of a gale which had subsided. But they believed him not.

In truth, they had been discontented from the first of the voyage. They had given a reluctant consent to the undertaking. The voyage proved longer than they expected. If much longer continued, their provisions might fail—at least there could be little hope remaining of their being able to make a safe return.

The growing discontents of the crew were watched by Columbus with solicitude. He was a courageous man, and better able than most men to allay a rising storm—to dispel fear and despondency.

But at length, complaints, which had been uttered by one to another, became louder and louder; and some even went so far as to talk of casting Columbus into the sea and sailing forthwith on their return. In these trying circumstances, Columbus left no expedient untried to quell their mutinous spirit. Some he soothed—some he flattered—others he threatened.

On the 25th, as they were sailing still westward, and before a prosperous breeze, a shout was heard from on board the Pinta, that land was in sight.

For a time the joy of the crews broke forth in glory to God. The masts were climbed—the rigging was filled, and every eye was strained to catch a glimpse of the long-desired land. The direction in which it was supposed to be seen, was southerly. So strong was the belief that land had been seen, that Columbus felt himself compelled to alter his course, and all that night to steer towards the object of their search.

The morning, however, brought with it the same unbroken prospect which had stretched gloomily before them for so many weeks. They were now satisfied that what they had seen was only a cloud, and which had departed like the darkness of the night.

The joy which they had experienced had been suddenly raised—it had risen high. The disappointment which followed was severe—and dejection sat heavily on every countenance.

Turn the Carpet.

A Dialogue between Dick and John.

BY HANNAH MORE.

As at their work two weavers sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat;
They touch’d upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.
“What with my brats and sickly wife,”
Quoth Dick, “I’m almost tir’d of life;
So hard my work, so poor my fare,
’Tis more than mortal man can bear.
How glorious is the rich man’s state!
His house so fine! his wealth so great!
Heav’n is unjust, you must agree;
Why all to him? why none to me?
In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the parson preaches,
This world (indeed I’ve thought so long)
Is rul’d, methinks, extremely wrong.
Where’er I look, howe’er I range,
’Tis all confus’d, and hard, and strange;
The good are troubled and oppress’d,
And all the wicked are the bless’d.”
Quoth John: “Our ign’rance is the cause
Why thus we blame our Maker’s laws;
Parts of his ways alone we know,
’Tis all that man can see below.
See’st thou that carpet, not half done,
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
Behold the wild confusion there,
So rude the mass it makes one stare!
A stranger, ign’rant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning’s there convey’d;
For where’s the middle, where’s the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder.”
Quoth Dick, “My work is yet in bits,
But still in every part it fits:
Besides, you reason like a lout,
Why, man, that carpet’s inside out.”
Says John, “Thou say’st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.
As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So when on earth things look but odd,
They’re working still some scheme of God.
No plan, no pattern, can we trace,
All wants proportion, truth, and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.
But when we reach that world of light,
And view those works of God aright,
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the workman is divine.
What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;
Then shall we praise what here we spurn’d,
For then the carpet shall be turn’d.”

“Thou’rt right,” quoth Dick, “no more I’ll grumble

That this sad world’s so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right.”

A Monkey Trick.

In 1818, a vessel that sailed between Whitehaven (England) and Jamaica, embarked on her homeward voyage, and among other passengers, carried Mrs. B., who had at the breast a child only a few weeks old. One beautiful afternoon, the captain perceived a distant sail, and after he had gratified his curiosity, he politely offered his glass to the lady, that she might obtain a clear view of the object. She had the baby in her arms, but now she wrapped her shawl about it and placed it on a sofa upon which she had been sitting.

Scarcely had she applied her eye to the glass, when the helmsman exclaimed, “See what the mischievous monkey has done.” The reader may judge of the mother’s feelings, when, on turning round, she beheld the animal in the act of transporting her child apparently to the very top of the mast! The monkey was a very large one, and so strong and active, that while it grasped the infant firmly with one arm, it climbed the shrouds nimbly by the other, totally unembarrassed by the weight of its burthen.

One look was sufficient for the terrified mother, and, had it not been for the assistance of those around her, she would have fallen prostrate on the deck, where she was soon afterwards stretched apparently a lifeless corpse. The sailors could climb as well as the monkey, but the latter watched their motions narrowly; and as it ascended higher up the mast the moment they attempted to put a foot on the shrouds, the captain became afraid that it would drop the child, and endeavor to escape by leaping from one mast to another.

In the mean time, the little innocent was heard to cry; and though many thought it was suffering pain, their fears on this point were speedily dissipated when they observed the monkey imitating exactly the motions of a nurse, by dandling, soothing and caressing its charge, and even endeavoring to hush it to sleep.

From the deck the lady was conveyed to the cabin, and gradually restored to her senses. In the mean time, the captain ordered every man to conceal himself below, and quietly took his own station on the cabin stair, where he could see all that passed, without being seen. The plan happily succeeded; the monkey, on perceiving that the coast was clear, cautiously descended from his lofty perch, and replaced the infant on the sofa, cold, fretful, and perhaps frightened, but in every other respect as free from harm as when he took it up. The captain had now a most grateful task to perform; the babe was restored to its mother’s arms, amidst tears and thanks, and blessings.

“The Light of all Nations.”

In the vicinity of Deal, on the south-eastern coast of England, is a place exceedingly dangerous to ships, called the Godwin Sands. Many vessels have been wrecked upon them, yet it was thought impossible, on account of the soft and shifting nature of the bottom, to establish a light-house there.

A plan was, however, suggested, two or three years ago, for a structure of iron, which, we understand, has been carried into successful effect. This consisted of an immense hollow iron shaft, thirty feet in diameter, and sixty-four feet in height, forming the base. This was sunk thirty feet deep in the sands, and rested on a bed of limestone.

Upon this, a column eighty-six feet high was raised; then came the lantern, and above this, a statue of the queen; this last, with the lantern, is forty feet in height. The whole structure is one hundred and ninety feet high.

The weight of the lower shaft, or base, is one hundred and twenty tons; in the long shaft, there is room for one hundred men with provisions; in the top part, near the lantern, there is room for twenty men, whose attendance is constantly necessary to manage the light. This splendid beacon is called “The light of all nations.”

Patrick Henry.—When Patrick Henry, who gave the first impulse to the ball of the American revolution in Virginia, introduced his celebrated resolution on the Stamp Act into the House of Burgesses of Virginia, (May, 1765,) he exclaimed, when descanting on the tyranny of the obnoxious act, Cæsar had his Brutus; Charles I. his Cromwell; and George III.——“Treason!” cried the speaker; “treason, treason!” echoed from every part of the house. It was one of those trying moments which are decisive of character. Henry faltered not for an instant; but, rising to a loftier attitude, and fixing on the speaker an eye flashing with fire, continued, “may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it.”

Highwayman and Sailor.—One of the Dover stages, on its way to London, was stopped by a single highwayman, who was informed by the coachman that there were no passengers inside, and only one in the basket, and he was a sailor. The robber then proceeded to exercise his employment on the tar. When waked out of his sleep, Jack demanded what he wanted; to which the son of plunder replied, “Your money.” “You sha’n’t have it,” said Jack. “No!” replied the robber; “then I’ll blow your brains out!” “Blow away, then, you land-lubber,” said Jack, squirting the tobacco-juice out of his mouth, “I may as well go to London without brains as without money;—drive on, coachman.”

The Peak of Teneriffe presents five zones of different vegetation; for seven to eight hundred feet, it produces vines, corn, olives, &c.; the second zone produces myrtles and trees; the third, chiefly pines; the fourth and fifth produce little vegetation, and are very cold; the upper part is pumice-stone and lava.

Iron light-house on the Godwin Sands.

Precocity of Frenchmen.

It is interesting to remark, that most of the more prominent leaders of the Jacobin or Mountain party, in the French revolution, were young men. It would hardly seem possible that many of them had lived long enough to have their feelings so indurated as to be able, deliberately, to perpetrate the atrocities of which they were guilty. This remark will appear more obviously just when we reflect that most of them had previously led an obscure provincial life, and may be supposed to have been little hardened by intercourse with the world. Perhaps, however, the greater part were actuated more by frantic enthusiasm than deliberate malevolence.

Robespierre, the master-spirit of the party, was guillotined at the age of thirty-five; Danton, his rival, he sent to the scaffold at the same early age. Camille des Moulins, when asked his age by the bloody revolutionary tribunal, gave the blasphemous reply, “My age is that of Jesus Christ when he suffered death,”—thirty-three years. Chaumette, another of the sanguinary tribe, suffered death at the age of thirty-one. Challer, who proposed to erect a guillotine at Lyons for the execution of nine thousand persons whom he had marked, was one of the oldest, being forty-six years old at the time he was beheaded. Fabre D’Eglantine, the author of the celebrated revolutionary calendar, was thirty-nine.

Carrier, the most infamous probably of the whole gang, who, when at Nantes, tied his victims together in couples, (one of each sex,) at the rate of twenty a day, and sunk them in the river, was only twenty-eight years of age, at his death. Robespierre, the younger, about the same age.

St. Just, whose talents, ferocity, and eloquence, rendered him second only to Robespierre, was about twenty-six. Chabot, the Capuchin friar, was thirty-five. Marat, who really appears to have been half madman, was, when assassinated, forty-nine. Babeuf, who, on the fall of Robespierre, was thought by his party to be most worthy to succeed the dictator, was twenty-seven when he joined the Revolutionists. The Duc D’Orleans, father of the present French king, was forty at the time he was guillotined. These were not the originators of the revolution; but they were the leaders of the Jacobin Clubs, or secret affiliated societies, over which Robespierre, as dictator, presided for two years. They were all beheaded except Marat. Besides these there were others, of inferior note, equally young. The present king of the French, then lieutenant-general Egalite, (Equality,) was about nineteen. A pretty equality he has made of it since.

Fouche (since duke of Otranto) was about thirty.

But it is likewise worthy of observation that the leading individuals of other parties who took part in the revolution, were generally young men, though not by birth, talent or wealth so generally obscure as those just mentioned. Of the Brissotins, (so named after their leader, Brissot de Warville, well known as the friend of Jefferson, and a traveller in this country, but otherwise called Girondists,) Brissot was thirty-nine. Bailly, the celebrated astronomer, and revolutionary mayor of Paris, was one of the oldest. He was beheaded, at the instigation of Robespierre, at the age of fifty-seven, dying with courage and dignity. Charlotte Corday, who, although a woman, was a Girondist, was but twenty-three when she assassinated Marat. The eloquent Barbaroux was about twenty-seven when beheaded. The just and magnanimous Barnave was executed at the age of thirty-two. Madame Roland, who died more as a man ought to die than all that were guillotined, was forty. Gensonne, the Brissotin, who was first to proclaim that suspicion was sufficient cause for the infliction of death, was sent to the scaffold by Robespierre at the age of thirty-five. Mirabeau, whose eloquence covered his crimes all over with glory, was about forty years of age. Cabanus was thirty-six. Buzot, thirty-three. The most eloquent and accomplished Vergnaud perished at the age of thirty-five.

Those last mentioned were some of the principal Brissotins. Among the Royalists, D’Elbee, the principal Vendean chief, was about forty. Stofflet, another Vendean, was thirty-eight. The Duc D’Enghein, no more than twenty. Pichegru, in Robespierre’s time, not more than thirty-two.

Among the famous generals of the revolution, there were few who were not comparatively boys. Hoche, who was thought by many to be equal to Bonaparte, died at thirty. Honchard, when guillotined, was thirty-two. Kleber, one of the oldest and best, was forty. Dessaix, the knight, without fear and without reproach, was thirty when he received his death wound at Marengo. Other great captains who afterwards became renowned, Ney, Soult, Joubert, (only twenty-five,) M’Donald, Lannes, Duroc, Victor, Mortier, Oudinot, Murat, Eugene, (a mere boy,) &c. &c., were all young. But the giant is behind—Him! Bonaparte! the little corporal was but twenty-four.

Well did the Swedish chancellor, Oxenstrein, say to his son, when he sent him on his travels, “Go, son, and discover what little wisdom it takes to govern the world!”

September Thoughts.

The gay, beautiful, and ever welcome months of summer are gone, and the months of autumn have begun to take their place. Our summer movements are fast closing,—our summer journeyings are passing away,—the travelling invalid and belle of fashion now wend their way homeward. Our merry meetings upon land and water, our annual visits, our assemblies under the canopy of heaven, our sailing excursions, our night wanderings,—all will soon be over. To be sure, Niagara still will thunder, and still there will be the rushing of mighty waters from her magnificent falls; but her music will be music for herself alone. The multitude who have gazed in wonder upon this mighty work of an Omnipotent Architect, will soon be far distant. Saratoga, too,—that little world of folly and of fashion, where thousands congregate to kill time, or else, perchance, to woo and wed,—will soon be desolate.

Two months hence and the cap and the cloak will take the place of our summer apparel. Our summer breezes will be changed into autumn winds. The gay and pleasing attire of our green fields and pleasant gardens will present the forbidding coldness of their own peculiar desolation. Our trees will cast off their foliage and their fruits, and instead of the blossom and the rose, the desert will appear. “Thus passes the glory of the world.” But a truce to autumn reflections.

September, then, has come among us. It is the time for trade, the signal for business, the prelude to long nights and short days, the time for balls and parties, the time for work, and the time for play; the time for merchants and clerks to rise early and retire late; the time for our mechanics to work in the evening and sleep in the morning; the time for wooing and wedding; the time to prepare for winter—to buy your fuel and make ready for stormy days. It is the time to make money and pay your debts, the time to study, and the time to make good bargains; the time to be honest, and the time to speak the truth; the time to make friends, and the time to do good. In a word, it is the time, our time, the only time. To our good mothers, grandmothers, and daughters, we say then, improve it; and to our perpetual motion business men, who neither sleep long nor slumber long, our advice is not needed. To the drones and sluggards that surround us, we say, prepare for freezing time and starving time, for a bed of ice and snow, and for a beggar’s meal. To the drunkard, we say, keep sober; and to the sober, we say, keep the bowl from the drunkard. Our advice is for all, and good to all, and he, whomsoever he may be, is a criminal who will not take it.

Politeness.—Men think very little of the value of a bow; how small the cost and how great the return. So, for a few soft words and pleasant looks, interest is paid, compound and simple added together. How many compliments have been lost on the one hand, and gained on the other, from neglecting or putting into exercise this one important thing. A nod! Why, it has gained more friends than wealth and learning together. A compliment, a fine speech, a pleasant look, are each more valuable than rubies. There is yet another value to politeness, which till lately the world knew but little, and but perhaps for Louis Phillippe and Alibeau, nothing would have been known. It seems that the king was in the act of bowing to the national guards, at the moment the assassin, Alibeau, discharged his weapon at the monarch’s head. Evidently the king’s politeness saved him his life.

Chinese Filial Piety.—Ouang-Ouei-Yuen, having lost his mother, who was all that was dear to him, passed the three years of mourning in a hut, and employed himself, in his retirement, in composing verses in honor of his mother, which are quoted as models of sentiment and tenderness.

The three years of his mourning having elapsed, he returned to his former residence, but did not therefore forget his filial affection.

His mother had always expressed great apprehension of thunder, and when it thundered, always requested her son not to leave her.

Therefore, as soon as he heard a storm coming on, he hastened to his mother’s grave, saying softly to her, as if she could hear, “I am here, mother.”

To our Correspondents.

We are very sorry that our limits do not permit us to insert more of the many pretty letters we receive from our friends. The following, which pleases us on account of the kind manner in which our little correspondent speaks of her teacher, ought to have appeared at an earlier date.

Troy, N. Y., June 23, 1843.

Mr. Merry:

Dear Sir,—We have received the June number of your magazine, and are all very much delighted to learn that we are to have a piece of music in the next number. We have been asking our teacher to let us solicit the same favor of you that your Providence friends did. We have fifteen little misses in our school, of whom I am the oldest; for I am ten years old. We some of us take lessons on the piano, and all of us sing. We have a pleasant school, and we all love our teacher, Miss E. B. W., for her kindness and faithful instructions. The particular branches to which I attend are Geography, Davis’ Arithmetic, Grammar, Music and French. Those that study French like it very much.

I hope you will excuse the forwardness of one of your young friends, in writing so much about her little affairs; but I know you have kind feelings for children.

Yours, respectfully, Mary L. C.

Boston, Aug. 14, 1843.

Dear Mr. Merry:

Will you allow one of your young readers to contribute the following geographical enigma?

I am composed of 17 letters.

- My 2, 9, 9, 17, 11, is a county in Massachusetts.

- My 15, 6, 8, 4, 5, 10, 9, is a town in Mississippi.

- My 12, 14, 8, 8, 2, 16, 6, 8, is a strait in the north of Europe.

- My 9, 6, 5, 14, 3, 14, is a desert in Africa.

- My 8, 10, 2, 9, is a river in England.

- My 1, 6, 4, 14, 9, 9, 6, 3, is a strait in Asia.

- My 10, 11, 2, 8, 17, 3, is a town in New Hampshire.

- My 8, 2, 7, 15, 17, 9, 9, 10, 17, is one of the United States.

- My 16, 6, 7, 16, 10, 9, is a celebrated river in Asia.

- My 1, 14, 7, is an island in the Irish Sea.

- My 8, 17, 11, 6, 9, is a country in North America.

- My 15, 6, 5, 14, 7, 8, is a celebrated peninsula in Massachusetts.

- My 16, 3, 10, 17, 4, 2, is a celebrated country in Europe.

- My 8, 13, 6, 1, 10, 9, is a river in England.

- My 5, 14, 8, 8, 17, 3, 6, 9, is a cape in the United States.

- My 1, 6, 15, 4, 5, 2, 9, 8, 10, 3, is a manufacturing town in England.

- My 2, 6, 9, 8, 13, 14, 1, is a town in Massachusetts.

- My whole is a public building in Boston.

N. B

I need not say that the following pleases me very much.

Liverpool, May, 1843.

My Dearest Friend:

I am going to write you a letter. I am very much obliged to you. I am very much amused in hearing stories out of your nice books about the world. I will tell you a story about a widow.

A TRUE STORY.
I knew a widow, very poor,
Who four small children had,
The eldest was but six years old—
A gentle, modest lad.

And very hard this widow tried
To feed her children four,—
An honest mind the woman had
Though she was very poor.

To labor she would leave her home,
For children must be fed,
And glad was she when she could buy
A shilling’s worth of bread.

One day, when snow was falling fast,
And piercing was the air,
I thought that I would go and see
How these poor children were.

Ere long I reached their cheerless home,—
’Twas searched by every breeze,—
When going in, the eldest child
I saw upon his knees.

I paused to listen to the boy;
He never raised his head,
But still went on and said, “Give us
This day our daily bread.”

I waited till the child had done,
Still listening as he prayed;
And when he rose, I asked him why
The Lord’s prayer he had said.

“Why, sir,” said he, “this morning, when
My mother went away,
She wept, because, she said, she had
No bread for us to day.

She said, we children now must starve,
Our father being dead;
And then I told her not to cry,
For I would get some bread.

‘Our Father,’ sir, the prayer begins,
Which made me think that he,
(As we have got no father here,)
Would our kind Father be.

And then, you know, the prayer, sir, too,
Asks God for bread each day;
So in the corner, sir, I went,
And that’s what made me pray.”

I quickly left that wretched room,
And went with cheerful feet,—
And very soon was back again,
With food enough to eat.

“I thought God heard me,” said the boy,—
I answered with a nod,—
I could not speak, but much I thought
Of that child’s faith in God.

I hope you will like the story that I have written: I like it very much.

M. C.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

Christ Healing the Sick.

If we look into the history of Bonaparte, or Cæsar, or Alexander, we shall see that their lives were chiefly employed in killing people; in making war, by which men, women and children suffered the most dreadful agony, misery and death.

It seems to be a natural idea for men of powerful minds and great ambition, to aim at subduing their fellow-men, and when these resist, to kill them. And, strange to say, the greater number a man kills, the greater hero he is.

Such is the way with mankind. How wonderful it is, then, to take up the New Testament, and read the history of Jesus Christ. How unlike he is, to the great men of the earth—to the Cæsars, the Alexanders and the Napoleons!

In the fourth chapter of Matthew, we are told that, after leaving Nazareth, Jesus began to preach repentance, and to heal all manner of sickness and disease. Instead of wounding and killing mankind, he went about doing good.

“And his fame”—says the sacred story,—“went throughout all Syria; and they brought unto him all sick people that were taken with divers diseases and torments, and those which were possessed with devils, and those which were lunatic, and those which had the palsy; and he healed them.”

What a wonderful—what a beautiful story is this! Who had ever set such an example? What man had ever conceived the idea of going about doing good? What human being had ever the idea, the purpose, and the power, of going about, curing all manner of diseases?

Surely this was unlike human nature, and altogether beyond human power; it was evidently a divine character, exercising divine power. He came to save a world which was lost; for he saw that the “heart of man was only evil, and that continually.” He came to atone for the sins of mankind; to reconcile a holy God to a sinful world.

The more we contemplate the character of Jesus Christ, the more will it rise in beauty and grandeur before our minds. Let us form of him the most noble and lofty conceptions, we shall still see him towering above and beyond them.

It does not require a great mind, but only a holy heart, to see Christ in his majesty and beauty. Thus it is that such a man as Bonaparte, having no just moral vision, no eye for goodness, sees in Christ only a strange being, whom he conceives to be bewildered with his own fancies; while a simple-minded, but still inspired apostle, calls him “my Lord and my God!” See John, 20th chap., 28th verse.

The difference between the worldly spirit of selfish man, and the spirit of Christianity, may be strikingly presented, by selecting two pictures, and placing them side by side. Let us take a picture of Bonaparte, representing him in one of the leading actions of his life—and what do we see? He is fighting a battle; around him are the engines of death; blood flows on every hand; the screams of the wounded, the agonies of the dying, fill the air; the earth is strewed with ghastly forms; the very heavens are black with the smoke of the deadly conflict. And this is human glory! This is human nature!

Christ healing the Sick.

Let us turn to another picture, that painted by West, of which we give an engraving; it is Christ healing the sick. Does not every child see the difference between human glory and Christianity; between the things to which human nature and human pride lead us, and the things to which Christ would lead us? Does not every child see the deformity of one picture when placed by the side of the other picture? How poor, paltry and mean is that spirit which sacrifices all to self! How lofty that god-like spirit, which embraces all mankind in its generous love of doing good! How contemptible is the worldling! How elevated the true Christian!

Going to School.

Why do children go to school—to benefit their parents, or themselves? I sometimes fancy that children make a mistake in this matter, and fancy that they go to school just because their parents will have it so, and not because it is important to their happiness to learn to read, and spell, and write and cipher.

The fact is, that parents love their children, and desire their happiness, and therefore it is that they desire them to be taught at school. Many parents are so anxious that their children should be well educated, that, although they are poor, they will toil very hard to get the means of sending them to school.

Children should therefore consider that it is for their own sake they are sent to school, and required to learn and say their lessons. It is to make them wiser and better, and to qualify them to obtain success in life, that they are thus trained up, by their parents—those who love them best, and best know what is good for them.

The First Sailor.

All my readers have seen rafts, and boats, and ships, and they know perfectly well that it is very easy to sail on the water. But who was the first sailor? Who first ventured forth in a boat or a vessel?

A savage upon his raft.

We are told of Noah, who floated in an ark, thousands of years ago, and was thus saved when all the rest of mankind were drowned by the deluge—but no doubt people had learned to go upon the water before the time of Noah.

The interior of a large ship.

It is thought that the nautilus, of which we once gave a picture in the Museum, and which is a natural sailor, first suggested the idea of a boat or ship. It is probable, however, that mankind early saw that wood would float in water, and soon applied their observation to practical purposes. They doubtless first got upon logs, and then made rafts, to sail upon. By-and-by they doubtless built boats, and lastly ships.

There is a great difference between the beginning and end of an invention. The picture at the head of this article shows a savage upon his raft; the next is a view of the interior of a ship, displaying its floors and beams and timbers.

The art of building ships has advanced gradually, with the other arts of man. Here is a picture of a ship of war used about two thousand years ago. How very different it is from a ship of war of the present day! It has no deck, but is open like a boat; while a large ship of war of the present day, has four stories! The ancient ship of war would hold fifty or sixty people, while a ship of war, now, will hold a thousand.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER VIII.

About the bees.

It is well worth while to attend minutely to the business that is going on in the bee-hive. Nothing, in a great city, where we see houses, and streets, and manufactures, and a vast population, all busily engaged, can be more curious than what is to be witnessed in the city of the bees.

The queen is the mother of all the young bees, for she lays all the eggs from which young ones are hatched. When she wishes to lay the eggs, she goes to the cells which have been made by the workers, and having taken a peep into them, drops in her eggs, taking care to distribute them properly. It is said that a single queen will lay six thousand eggs in a single month, and sometimes one hundred thousand in a year!

The eggs are very small, of a bluish white color, and of a long, oval shape. They remain unchanged for four days and are then hatched. At first, the young bee is only a white worm or maggot, and may be seen floating at the bottom of the cell, in a whitish fluid, furnished by the nursing bees. It grows rapidly, and as it lengthens coils itself into a ring. It is then called a grub-worm, or larva.

The little worms are carefully attended by the nurses, and as soon as these approach and touch them, they open their minute jaws and receive the food. This consists of a nice kind of soft, sweet pap, formed by the farina of flowers, honey and water, carefully mixed, and partly digested in the stomachs of the nurses.

When Miss Betsey Piper had got to this point, Jack spoke as follows:

“That’s very queer, aunt Betsey, and very interesting; but don’t it remind you of the story about the old Dutch landlady, in the state of New York?”

“No,” said aunt Betsey.

“Why,” said Jack, “don’t you remember that Mr. Roley told us about it? He said that he was once travelling in the western part of the state of New York, when he came to a little brown tavern, kept by an old Dutch woman. It was evening, and he asked for supper. The old lady had very little in her house but bread and milk, and he concluded to have some of this. ‘How do you like it,’ said the landlady—‘mummed or crumbed?’ Now Mr. Roley didn’t know what mummed was. So, out of curiosity, he told her he would have it mummed. Upon this, the landlady got a large bowl of milk, and several large slices of bread. Then, standing over the bowl, and taking a slice of bread, at each end, with her fingers, she began to bite off pieces, and, after a little chewing, dropped them into the milk. This was what she called mummed bread and milk! I suppose she did it all for kindness, but Mr. Roley couldn’t eat a bit of it.”

“Well,” said aunt Betsey, “don’t you think the little bee-worms like the sweet pap that is made for them?”

“Oh, very likely they do,” said Jack, “for they don’t know how it is made; besides, I have seen little infants eat things that had been chewed for them by the nurses; and it seems that the infant bees are treated in the same way. Really, the bees seem to be very rational kind of creatures. But what makes me wonder very much, is how they should know anything without any books, or instruction.”

“That is indeed very wonderful,” said aunt Betsey, “and we can only explain it by referring it to that admirable teaching of their Creator, called instinct.” The dialogue here ceased, and the narrator went on.

When the little worms are about four or five days old, and have grown so large and fat as to fill their cells, the nurses seal them up with a brown cover of a conical form. No sooner does the larva find himself shut in, than he begins to work up and down, and to wind around himself fine silky threads, which he draws in two strands from the middle part of his under lip. Round and round he goes, for he knows what is to be done; nor does he stop till he has woven about himself a thin pod or pellicle, just the size of the cell. In this condition, the creature is called a nymph or pupa.

The working bee is about thirty-six hours in spinning and weaving its cocoon or covering. It thus spends about three days, during which a wonderful change is going on. While in the larva state, the creature has no tail, wings or legs; it is a simple worm. But while it is in its swaddling clothes, the legs and wings are gradually formed, and, at the end of twenty-one days from the laying of the egg, it gnaws through its covering and comes forth a winged insect, destined to sport in the air and hold a joyous revel among the flowers. As if impatient for sport, the insect goes forth soon after its birth, and it is said that it may be seen returning to the hive, loaded with wax, the same day that it became a bee!

While the young bees are in the larva state, the utmost care is taken of them. If any member of the hive is rude or careless toward the egg, or worm, or the yet unhatched pupa, the nurses are very angry. But when the pupa has gnawed his way through his covering, he seems to be regarded as of age, and able to take care of himself. The tender care of the nurse now ceases altogether; and the working bees scramble over his head, without scruple. While he is still weak, and scarcely strong enough to get out of his cell, as if for the very purpose of making him acquainted with the hardships of life, the rude multitude of bees rush headlong by, often knocking him down, and sometimes giving him a severe poke in the side, or a thump on his skull. How much like human creatures the bees are!

I have told you how the working bee nymphs are hatched; the complete bee is formed in twenty-one days. The process is nearly the same, in respect to the queen bees and the drones; the former, however, are hatched in sixteen days, and the latter in twenty-five, from the laying of the eggs. There is one thing in respect to the royal bees, or queens, too curious to be omitted.

When they are nearly ready to emerge from their cells, the bees gnaw the covering so as to make it very thin. They then eat a small hole through it, and feed the pupas for a few days. They are thus kept as prisoners, and during this time they begin to sing a faint song, called piping. This is so droll, that I can’t help writing a song, which I shall call the

LAY OF THE INFANT QUEEN BEE.

Oh let me out,

My masters—pray.

Oh let me out

To-day—to-day!

Oh let me out
To try my wing,
To run about
And dance and sing.

Oh let me out
To taste the breeze,
And I will bless
Ye, pretty bees!

Oh let me out
To see the bowers,
Where honey dwells
In golden flowers!

Oh let me out,
For I’m a queen—
A pretty bee
As e’er was seen!

Should you suppose it possible that the bees could resist such a petition as this? Yet it is a fact that often the queens are detained as prisoners for four or five days, notwithstanding their piping.

A Child’s Philosophy.—Little G——, when playing the other day on a pile of wood, fell down and hurt himself. As he lay crying very bitterly, one of his friends passed by, lifted him up, and patting him on the head, said to him—“Come, my little boy, don’t cry; it will be well to-morrow.” “Well,” said he, sobbing, “then I will not cry to-morrow.”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VI. OCTOBER, 1843. No. 4.

October.

It is now October—the tenth month in the year. It was anciently called wyn monat, or wine month, because this is the season of the vintage. An old stanza says,

“Then for ‘October month’ they put
A rude illuminated cut,
Reaching the grapes from off the vine,
Or pressing them, or turning wine;
Or something to denote that there
Was vintage at this time of year.”

In this country, we have some grapes, but we make no wine, or very little. With us, October is a beautiful month; for now the green leaves of the forest are changed and present a variety of the most brilliant hues. The woodbine is seen climbing up the trees and rocks, as red as the coat of a British soldier. The ash, the maple, the oak, the shumack, are clothed in red, yellow, and purple of every shade. The mountain seems to be robed in a coat of many colors.

Although winter is approaching, and already many of the leaves are dropping from the boughs to wither and to perish, still the aspect of the forest is gay and brilliant, as if nature put on her most gorgeous garments at the very moment when death and decay are approaching.

While these scenes are presented to the eye, the farmer is busy in gathering his crop of Indian corn, digging his potatoes, and securing the pumpkins, squashes, beets, and other vegetables of the garden. The migratory birds have departed, but the whistle of the quail is heard at morning and evening. The drumming of the partridge murmurs through the forest, and the squirrel is seen feasting upon the chestnut and walnut trees. October is, indeed, a pleasant month.

The Island of Hong Kong.

The Island of Hong Kong.

In the late war between Great Britain and China, the former took possession of the island of Hong Kong. They still retain it as a station for their vessels; and as it is likely to become a place of some interest, we give a picture which presents the bold and rugged aspect of the country, and we shall now add a few particulars descriptive of the island.

It lies on the coast, at the south-eastern point of China, and near to the main land. Its surface is very uneven, it being broken into rugged mountains and deep valleys. It appears like a huge mass of earth and rock, that has been severed from the adjacent continent and tumbled into the sea. The loftiest peak is said to be about fifteen hundred feet high.

The view of the island which we have presented, exhibits several tall conical mountains, rising in the centre, and a beautiful cascade, pouring over a high rock into the sea. To the right may be seen a few small huts, which, a few years since, constituted the only habitations upon the island. These were occupied by a small number of miserable natives, who lived almost entirely by fishing.

The island is for the most part sterile and unpromising. It has no beasts and few birds; scarcely a tree finds root in its soil, and the shrubs are stunted and dwarf-like. By the margin of the streams, there are numerous flowers, some of which are exceedingly beautiful. The climate is hot, and the thermometer sometimes rises to one hundred and twenty degrees. This island is chiefly valuable to the British on account of its fine harbor, which is capable of containing a great number of ships, which may there rest in security.

Tippoo Saib.

This monarch, sultan of Mysore in Hindostan, was a son of the famous Hyder Ali, and became distinguished in those wars which Great Britain carried on for the purpose of subjecting this portion of India. He was born in 1751, and succeeded his father in 1782. In 1783, he signed a treaty of peace with England, which put an end to the wars that his father had commenced.

Tippoo had now a kingdom about twice as large as the state of New York in extent, with an annual revenue of $14,000,000. The country was thickly peopled and well cultivated; but Tippoo was a Mahometan, and he began to persecute those who differed from him in religious faith. He caused the Brahmins to be cruelly beaten, and such was his rigor towards the Christians, that seventy thousand of them left his dominions.

After a time, he became again involved in a war with the English, and Tippoo was besieged by Lord Cornwall, in his capital of Seringapatam. Reduced to extremity, he agreed to a peace, by the terms of which he was compelled to relinquish one half his kingdom and pay the enormous sum of $15,000,000. This took place in 1792.

Tippoo was a man of great talents and a good deal of pride. He could not well submit to the humiliation he had suffered, and accordingly he again engaged in war against the English. He had entered into intrigues with the French, and as Bonaparte at this time made his famous expedition into Egypt, it has been supposed that he expected assistance from Tippoo in an attempt to subjugate India and strip England of her possessions in that quarter.

The British troops prosecuted the war with vigor, and having defeated the sultan in two pitched battles, he was obliged to retreat to his capital. Here he was again invested, and on the 4th of May, 1799, Seringapatam was carried by storm. Tippoo was slain in the assault, while bravely defending the ramparts, and his kingdom was divided. This monarch, though capricious and cruel, was fond of literature, and had collected an extensive and valuable library, which is still preserved in the University of Calcutta.

A Revolutionary Story.

CHAPTER II.

[Continued from page 16.]

It is not our design to detail the proceedings of the regiment raised in Saybrook, and commanded by Colonel Joinly. It is sufficient to say that it marched toward New York, and crossing over the Sound to Long Island, for the purpose of executing some plan against a detachment of British troops stationed there, they were attacked by a superior force, and after some brave fighting, were driven back. A small portion of them, including the colonel, being separated from the rest, were surrounded and captured. The rest were dispersed and returned to their homes.

New York had now fallen into the hands of the British, and General Clinton, the British commander, had established his head-quarters there. The citizens, for the most part, remained at home, though many families had departed for other portions of the country. Those who remained were not disturbed in their ordinary business, though they were carefully watched by the British officers.

The city of New York at this period seemed almost like a British town. The soldiers of King George, dressed in their red coats, and bearing the British flag, were seen parading the streets every day and filling the city with the sounds of the fife and drum. Sir Henry Clinton had a fine house, where he might often be seen, surrounded by British officers gayly decked in gold lace, rich epaulettes, and cocked hats ornamented with plumes.

Though the business of these men was war, they seemed, while in New York, to be chiefly occupied with amusement. It is true, that, during the day, they rode forth on fine horses to review the troops, examine the fortifications, or inspect military stores. Sometimes they assembled together for counsel, when they might be seen carefully inspecting maps, reading despatches, and forming deep schemes to defeat General Washington and conquer our country.

But although a portion of their time was thus occupied, still these officers seemed to live as if amusement engrossed their attention. They were often seen gallanting gay ladies through the streets, and almost every evening was devoted to pleasure. Frequent levees were held at the general’s house, where music, dancing and revelry seemed to fill the hearts of all who were present. There were several American families in New York, who were friendly to the British and opposed to the cause of liberty; they were called tories. These paid their court to General Clinton, and did everything in their power to please, amuse, and gratify his officers.

Thus things went gayly on in the city, while war raged in all parts of the country. Towns and villages were attacked, the houses plundered and burned, the inhabitants slain or driven in poverty and desolation from their houses. Even where these scenes of violence had not occurred, and in places remote from battle and bloodshed, there was sorrow and gloom hanging over many a family and many a village. To form an idea of this, let us turn our attention a moment to Saybrook and the home of Colonel Joinly. He had now been absent about two years, being detained in captivity at New York. He had left behind him a wife and family of six children.

Before his departure, they had lived in the enjoyment of wealth and prosperity. Their house stood upon the bank of the Connecticut river, commanding a view of the noble bay, which spreads out at the point where that stream mingles with the ocean. The edifice was of the olden fashion, of two stories, with a steep roof and heavy cornices. It was of ample dimensions, with several out-houses and two large barns; the latter showing that a liberal farm was connected with the domain.

Several lofty elms stood around, and two in front, with their vast spreading branches, especially, indicated the full century which had elapsed since the house was reared. In the present instance, they might have been emblematic of the two heads of the house. It seldom happens that two nobler spirits are united than in the alliance of Captain Joinly and his wife.

He was distinguished alike for manly beauty, fine intellect, and true nobleness of soul. Eminent in his profession, he had acquired wealth, which had been used to embellish his home, bestow the advantages of education upon his family, and dispense charity around him. His wife was in every respect his equal.

I remember her well, for she lived to the age of threescore and ten, and when I was a boy, and sat upon her knee, she told me the tales which I am now telling. In her old age, her tall form was erect, her eye black and piercing, and as she walked upon her high-heeled shoes, she seemed the very image of dignity. She was still scrupulous as to her toilette; and though she had the long waist, the tall cap, the frizzed gray hair, the rich, stiff, black silk of the olden time, there was a graciousness of manner, a heavenly sanctity of countenance about her, which rendered her, as my memory has preserved her portrait, one of the most beautiful beings I have ever beheld. There is surely no extravagance in conceiving that the two noble elms that stood before the old mansion, were emblematic of the master and mistress who presided over it.

For a series of years, an unbroken tide of prosperity had seemed to attend the Joinly family. In the enjoyment of wealth and respectability, they also possessed the confidence and good will of all around. They might, perhaps, be considered a little aristocratic, and there was doubtless something of family pride in their hearts.

But these things were common in that day; the English custom of dividing society into different ranks was prevalent in the country. Where there was wealth, talent, and good character, a certain degree of superiority was assumed. It did not then, as in our day, give offence, for such was the practice of the people; and especially in the case of the Joinlys, was the rank assumed on the one hand, and accorded on the other, without provoking unpleasant feelings. In the dignity they maintained, there was nothing of strutting, of haughtiness, or pride; and such was their reputation for kindness, hospitality and charity to all, that envy was disarmed and scandal silenced.

Such was the state of things when the hospital on Duck Island was destroyed. This was a serious disaster; for the amount of property that was lost was considerable. It was, however, followed by other calamities. Colonel Joinly expended a large sum of money in preparing his own outfit and that of the regiment, all of which was speedily dissipated. Beside this, the unfortunate result of his expedition, though in no respect occasioned by want of skill or courage, had impaired the reputation of the colonel, and served in no small degree to mortify the feelings of the family.

But more than all, his prolonged captivity, and the circumstances which attended it, served to harass both himself and those who were nearest and dearest to his heart. He was detained at the western extremity of Long Island, contiguous to New York, where a large number of American prisoners were kept. Some of these were in barracks, and others in the hulks of large vessels, which were moored near the shore of the present town of Brooklyn.

Crowded closely together in these dismal apartments, with unwholesome and scanty food, surrounded with a putrid atmosphere, and deprived of every comfort, the poor wretches suffered everything that humanity could endure. Many of them fell victims to these miseries, as well as to diseases engendered by destitution, famine, and an infectious atmosphere.—Colonel Joinly, from his rank, was spared these miseries; but he was a physician, and seeing the sufferings of these poor wretches, his generous heart was touched with pity, and, from the first, he devoted himself to their alleviation as far as was in his power. He expended the little money he possessed in the purchase of medicines, and when this was exhausted, he sent home to his family, begging them to forward him all the money in their power to be employed in this pressing charity.

Though already impoverished, and struggling under many difficulties, his wife despatched all the money she could collect, and added several articles of jewelry. All this was soon expended, and still there was a demand for more. The colonel, at length, exchanged his gold watch and his gold sleeve buckles for medicines; and finally he proceeded to some of the merchants in New York, and ran in debt to a considerable amount for the same object.

From the earliest dawn, till late at night, he was devoted to the poor, suffering soldiers. Sometimes an hundred of them were prostrate with disease, and he was the only physician. Naturally of a kind and sympathizing nature, he felt the sorrows of these poor creatures as if they were his own. He not only administered to them as a physician, but he alleviated their sorrows in every way that his ingenuity could suggest.

The soldiers looked upon him as their only friend, and they regarded him with an affection almost bordering upon idolatry. In a multitude of cases, he was called by the dying soldiers to communicate their last words to their friends, and a large part of his time was taken up in writing letters of this nature. Nothing could exceed the patience, the gentleness, the sympathy, with which he would sit by the bedside of the dying, soothing their agonies of body and softening their mental sorrows.

While thus, for two long years, Colonel Joinly was occupied in his career of charity, his family at home had been subjected to many privations. Everything that could be done by a woman was achieved by the energy, skill, and devotion of his wife. But they had been completely impoverished by the draining of their resources, and nothing was left to the support of a large and expensive family but the farm. From this, the absolute necessaries of life were indeed procured, but nothing more.

The situation of Mrs. Joinly was, in many respects, distressing. Her husband was in captivity, and in circumstances which led her to feel that his life must soon be sacrificed to exposure, care and anxiety. She knew the depth of his feelings, and foresaw that unless he were soon released from his present condition, he would speedily wear out his life from mere sympathy with the distress around him. She had several sons, now approaching manhood, who needed the guidance of a father; and she had daughters, who were deprived of advantages which they once possessed, and which a father’s presence alone could restore.

With all her care, she felt too that stern poverty was creeping upon them. The old family carriage had been laid aside, the sleek horses were gone, and the plough-horse alone remained in their stead. The ample flock of sheep had dwindled down to some half dozen ewes. Nothing remained of the noble dairy, but two lean cows. The fences of the farm were going to decay, and everything around seemed to wear an aspect of ruin and dilapidation.

Hitherto, Mrs. Joinly had supported her adversities with firmness, or if she had moments of weakness, they were hidden from the view of all around, and the tears which were shed, fell in secrecy and silence. But at last, she wrote a letter to her husband, setting forth her anxieties, and begging him earnestly to adopt some means by which he would be able to return.

When this letter reached Colonel Joinly, his heart was wrung with anguish. It seemed impossible that he should leave the prisoners to their fate, and yet, the call of his family appeared imperative. With a view of discharging his duty to all, he proceeded to General Clinton, and in moving terms set before him the distresses of the prisoners, and the necessity of provision, of medicines, medical attendants and other comforts. This earnestness and eloquence extorted a promise of compliance with these reasonable requests; but the event proved that it was promise alone.

Colonel Joinly also wrote to General Washington, entreating him to provide for his immediate exchange. He set before him his great sacrifices, his broken constitution, his ruined fortunes, his distressed family. The reply received from the commander-in-chief was full of kindly sympathy, but it still expressed a belief that Colonel Joinly’s presence with the distressed prisoners was indispensable, and that his leaving them would be but a dereliction of duty.

In a state almost bordering on despair, his nerves already shaken by impaired health, the colonel proceeded to General Clinton, and besought him to grant him leave of absence for a month, upon parole. The request seemed to startle the general at first, but great virtues make their way through all hearts. Colonel Joinly’s devotion to the prisoners had become the theme of praise even with the enemy, and had reached the ears of the British commander. He therefore, after a little hesitation, granted the request of Colonel Joinly, taking only his word of honor as the pledge for his return.

The war-worn soldier now made preparations to depart for his home, but, owing to some caprice in the British commander, or other circumstances, which we cannot explain, at the moment Colonel Joinly was about to depart, his leave of absence was revoked, and sick at heart, he was obliged to submit to the disappointment which this event occasioned.

(To be continued.)

[For Merry’s Museum.]

The Blue-Bird.

About the beginning, or early in the month of March, in Connecticut and Massachusetts, comes the delightful blue-bird. “Everybody loves the blue-bird,” says the Rev. Dr. Peabody, in his Report on the Birds of Massachusetts. And Mr. Wilson remarks of him, “As one of the first messengers of spring, bringing the charming tidings to our very doors, he bears his own recommendation always along with him, and meets with a hearty welcome from everybody.”

The blue-bird has been so beautifully described by other writers, and so well known, that I shall do little else than quote from others, and principally from Wilson, who is perhaps unrivalled in his description of birds.

He has written a poetical account of him, which is so interesting and beautiful, and which so few persons, especially children, have an opportunity of reading in his beautiful work on American Ornithology, that I am tempted to transcribe the whole of it for the readers of Merry’s Museum, young and old.

“When Winter’s cold tempests and snows are no more,

Green meadows and brown furrow’d fields re-appearing,

The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,

And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;

When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,

When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,

O, then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring!

And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.

“Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;

Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;

The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,

And spicewood and sassafras budding together;

O, then, to your gardens ye housewives repair,

Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;

The Blue-bird will chant from his box, such an air,

That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!

“He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,

The red-flowering peach and the apple’s sweet blossoms;

He snaps up destroyers wherever they be;

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;

He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,

The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter;

His song and his services freely are ours,

And all that he asks is—in summer a shelter.

“The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,

Now searching the furrows,—now mounting to cheer him;

The gard’ner delights in his sweet simple strain,

And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;

The slow lingering school-boys forget they’ll be chid,

While gazing intent as he warbles before them,

In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red,

That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

“When all the gay scenes of the summer are o’er,

And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;

And millions of warblers that charmed us before,

Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;

The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,

Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,

Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam,

He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.

“While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,

The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,

Or love’s native music have influence to charm,

Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings are given,

Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;

His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure,

For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,

He comes, to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!”

The Blue-bird, as most persons, young and old, probably know, builds its nest in a hole in some old tree, generally an apple tree, unless a box is provided for him, in which the female lays five or six very pale blue eggs. Its song is a pleasant warble, which everybody loves to hear. Says Wilson, “In his motions and general character, he has great resemblance to the Robin Redbreast of Britain, (meaning Great Britain,) and had he the brown-olive of that bird, instead of his own blue, could scarcely be distinguished from him. Like him, he is known to almost every child; and shows as much confidence in man by associating with him in summer, as the other by his familiarity in winter. His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country, and few farmers neglect to provide for him, in some suitable place, a snug little summer-house, ready fitted and rent free. For this, he more than sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys.”

If the young readers of Merry’s Museum will make a small box, with a hole in it large enough for the bird to go in and out, and nail it up in the neighborhood of the house, in the spring or fore part of summer, they will be almost certain to have either a blue-bird’s or a wren’s nest made in it, and can examine the eggs and young at their pleasure.

Last year I put up a box, for martins, on the side of my house, but no martins coming, a pair of blue-birds took possession of it, and raised a brood of young ones. This season, a box which I nailed up near the house, has a wren’s nest built in it, in which the female has now (July 3d) laid two eggs. The blue-birds have not yet occupied the martin box, but I think they may, as it was late last year when they made their nest in it.

Vireo.

Kircher.—The celebrated astronomer, Athanasius Kircher, having an acquaintance who denied the existence of a Supreme Being, took the following method to convince him of his error, upon his own principles. Expecting a visit from him, he procured a very handsome globe, or representation of the starry heavens, which was placed in the corner of the room, where it could not escape his friend’s observation; who, when he came, asked from whence it came, and to whom it belonged. “Not to me,” said Kircher, “nor was it ever made by any person, but came here by mere chance.” “That,” replied his skeptical friend, “is absolutely impossible: you surely jest.” Kircher, however, persisting in his assertion, took occasion to reason with his friend on his own atheistical principles. “You will not believe,” said he, “that this small body originated in mere chance; and yet you would contend that those heavenly bodies of which it is but a faint and diminutive resemblance, came into existence without order or design.” Pursuing this train of reasoning, his friend was at first confounded, next convinced, and ultimately joined in a cordial acknowledgement of the absurdity of denying the existence of a God.

Green.

Of all colors, green is most agreeable to the eye. Red is bright and dazzling, and pleases us for a moment; but how painful would it be if the whole landscape around us were of a bright red color! How soon would our eyes begin to ache! How dreadful would be the spectacle in the heat of summer, and during the long days of June, July, and August! How soon would a large part of mankind, under these circumstances, be reduced to a state of absolute blindness!

If the earth were covered with yellow, or pink, or purple, or even blue, the effect upon the eye would be either painful and destructive to the sight, or at least very disagreeable. But as the earth is covered with green a large part of the year, and as this color is agreeable to the eye, none of these evil consequences are experienced.

How beautifully are the wisdom and goodness of God displayed in so adjusting the eye of man that it should take delight in that color which prevails in nature. If God had not been a wise being, he would not have adapted things to each other in this admirable manner. If he had not been a benevolent being, he would not have made the whole earth like a picture, so that the eye of man might rejoice in it. He would not have clothed the mountain, the forest, the hill-side, the meadow and the valley, in that particular color which is the only one of all others that suits the human eye.

What is it to be Polite?

Politeness is a delicate regard to the feelings of others. It does not consist in civil bows, or graceful wavings of the hand, or a courtly bearing of the body, or in flattering speeches; it lies rather in avoiding rude and offensive speeches, in avoiding offensive habits, and in adopting a general course of conduct calculated to gratify and please those around us.

We sometimes see people who pretend to be very polite; who bow and say flattering things, and affect an air of polish and refinement; and who are yet haughty, and seem to say, by their airs, “We are better than you are!” Now, whatever these people may pretend to be, they are not polite—they are, rather, coarse-minded, vulgar, disagreeable, people; they are at once ill-bred, hypocritical and wicked. They pretend to be what they are not; they are filled with self-conceit, and are really desirous of wounding the feelings of others, by making them feel humbled in their presence. Nothing can be more offensive than such manners.

A truly polite person endeavors to put all at ease around him. If he is learned, in the presence of the unlettered he does not set off his knowledge; if he is better dressed than those around him, he does not direct attention to this fact, but leads to other topics of consideration; if he is handsome, he acts as if he did not know it; if he is of a higher station in life than others who may be present, he still treats all with due attention and kindness.

The source of politeness is the heart. If the heart is good—if it is full of gentleness, kindness, tenderness and grace, the face, the hands, the form, will all unite to express it. The manners of a person set forth his heart; they tell tales out of school, and let everybody look into the bosom. If a person is always saying malicious, ill-natured things, we know that the heart is ill-natured and malicious. If the countenance, has a severe, harsh, and unkind expression, we do not doubt that it is an index to the heart. As the pointers of a clock show how the machinery moves within—telling of every revolution, down even to the ticking of seconds—so the manners tell the beatings of the bosom, and show to the eye of the skilful observer, all that is going on there.

Some persons fancy that politeness implies insincerity; they imagine that it requires a certain degree of pretence, flattery and gloss. This is a mistake. Politeness, like every other virtue, may be carried to excess, and thus become vicious or false. Politeness never calls upon us to sacrifice sincerity; it never requires us to say or do or pretend what is not true. It commands us to keep our manners void of offence; and the best way to do this, is to keep a heart void of offence. If we feel pleasantly, kindly, benevolently, we shall be very apt to appear pleasantly, kindly, benevolently. If by any means we have adopted a bad habit—if we have become satirical—if we have fallen into the practice of telling tales of others, or exaggerating the faults of others, or taking pleasure in telling scandalous tales of others, the moment we become apprized of it, we should break off such bad habits.

I sometimes fancy that young people—even some of my blue-eyed and black-eyed friends—hardly think that they are bound to be polite: but, let me tell you, my dear children, that now is the very time to begin to establish the habit of paying attention to the feelings of others. Let me beg of you, therefore, always—at the table, in the street, in the parlor, at church, with the young and the old—be polite; by which I mean, be regardful of the feelings of others.

Early Rising.

The habit of early rising is recommended by many considerations. In the first place, it contributes to health and long life—it invigorates the body and the mind, and it gives cheerfulness to the spirits. The fresh morning air is the best of medicines.

Early rising also contributes to pleasure. There is no part of the whole twenty-four hours so pleasing, so striking, so wonderful, as that in which the whole world wakes up from sleep, in which night gives place to day, in which the glorious fountain of life rises up as from a sea of darkness, and fulfils the bidding of the Almighty. God says, “Let there be light!” and there is light.

The habit of early rising contributes to thrift and success in the pursuits of life. The mechanic, the farmer, the merchant, or the manufacturer, who rises early in the morning, is almost certain to be successful in his business. This habit is also of the utmost importance to the student, as we shall readily see by glancing at the lives of certain great men.

John Quincy Adams has been for many years in the habit of rising at four o’clock in the morning; and it is doubtless owing to this practice, in a considerable degree, that he has attained his present eminence. He has been president of the United States; he has been the diplomatic representative of our government at various foreign courts; he has been for many years a member of congress; and all these stations he has filled with distinguished ability.

He is a profound statesman, a fine writer, an eloquent speaker. He is one of the most learned men that lives; and now, at the age of almost fourscore, he is the admiration of his countrymen, and the wonder of the age. Wherever he goes, the people crowd in flocks to see him; whenever he addresses the multitude, there is a deep and reverend silence, broken only by acclamations of applause. What a wonderful reputation has this man acquired, and in a great degree through that simple habit of early rising which is within the reach of all!

Let us look to other cases, and see what great things have been accomplished by early rising. Paley, who, in the early part of his college career, led an indolent life, was awakened one morning at five o’clock by one of his companions, who reproached him with the waste of his time and of his strong faculties of mind. Struck with the justice of the reproach, Paley, from that time forward, rose at five every morning. It is easy to see how such a course contributed to the celebrity of this great author of the Moral Philosophy and the Evidences of Christianity.

The celebrated Dr. Doddridge says, that it is to his habit of early rising, that the world is indebted for nearly all of his works. Sir Thomas More always rose at four o’clock, and wrote one of his most famous works by thus stealing time from his sleep.

The celebrated naturalist, Linnæus, rose generally at four o’clock, and at six he gave lectures to his scholars, which lasted till ten. Dr. Franklin was an early riser. Dr. Bowditch, the distinguished mathematician, of whom every American youth should know something, rose with the sun in summer, and at four o’clock in winter; and he used to remark, that to these morning hours he was indebted for all his mathematics. Zimmerman always wrote several hours in the early morning. Priestly was an early riser; and it is to hours gained in this way that we are indebted for many of the volumes of Sir Walter Scott.

Buffon, the celebrated writer on natural history, used to bribe his servant to wake him every morning at a certain hour, and he says, that to the perseverance of this man, the world is indebted for his well-known work on natural history. We may add to this list of great men, who have recommended early rising by their examples, the names of Sir Matthew Hale, Dr. Parkhurst, Bishop Burnet, Bishop Horne, Bishop Jewell, and many others.

Pope Julius II.

This extraordinary man was originally a fisherman, but his uncle, Sextus IV., being pope, and seeing that he possessed great talents, caused him to enter the church, where he soon obtained distinction. His ambition was vast, and reaching from point to point, he at last became pope, in 1503.

Although he professed to be the successor of St. Peter, who preached the gospel of peace, Julius did not hesitate to raise armies and make war; and, what is remarkable, he led his armies in person, and in battle displayed all the fierce courage and bold daring of the soldier. At the siege of Mirandola, in 1511, he exposed himself, at the head of his men, at any point of danger: when a breach in the walls was effected, he entered by a scaling ladder, sword in hand, being among the very foremost of the headlong assailants!

The great mind of Julius was occupied with many vast projects. In the first place, he desired to restore the see of Rome to its former power, and he made wars, fought battles, and intrigued with kings and princes, to effect this object. He did a good deal, as he thought, to strengthen the power of the popes, and establish, not only the spiritual, but temporal dominion of the church; but while he was pleasing himself with the idea of success in one direction, we shall see that he was laying the train, in another, by which his schemes were to be finally exploded, and the church itself shaken to its foundations.

Pope Julius II.

Julius was a lover of pleasure, and many tales are told of his vices and immoralities. He was also a lover of the fine arts—painting, sculpture, and architecture. Of these he became a patron, and many great artists, particularly Raphael and Michael Angelo, flourished in his time and under his auspices.

Julius did a great deal to improve and embellish the Vatican, which is the Pope’s palace, at Rome. This building is still one of the wonders of the world, and it would require a large book to describe its hundreds of rooms, and its treasures of art, in painting and sculpture.

Among other great projects, Julius determined to build a cathedral church, one of such majesty and splendor as was suitable to the city of Rome, the seat of the popes, the centre and head of that religion which had not only pervaded the civilized world, but claimed to be the perpetuation and completion of God’s dealings with man on earth. The stupendous and admirable church of St. Peter, still standing at Rome,—the wonder of the world and the triumph of art,—was the result of this grand conception.

Julius was a man of great energy—and he set immediately about his darling project. The greatest artists were employed, and the edifice was begun on the 18th April, 1506. It was hurried forward with such expedition, that the walls, after they were carried to a great elevation, cracked, and it required the wonderful genius of Michael Angelo to devise the means of remedying the difficulty, and of furnishing the stupendous plans for the final completion of the building.

St. Peter’s was not finished till more than a century after both Julius and Michael Angelo had gone down to their graves—so vain are both ambition and genius, in satisfying their own desires. And as to Julius, this very work, designed, no doubt, to hand down his name with glory to after times, resulted in a very different manner. His various schemes led him into many expenses, and in his need for money he granted the sale of indulgences for sins—causing it to be set forth that the money thus obtained, was to build the church of St. Peter. Julius seems to have thought it very desirable to erect this noble church; he, perhaps, regarded it as a very laudable and holy enterprise, though doubtless, some share of selfish ambition was mingled with other feelings. And, further, Julius seems to have thought, for such a great and good object, that he might deal in indulgences,—which were pieces of paper, sold for large sums of money, in which the pope declared that the sins committed by persons buying them, were remitted and forgiven of God!

This traffic being carried on to a great extent, roused the famous Martin Luther in opposition to the church of Rome, and the result was the Reformation, by which the power of the church of Rome was greatly abridged, and the popes themselves humbled. Thus the ambition of Julius resulted in disgrace to himself, and humiliation to the institution which he so eagerly sought to glorify.

A gentleman, one dark night, riding home through a wood, had the misfortune to strike his head against the branch of a tree, and fell from his horse, stunned by the blow. The animal immediately returning to the house which they had left, about a mile distant, found the door closed and the family retired to bed.

He then pawed at the door, till one of them, hearing the noise, arose and opened it, and to his surprise found the horse of his friend. No sooner was the door opened than the horse turned round, and the man, suspecting there was something wrong, followed the animal, who led him directly to the spot where his master lay on the ground in a state of insensibility.

Eccentric Characters

RICHARD DICKINSON.

This man, though deformed by nature, as he is represented in the picture, lived a happy life, amassed wealth, became a great favorite with fashionable people, and at last acquired the title of Governor.

Dicky, as he was familiarly called, lived at Scarborough, a town in Yorkshire, England, famous for mineral waters and sea bathing. It has long been a fashionable resort in England, and in paying attention to those who frequented the place, Dicky collected considerable money. With this, he built several public houses, and as he was now rich, and withal very facetious, he became quite a noted character. The ladies patronized him; poets sung his praises, the famous Hysing painted his portrait, and Vertue, no less celebrated, engraved it. A large etching was executed, from which the above sketch is taken, and to the likeness the following lines were subjoined:

“Behold the governor of Scarborough Spaw,
The strangest phiz and form you ever saw,
Yet, when you view the beauties of his mind,
In him a second Æsop you may find.
Samos unenvied boasts her Æsop gone,
And France may glory in her late Scarron,
While England has a living Dickinson.”

Dickinson received the title of governor somewhat in mockery, but he took it in good part. He flourished rather more than a century ago.

JAMES WHITNEY.

This notorious person, who was executed in 1694, for robbery, was bred a butcher, and it is said that his first attempt at crime consisted in an effort to steal a calf. He and a companion had endeavored, in the course of a certain morning, to purchase the calf; but as the owner demanded an exorbitant price, they determined to steal it the next night.

It happened to be very dark, but, after some parley, Whitney agreed to enter the stable and seize the animal, while his companion watched without. He entered accordingly, and began feeling about for his prey. He soon felt something rough, and taking it for the calf, began tickling it, in order to make it rise. Suddenly, the animal seemed to get upon its hind legs, and anon grasping Whitney with its fore paws, gave him a most severe hug. In this posture, he was forced to stand, lost in astonishment, unable to move, and afraid to cry out, lest he should alarm the inn-keeper or some of the family; the thief without, wondering all the time at his delay.

The latter, at length, putting his head in at the door, said, “What is it that keeps you? Are we to be all night stealing a calf?” “A calf!” exclaimed Whitney; “why, I believe it is the Imp himself, for he has got his paws about me, and keeps me so close that I can’t stir a step.” “Pooh!” cried the other; “what nonsense; but imp or no imp, I should like to see him,—so make haste, and fetch him out at once.”

Whitney was too much alarmed to be pleased with this jesting tone, and immediately rejoined, impatiently, “Oh, do be quiet, and come to my assistance, for I don’t half like him.” The other accordingly entered, and after a little examination, they discovered, to their amazement, that they were deceived.

It seems that a muzzled bear, belonging to an itinerant showman, having been accidentally placed in the stable during the day, the calf had been removed to make room for him. By their joint efforts, Whitney got relieved from the bear’s grasp, when both made off with all speed, half resolved never again to try their hand at thieving, since the trade had had so luckless a beginning.

Unfortunately, Whitney did not mind the warning conveyed by this ill success. He soon after became an inn-keeper in Hertfordshire, and connected himself with a set of people, called Gentlemen of the road. These were robbers, who waylaid travellers, and robbed them of their money, jewels, watches, &c.

These desperate men were in those days so numerous along the great roads in England, that no persons who had money, thought of travelling, unless they were sufficiently armed. Many of these robbers became distinguished for their daring feats, and some of them were almost as famous as Robin Hood. Whitney, at last, became a leader among these men, and a great many wonderful tales were told of his dexterity, boldness, and success. It seems that he pretended to be a generous robber, and the following story is told of him.

He once robbed a gentleman on Newmarket heath of a large quantity of silver, tied up in a bag. When Whitney had got the money, the gentleman remonstrated with him, saying, “that he should be put to the greatest inconvenience, if he were obliged to proceed on his journey without money.” Upon this, Whitney opened the mouth of the bag, and told him to take what would pay his expenses. The gentleman took out as much as his two hands would hold, to which Whitney made no objection, only remarking, with a smile, “I thought you would have had more conscience, sir.”

Whitney pursued his career of crime, but justice followed in his track. He was finally betrayed by one of his companions in iniquity, and being tried in London, received sentence of death. In the presence of a vast crowd, he acknowledged his guilt, and, at the early age of thirty-four years, was launched into eternity.

HENRY WOLBY.

This individual inherited a large estate, was bred at the university, and spent several years abroad in travelling. On his return, he married a lady of great beauty, and became in the course of time a man of great respectability, honored by the rich, blessed by the poor and respected by all.

When he was about forty years old, he had a dispute with his brother. He met him one day in the fields, and the latter snapped a pistol at him, which happily flashed in the pan. Thinking this was only done to frighten him, Wolby disarmed the ruffian, put the pistol in his pocket, and thoughtfully returned home.

On examining the weapon, he found that it was loaded with bullets. This had such an extraordinary effect upon his mind that he instantly determined to retire from the world, in which resolution he persisted to the end of his life.

He took a house in Grub street, London, and selected three rooms for himself, one for eating, one for lodging, and the third for study. He had no attendant but an old maid; and while his diet was set on the table by her, he retired into his lodging room, and into his study while his bed was making. Out of these chambers, from the time of his entry into them, he never issued, till he was carried thence, forty-four years after, on men’s shoulders; neither in all that time did his son-in-law, daughter, or grand-child, brother, sister, or kinsman, young or old, rich or poor, of what degree or condition, soever, look upon his face, save the ancient maid, whose name was Elizabeth. She only made his fire, prepared his bed, provided his diet, and dressed his chambers. She saw him but seldom—never but in cases of extraordinary necessity—and died not above six days before him.

“In all the time of his retirement, he never tasted fish or flesh. His chief food was oatmeal gruel, but now and then in summer he had a sallad of choice cool herbs; and for dainties, when he would feast himself upon a high day, he would eat the yelk of a hen’s egg, but no part of the white. What bread he did eat, he cut out of the middle of the loaf, but the crust he never tasted. His constant drink was four shilling beer, and no other, for he never tasted wine or strong water. Now and then, when his stomach served, he did eat some kind of sackers, and now and then drank red cow’s milk, which his maid, Elizabeth, fetched him out of the fields warm from the cow. Nevertheless, he kept a bountiful table for his servants, and sufficient entertainment for any stranger or tenant who had occasion of business at his house. Every book that was printed, was bought for him, and conveyed to him; but such as related to controversy, he always laid aside and never read.

“In Christmas holidays, at Easter, and other festivals, he had great cheer provided, with all dishes in season, served into his own chamber, with store of wine, which his maid brought in. Then, after thanks to God for his good benefits, he would pin a clean napkin before him, and putting on a pair of clean Holland sleeves, which reached his elbows, cutting up dish after dish, in order; he would send one to one poor neighbor, the next to another, whether it were brawn, beef, capon, goose, &c., till he had left the table quite empty, when giving thanks again, he laid by his linen, and caused the cloth to be taken away; and this he would do, at dinner and supper, upon these days, without tasting of anything whatsoever.

“When any clamored impudently at the gate, they were not therefore immediately relieved; but when, from his private chamber, he spied any sick, weak, or lame, he would presently send after them, to comfort, cherish and strengthen them; and not a trifle, but as much as would relieve them for many days after. He would moreover inquire which of his neighbors were industrious, and had great charge of children: and withal, if their labor and industry could not supply their families, to such persons he would send, and relieve them according to their necessities. He died, October 29, 1636, aged eighty-four. At his death, his hair and beard were so overgrown, that he appeared rather like a hermit of the wilderness, than the inhabitant of one of the first cities in the world.”

The Life of Columbus.

CHAPTER III.

Voyage continued—Land discovered—Going ashore—Other discoveries—Columbus shipwrecked—He builds a fort.

Although, as I said, the hopes of the seamen were for a time blasted, and they appeared sad and dispirited, the vessels still continued their westward course. The weather was fine, the sea tranquil and the wind favorable. By and by, new indications of land cheered their hearts. Dolphins were seen playing about the ships, and birds of various kinds hovered round them.

On the 7th of October, several on board the Santa Maria thought they perceived land. This was made known to the Nina, which being a good sailer, stretched forward with the hope of gaining the reward of thirty crowns. It had been agreed that in case land was discovered by either vessel, a flag should be hoisted at her mast head and a gun fired. Not long after the appearances of land we have mentioned, the signal was given from the Nina. But, as in former instances, this proved a mistake, and the high hopes which were again suddenly excited soon vanished away.

To Columbus himself, it now seemed strange that no land should be made. They had reached a distance from home of more than two thousand miles, and yet the prospect was no brighter than weeks before. At this time, he determined to vary his course for a couple of days south-west. He was induced to do this by the appearance of flocks of birds which were proceeding in that direction.

The prospect still continued to be encouraging, and after the two days, Columbus still pursued the same course. But on the setting in of the third night, the murmurs of the crew were loud and threatening. Finding mild and conciliatory language in vain, Columbus at length assumed a tone of authority, and declared it to be his unalterable intention to persevere until he had attained the object of his search.

On the following day, the indications of land infused new courage into every one’s bosom. Besides several other things, a thorn bush, with berries on it, was picked up; also a board and a cane. The night at length set in. It was a night of deep anxiety to Columbus. His breast was alternately filled with hope and fear. Indications of land were now so strong that he ventured to announce to the crews his firm belief that the time of better things was approaching. “This night,” said he, “I trust land will be found.” He now ordered a double watch on the forecastle, and promised a reward of a doublet, or vest of velvet, in addition to the thirty crowns, to him who should make the important discovery.

That night, no one slept on board; all was animation, all was hope; all watched with interest the most intense. To this general animation there was one exception, and that one was Columbus himself. He took a station on the top of the cabin. He watched in silence the progress of the vessels—a deep anxiety pervaded his soul.

About ten o’clock, he was startled by the glimmer, as he thought, of a distant light. He hesitated—again looked—fancied he saw it—believed that he saw it—yet he might be deceived. In this uncertainty, he spoke to one of the crew, and pointed in the direction of the light, and inquired whether he saw it. The man declared he did. For a time it disappeared, but again and again it was seen by them, and at length was announced to the crew, by several of whom it was also descried. At two o’clock in the morning, (October 12,) the joyful signal was given by a gun from on board the Pinta. A seaman first saw the land. His name was Rodrigo de Triana. When first discovered it was about six miles distant.

Satisfied that the long-sought-for object was found, the sails were furled, and on the bosom of the tranquil deep, the vessels lay in peace, and the crews, with eager impatience, waited for the dawn of day. That at length arrived, and behold, outspread before them, lay a beautiful island!

The feelings of Columbus I shall not attempt to describe. It may well be supposed that his joy was intense. The crews were in transports. They now thronged about Columbus. They embraced him—solicited his forgiveness, and told him only to command, and henceforth they would obey. Preparations were now made to land and to take possession of the country in the name of the king and queen of Spain. This was done with much form and solemn ceremony.

Columbus dressed himself in a suit of scarlet, and as the boats, well manned and armed, proceeded towards the shore, he bore aloft a royal standard. On reaching the shore, Columbus kneeled, and audibly returned thanks to God. All followed his example. This done, Columbus drew his sword, and waving the standard, declared the land to belong to the crown of Spain. He then required all present to take the oath of submission to him as governor of the island.

From the light which Columbus had seen the night preceding, he had concluded that the land, whatever it was, was inhabited. Before landing, he found his conjectures to be true. Numerous bodies of natives were seen running towards the shore, and appeared to be lost in wonder and amazement. While the boats were getting ready, the number of natives collected on the beach, continued to increase. But as the Spaniards drew towards the shore, they fled in great terror to the woods.

But after the landing was effected, finding the Spaniards quite peaceable in their appearance, they began to venture nearer and nearer, until at length, no longer afraid, they came and handled the long beards of their new visitors. They appeared greatly to admire their dress and the whiteness of their skins. They looked upon the Spaniards as the inhabitants of the skies, but they could scarcely imagine how they descended to the earth unless by means of the clouds, or by the assistance of the sails of their vessels, which they seemed to think were wings.

These inhabitants were naked,—their color was of a copper hue. They had no beards, and the hair of their heads was straight and coarse. They were all painted, and in a manner which was hideous. They appeared to be well shaped, had fine eyes, and in their dispositions were very gentle. Columbus took every possible means to secure their friendship. He distributed among them numerous small presents, such as beads, bells, &c.

Having spent some time in examining the island, Columbus made preparations to leave it. He gave it the name of San Salvador. By the natives it was called Guanahani. In the maps of the present day it goes by the name of Cat Island. This island belongs to a cluster, known by the name of Bahamas, of which some say there are five hundred belonging to the group. The southern limit of San Salvador is in twenty-four degrees north latitude.

Leaving San Salvador, Columbus proceeded to visit several other islands lying in the neighborhood. He found them all inhabited by people strongly resembling the natives of Guanahani. The Spaniards everywhere inquired, by signs, for gold and precious stones; but they were uniformly given to understand, that to find these in abundance, they must go farther south.

On the 28th of October, Columbus discovered the large island of Cuba. The Spaniards were everywhere delighted with the appearance of the islands. The groves were covered with the richest foliage; flowers of endless beauty and variety were sending forth their fragrance upon the surrounding air; birds of the most brilliant plumage were sporting on the wing; and insects of every hue were playing in the sunbeams. All appeared, to the weary navigators, like an earthly paradise. Gold was now the great object of their search. This only was wanting, and their joy would have been complete. But in respect to this, they were disappointed. Leaving Cuba, Columbus coasted southerly, but finding the wind unpropitious, he ordered the vessels to return to Cuba. On the following morning, however, the Pinta was nowhere to be seen. What was the meaning of this? Columbus was satisfied that no misfortune had befallen her. She must have deserted. But why? Was she about to return to Spain to rob him of the honor to which he was entitled? At first, it was his purpose to pursue her; but at length he thought better of it, and proceeded to make still farther examination of the coast of Cuba.

Having spent some time longer near its shores, he stretched southward, and soon after discovered the large island of Hispaniola. On the coast of this, a most unfortunate occurrence took place. On Christmas eve, as his vessel was in a calm and smooth sea, and proceeding before a gentle breeze, Columbus retired to rest. Shortly after he had lain down, the helmsman entrusted the pilotage of the ship to a boy, and with the rest of the crew, was soon asleep. In the meanwhile, the vessel fell into a current, and before any on board were aware of the danger, she was driving rapidly upon a sand bank.

The noise of the breakers alarmed the boy, who now called for assistance. Columbus was soon on deck, and was followed by the crew. A boat was got in readiness, and the crew ordered to carry out an anchor to a distance, with the hope of warping the vessel into deeper water. Too much alarmed to attend to the directions of Columbus, the men in the boat, instead of casting the anchor, rowed off half a league to the Nina for assistance. But assistance came too late. The vessel was firmly fixed upon the bank. All efforts to save her were in vain.

Columbus and his men took refuge on board the Nina, and on the following day, went on shore, which was only about a league and a half distant. Here they were treated with great kindness by Guacanagari, an old chief, and his subjects, and they found considerable quantities of gold in possession of the Indians. The Spaniards spent some time at this place, being at a loss what course to adopt. The Santa Maria was now wrecked, and the Pinta had not been heard from. The Nina was a small vessel, and many of her crew were fearful that she might be lost on her return.

In these circumstances, and with these fears, several of the crew begged Columbus to allow them to remain on the island. After a little reflection, and finding the natives to be friendly, he consented that a certain number should remain. For their comfort and security, he determined to erect a fort from the materials furnished by the Santa Maria. Accordingly she was broken up, conveyed to land, and the fort commenced.

While this was in progress, some Indians arrived from the eastern part of the island, with the news that a large vessel was in that neighborhood. This was joyful intelligence to Columbus. It could be no other than the Pinta. He immediately despatched one of his men, with several natives, to ascertain the truth of the report. At the end of three days, the messengers returned, but they had obtained no intelligence to confirm the report. Notwithstanding this, it was still believed that the Pinta had been seen, and some hopes were indulged that she might yet be fallen in with.

The completion of the fort was now hastened. It was called La Navidad, or The Nativity. This being finished, Columbus felt himself under the necessity of discontinuing his voyage of discovery and of returning to Spain. It might be that the Pinta had been shipwrecked. Sailing in an unexplored sea, amidst islands, would greatly endanger the safety of the Nina. He concluded it wise, therefore, to hasten his departure before any accident should occur, which might forever put it out of his power to return, and thus conceal the important discoveries he had made, from the sovereigns of Spain and the people of Europe.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

CHAPTER IV.

Hunting adventures.

Some time now passed without any remarkable event. After a hunting or war expedition, the Indian men usually spend a large part of their time in idleness. For several weeks after their return, the warriors might be seen stretched at full length in their wigwams upon the beds of skins, and often, during the day, upon the bare ground, basking in the warm sunshine.

Thus they would repose day and night, sleeping a part of the time, and dozing away the rest of the hours. When hungry, they arose and ate the meal provided for them by the women, and then returned to their rest. At this period, they seemed like mere animals, such as wolves or foxes, idly slumbering in their caves, careless of the past, the present and the future.

Once in a while these men would rouse themselves from their indolence, and spend a night in a wild war-dance, or in other sports. When excited in their amusements, they shook off their lethargy and seemed totally changed from the stupid beings which they appeared to be, a few hours before. Their black eyes would now flash with fiery excitement; their parted lips would display their white teeth; their long, black hair would stream in the wind; their hands and arms would exhibit the most animated gestures, and their whole form seem to be animated by intense excitement. After the sport was over, these warriors would relapse into the same state of merely animal existence, as if they had no minds, no cares, no plans, no fears or hopes.

Thus some weeks passed away, but at last, it became necessary that a supply of food should be obtained. It is true that some small game was obtained by the boys, and some of the men, almost every day. This consisted of the heath hen, which resembles the partridge or pheasant of the Atlantic states; black and grey squirrels, rabbits and hares, wild turkeys, raccoons, prairie dogs, &c. These creatures were abundant, and I often accompanied the young Indians in hunting them.

There were some guns and rifles in the tribe, but the chief weapons were the bow and arrow. The boys and most of the young men had no other. It was surprising to see with what precision and force the arrows were thrown. I have often seen a squirrel, perched upon the limb of an aged tree, and being nearly a hundred feet in air, look down as if to laugh and jeer at the sportsman below; when the arrow was sent from the string, and, striking him in the head, brought him whirling and sprawling to the ground.

In these hunts I took a keen delight; and such was my enterprise and success, that I soon became rather famous as a hunter of the lesser game. My agility in pursuing a wounded bird or quadruped, and the facility with which I threaded the tangled forests, gave me the title of Jumping Rabbit, which long continued to be my name.

In these hunts, we seldom wandered to any great distance from the encampment, and rarely remained out over night. In a few instances, we were absent for two or three days, and extended our excursions to the distance of twenty or thirty miles.

I recollect that in one of these expeditions, we came to a considerable lake, entirely surrounded with dense forests. It was difficult even to peep through the woods, for the trees stood very close together, and the spaces between them were choked up with dead trunks and branches, woven and wedged together, as if the whole constituted one fabric.

With a great deal of labor, creeping and winding like serpents through the openings, we made our way through the forest, and came to the shores of the lake. Accustomed, as I then was, to nature in her wild moods, the scene that then presented itself, greatly surprised me. The forest that encircled the lake, consisted, to a great extent, of lofty firs, which stood close to the water, and formed, around its whole border, what seemed to be a dark green wall, rising almost to the clouds, and thus bestowing upon the spot an aspect of the most perfect protection and seclusion.

As if won to the place by its security and repose, myriads of aquatic birds were there, some resting upon its bosom, some wading in its depths, some standing along its borders, and thousands winnowing the air above its surface. There were flocks of swans, with arching necks and snowy bosoms; multitudes of pelicans, either darting down upon their prey, or lazily digesting their food as they stood upon the rocks along the shore; and wild geese, and ducks almost without number. There was the pensive heron, standing half leg deep in the water, and patiently waiting to snap up some luckless frog or fish; there was the tall crane, with crested head, and spiteful countenance, looking keenly into the mud for his meal; and red flamingoes, standing in rows that looked like files of soldiers.

The scene presented the idea of a paradise for water-birds; a spot unknown to man, and wholly secured to the use and behoof of its feathered tenantry. The birds themselves seemed so to regard it, for such were their habits of confidence, that when we approached them, they hardly noticed us, or moved from us. We shot a few arrows among them, and killed several, but this created no general alarm. One of our party had a rifle, and taking aim at the leader of a long file of swans that glided upon the water near us, he fired, and the noble bird, uttering a faint scream, spread his wings for flight, and fell dead upon the surface. His companions rose heavily from the lake, and sweeping round and round in the air, settled again upon the water, encircling their dead companion.

Loaded with game, we now set out for our return; but this expedition was destined to be signalized by adventures. In our progress homeward, we had occasion to cross a deep valley, through which a small rivulet found its way. On the high rocky banks of this stream our party sat down to rest themselves for an hour or two, and then set forward. It happened that I had crept into the bushes and fallen asleep; and when my companions went away, not observing me, they left me soundly wrapt in repose.

They had been gone a considerable time when I was awoke by a noise, and looking up, I saw a huge grisly bear at a little distance, looking steadfastly at me. I knew that the next moment he would be upon me, and seizing my bow and arrows, I sprang forward, and at a single bound leaped over the high bank, into the stream. It was not more than forty feet in width—and I had hardly crossed it, when I heard the heavy plunge of the bear behind me. Clambering up the opposite bank with the quickness of a wild-cat, I seized upon the drooping branches of a tree, and rapidly mounted it. The fierce beast came close upon me, and seizing the boughs with its claws and teeth, tore them in a hundred pieces. By this time, however, I had ascended beyond its reach.

The grisly bear is twice the size of the common bear, and from its savage disposition and great strength, is altogether the most dreadful beast of the American continent. But, happily for me, it does not often climb trees. I therefore felt secure. Pausing on a large limb of the tree, I looked down at my shaggy acquaintance below. He had now got over his fury, and gazing in my face with a look of the deepest interest, he seemed to think, if he did not say—“Oh how I love you!”

After sitting upon the tree for some time, I began to grow impatient to be released—but Bruin seemed to have no idea of parting with me thus. He continued for several hours, sitting upon his rump, in a kind of brown study, but occasionally looking at me. At last, growing weary, I reclined against the trunk of the tree, and my grisly jailer, as if to torment me, lay down upon the ground, and putting his nose to his tail, seemed to say that he had made up his mind to stay till I should come down. I waited for some time in silence, to see if he would not fall asleep and allow me an opportunity of escape; but the moment I moved a foot or hand, I could see his keen eye twinkle, thus showing that the sentinel was awake and watchful.

At last I got out of patience, and selecting a good arrow, I sent it fiercely at his head. It struck him over the eye, and evidently gave him great pain, for he growled terribly, and rubbed the wounded place with his huge paw; and finally he looked up at me, at the same time curling his lip and showing a set of teeth that made me shudder. I could easily understand this pantomime, and I knew it to mean something like this: “Sooner or later, my lad, you must come down, and these teeth shall take due revenge upon you.”

Night at length came—and still the beast remained at his post. I caught a little sleep, but I was too fearful of falling to the ground to get any sound repose. In the morning I heard the call of my companions, and now knew that they had missed me, and were come to find me. I answered their shout with a cry that filled the valley with echoes. The old bear seemed startled; he rose, shook his shaggy coat, and gazed wistfully around.

Directed by my voice, my friends soon drew near; and when they came to the opposite bank of the river, I told them my situation and pointed out Bruin at the foot of the tree. In a moment the rifle was levelled at my tormentor, and the ball entered his side. Stung with pain, but not mortally wounded, the monster turned towards his new enemy. Leaping into the stream, he began to swim across; but his head being exposed, several arrows were aimed at him, some of which took effect. As he ascended the rocky bank of the river, the rifle being re-loaded, was again discharged, and, the ball passing through his heart, he fell backward, and rolled with a heavy plash into the stream.

But I have wandered a little from my track. I said that the necessity of obtaining a supply of food, at last roused the men of the encampment from their repose. After making due preparation, by providing themselves with knives, bows and arrows, &c., about twenty of them departed; and as I was now a tolerably expert hunter, I was permitted to accompany the party. The events which followed, will be described in the next chapter.

Always have a book within your reach, which you may catch up at your odd minutes. Revolve in your mind what you have last been reading.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

Mamma’s Lessons.

I once knew two little children, who had a great deal of knowledge, for their age, and yet they were not taught altogether by books. They had a good mother, who took great pains with their education, and she managed in such a way as to make her lessons very pleasing.

I will tell you one method of teaching which she adopted—and it was this. She would get her two children around her, and then would ask them what creatures lived in the air? what lived in the water? what lived on the earth, &c. The children would give such answers as they pleased; if they were right, they were told so; if wrong, they were corrected.

That you may understand how this affair went on, I will give you a dialogue, which will set the matter clearly before you. You will remember that the children were named Dick and Lydia.

Mother. Now tell me, my children, what animals live in the air?

Dick. Birds.

M. Do all birds live in the air?

Lydia. No, mother; the ostrich is said never to fly, and it seems to me that many other birds, such as hens, partridges, quails, and others, rarely fly, and therefore cannot be said even to live in the air.

M. What birds live most in the air?

D. I should think the swallows, for they seem to me to be dodging about from morning to night. And, mother, I have heard Ben Halliard, the sailor, say that there is a sea-swallow that is always flying; he declares that the creature never lights and that he hatches his eggs under his wing!

M. The sea-swallow, or mother Cary’s chicken, is a bird that can remain on the wing for a long time; but like all other birds, it goes sometimes to the land. It builds its nest on the uninhabited islands of the sea; many of them may be seen in the unfrequented rocky islands near Florida.

L. Mother, it is said the birds of Paradise live always on the wing.

M. This is also an error; the sailors, who frequented the seas near the Asiatic islands, where these lovely birds are often seen on the wing, fancied them to be creatures of the air; and being always in the spicy breath of those charming regions, they called them birds of Paradise. But now, that we are better acquainted with the islands of the Pacific we know that the birds of Paradise live chiefly on the land, and sport, like others of the feathered race, amid the branches of the trees.

L. Well, mother, I think there are other creatures that live in the air, beside birds. I mean insects, such as butterflies, bees, wasps, and other little flying creatures.

M. You should rather say, my dear, that these animals live a part of the time in the air. It is with these insects, as with birds, that though we see them often on the wing, they really spend but a part of the time in flying. Let me now ask you to tell what animals live in the water?

D. Fishes.

L. Beside fishes, there are other things; such as lobsters, crabs, oysters, clams, and many other creatures.

D. Yes; but these are fishes,—are they not, mother?

M. They are called shell-fish, but they are quite distinct from fishes, properly so called. The latter have no legs, and possess fins, by which they push themselves along in the water. They have a long skeleton, upon which the flesh is formed; whereas, in the shell-fish, there is no interior skeleton, but the flesh and muscles are attached to an exterior shell. Thus you see that the whole structure of the proper fishes and of the shell fish are very distinct.

D. That is very curious, indeed; but there are some creatures that live partly in water and partly on the land.

M. Yes; and these are called amphibious.

L. That puts me in mind of a story, mother. A traveller went once to the Tower of London, to see the wild animals. There was a man there who made it his business to show them and describe them. Well, there was a young alligator among the animals, and when the showman came to describe him, he said, “Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a halligator, which came from Merriky, in the state of Georgia; it was ketched in the great river Mississippi, which runs all the way up hill. This creature is amphibious, which means that he cannot live in the water and dies on the land; he is six feet and a ’alf from the tip of his tail to the tip of his nose, and seven feet ten inches from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail. Like all Merrikens, the halligator is fond of young niggers, and the night afore he was ketched, he made his supper upon two of them!”

M. That story is absurd enough; though it is quite true that the showman at the Tower of London, does tell some queer stories. If he makes such mistakes and shows such prejudice, in respect to our country, as the story represents, he is certainly like many English travellers, who ought to know better. I think Mr. Dickens, who writes such nonsense about our country, should be employed to show the animals at the Tower. But let me now ask what class of animals live entirely on the land?

L. Quadrupeds, or four-footed beasts.

M. That is right; most quadrupeds spend their time wholly on the land; the only one of them that can fly, is the bat; and this creature is formed almost as much like a bird as a four-footed beast. Some of the amphibious animals, such as lizards, toads, frogs and tortoises, are quadrupeds; and though these creatures live a part of their time in the water, most of them still spend the greater portion of their time on the land.

Questions.

I should like to have my little readers send me answers to the following twenty questions. They must be careful to direct all their letters to the care of Bradbury & Soden, and they must also pay the postage.

1. What are the five most remarkable quadrupeds in Africa?

2. What are the three most famous animals in Asia?

3. What is the largest of quadrupeds, and of what countries is it a native?

4. What is the tallest animal in the world, and where is it found?

5. What is the largest kind of bird, and where is it found?

6. What is the largest kind of serpent, and where is it found?

7. What is the smallest kind of bird, and where is it found?

8. What is the largest of animals, and where does it live?

9. What animal most resembles man, and where is it found?

10. What animal is most useful to man?

11. What is the largest quadruped found wild in America?

12. What is the most fierce and formidable wild quadruped in the United States?

13. What celebrated poisonous serpent belongs to the United States?

14. What is the largest bird of prey in the world and where is it found?

15. What are the two most remarkable animals of New Holland?

16. What bird is called the king of birds?

17. What is generally esteemed the most beautiful of insects?

18. What is the most useful insect to man?

19. What animal seems most attached to man?

20. What is the most powerful known quadruped?

Old Age.

Here is a picture of an old man, walking in the woods, and a little bird, on the tree, seems to be speaking to him. What do you think the little bird says to the old man? I will try to tell you. Thus speaks the little bird:

“Come, good old man, and speak to me,
For I am young and thou art old;
Full many a year hath passed o’er thee,
And many a tale of wisdom told.

Give me thy counsel, aged wight;
For here the hawk doth prowl by day,
And many a cruel owl by night—
Seeking on little birds to prey.

Oh, tell me how these things to shun,
Or teach me where to find some zone,
Beneath a far-off southern sun,
Where hawks and owls are all unknown.”

Thus urged, the old monk spake: “Sweet thing,
I love to list thy pretty words,
And gather from thy twittering,
That there is wisdom with the birds.

And I will give thee counsel true,
And if thou heed my word with care,
In pleasures ever sweet and new,
Thy life shall pass—but, bird, beware!

Far o’er the deep an islet lone,
Is circled by the briny wave;
No grief or sorrow there is known,
No grisly death, no ghastly grave.

Depart and win with earnest flight,
This peaceful region of the blest;
But mark—a bosom fair and bright,
Alone can reach that land of rest!”

Now these lines tell a fancy tale, or allegory, which has some meaning. In the first place, I wish my readers to observe that the little bird does not laugh at the old man and make fun of him, or run away from him. On the contrary, the bird seems to think that as the man is old, he has a great deal of wisdom, and is therefore capable of giving good advice.

Now the bird here shows good sense. Instead of avoiding old people, children should always love to be with them, and should always treat them with kindness, attention and respect. Old people are usually very fond of children, and they can tell them many pretty tales, and many curious things they have seen.

It seems that the bird is troubled by hawks and owls, and desires to go to some happy land where it may be free from such dangers, and may dwell in quiet and content. And the old man tells the bird, of a far-off isle, where those who are pure and good may live forever in a state of unbroken felicity. This part of the allegory means that there is a another world, in which the pure in heart may see God and dwell with Him forever in happiness.

The Sun, Moon and Stars.

Here is a picture which represents the earth in the centre, and the sun, moon and stars around it. It also represents clouds around the earth.

We suppose that all our readers know that the earth is a vast globe, or ball, eight thousand miles in diameter and twenty-five thousand miles in circumference. It is suspended in space, and makes a vast circuit around the sun, every year. It also turns round on its axis once in twenty-four hours.

Some people cannot conceive that the earth turns round every day, and I know of a man who insists that it is impossible. “Why,” says he, “if the earth was to turn round, my well would be bottom upwards, and all the water would run out!” The fact that the earth revolves like a wheel, is just as certain as that there is a sun or a moon.

In the picture, the sun appears very near to the earth; but this is only to show how the sun shines on the earth. The sun is actually ninety-five millions of miles from the earth. The moon is also a great many thousand miles from the earth. The stars are likewise very distant, some of them being much farther off than the sun.

The science of the heavenly bodies is called astronomy; and a very interesting study it is. It tells us the size, the distance, and the motions of the sun, moon and stars, as far as we can learn them. In the study of the stars, a telescope is used, which enables us to see a great many more stars than are visible to the naked eye; it also enables you to see little moons around some of the planets, such as Jupiter and Saturn; it also enables you to see a bright ring around Saturn.

By the study of the heavens, wise and learned men have come to the opinion that all these bright orbs which you see in the sky at night, are worlds, covered with people, like our own world. They suppose that, to the people in these stars, our world looks like a little bright star. What a great subject of contemplation is this! And how mighty and glorious must be that Being who has created, and who sustains so many worlds, with all the living beings that dwell upon them!

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER IX.

Many curious things about bees.

We have already told so much about bees, that our young readers are perhaps weary of the subject; but it must be remembered that we are relating the story of Inquisitive Jack, and it is proper that we should give a full account of whatever interested him.

It happened in his case, as it has in many others, that the more he knew about this subject, the more interesting it became to him. When he first noticed the bees, crawling about the flowers, and fingering the little delicate leaves in the centre of the blossoms, he did not think much about them; but now that he had become acquainted with the wonders of the bee-hive, he was very curious to gain all the knowledge he could upon the subject. By his own inquiries, therefore, and the help of aunt Betsey, he learned the following additional particulars respecting these curious insects.

After the swarming season is over, a general massacre of the drones in the hive takes place. This usually occurs toward the latter part of July. The unfortunate victims evidently perceive their danger; for they are now seen darting in and out of the hive, and passing from one place to another, as if afraid of being seized. Like some poor man, who owes a debt he cannot pay, and is afraid of being caught by the sheriff, they wander from place to place, as if in a constant state of alarm.

When the working bees meet these drones, they fall upon them and plunge their stings into their bodies. The wounded drones immediately expand their wings and expire. Some of these poor creatures struggle hard for life, but they are all slain at last.

This destruction of the drones may remind us of the old Spartans of Greece, who sacrificed everything to the thrift and prosperity of the state. The bee-hive may be considered a little monarchy, in which the great object is to increase the number and wealth of the community.

The drones having provided for the due increase of the bees, can no farther contribute to the prosperity of the little nation. On the contrary, they will not work even so much as to obtain their own food; they still devour a portion of honey, and thus diminish the general stock which is laid up as a provision against the coming winter. Making everything give way, therefore, to the interest of the community at large, the drones are slain without mercy.

This practice of the bees has furnished a happy illustration to the poet, who thus urges upon mankind a life of industry:

“Nor think a life of toil severe,
No life has blessings so sincere:
Its meals so luscious, sleep so sweet,
Such vigorous limbs, such health complete;
No mind so active, brisk and gay
As his who toils the livelong day.
A life of sloth drags hardly on;
Suns set too late and rise too soon.
Youth, manhood, age, all linger slow
To him who nothing has to do.
The drone, a nuisance to the hive,
Stays, but can scarce be said to live;
And well the bees, those judges wise,
Plague, chase and sting him till he dies.”

The swarming of bees may be compared to the emigration of a great number of people from one country, and forming colonies in another. In the winter, at least three-fourths of the bees in the hive usually perish. But the amazing fruitfulness of the queen more than supplies this waste, and by midsummer, the hive is usually too full for them all to be comfortable.

It is in somewhat the same situation that Ireland is in at the present time—and as many of the natives of that island are coming in swarms to this country, so the bees pass off in crowds, and take up their abode elsewhere. Sometimes two or even three swarms will issue from one hive in a year.

The swarm is very careful to select a good fair day for their emigration. They usually take one of the young queens with them, and, if by any chance the swarm passes off without a queen, they always return to the hive. While swarming, bees are generally peaceable, and may be hived without difficulty.

A writer upon bees tells the following interesting story: “A little girl of my acquaintance was greatly afraid of bees, but was completely cured of her fears by the following incident. A swarm having come off, I observed the queen alight by herself at some distance from the hive; I immediately called my little friend that I might shew her the queen. She wished to see her more nearly; so, after having caused her to put on her gloves, I gave the queen into her hand.

“We were in an instant surrounded by the whole swarm. In this emergency, I encouraged the girl to be steady, bidding her remain silent and fear nothing. I then made her stretch out her right hand which held the queen, and covered her neck and shoulders with a very thin handkerchief. The swarm soon fixed upon her hand, and hung from it, as from the branch of a tree. The little girl was delighted above measure at this novel sight, and so entirely freed from all her fears that she bade me uncover her face. At length, I brought a hive, and shaking the swarm from the child’s hand, it was lodged in safety, without inflicting a single wound.”

Bees are subject to several diseases; among which vertigo is the most remarkable. This causes great lassitude or weakness of the hind legs, an irregular mode of flying, and often produces death. The enemies of bees are numerous, among which we may mention birds, poultry, mice, wax-moths, slugs, hornets, wasps, ants and spiders. Of all these, the most destructive are wasps; these often enter the hive, and as one wasp is a match for three bees, they devour great quantities of honey.

Another great enemy to bees is the king-bird, or tyrant fly-catcher. A gentleman once shot a king-bird, and in his crop he found no less than one hundred and seventy-one bees; on being taken out, and laid on a blanket in the sun, fifty-four of these returned to life.

Great attention has been paid to the rearing of bees, and it has been found advantageous to remove them from one place to another, so that they may obtain fresh pasturage. A gentleman in England had once a swarm which weighed but five pounds when he removed it to Dartmoor Heath; at the end of two months, it was increased in weight no less than twenty-four pounds!

Bees are supposed to have some means of communicating with each other, not very unlike language. Their two horns which come out from the head below the eyes, called antennæ, are supposed to answer the purpose of ears, and to convey sounds as well as to accomplish some other objects.

Bees, as well as ants, are often seen to meet and cross their antennæ, and they then proceed to act as if important information was thus imparted. When the queen of a hive is lost, the intelligence is spread with such rapidity that twenty thousand bees are informed of the fact in the space of a few hours,—a circumstance to be explained only by the supposition of something like language, in use among them.

The lives of most insects are extremely brief. Some live but a few hours; others for a few days, or weeks, or months. By far the larger portion begin and end their existence in the course of the warm season. The drones or male bees are cut off by violence, as we have seen, after having lived three or four months. The average life of the working bee is about six months, though they sometimes live to the age of ten or twelve months.

The queen is a more favored being. She is not only the mother of thousands, but she survives, while many generations pass away. Her life is often extended to the period of four or five years.

What is Habit?

When we have done a thing several times, it becomes easier for us to do it than before. When a boy begins to use profane words, he does it with a feeling of awkwardness. The first time he swears, he usually feels quite badly.

But he swears the second time more easily, and more easily still the third time. At last he does it without any bad feeling, and, indeed, takes a pleasure in his profanity. He has now got a habit of swearing, and it is easier for him to use bad language than any other.

It is just the same with lying. A child feels very badly when he tells the first lie. He feels badly, too, when he tells the second; but when he has told a dozen or two, he usually tells a lie as easily as he tells the truth; and the reason is that he has got a habit of lying.

Habit is, then, a disposition, an inclination to do a thing, arising from practice. It is said that practice makes perfect; by which it is meant that a person does a thing easily which he has done often.

Now some very important inferences are to be drawn from this. If a person does evil repeatedly, he gets a habit of it, and it becomes natural, easy for him to do evil; and the longer a person goes on in this habit, the more easy it is for him to do evil, and the more difficult to do well. What a fearful thing it is, therefore, to get any bad habit!

It is the same with good habits as bad ones—they tend to control us and guide our conduct. If a person does good repeatedly, it becomes a habit with him to do good; it is easy for him to do good, and difficult to do wrong. What an important thing it is to have good habits!

Now, my dear reader, remember that every day you are forming habits, good or bad; you are every day making it easier to do evil or to do well. Habits are like railroad tracks, upon which we move quickly, easily, and rapidly. Let us all take care that our habits lead in a right direction, and end in peace and not in sorrow.

Fitchburg, July 29, 1843.

Mr. Robert Merry:

Dear Sir,—The following lines were written for a little girl who is a subscriber to the Museum. It would be gratifying to her to have them inserted.

Yours, F. S. W.

THE CHICKADEE.
Elizabeth.—Pretty bird, pray come to me,
I’ve a little home for thee.
Bird.—No I can’t, I am free,
Chickadee dee dee,
I will sing upon this tree,
Every day for you and me;
O how happy I shall be!
Chickadee dee dee.
When the earth from snow is free
And the tender plant you see,
Then you’ll hear right merrily,
Chickadee dee dee.
E.—When the summer months shall flee
And the little busy bee
Stays at home, where will be
Chickadee dee dee?
B.—Far away beyond the sea,
Singing in the orange tree,
You will hear so cheerily,
Chickadee dee dee.
Here I am, don’t you see,
High upon this cherry tree;
So good-bye, dear Lizze,
Don’t forget the chickadee.
(Flies away.)—Chickadee, chickadee,
I am happy, I am free;
While cheerily and merrily,
Sings the little chickadee!

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VI. NOVEMBER, 1843. No. 5.

A long Chapter upon November.

We have reached November, the eleventh month in the year. Our Saxon ancestors called October wyn-monat, or wine month, and this wynt-monat, or wind month. It is indeed a blustering season; and it seems as if winter and summer were in a furious contest for mastery. The cold winds come down from the north, loaded with sleet and hail, and for a time seem to exercise dominion over the land.

The tempest roars in the forest; nuts are shaken down from the trees; the leaves are scattered in the valley; the ocean is lashed into foam; all nature appears to be shadowed with gloom; and every living thing seems to shrink from the scene. The birds have already departed, or if any linger, they hurry away on a swift and busy wing. The woodchuck, the dormouse, and the chip-squirrel creep into their holes, and prepare for their long winter repose.

Occasionally, the black clouds are driven back, and gleams of sunshine creep over the land. A southerly wind, too, occasionally breathes upon us, and it seems as if the genial warmth of autumn would triumph in the great contest of nature. But, as the days advance, the strength of winter increases, and we slide into December, when its dominion becomes complete. Like an unrelenting despot, it then binds the river and the lake in icy chains; it sweeps away the last vestige of summer, and marks the boundaries of its realm with a dazzling mantle of snow.

Such is November in New England. In Old England, it is still more gloomy. The thick fogs, mingling with the smoke, hang like a dark curtain over the country; the day is dwindled to the length of seven or eight hours, and the sun rises but a few degrees in the horizon. It is quite common for it to be so dark that lamps and candles are burnt in the houses during the whole day, and frequently the stage-coaches have been obliged at the same time to travel with their lamps lighted.

This gloom of nature is, however, not without its advantages. The necessity of providing for winter is taught by it to every one. The farmer lays in his stock of fuel; the house is made tight; the cattle are gathered to the barn-yard, and thus the necessities of life enforce upon the people industry, prudence, and frugality; and these virtues become established in society. Thus it is that in cold countries the people, benefitted by the rigors of their climate, become more hardy, energetic, and virtuous. Thus it is, if you travel over the world, you will find in northern countries the finest houses, the best roads, the handsomest edifices, and, indeed, the greatest comforts and luxuries of life. On the contrary, if you travel in southern countries, where winter brings no snow, and where even November is a month of flowers, you will find most of the people idle, careless, and vicious. Their houses are generally frail and poor; their clothing slight, filthy, and ragged. Everything seems marked with poverty and neglect.

So it is that Providence balances the account with the different portions of the globe. Those who endure a harsh climate are compensated by the comforts and refinements which spring up in the soil of necessity. Those who enjoy a bland and smiling climate pay for it in various evils, social, mental, and moral.

There is one advantage which the cold season brings, and which we of New England enjoy in a peculiar manner. As winter approaches, we are driven into the house, and are taught to find our pleasures there. The family circle is thus drawn closer together, and hence acquires a deeper and more lasting interest.

If children could always wander abroad, chasing butterflies, plucking flowers, and feasting upon fruits, they would feel little of that dependence upon parents, which is the source of many virtues. Brothers and sisters would experience little of that interchange of kindly offices and friendly feelings, which weave their hearts together with an enduring web of affection. Home would lose more than half its charms, nearly all its thousand streams of virtue and of bliss.

As I am quite aware that some of my black-eyed, blue-eyed, and gray-eyed readers are pretty sharp critics, and understand geography, I must qualify these remarks. In speaking of cold countries here, I have alluded particularly to those which belong to what is called the Temperate Zone; those which lie between the burning tropics and the frigid regions toward the poles. I know that the latter are occupied by short and squalid races of Laplanders, Esquimaux, and Samoides. The extreme winter in these regions seems to stint and degrade the human species.

Yet these polar people believe they are the happiest in the world. Sheltered in their icy dwellings, feasting upon blubber oil, and skimming over the vast snowy plains upon sledges drawn by dogs or reindeer, they deem themselves blessed above the rest of mankind. They probably enjoy their existence quite as much as do the languid and voluptuous inhabitants of the tropics.

A drunken fellow, being reproved by some of his friends for having sold his feather bed, replied, “As I am very well, thank God, why should I keep my bed?”

Pierre Ramus.

Pierre de la Ramée, more generally known by the name of Ramus, was born in 1515, in a village in Normandy. His parents were of the poorest rank; his grandfather being a charbonnier, a calling similar to that of our coalheaver, and his father a laborer. Poverty being his consequent inheritance, Ramus was early left to his own resources; no sooner, therefore, had he attained the age of eight years, than he repaired to Paris. The difficulty he found there of obtaining common subsistence soon obliged him to return home: another attempt, which he afterwards made, met with no better success.

Early imbued with a strong love and desire for learning, he suffered every misery and privation, in order to obtain the means necessary for its acquirement. Having received a limited aid from one of his uncles, he, for a third time, set out for Paris, where, immediately on his arrival, he entered the college of Navarre in the capacity of valet; during the day fulfilling every menial task, but devoting his nights to his dear and absorbing study.

This extreme perseverance and application, regardless of difficulties, obtained its consequent reward. Being admitted to the degree of master of arts, which he received with all its accompanying scholastic honors, he was enabled to devote himself with more intensity to study. By the opinions which he promulgated, in the form of a thesis, respecting the philosophy of Aristotle,—a doubt of whose sovereign authority at that time was considered a profane and audacious sacrilege,—he attracted the attention of the scholars of the time, and ultimately their enmity. With the uncompromising hardihood of his character, he continued to deny the infallibility of the favorite code of philosophy, and published, in support of his opinions, two volumes of criticisms upon Aristotle’s works.

Ramus was at first persecuted merely with scholastic virulence, but, on his further irritating his opponents, a serious accusation was brought against him, before the Parliament of Paris; and to such lengths had the matter gone as to call for the mediation of Francis the First.

Ramus was found guilty, and sentenced, in 1543, to vacate his professorship, and his works were interdicted throughout the kingdom. This severe sentence, however, did not produce the effect desired by the Sorbonne; for, in the following year, he was appointed to a professorship in the college of Presles, and, in 1551, received the further appointment of royal professor of philosophy and rhetoric. His opinions had, however, attracted the attention and enmity of a more powerful body than that of the Sorbonne. To contest the infallibility of Aristotle, at the same time that it attacked scholastic prejudices, was sufficient to provoke a revolution even in theology. The consequence to Ramus was implacable hatred from the ecclesiastical body, who seemed intent upon his destruction.

One of the great subjects of reform attempted by Ramus, and which created the greatest animosity against him, was that which had for its object the introduction of a democratical government into the church. He pretended that the consistories alone ought to prepare all questions of doctrine, and submit them to the judgment of the faithful. The people, according to his tenets, possessed in themselves the right of choosing their ministers, of excommunication, and absolution.

Peter Ramus.

The persecution of Ramus was carried to such an extent, that, according to Bayle, he was obliged to conceal himself. At the king’s instigation, he for some time secreted himself at Fontainbleau, where, by the aid of the works he found in the royal library, he was enabled to prosecute his geometrical and astronomical studies. On his residence there being discovered, he successively concealed himself in different places, thinking by that means to evade his relentless persecutors. During his absence, his library at Presles was given up to public pillage.

On the proclamation of peace, in the year 1563, between Charles the Ninth and the Protestants, Ramus returned to his professorship, devoting himself principally to the teaching of mathematics. On the breaking out of the second civil war, in 1567, he was again obliged to quit Paris, and seek protection in the Huguenot camp, where he remained until the battle of St. Denis. A few months after this, on peace being again proclaimed, he once more returned to his professorial duties; but, foreseeing the inevitable approach of another war, and fearing the consequent result, he sued for the king’s permission of absence, under the plea of visiting the German academies, which being granted, he retired to Germany, in 1568, where he was received with every demonstration of honor. Ramus returned to France on the conclusion of the third war, in 1571, and perished in the massacre of St. Bartholomew, as related by Moreri in the following words:—

“Ramus having concealed himself during the tumult of the massacre, he was discovered by the assassins sent by Charpentier, his competitor. After having paid a large sum of money, in the hopes of bribing his assassins to preserve his life, he was severely wounded, and thrown from the window into the court beneath. Partly in consequence of the wounds received and the effects of the fall, his bowels protruded. The scholars, encouraged by the presence of their professors, no sooner saw this, than they tore them from the body, and scattered them in the street, along which they dragged the body, beating it with rods, by way of contempt.”

Such was the horrid death of one of the most estimable men that ever lived. The private life of Ramus was most irreproachable. Entirely devoting himself to study and research, he refused the most lucrative preferments, choosing rather the situation of professor at the college of Presles. His temperance was exemplary: except a little bouilli, he ate little else for dinner. For twenty years he had not tasted wine, and afterwards, when he partook of it, it was by the order of his physicians. His bed was of straw; he rose early, and studied late; he was never known to foster an evil passion of any kind: he possessed the greatest firmness under misfortune. His only reproach was his obstinacy; but every man who is strongly attached to his convictions is subject to this reproach.

A Revolutionary Story.

CHAPTER III.

[Continued from page 104.]

We have related the bitter disappointment experienced by Colonel Joinly, at being deprived of the means of release from his captivity, and of even obtaining a short respite for the purpose of visiting his family; nor was his sorrow mitigated by any propitious event. Time rolled on, and the evils of his condition seemed rather to increase. The number of the prisoners had accumulated, and their miseries were aggravated by all the possible horrors of the prison house;—unhealthy provisions, foul apartments, and loathsome atmosphere, attended by disease and death.

His own elastic constitution was also rapidly bending beneath his various cares, his incessant labors, the impurities which he breathed, the scenes he witnessed, and gnawing anxieties for his family and his home. At last, in one of his fits of depression, he poured out his whole soul in a letter to his wife. When she received it, it sank into her inmost soul. Accustomed, however, to confine her cares and anxieties to her own breast, she did not impart the substance of her letter to her already depressed and anxious children.

She revolved the subject, however, deeply in her own mind; yet what could she, a woman, do? Even could she devise the means of escape for her husband, she knew him too well to believe that he would take advantage of it. She knew his chivalrous pride; his deep sense of duty; his devotion to the cause of his country and of humanity; and she believed that these mingled feelings would unite to keep him at his post until some arrangement could be made to supply his place, and provide for the miserable sufferers whose only comfort he seemed to be.

We may not say that there was no momentary repining, no rebel suggestions of the heart against the ways of Providence, in these stern events. There were moments when she felt it impossible to be passive. Again and again, in the solitude of her chamber, with clenched hand and flashing eye, she said, “I must do something—I must do something.” It is often easier to rush into some headlong enterprise than to submit with patient dignity to the dark, uncertain course of time; to bow with resignation to the will of Heaven, saying, “Thy will be done.”

This beautiful and lofty heroism is however no uncommon grace of woman; and Madam Joinly, after the storm of feeling and affection had subsided into a calm, sat down and wrote a cheering, submissive, and consolatory letter to her husband. When she had nearly completed it, she left it, marked with her tears, upon the table in the library, and went out of the room, intending soon to return.

She was, however, detained; and during her absence, her eldest son, whose name was Worthington, came accidentally into the room. His eye fell upon the two letters, and he hastily ran them over. He had known something before of his father’s anxiety and his mother’s sorrow, but the whole force of their distress was now for the first time unfolded to him. He was a youth of quick perception, great self-dependence, and firm resolution. Saying nothing to any member of the family, and treasuring the knowledge he had acquired in his own heart, he strode rapidly down to the river, leaped into a light boat, and pushed off from the shore. Applying the oars, he bent them with his vigorous strokes, and the little shallop glided out like an arrow upon the broad water of the sound.

The sea was smooth, and young Joinly, as if he could now breathe freely, drew in his oars, and permitted the boat to float at the will of the waves. He then gave himself up to thought. The resolution to do something was speedily fixed; but what should he attempt? Should he go to General Washington, and beg for his interference? Should he proceed to New York, and throw himself at the feet of the British general, and solicit the liberation of his parent? Should he proceed to the scene of his father’s captivity, and devise the means of his escape?

These suggestions were, one after another, considered and rejected, partly as likely to prove ineffectual, but more, perhaps, because they did not recommend themselves to the young man’s somewhat bold and daring humor. He was, indeed, wrought up to such a pitch of excitement, that his heart found relief in contemplating the most hazardous enterprises.

While he was ruminating over his plans, a vessel from the eastward hove in sight. As her tall masts and snowy canvass rose to view over the bending water, the British flag became visible, and young Joinly soon discovered that she was a British frigate of considerable size. With a slow and stealing progress, she advanced directly toward his position. He waited till she was within the distance of two or three miles, when he applied his oar and swept up toward the mouth of the river.

After a short space, he paused and bent his eye upon the frigate, now at no great distance. He was well-skilled in marine affairs, and his practised eye soon perceived that it was the very ship which, several years before, had destroyed the hospital on Duck Island. His mind turning upon this event, the captivity of his father, and the desolation of the whole country, and all proceeding from one source—British power—he fixed his eyes sternly upon the flag of the ship before him, and stretching forth his clenched fist, and uttering a curse which we will not repeat, he shook it in impotent defiance.

At this instant, he saw a mass of white smoke unfold itself from the side of the ship; a few seconds afterwards he heard the report of a cannon, and, nearly at the same moment, the ball dipped in the water at the distance of a hundred yards from the boat, sending the white spray high into the air. It rose, slightly glanced forward, seeming to utter a growling sound as it passed on, struck the boat at the edge of the water, and dashed it into a thousand pieces.

CHAPTER IV.

The youth found himself suddenly sprawling in the water, but he was entirely unhurt. Preserving his presence of mind, he rose after the first dip upon the surface, and said, half audibly, “That was a good shot, old bull.” He then applied his sinewy arms to the wave, and, though he was two miles from the shore, soon reached it in safety.

For two or three days, young Joinly was noticed by his mother to be taciturn, thoughtful, and frequently absent-minded. Several times she remarked that his brow was contracted, and that there was an expression of unwonted sternness upon his countenance. “What is the matter, Worthington?” said she, one evening, as he sat in the midst of the family group; “why is it that you always are making up faces, as if you were going to turn Bluebeard?”

“Do I make up faces, mother?” said the youth, a little startled. “Indeed, I was not aware of it. I suppose I am thinking of these rascally British.”

“And what have they done?” said the mother.

“Oh,” said Worthington, smiling, “they have spoiled my boat.” He then proceeded to relate the accident we have already described.

Though the danger had been passed for several days, the youth’s graphic description of the perilous adventure drove the color from the cheeks of the sisters, and made even the firmer heart of the mother beat with unwonted excitement.

“Oh, my son,” said she, when he had finished, “why will you be constantly involving yourself in such dangers?”

“Indeed, mother, it was no fault of mine. You seem to be blaming me for the misdemeanor of his Majesty’s ship of the line; but really the thing was so well done that I can hardly find it in my heart to be out of humor. I am really suspicious that they had a Yankee gunner aboard. A lubberly British tar could never have taken so straight an aim.”

“I do not like to hear you talk so lightly of the matter,” said Mrs. Joinly. “Your own life has been in imminent hazard, and it appears to me that more serious thought is due to such a circumstance; and, beside, I cannot but reflect upon the fearful state of things around us. In wanton sport, these British officers fire upon a human being as a sportsman shoots at a woodcock or a partridge. How horrible is war, which thus perverts the manners and feelings of mankind; that converts murder into sport, sets aside the great commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ and makes bloodshed and slaughter a kind of chase, in which the amusement is proportioned to the number and value of the game.”

The young man made no reply. He sat musing for some time, and then, rising somewhat abruptly, he retired to his own room.

In the morning, Mrs. Joinly found upon her table a note from her son, saying that he was to be absent for a few days upon an expedition of importance. It entered into no explanations or details, and the mother was left to conjecture the cause of the young man’s absence. We must now follow him in his adventures.

Since young Joinly had read his father’s letter and his mother’s reply, he had resolved to make some effort for the release of the former. He had considered a great variety of schemes, but they were all dismissed, from one consideration or other. The accident which had occurred to him in the boat presented a new suggestion. The identical ship which had been the instrument of destroying the houses upon Duck Island was proceeding toward New York.

The desire of revenge for that calamity, which had been followed by so many disasters to his family, naturally arose in his heart. This was quickened by the wanton attack upon his little boat, and his mind was nearly resolved upon some attempt to seize upon the commander and destroy his vessel, thus taking an officer of equal rank with his father, and having the means of securing an exchange for his parent, at the same time that he would inflict a merited retribution upon the enemy.

This scheme, wild and extravagant as it might seem, did not appear impossible to the heated fancy of the youth, particularly as he felt a perfect willingness to sacrifice his life in the undertaking. It was at the moment that he was half resolved upon this mad scheme that the conversation with his mother had taken place. Her solemn words impressed him deeply. He retired to his room, and threw himself upon the bed. The sufferings of his family and the sufferings of the whole country were strongly impressed upon his mind.

The war at this period was carried on by the British armies in a manner which was calculated to rouse every feeling of indignation in the American people. The southern coasts of the United States had been ravaged by their troops in a style befitting pirates rather than soldiers, and more recently the borders of Connecticut had met with a similar fate. New Haven had been attacked, and the beautiful town of Fairfield had been laid in ashes. These circumstances were attended with the most aggravating atrocities. Private property was destroyed in mere wantonness. Individuals were shot down, or butchered by the soldiers, where no public object could be gained.

In the darkness of his chamber, these events crowded upon the youth’s imagination. They came attended with all the details current at the time, and heightened by the colors which indignation and rumor imparted to them. His own fancy, too, gave them a vividness beyond the reality; and, amid all these crowding images, his mother’s words came again and again upon his heart: “In wanton sport these British officers fire upon a human being as a sportsman shoots at a woodcock or a partridge.”

In this uneasy manner he spent several hours, but at last fell asleep. After a brief repose, he awoke, dressed himself, lighted a candle, and wrote the letter to his mother which we have already mentioned. After a few brief preparations, he went forth. His step was firm, and his whole bearing showed that his resolution was taken. The gray dawn was just visible in the east. As the youth was about departing, and had already advanced several rods from the house, he paused and looked back. The venerable mansion lay dark and still beneath the arches of the lofty elms that spread their branches above it. The gloom of the scene seemed but an emblem of the shadows that rested upon the hearts of those within, and those once so bright, so cheerful, so happy. A single tear gathered in the young man’s eyes; but he dashed it aside, and strode forward upon his path.

CHAPTER V.

Our young adventurer had ascertained that the Tiger, the British frigate of which we have already spoken, lay at anchor in a little harbor of Long Island, toward the western extremity of the sound. He had conferred with several companions of his own age, and with some friends of his father, who were still older, and they had signified their willingness to aid him in any effort for his father’s release in which he was willing to lead them.

His present design was to muster these men, and set forth upon an attempt to destroy the vessel we have already mentioned, and, if possible, seize upon the commander. If this attempt, on farther examination, should not seem to be feasible, an effort to seize upon some other British officer, of which there were several stationed upon the western part of Long Island, was to be made.

Proceeding to the house of an active and energetic friend, young Joinly communicated his design, and the two, separately proceeding to the several houses of their proposed companions, rallied about thirty of them by the time the sun had risen. Most of them were young men, though several of them were of mature years. One of them was the owner of a small sloop; and, entering this, the whole party dropped down the river.

The celerity with which their preparations were made is explained by considering that in these times the knapsack and the firelock were ready at a moment’s call. The other necessary equipments and provisions were easily supplied. Nearly every man on board was familiar with the sea, and knew every rock, current, or shoal along the shore. They soon spread their sails, and, hugging the land, proceeded westward upon their chivalrous expedition.

In the space of three or four days they had reached the shores of Greenwich. They then crossed over by night to the opposite shore of Long Island, in the vicinity of the Tiger. Running up into a little shallow bay, sheltered by pine trees, they came to anchor. As soon as the morning approached, they despatched several of the men to reconnoitre. These returned toward evening of the following day, and brought the information that the Tiger was lying, at the distance of about four miles, at anchor in a small bay.

On the shore was a little village, and in the vicinity were the houses of several respectable farmers. One of these houses, apart from the rest, was occupied by the principal officers of the ship, who were indulging on shore in feasting and drinking. The resolution was soon adopted by the adventurers to take speedy advantage of this state of things to put their scheme in execution. In about a week their preparations were made, and they only waited for a dark and tempestuous night to make the attempt.

In about ten days the desired storm arrived. It was late in the autumn, and one of those chilly, north-easterly storms common to our climate had set in. The plot of our little band was a singular one. They had with them an ingenious mechanic, by the name of Bushnell, who had been long engaged in preparing machinery, something like that of a clock, by which he could ignite powder under water at any given time. His experiments had proved at least partially successful, and rumors of some scheme for blowing up the British ships at New York, by this machinery, had got into circulation. The British were excessively alarmed, and swept the water around their vessels, both night and day, to intercept any infernal engine that might be stealing upon them.

Bushnell’s plan, on the present occasion, was to approach the vessel in the darkness of the night, and, under cover of the storm, to attach a small skiff, laden with several barrels of gunpowder, to the side of the vessel—to connect the machinery with this, and leave it to explode. The rest of the men were to be upon the shore, and, in the confusion which they expected to follow, to make sure of the commander of the vessel. The arrangements were duly made early in the evening, and about nine o’clock Bushnell and two companions set off for the ship.

The night was excessively dark, and the wind, blowing a gale, swept with a deafening roar through the rigging. Everything favored the enterprise. Unseen and unheard, the conspirators stole over the short chopping waves of the bay, and, sheltered beneath the projecting stern of the massy hulk, took their measures with deliberation.

After a brief space, they departed unnoticed and unsuspected, leaving the little skiff, with its burden of death and destruction, firmly attached beneath the frigate.

They soon reached the shore, and took the stations assigned them with their companions. The machinery was so adjusted, that it would strike in the space of half an hour, and communicate the fatal spark to the powder.

[To be continued.]

The Musical Snuff-box at Church.

A gentleman had a musical snuff-box which played two favorite airs, called “Drops of brandy,” and “The glasses sparkle on the board.” He went out of town, one Sunday, to dine with a friend, taking his box in his pocket.

He went with the family to the church, and the service was about half through, when, putting his hand in his pocket, he accidentally touched the spring of the box, when it immediately struck up, “Drops of brandy,” most merrily.

Every eye and every ear was directed to the spot, to the great dismay and confusion of the gentleman, who endeavored to stop the box. His endeavors, however, only made the difficulty worse, for the tune immediately changed, and, “The glasses sparkle on the board,” was heard distinctly in all parts of the church, the congregation with difficulty restraining their mirth.

Finding it impossible to stop the music, the unfortunate gentleman started up and hurried out of the church, the box persisting in playing all the time that he marched along the aisle. I believe the unlucky box was never taken to church again.

John Hancock.

I suppose all my readers have seen the Declaration of our Independence, with the signatures attached. John Hancock was the president of the convention that drew up that famous instrument, and was the first who signed it. Every one must have remarked the bold, strong, decided hand in which his name is written. That was a good way to do a great action—to do it firmly, and in such a manner as to show that there was no timidity of heart, no trembling of the hand, no wavering of purpose.

It is a good thing for all young Americans to read the lives and study the characters of the great men of our country; and it is my purpose frequently to place the biographies of such individuals in the pages of Merry’s Museum. I shall now give a brief sketch of John Hancock.

He was born at Braintree, in Massachusetts, in 1737, and inherited a large fortune from his uncle. He was educated at Cambridge college, and was elected a member of the assembly in 1766, and soon distinguished himself by a talent for business, and a zealous opposition to the oppressive acts of the British. In 1774, he was president of the provincial congress, and the year after was elected a member of the general congress, which met at Philadelphia. He was chosen president of that body, and in that capacity signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776.

His health declining the next year, he left that appointment; but he was elected, in 1788, the first governor of Massachusetts under the new constitution. He held that office for four years. In three years after, he was again elected governor, in which station he remained till his death, which took place in 1793, in the fifty-sixth year of his age.

Governor Hancock possessed talents that always adorned the several exalted stations to which he was elevated. He was one of the first and most conspicuous actors in the great drama of the Revolution, and gained, by his zealous devotion to his country, a rank among the most distinguished of her benefactors. In private life he was characterized by affability, urbanity, and distinguished liberality to the poor.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

CHAPTER V.

The buffalo hunt.

Five of our hunting party were on horseback, and the rest on foot. We proceeded over a hilly country for two days, meeting with no other game than a single deer, which was shot by one of the party, thrown across one of the horses, and carried onward. We came, at length, to the borders of an extensive prairie, which lay spread out like the sea before us. In taking a general view of its surface, it seemed to be almost perfectly level. But as we advanced, I perceived that it was undulating, like the ocean thrown into long waves by a gale of wind.

It was now late in the autumn, but the prairie was covered with a great variety of flowers, some of them exceedingly brilliant and beautiful. I hardly noticed these objects then. I was with savages, and they never perceive anything lovely in flowers, or landscapes, or nature’s fairest scenes. It might seem that those who live always in the midst of nature’s works would feel their beauty and admire them. But it is not so. The exquisite emotions excited in a refined mind by beautiful landscapes and the picturesque objects of nature, belong only to those who have enjoyed the advantages of civilization. No savage is ever either a painter or a poet. You never see these dwellers in the wilderness culling bouquets, or making wreaths of blossoms.

We held a straight course for several hours, until, at last, we reached a little dell which was covered with trees. At a distance, this appeared like an island in the sea. Here we paused, and preparations were made to remain for some days. Early on the ensuing morning, most of the party were roused and went forth in quest of game; but the only result was the killing of two or three deer. Several days now passed, but on the fifth day after our arrival we met with more stirring adventures.

Soon after the sun arose, one of the Indians announced that a herd of buffaloes was coming. We all looked in the direction to which he pointed, and, at the distance of nearly two miles, we saw an immense number of objects, seeming like small black spots on the surface of the prairie. These gradually approached us, and we could soon hear a confused noise, like the distant roar of a tempest. The Indians were immediately on the alert.

As the wind was blowing toward the herd, they were afraid that the quick scent of the buffaloes would perceive us, and that the affrighted animals would take to flight. To avoid this danger, we immediately determined to shift our position. Those who had horses mounted them and departed, and those who were on foot followed them. Some proceeded to the right and some to the left, making a wide sweep, and intending to come in upon the herd in the opposite direction.

We were not long in performing this manœuvre. I shall never forget the scene that was now presented. Before us and near at hand were several thousands of these huge animals, many of them equal in size to the largest ox. They had also an aspect entirely distinct from our tame cattle. Their swarthy color, their wild, shaggy hair, their thick mane, the profusion of rough and bristling hair about the face, the enormous hump upon the shoulders, together with the fierce countenance of these animals, rendered them objects at once interesting and formidable.

And if this was their appearance, taken singly, the spectacle of thousands of these huge beasts was hardly short of sublime. The whole mass were moving slowly forward. Some paused occasionally, to nip the herbage, or devour the leaves from a favorite shrub, and others sauntered on with a careless and indifferent air. But many of the bulls, and some of the rest, seemed to be almost constantly occupied in fighting.

Some were pawing the earth, and scattering the dust in the air; some were kneeling and plunging their horns into the little hillocks of earth, lowing at the same time, and seeming desirous of giving a challenge to mortal combat; some were already fighting, and, with their horns locked, were straining every nerve for the mastery; others were leaping and frisking as they went; and others still were plunging their horns into the sides of such of their brethren as came within their reach. The lowing of the herd was incessant, and came upon the ear with a deafening roar. The air was filled with confused sounds, and the earth was shaken beneath our feet by the trampling multitude.

Accustomed as I was to scenes of adventure, I was still startled at this spectacle, and, for a time, my mind was somewhat confused. My excitement was increased by an incident which immediately followed. The Indians who had accompanied me had dispersed themselves, and being upon the flank of the herd, and sheltered by the tall grass, were stealing towards their unsuspecting victims.

I had myself crouched down in a thick tuft of grass, upon one of the thousand swells of the prairie. It chanced that a buffalo of the largest size, straying a little from his companions, was coming directly towards the spot where I lay. He soon came near, and I could see his curly pate and the glistening of his eye. He came slowly, but steadily on. I had a rifle in my hand, but such was my amazement that I never thought of using it. I remained crouched upon one knee until the animal was within six feet of me.

It is impossible to describe the consternation depicted in the brute’s countenance when he first saw me. He paused for a moment; his eyeballs stood out, his nostrils expanded, and the long stiff hair upon his neck stood erect. After glaring at me for a few seconds, the creature lifted his tail into the air, and sped away with a prodigious gallop.

He had proceeded but a few rods, however, before I heard the report of a rifle, and the flying buffalo stumbled and fell to the earth, tearing up the soil in the heavy plunge. He, however, rose to his feet, and proceeded, with a staggering gallop, for about a hundred yards. He then paused, and at length stood still. I came forward, supposing that the wound was mortal, and that the creature would soon fall to the earth; but what was my surprise, on coming up with him, to discover three or four wolves standing in front of him, and evidently on the point of making an attack.

Without reflection, I discharged my rifle among them, and killed two of them. The noise directed the attention of the wounded buffalo to me, and he immediately turned upon me. I easily kept out of his way at first; but his speed increased, and I soon found it necessary to exert myself to the utmost for escape. My uncommon speed was now my only hope. The raging beast followed me at long bounds, and I was frequently obliged to throw him off by a short turn to the right or left, in order to escape from the plunge of his horns. I had already begun to grow weary and short of breath, when I heard a loud bellow and a heavy fall to the earth. I looked around, and my pursuer lay dead upon the ground.

After a few moments, my self-possession returned. I loaded my rifle and proceeded toward the scene of action, for my companions were now at their work. I had an opportunity of seeing the manner in which the Indians on horseback attack the buffalo. I chanced to be near one of our bravest huntsmen as he assailed a bull of the largest size. The man was firmly mounted, but he had no other weapons than a bow and a quiver of arrows. The buffalo had perceived the approach of the enemy, and immediately fled at full gallop.

The hunter pursued, and, speedily coming up with the animal, he drew his arrow to the head, and plunged it between its ribs. It entered more than one half its length, but the buffalo continued its flight. Another and another arrow were speedily discharged, and all of them took effect. The last was almost entirely buried in the flank of the huge beast. Stung with agony, he wheeled suddenly round, and made a fierce plunge at the mounted horseman. The movement was sudden and rapid, but the blow was evaded by a swaying movement to the left. The impulse of the horseman carried him past the animal for a considerable distance, and the latter, apparently incapable of farther exertion, stood still.

His sides were covered with blood, and mingled foam and blood were streaming from his open mouth. He held his head down, his tongue protruded, his eyes stood out, and he shivered in every limb. At the same time, he uttered a low and plaintive bellow. The unrelenting hunter speedily turned his horse back, and again approached his prey. He paused a moment, and seemed to hesitate whether it were needful to spend another arrow; but, after a short space, he placed one upon the string. The bison watched the movement, and, at the instant it sped, uttered a terrible roar, and sprung again toward the horseman. The latter, prepared for the movement, leaped aside, and the exhausted prey rolled, with a crushing sound, to the earth. The last arrow had reached his heart.

I looked over the vast plain, and the countless herd of bisons were now in full flight; plunging, galloping, and bellowing, they swept over the plain. It is impossible to give an adequate idea of the scene. A variety of stunning sounds fell upon the ear, and the earth trembled as if shaken by an earthquake. Yet, amid this scene of confusion, the Indians seemed in their element. Mingling with the crowd of animals, their arrows flew, and their bullets sped. Those who were on foot, and those who were mounted, alike kept up with the flying herd.

Nothing could exceed the fierceness of their looks, or the animation of their actions. Their whole souls engaged in the work of death; their hair streaming in the wind, their eyes gleaming with fiery exultation, and speeding from point to point with incredible swiftness; they had an aspect of wildness, energy, and power, which words alone cannot paint. For my own share in the adventure I can say but little. I had several fair shots, but they were all without success, excepting in one instance. A buffalo calf, toward the latter part of the chase, was passing near, and I brought it down with a single ball.

I must not omit to mention one incident, that particularly attracted my attention in the midst of these scenes. From the moment the attack began, I had noticed several wolves gliding hither and thither, and seeming to watch the progress of the fight. These creatures follow the herds of bisons, and, if one of them becomes sick or wounded, they attack and devour him. They seemed now to be quite aware that something was to be done in their behalf, and, accordingly, gathered in considerable numbers to the place where the attack was about to be made.

Several buffaloes had now been slain, and others were wounded. As I was passing along, I saw a buffalo that had received a bullet in his side, and was severely hurt. The creature seemed exhausted and incapable of flight. As if understanding the exact nature of the case, several wolves had gathered around him, and, squatting upon their haunches at a respectful distance, were waiting the moment when the animal should be sufficiently feeble to render it safe for them to make the attack. At my approach, however, the buffalo made a new effort, and galloped beyond my reach, followed, however, by his unrelenting and greedy attendants.

In about half an hour after the attack commenced, it was all over. The herd had passed on; but scattered along, for the space of three or four miles, lay no less than sixteen dead buffaloes, the fruit of our efforts. I must say, however, that the packs of wolves, which constantly hung around the buffaloes, devoured two or three that we had killed before we could secure them.

Several days were spent in skinning our game; in cutting off the best parts of the meat, and in preparations for our return. At last, having loaded our horses with the hides and a portion of the meat, and each man taking what he could carry, we set out upon our journey, and, after a laborious march, reached the settlement.

The new London Exchange.

The bank of England is the focus of the money operations of London. It is situated in that part of the metropolis called the city, about a mile and a half to the east of Temple Bar.

This bank is an immense quadrangular building, with a large court in the centre. The number of rooms in the edifice are numerous, and a person without a guide would inevitably get lost amid its labyrinth of staircases, passages, rooms, entries, and offices. During the business hours of the day, there are constant streams of people passing in and out of this great temple of mammon.

The number of officers and clerks employed in the bank is very great, and, in some of the rooms, you see them shovelling heaps of gold, almost as freely and as abundantly as if it were Indian corn. Near the bank is the post-office, which is also an immense edifice. The number of persons at work within the bustle and activity that are exhibited there, the marking of parcels, the tumbling about of mail-bags, the running hither and thither, seem almost to render the place a city in itself.

Near these two great buildings are the offices of the chief bankers of London, who receive and pay out immense sums of money at their counters every day. All the streets in this region are mainly occupied by persons who are engaged in the great money operations of the metropolis. Nothing can exceed the bustle and activity of this part of the city. The streets are thronged with cabs, coaches, omnibuses, and other vehicles, and with a ceaseless flood of people, passing rapidly on, as if they thought the world was speedily coming to an end.

Laying the corner stone of the new London Exchange.

Near to the bank was formerly the old Exchange, which was a four-sided building, in the court of which, merchants, bankers, and others in London, were accustomed to assemble for the purpose of transacting business. This court was quadrangular, and, on the four sides, were the emblems of the four quarters of the globe. On that side where the emblems of Europe were, European business was transacted; on the Asiatic side, business relating to Asia was transacted; and so of the rest.

The time of assembly, in this Exchange, was usually from two to four o’clock. At these hours, you would here see a crowd of persons; and the amount of business transacted within this little square, in the space of a couple of hours, often amounted to several millions of pounds sterling.

For several years past, the opinion had prevailed, in London, that the old Exchange was small, inconvenient, and unworthy of the great commercial metropolis of the world. A scheme was, therefore, set on foot for erecting a new Exchange, which might at once be convenient, and suited, by its extent and magnificence, to satisfy the wants as well as the ambition of the great emporium of Britain.

The building has already been commenced, and considerable progress has been made in its construction. London has hundreds of edifices, any one of which would be an object of interest and curiosity, on account of its extent and magnificence, on our side of the Atlantic. But the new Exchange promises to rank among the very finest of the public buildings of London, both on account of its size and the beauty of its architecture.

The corner-stone of this fine structure was laid on the 17th of January, 1842, and appears to have been one of the most imposing ceremonies, of the kind, that ever took place. An immense crowd of people was assembled, among whom were many persons of the highest distinction. The performances took place beneath a tent, in which there were about fifteen thousand persons.

This tent was one hundred feet high, and three hundred feet in circumference. Around it were eleven tiers of seats, gradually rising to the height of twenty-four feet. These seats, as well as the floor and sides of the tent, were covered with crimson drapery. It was lighted by a magnificent chandelier, containing about fifty gas lights. In the centre of the tent was an open space, in which the foundation-stone, an immense block of free-stone, was suspended. In front of it were two chairs of state, one for Prince Albert and the other for the lord mayor.

All things being ready, Prince Albert deposited, in an excavation in the stone, a glass bottle, containing a variety of coins, both gold, silver, and copper. A glass brick was also deposited, with an English inscription encrusted thereon. These were covered with a stone, and, the prince applied the level to see that it was true. Some mortar was put into the crevices, and his royal highness smoothed it down, in a very workmanlike manner, with a silver trowel, exquisitely fabricated for the purpose. An enthusiastic cheer rung through the assembly, to attest the appreciation of the skill displayed by the prince. The stone was lowered to its bed, and the mighty pageant was over.

Imperial Joss.

The Imperial Joss.

This is the chief idol of the Chinese empire, and is worshipped with profound reverence by many persons, especially by the chief dignitaries. The present emperor, whose name is Taou Twang, and who is now about seventy years old, is very particular in his devotions to the Imperial Joss. This image is variously represented, but always exhibits the appearance of a very fat man, with an enormous belly,—one who is fond of good eating and good drinking, and who cares for little else.

A man’s religion is usually an index to his own character. If we may judge the higher classes of Chinese by their deity, we should suppose that, if they are not better than their gods, they are a low, coarse, and sensual people.

The Chinese temples, or Joss houses, are very magnificent; and it is said that there are, in the empire, about five hundred of these of the larger kind. When the emperor goes to worship the imperial deity, he dresses himself with the utmost magnificence, and is attended by all his officers of state, sumptuously apparelled. But while he thus displays the greatest external grandeur, he exhibits great humility and dejection, prostrating himself upon the earth, rolling himself in the dust, and speaking of himself, to the object of his adoration, in terms of the utmost abasement.

In the vicinity of Canton, there is a Joss house, which makes a magnificent appearance. It is four stories high, with a fine cupola. It has, also, numerous galleries and out-houses.

A Salt Water Scene.

In one of the recent fishing excursions in our bay, the steward of the steamer had employed, as assistant cook, a simple negro, who had “never before smelt salt water,” nor knew its peculiar properties. There were a hundred persons on board to feed, and, not having a very large supply of water on board, at the first dinner the steward took his aid severely to task for wasting the fresh water in boiling the vegetables, when the salt water, alongside, was so much better for the purpose. Poor Darky promised to do better next time; and, accordingly, on the following morning, when the bell rang for breakfast, the aforesaid hundred half-famished people rushed up to the table, and, seizing the coffee-cups, each quaffed a copious draught, when, phew! phiz! splutter! what a spitting and coughing there ensued! “Steward!

cook! captain! where are you? what is the matter of the coffee?” shouted a Babel of vehement voices. The steward appeared, and protested his ignorance of anything wrong, when a deputation was sent for poor cook, and he soon appeared amid the excited multitude, trembling, and as pale as he could be. “What is the matter with this coffee?” demanded the captain.

“I sure I don’t know, massa,” he replied.

“Where did you get the water that you made it of?”

“Why, massa cap’n, de steward scold me for wasting the fresh water for bile the ’taters, and said de salt was better; so I got it out ob de riber, too, to make dis coffee.”

Hungry as was the party, a hearty roar followed the explanation of this real African bull, and all hands were obliged, in good humor, to wait the making of fresh coffee.

The Shoulder of Mutton.—The blade bone of a shoulder of mutton is called in Scotland “a poor man,” as in some parts of England it is termed “a poor knight of Windsor.” Some years ago, an old Scottish peer chanced to be indisposed whilst he was in London attending parliament. The master of the hotel where he lodged, anxious to show attention to his noble guest, waited on him to enumerate the contents of his well-stocked larder, so as to endeavor to hit on something which might suit his appetite. “I think, landlord,” said his lordship, rising up from his couch, and throwing back the tartan plaid with which he had screened his grim and ferocious visage, “I think I could eat a morsel of a poor man.” The landlord fled in terror, having no doubt that his guest was a cannibal, who might be in the habit of eating a slice of a tenant, as light food, when under a regimen.

The Life of Columbus.

CHAPTER IV.

Columbus sails for Spain—Manner in which Columbus was welcomed on his arrival in Spain.

Having thus determined to return to Spain, Columbus selected thirty-nine of the crew, who were to remain. He established rules for their government, and, having made all the provision for their comfort in his power, he gave them a parting address. He recommended to them to treat the natives and one another kindly; to live amicably; to settle disputes which might arise; and he promised them, should his life be spared, to return to them at a future day.

On the 4th of January, 1493, all things being settled, a signal gun announced their readiness to depart. A mutual farewell was pronounced, and the sails of the Nina were soon spread to the wind. Two days after their departure, while a head wind was blowing strongly against them, and they made but little progress, the long-lost Pinta was seen bearing down upon them.

This was a joyful sight. Nothing certain had been heard of her since her separation from the other vessels. Fears were entertained that she was lost. But Columbus had all along suspected that her captain had separated from him with a design to search for islands where he might find gold. And so it proved to be.

The captain, however, pretended otherwise. He endeavored to convince Columbus that he had no bad design, and had been detained by unpropitious weather and ignorance of the route to Cuba. But all this was untrue. He had visited several islands, and procured gold, half of which he kept himself, and the rest he divided among his crew, telling them to keep it a secret. Columbus would have arrested him; but as he had now only one small vessel beside the Pinta, he wisely concluded to say but little, and hasten back to Spain.

The wind becoming favorable soon after, both vessels directed their course eastward, stopping, however, at several islands in their way. At one island, where they anchored, an unhappy circumstance occurred. Some of the Spaniards landed here. They found the island inhabited by a ferocious-looking people. They had long bows, swords, and war-clubs. These last were made of a kind of wood so hard and so heavy as to level the stoutest man at a single blow.

At first, these savages conducted peaceably towards the Spaniards; nevertheless, their looks bespoke treachery and war. One of them returned with the Spaniards on board the Nina. He was treated very kindly, and several presents were given him. This was done to secure the friendship of his brethren on the island.

At length, this Indian was put on shore. As the boat approached the land, a party of warriors were seen lurking in the edge of some woods not far distant. As the boat reached the shore, they laid aside their arms, and approached in apparent friendship. They began to trade with the Spaniards, and sold them two bows.

But, on a sudden, they fell back, seized their weapons, and rushed forward to secure the Spaniards. The latter, finding themselves in danger, attacked the Indians, and wounded several. They would have made greater execution, but they were ordered by the commander of the party to return.

Columbus regretted this occurrence. It was the first unpleasant interview which he and his men had had with the inhabitants of the new world. But, happily, before Columbus left the neighborhood, the affray was peaceably settled. The chief of the Indians was a noble-spirited man, and seemed much to regret the conduct of his subjects. He made a present to Columbus, and even visited him on board his vessel.

Columbus now prepared to take leave of these islands, and set sail once more upon the broad ocean. Every day’s delay was felt to be hazardous. A slight accident might prevent their ever reaching Spain; and thus their important discovery, their toils, and their dangers, would all be lost. Their voyage, also, with all the skill and diligence they might exercise, was likely to be a long one. The trade winds were against them, and the Pinta had become so weak, that no great press of sail could be put upon her.

Nothing important occurred till the 13th of February. The day previous, a gale had begun to blow, and the sea was greatly disturbed. On the evening of the 13th, the indications of an approaching tempest were still stronger; and, not long after, it burst upon them in awful fury.

All that night their sails were lashed down tight; and yet, such was the violence of the gale, that they were driven forward with the speed of a race-horse. In the morning, they were still on the top of the waves, though every moment likely to be swallowed up. Through all that day the vessels kept in sight of each other; but each, as it rose on the mountain wave, expected to take its last look of its companion.

The night again set in. The spirit of the tempest was still unbroken; nay, it seemed as if the very elements were all engaged in war. The ocean, lashed by the storm, raged and roared, and every succeeding billow was still more mountainous than the one which had gone before. Each vessel continued to display a light, at intervals, as a signal to the other. For a time, that displayed by the Pinta was seen on board the Nina; but it grew more and more dim and distant, and, at length, was looked for in vain.

It was a tremendous night, and it seemed that only by a miracle the vessel could survive the fury of the gale. But, on the dawn of the following morning, she was still riding aloft, though she seemed, every moment, on the brink of ruin.

The courageous spirit of Columbus was the last to quail. He did not yet despair; but he, himself, was appalled. It was probable that the Pinta had gone down. It was more than probable that his own vessel would that day sink to some unexplored cavern in the abyss. His life and that of his crew were valuable. But it was of still greater moment to the world that the knowledge of his discovery should not be lost.

In this distressed and troubled state—in this season of awful suspense, Columbus was not unmindful of prayers and vows. But, alas! he prayed not to the God of the ocean; his vows were not made to him. In those days, it was the custom of many, in times of peril, to pray to the Virgin Mary, and to make a vow, if preserved, to go on a pilgrimage. This Columbus and his men now did; as if the Virgin Mary could save them; as if to go bareheaded, on their hands and feet, for miles and leagues, would be pleasing to God!

How much more proper it would have been to have sought the protection of Him who rideth upon the wings of the wind, and maketh the clouds his chariots; who alone could say to the noisy waters, “Peace, be still.” The prayers and vows of Columbus seemed of little avail. Why should they have been heard, when the true God of the waters was lost sight of, and creatures were worshipped instead of himself?

The storm still went on in its fury: billow was followed by billow, surge was piled upon surge. Columbus began to consider in what manner he could communicate to the eastern world a knowledge of his discovery. There was one expedient which might succeed, if he should be lost, and he now proceeded to adopt it.

He wrote a brief account of his voyage and discoveries on a piece of parchment, which he hastily enclosed in a cake of wax, and, putting this latter into a barrel, he threw it into the sea, with the hope that it might, at length, be picked up by some one who would inform the king and queen of Spain of the important news it contained.

Fortunately, however, the storm soon after somewhat abated, and, to their inexpressible joy, land appeared in view, which proved to be the island of St. Mary’s, the most southern of the Azores.

For two days, after they discovered land, the Nina was tossed about, it being impossible to reach a harbor. At length they cast anchor; but, before morning, they parted their cable, and were again exposed to the most imminent danger of being shipwrecked.

We must pass over many interesting events and trying scenes which occurred before Columbus had the good fortune to arrive at Palos. We must briefly mention here that, at length, when Columbus reached St. Mary’s, the government of that island seized a part of the crew of the Nina, who had landed, and attempted to take Columbus himself. The island of St. Mary’s belonged to the king of Portugal, who had given his subjects orders to seize Columbus, should it be in their power. The reason for this was a jealousy, on the part of that king, that Columbus might interfere with voyages of discovery which were undertaken under his own direction.

The difficulties at St. Mary’s were, however, settled, and Columbus at length proceeded towards Spain. Another storm now came on, and drove him into a port of Portugal. He would have avoided touching at any port of Portugal, could he have done so with safety. But, having been struck by a squall of wind, he was obliged to make the first harbor he was able.

From this place he wrote to the king of Portugal, informing him of his situation, and requested permission to go with his vessel to Lisbon. This request was granted. On his arrival at this place, the inhabitants crowded on board to listen to the stories of the crew, and to see various articles of curiosity, which they had brought from the new world.

The king of Portugal was at this time at Valparaiso, about twenty-seven miles from Lisbon. From the former place, he despatched a messenger to Columbus, inviting him to the royal residence. Columbus wished not to go, justly fearing that some evil was designed him. But, at length, he deemed it wise to accept the invitation.

On reaching Valparaiso, he related his adventures to the king, and his discoveries, and the perils of his return. The king listened with deep attention, and, though he treated Columbus kindly, it was evident that he felt deeply mortified that he had lost the honor of this important discovery, when he might have employed Columbus himself.

Some of the king’s counsellors endeavored to prejudice him against Columbus, and, it is said, advised the king to have him murdered. But Columbus was at length dismissed in safety, and again set sail for Palos. A few days brought him in sight of this long wished-for port, and, on the 15th of March, at noon, the anchor of the Nina was cast in the spot from which it had been raised about seven months and a half before.

The joy of Columbus and his crew, on reaching Palos, may, perhaps, be imagined, but cannot be described. The joy of the inhabitants was not less intense. The vessel was descried coming up the river, and was recognised as one of those which had been abroad on a voyage of discovery.

The news rapidly spread along the streets; business was suspended, and the people were seen rushing to the wharves; all was hurry, curiosity, and bustle. Yes, there was much anxiety on the part of many. They had friends there; or, it might be, they were lost. But one vessel had arrived. Where were the others? One person had a husband: was he alive? a father, a brother: were they on board this vessel? or——. The anxiety was deep, and no wonder.

The ship was anchored, the sails were furled, and Columbus and his almost bewildered men now landed, amidst the greetings of the assembled multitude. Inquiries, one after another, went round in quick succession. Explanations were made as well as the hurry and confusion would allow. A long procession was formed, and Columbus and his men were marched to a church, where public thanks were returned for their success and safe return.

To heighten the joy of the people of Palos, it was so ordered that, on the evening of this very day, the Pinta was also seen standing up the river. She had been separated from Columbus, we have told, and was supposed to be lost. But it was not so. She had, however, only escaped as if by a miracle. She had been tossed up and down, and driven before the tempest, for days, and had, at length, succeeded in getting into a port, from whence, after the gale had subsided, she proceeded on her return; and now she came in, to add to the joy of the justly delighted people of Palos.

One circumstance is related, which all who read this story would wish to have otherwise. I have spoken of the improper conduct of Pinzon, the commander of the Pinta, while in Hispaniola, in leaving Columbus. From the violence of the gale, which separated him from the Nina, he had some reason to conclude that she was lost, just as Columbus supposed the Pinta was lost. But, instead of waiting to ascertain whether this was a fact, Pinzon, on putting into port, sent a letter to the king and queen of Spain, informing them of the discovery which he had made, and claiming all the honor of it.

This was ungenerous, as well as wicked. But what was his surprise to find that Columbus had arrived before him! What was his mortification to learn the honors which the real discoverer of the new world was receiving, at the very time he came in with the expectation of taking all the honor to himself!

Pinzon was afraid and ashamed to meet Columbus. He, therefore, avoided being seen, and, not long after, died at his own house, the victim of his own pride and folly. Still higher honors awaited Columbus than those which he had received from the inhabitants of Palos. The letter, which he had written to the king and queen of Spain, had prepared the way for his gracious reception. Indeed, the news of his discovery spread everywhere, and filled the whole country with admiration and delight.

In a short time, Columbus proceeded to Barcelona, to inform the king and queen more particularly concerning his voyage, and about the new world which he had discovered. On his journey, multitudes flocked, from the surrounding country, to see this wonderful man and the natives of the new world, several of whom had accompanied him to Spain.

On his arrival at Barcelona, his reception at court was truly flattering. The king and queen did not attempt to conceal their pleasure at the success of his voyage, and took every means to load him with honor. He was received in great state, and, in the presence of the whole court, the king and queen even rose to welcome him: nay, he had the privilege of seating himself in their presence,—an honor seldom granted to any one.

Columbus now gave an account of his voyage; told them of the new world; exhibited the curiosities which he had brought back; and, more than all—the indisputable evidence of the truth of what he had told them—the natives, whom he now presented to the king and queen.

It may be proper to dwell a moment upon the change in the circumstances of Columbus. For many years he had been endeavoring to effect a darling project. He had struggled with misfortune; he had fought his way without money, without patrons—nay, in opposition to powerful enemies. Less than a year before, he was a humble individual, and accounted by many a visionary and a fortune-hunter. But now he stood in the presence of the sovereigns of Spain, welcomed and honored by them, and an acknowledged benefactor to the world.

The news of his discovery soon spread through Europe, and it was justly considered by far the greatest achievement of the age. Its results have been even greater than were anticipated; for, in the space of three centuries and a half, we see the new world occupied by several great and independent nations, with systems of government which are likely to revolutionize Europe itself.

We shall mention, in this place, one circumstance, which we cannot think of but with regret. Our readers will remember that the person who first discovered land was to have a reward of thirty crowns a year for life. Columbus, we have said in a preceding page, first saw a light, which had been kindled by the natives, but a seaman first actually discovered the land. It was a question to whom the reward belonged—to Columbus or to the seaman. It was given to Columbus. One would think that it should have been given to the seaman, and that Columbus himself would have wished it. The honor, no doubt, was thought more of, by Columbus, than the money.

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER X.

Something worth knowing.

I have already told my readers that our little hero, whom we call Inquisitive Jack, was of a very investigating turn of mind. I do not mean to say that he was curious and inquisitive about improper things. He had not that unpleasant trait of character, which belongs to some people and some children—a constant disposition to be curious and inquisitive about other people’s affairs. If he was a kind of Paul Pry, his curiosity only led him to pry into the works of nature and art, and not to be meddlesome in the affairs of other people.

I believe I have also said that, when Jack became interested in a subject, he did not like to leave it till he knew all about it. He did not, like some little people, proceed from one object to another, amusing himself for a moment, and laying up no permanent stores of knowledge. He was more like the little insect of which we have told so long a story—the bee—which, when it alights upon a blossom, scrapes out all the honey, and then stores it away in cells for future use. So it was with Jack. He studied one subject at a time, made himself master of the knowledge it afforded, packed it away in the cells of his memory, and then was ready to set about something else.

Well, on account of this trait of character, he would not leave the subject of bees until he had extracted from Aunt Betsey all she knew of the subject—all the learning she had got. I have already told you many things which he learned, but there are many others which I have not related. I must now tell you a few of these, and then we will proceed to something else.

Jack had an idea, which is common to children, that all domestic animals were naturally tame; and he was greatly surprised to learn that dogs, cats, cows, hens, pigs, horses, and even bees, were originally wild, and had been brought into their present state by the arts of man. In the course of his conversations with Aunt Betsey, he acquired these new ideas, and he was then very curious to hear about wild bees and bee-hunters. Accordingly, his kind-hearted relative proceeded to satisfy his inquiries upon this subject. The substance of what she told him was as follows:

In nearly all countries there are swarms of wild bees, which have their abode in the forest. Their hive is the hollow trunk of some aged tree. Here they build their cells and store their honey. The native flowers of the forest, of the valley, and the mountain, of the hill-side and the lawn, afford them a supply of their delicious food, not only for the daily meal, during the warm season, but for the stores of winter.

It is a part of the plan of the benevolent Creator, that every portion of the universe shall be filled with life, so that happiness may everywhere abound. Even where man has not yet made his way in the wilderness and the solitary place, there are the flowers, with their honey, and there, amid other insects, is the busy, happy bee, to gather it. How vast must be the field of enjoyment which the omniscient eye surveys, if even the study of insects unfolds such a view as is here suggested.

The habits of the wild bees are nearly the same as those of the domestic ones. They live in large communities, build their cells in hexagons, are subject to the government of a queen, and have their periodical swarms, as we have related.

The hunting of wild bees is very common in the western states of this country. In some parts they are so abundant, that some persons become regular bee-hunters. Their mode of finding the hives is curious and interesting.

I must tell you that, when a bee sets off from a flower, to return to the hive, it always flies home in a straight line. It is one of the amazing instincts of this little creature, that, wherever it may be, it has the power of going to its home without deviation from a direct course. It may wander in the woods, it may sport amid the mazes of the flowery meadow, yet still the little creature never gets its head turned, never gets lost. The moment that its honey-bags are filled, it mounts upward on the breeze, and, without hesitation, speeds like an arrow to its mark.

The bee-hunter takes advantage of this curious trait in the bee. He sees in what direction the insect flies, and, by following on, is able, at last, to discover the hive. A practised bee-hunter often adopts this method. He notices the direction in which a bee flies from one flower, and sets down two or three sticks to mark the route. He then goes to a little distance, and starts another bee, and marks the route he takes. If the two lines tend toward each other, he concludes that the angle at which they meet is the point where the hive is to be found. Judging of the distance by the skill acquired by practice, the hunter proceeds to the spot, and seldom fails of finding the honey which he seeks pretty near the place which his calculations have indicated.

The scientific bee-hunter sometimes adopts the following method: he places some bee-bread, in order to tempt the bees, on a flat board or tile, and draws a circle round it with white paint. The bee always settles upon the edge of anything flat; so she must travel through the paint to reach the edge. When she flies away, the white paint on her body enables the hunter to observe her flight, and her course is marked down with a pocket compass. The same thing is done at another spot, some distance from the first, and, by comparing the direction of the two lines, the situation of the nest is easily found, as it must be at the point where the lines would meet.

We are told that, in Africa, there is a curious little hunter of the wild bee. This is a quadruped, about as large as a woodchuck, called the honey-ratel. This cunning little fellow seems to understand optics; for, when he wishes to get a distinct view of the bees, he holds up one of his fore paws, as you would your hand, in order to shade his eyes, and thus exclude from the pupil of the eye an excess of light. He watches the bees, particularly at sunset, for he knows that, like other working people, they are then retiring to their homes. Following the route they take, he is able to find out the vicinity of the hive, and, when he has come pretty near, his keen scent directs him to the honey which he seeks.

There is, also, in the wilds of Africa, a little bird called the honey-guide. This creature has the faculty of finding out where the honey is stored, and it is said that, when he meets a traveller in the wilderness, he will flutter along before him, from branch to branch, and from tree to tree, and, at last, guide him to the hive.

I remember to have read a story, of this kind, a great many years ago, when I was a boy. It was in the beautiful tale of Alphonso and Dalinda, told by Madame de Genlis, in her Tales of the Castle. I have never forgotten it; and no story, that I have since heard, has seemed half so pleasing. Does it not seem, indeed, almost like an incident of fairy land, that travellers, wandering in the wilds of Africa, should find a little bird, who becomes their guide to a feast of honey?

If I were to repeat all that Aunt Betsey Piper told her nephew about bees, I am afraid that I should fill a book. So I may as well bring this chapter to an end, after saying a few words about other kinds of bees.

I might talk a long time about the humble-bee, or, as some of my little readers call him, the bumble-bee. He is very large, and goes about with an air of importance, like some fat, bustling people that we know of. He has one habit which it is well not to imitate, and that is, of always humming a tune as he roams about. This bee makes his nest of moss, in the hayfield, usually beneath a heap of stones, or in some excavation of the earth. Two or three dozen usually assemble together, and carry on the various operations of the little community.

The mason bee builds her nest in the hole of an old wall, of little pieces of clay. She makes four or five cells, of the size of a thimble, in each of which she lays an egg. The carpenter bee makes a nest in an old post, by boring a hole, twelve inches long, with her teeth. In these holes she lays her eggs.

We could tell some of Aunt Betsey’s curious stories about upholstery bees and leaf-cutter bees, and we could say a good deal about their spiteful cousins, the wasps and hornets. But we must close the chapter by remarking, that all these different branches of the bee family live in communities, make and store honey, hatch their young from eggs, adopt a kind of despotic government, and carry a sharp sword sheathed in the tail.

Stomach of the Horse.

When we think of the adaptations of animal structure to the different conditions of living creatures, the camel, the ship of the desert, immediately occurs; and no doubt it is highly interesting to observe how this animal is adapted to the sandy wastes, in its eye, its nostril, its foot, the cells of its stomach, and its capacity of endurance. But it is, perhaps, more important to look to our domestic animals, and, of all, the most deserving of attention is the horse.

Of all creatures, the horse has the smallest stomach, relatively to its size. Had he the quadruple, ruminating stomach of the ox, he would not have been at all times ready for exertion; the traveller could not have baited his steed and immediately resumed his journey. The stomach of the horse is not so capacious, even when distended, as to impede his wind and speed; and the food is passing onward with a greater degree of regularity than in any other animal.

A proof of this is, that the horse has no gall bladder. Most people understand that bile is necessary to digestion, and the gall-bladder is a receptacle for that bile. Where the digestive process is performed in a large stomach, and the food descends in larger quantities, and at long intervals, the gall bladder is necessary; and there is that sympathy between the stomach and gall bladder that they are filled and emptied at the same time. The absence of the gall bladder in the horse, therefore, implies the almost continual process of digestion, which again results from the smallness of the stomach.

Another peculiarity in the horse is the supply of fluid. When the camel drinks, the water is deposited in cells connected with the stomach; but if a horse drinks a pail of water, in eight minutes none of that water is in the stomach; it is rapidly passing off into the large intestines and cœcum. We cannot resist the conviction that this variation in the digestive organs of the horse is in correspondence with his whole form and properties, which are for sudden and powerful, as well as long-continued exertion.

Patriotism.

An interesting story of Codrus, the last king of Athens, is handed down by the historian. When the Heraclidæ made war against Athens, one of the oracles, in which the Grecians placed great confidence, and which they were accustomed to consult on important occasions, declared that victory would be granted to them provided they abstained from injuring the Athenian king.

Codrus was a man of noble soul, and preferred the happiness of his country to everything else. Accordingly, he determined to sacrifice his life in order to secure success to the Athenians. With this view, he dressed himself as a common person and entered the enemy’s camp. He provoked a quarrel with a soldier, and was immediately slain.

The Heraclidæ soon discovered that they had killed the Athenian king, and, knowing that they had violated the condition upon which the oracle promised them success, became alarmed, and discontinued the war.

The Wooden Horse.

One of the most famous poems ever produced, is that entitled the Iliad. This was written by a man called Homer, who composed it in several different fragments, and went about the country reciting them to the people. He lived about nine hundred years before Christ.

The scene of the Iliad is laid along the north-eastern shore of the Mediterranean sea. It gives an account of a terrible war, carried on by the Greeks against the city of Troy. This lasted for ten years, and resulted in the overthrow of that city. The events, as related by Homer, are, many of them, curious and remarkable. He not only describes the deeds of military heroes, but he represents the gods and goddesses,—such as Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Juno, Venus, and others, as taking part in the struggle; at one time aiding and animating their friends, and, at another, baffling or overthrowing their enemies.

The principal leaders, on the part of the Greeks, are Ajax, Achilles and Ulysses. Those on the part of the Trojans, were Hector, Priam and Paris. The characters of these heroes are drawn with great power and skill by the poet, though we cannot but shudder at the bloody and savage acts which they perform. The manner in which Troy was at last taken, is thus related by Homer. It seems that Ulysses, who was a very artful and contriving man, caused an immense wooden horse to be made, capable of holding a considerable number of people. This was filled with soldiers, and offered, as a present, to the Trojans. These, having no suspicion of what was in the horse, accepted the present with great pleasure. A part of the walls, which surrounded and defended the city, was removed, and the immense horse was rolled in, amid the acclamations of the crowd. The breach in the wall was then closed up, and the Trojans were left with their admired, but dangerous present.

In the middle of the night, when the people of Troy were wrapped in profound sleep, the soldiers, who were locked up in the bowels of the horse, stole out and spread themselves over the city. They then set fire to it in various places, and opened the gates to their friends, the Greeks, without. These were waiting for the opportunity, and rushed into the city.

The Trojans were now suddenly awakened from their repose, and, when they went forth, they beheld their houses in flames and the enemy filling the streets. Most of the inhabitants were put to the sword. Such is old Homer’s story of the Wooden Horse.

Hannibal crossing the Alps.

One of the most wonderful events related in history, is that of Hannibal’s crossing the Alps, with an army of many thousand men, about two thousand years ago.

At that period, Rome, a city of Italy, and Carthage, a city of Africa, were at war. Hannibal was the Carthaginian general, and, being in Spain with his army, he determined to lead them into Italy. He, accordingly, crossed the Pyrenees and entered France, in his march. But now the Alps, the loftiest mountains in Europe, lay between him and Italy. They were not only many thousand feet in height, but their tops were covered with perpetual snow and ice. There were no roads over these cold and desolate regions, and no general had ever before thought of leading an army across them.

But Hannibal was a bold and enterprising man. He did not follow in the footsteps of those who had gone before, but struck out new paths for himself. He carefully examined the mountains, and, while he thus saw the difficulties, he felt sure that they could be overcome.

It must have been a strange and interesting sight to have seen the soldiers climbing up the steep, shaggy sides of the mountains, creeping along the dizzy edges of the precipices, crossing the dark and narrow ravines, and ascending and descending the steep and slippery glaciers. It must have been curious to have seen the elephants, of which there were several hundreds attached to the army, climbing over the lofty peaks of the mountains. It must have astonished the inhabitants of Italy to have seen the vast army, after crossing a barrier regarded as insurmountable, now pouring down upon their smiling plains like an overwhelming torrent, and spreading the terrors of war on every hand.

This achievement of Hannibal has ever been regarded as one of the wonders of history. A little more than forty years ago, Buonaparte, also, crossed the Alps with a large army; but he enjoyed many advantages not possessed by the Carthaginian hero. He had better equipments, tools and implements for his purpose, and possessed far more skilful engineers. His soldiers, also, were better fitted to aid in such an enterprise. The achievement, however, is esteemed one of the greatest exploits in the life of Napoleon.

The House of our Childhood

There is no word in our language that has a sweeter sound than home. It is the place where we began our existence—where life opened upon us. It was here that our parents dwelt; it was here that brothers and sisters lived; it was here that we became acquainted with good and evil. And now, when we have parted with home, we look back to that dear spot with an affection amounting almost to transport.

How beautiful has the old house become by that enchantment which distance lends to the view! How is every room consecrated in the memory by some little incident treasured in the heart! How many things about it are associated with a mother’s voice—a mother’s look—a father’s hallowed tone! How is every spot, around the dwelling, touched with the hues of childhood’s romance and poetry, where

Not the lightest leaf but trembling teems

With golden visions and romantic dreams!

My little readers, let me tell you a secret. There is no time in life more happy than childhood. You will find no friends in life better than father and mother; no attentions truer than those of brothers and sisters; no place sweeter than home. Think of these things, and do all you can to make home still happier, and to enjoy and deserve the blessings which home furnishes to those who are virtuous.

Blessing on a Child.

BY CAROLINE BOWLES.

And the bonnie babe! on her
All your choicest gifts confer;
Just as much of wit and sense
As may be hers without pretence—
Just as much of grace and beauty
As shall not interfere with duty—
Just as much of sprightliness
As may companion gentleness—
Just as much of firmness, too,
As with self-will has naught to do—
Just as much light-hearted cheer
As may be melted to a tear
By a word, a tone, a look,
Pity’s touch, or Love’s rebuke—
As much of frankness, sweetly free,
As may consort with modesty—
As much of feeling as will bear
Of after life the wear and tear—
As much of life—but, fairies! there
Ye vanish into thinnest air;
And with ye parts the playful vein
That loved a light and trivial strain.
Befits me better, babe! for thee
T’ invoke Almighty agency—
Almighty love—Almighty power,
To nurture up the human flower;
To cherish it with heavenly dew,
Sustain with earthly blessings too;
And, when the ripe, full time shall be,
Engraft it on eternity.

Varieties.

A Puzzler.—Will some of my little readers learn to repeat the following: “Mr. B, did you say, or did you not say, what I said you said? because Mr. C. said you never did say what I said you said. Now, if you did say that you did not say what I said you said, then what did you say?”

Feeding the Poultry.—I know a little girl, who feeds her mother’s poultry; and I believe she takes the entire care of them. She gives them corn to eat, and fresh water to drink, every day. There is one chicken, which she says is very greedy, and always tries to get more than his share; and that, you know, is very disagreeable. So his little mistress shuts this greedy fowl up, sometimes, in a coop, and makes him eat his dinner by himself, as she thinks he sets a bad example to the other chickens. Do you not think so, too?

A sharp Reply.—A countryman sowing his ground, two smart fellows riding that way, one of them called to him, with an insolent air, “Well, honest fellow, ’tis your business to sow, but we reap the fruits of your labor.” “’Tis very likely you may,” replied the man, “for I am sowing hemp.”

An imitative Horse.—A gentleman had a horse, which, after being kept in the stable for some time, and turned out into the field, where there was a pump well supplied with water, regularly obtained a quantity therefrom by his own dexterity. For this purpose, the animal was observed to take the handle in his mouth, and work it with his head, in a way similar to that done by the hand of man, until a sufficiency of what nature called for was produced in the trough.

Queer.—A country editor, having no deaths in his paper, put in this notice: “Several deaths unavoidably deferred.”

Our Correspondence.

Notes, letters and billets, puzzles and charades, cuts and compliments, praise and blame, are here before us, for which we return our hearty thanks to our little correspondents. We insert the following, which is all we can do this month. We are now winding off all our stories for the close of the year, and are preparing lots of pleasant things for the first of January. So, gentle readers, all, pray hold us excused, if we have omitted particularly to acknowledge any of your kind favors.

Sheboygan Falls, W. T., 1843.

Robert Merry, Esq.:

My Dear old Friend,—Your “Museum” has been very amusing, as well as instructive, to me and my little brothers, during the last year. And, my dear father having made us a new-year’s present of one dollar, I think the best use we can make of it is to send it to you, for which we wish you to send us the Museum during the year 1843; and, by so doing, you will very much enhance the pleasure of your little friends in the wilds of Wisconsin.

G. F. C.

A “CONSTANT READER” sends us the following charade:

When walking by the water’s side,
My first you oft may see;
And if a lamp your steps should guide,
My next would in it be:
My whole does form a lady’s name,
Who long has been beloved of fame.

Elizabeth B. guesses that the answer to the geographical puzzle, in the September number, is, “Merchants’ Exchange,” and she guesses right.

Another correspondent, who calls himself a “reader of Merry’s Museum,” has furnished us with a similar answer.

I am pleased with the letter from our limping friend, which follows. I have a sort of sympathy and fellow-feeling for every one who has been upon crutches and carries a cane—if it be for use, and not for display. Our little correspondent has hard fortune, but let him keep a good heart. Mind Bob Merry, and go ahead.

Machias, Sept. 7, 1843.

Good morning, Mr. Merry!

Dear Sir,—I am a blue-eyed friend and subscriber. I have taken your Museum ever since it was published. I like it very much indeed. The story of the Siberian Sable-Hunter, and Merry’s Adventures, please me best. Would you be so good as to put in some more stories about “Bill Keeler?” Bill was an honest chap. I am lame, but was not shot through the knee, like you. I used to walk on crutches for four years, but now I only use a cane.

I was twelve years old the twenty-second day of February, Washington’s birth-day. I like Washington very much; he did so much good for his country.

Will you not publish some original stories about China and the emperor Napoleon? By so doing, you will gratify your little friend. Please write an answer to my letter. Samuel H——

We have received a very pretty letter from Sophia M. T. She scolds us a little, and she has reason. But she shall hear from “the old man in the corner,” and perhaps he will be able to make amends for his delay.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

DECEMBER, 1843.
Vol. 6. No. 6.

December, the first month of winter and the last of the year, has come. It is a severe and pinching season, and compels us to shut the door, cherish the fire, and make ourselves comfortable within.

It is the very time for Robert Merry’s Museum, provided it be interesting and instructive. We have taken some pains to make the present number satisfactory to our readers. It winds up the stories of Jumping Rabbit, a Tale of the Revolution, the Life of Columbus, and Inquisitive Jack; for we do not wish to stretch our narratives across from one year to another.

We know not how it may be with others, but we are seldom satisfied with our own efforts. The conception is often bright and warm, while the performance is dim and cold. We have sought to please, we have striven to improve the little companions of our monthly prattle, but we have fallen far short of what we intended. We are, however, not discouraged; but, with good resolution and cheerful hope, we shall enter upon a new year, promising to exert ourselves to do our best—to do better than ever before.

A Revolutionary Story.

CHAPTER VI.

[Continued from page 138.]

We left our party of adventurers at a moment of deep interest. Young Joinly and the greater portion of his companions were posted near the house in which the captain of the Tiger, with some of his officers, was then stationed. Bushnell and his associate had just returned from the ship, to which they had attached their little magazine of powder, with the mechanism intended to explode it in half an hour.

Guided by one of their party, who had waited for them, they now joined the little band we have just mentioned. The position of the party commanded a view of the ship, and, amid the intense darkness, her position was known by the light at her bow. When Bushnell arrived, and communicated to Joinly and his friends the success of the enterprise, thus far, and assured them that the vessel would be torn in pieces in the space of a few minutes, it may be well imagined that their anxiety was intense.

Keeping their eyes fixed in the direction of the ship, they gazed earnestly, and, more than once, the false and flickering light of the strained vision was taken to be the scintillations of the kindling explosion. In this state of suspense, seconds were lengthened to minutes, and, ere the half hour had elapsed, the whole party felt that the time had gone by, and began to fear that the mechanism had failed and the scheme miscarried. Young Joinly, in particular, from the impetuosity of his temper and the excited state of his feelings, experienced an impatience he could scarcely repress.

Nothing is so hard to endure, particularly to an ardent mind, as inaction in a protracted state of doubt and fear.

“It is all over,” said Joinly; “the engine has failed; let us attack the house!”

“Hush, hush!” said Bushnell, whose nerves were more steady; “the time has not arrived; the engine will yet do its work: you will hear from it within five minutes.”

A perfect silence among the party now ensued, and nothing was heard, save the raging of the tempest. A few minutes passed, and a small flash was seen near the water’s edge and beneath the stern of the vessel. “There you have it,” said Bushnell; and, a moment after, a terrific light streamed up from the water, seeming to envelope the mighty hulk of the vessel, while a ruddy reflection tinged every rope and spar, as well as the surface of the sea and the little huts of the adjacent village. A heavy sound followed, and a rushing impulse of the air. Darkness again settled upon the scene, and the hoarse moan of the tempest seemed once more to drown every other sound.

The eyes of the adventurers were now turned upon the house where the captain resided. But a few moments passed, when there was a bustle within, and it was evident that the phenomenon had been observed. By this time, the conspirators had surrounded the house, and Joinly was on the point of entering the door, when it was opened by the captain himself, and, in the light, he saw Joinly and his little band standing with their muskets ready for action. “I command you to surrender!” said Joinly, stepping forward in the full blaze of the lamp. “Your vessel is blown to atoms, and, if you make the slightest resistance, both you and all in this house shall be instantly shot down!”

“Who are you? what are you?” said the captain, in a state of profound astonishment.

“It is enough that we are Americans!” said the youth. “There is no time for parley. Do you surrender?”

“Not so easily!” said the officer, who was now joined by two or three other persons, slamming the door in the face of the young commander.

“Now for it!” said Joinly; and, with a thundering crash, several of the men rushed against the door, which gave way, and Joinly was pushed into the room. Two or three of his men entered immediately at his heels. The captain of the Tiger fired his pistol, and the ball passed between the left arm and the breast of young Joinly.

A scuffle immediately followed, and several random shots were exchanged. In a very short space, the Americans were victorious, having secured the five British officers. Young Joinly had thrown the captain upon the floor, where he held him fast till the rest were mastered.

Finding it idle to resist, the British officers submitted to their fate, and were permitted to rise. The captain was then commanded to prepare immediately to depart, and the rest were tied, hand and foot, and left separate from each other in the different rooms of the house.

Having secured the chief object of their expedition, Joinly and his party made a hasty retreat, knowing that the alarm would soon be communicated to the troops stationed in the vicinity. Taking a course which led around the head of the bay, they made their way to the sheltered spot where their little sloop was anchored. The gale was still raging; but, seeming not to heed it, they released her from her moorings and put her before the wind.

Keeping in to the land, they were somewhat sheltered from the gale; but still the little vessel seemed to dance like a feather upon the wave. The morning had now dawned, but the thick haze rendered it impossible to see at any great distance. As they were proceeding in their course, they saw a large vessel, scudding, like themselves, before the wind. It was not long before they also discovered that it was the Tiger, which they had supposed blown to atoms, and apparently in pursuit of them.

As soon as this idea entered the mind of young Joinly, he stretched a little more out from the land and hoisted an additional sail. “We will give him a chase,” said he, “and we will see which shall have the best of it. Hurl-gate is five miles ahead, and we will try which shall get through it first.”

The men on board the boat had now become so accustomed to the authority of young Joinly, that they offered no opposition to this wild and perilous suggestion; but, taking their several stations, each man well performed his part, and the sloop, shivering in every plank and seeming to partake of the excitement, skimmed like a sea-gull over the water. The two vessels proceeded steadily for some time, but it was at last obvious that the Tiger was gaining upon the sloop.

The captain, who had watched the whole of the proceeding with intense interest, now spoke and said to Joinly, “Young man, you had better give it up; you’ll soon be riddled with her shot.”

“Look yonder,” said Joinly, in reply, pointing forward; “do you see the water boiling in yonder whirlpool like a pot?”

“I do, I do!” said the captain, his countenance assuming a look of the utmost anxiety.

“That is Hurl-gate!” said the youth. “We shall pass it in safety; but, if the Tiger proceed five hundred fathoms more, her escape is impossible, and her doom certain.”

A general silence now prevailed, during which the sloop passed safely through the tumbling eddies of the whirlpool. The frigate continued on her track, and in a few moments she struck upon the rocks. This circumstance was immediately noticed on board the sloop, and a general shout of triumph rang through the air.

We must leave the frigate to her fate, only remarking that, although she escaped, with little damage, from the explosion of the gunpowder, yet it was but to find her doom in Hurl-gate. There was only sufficient time for the men on board to escape, when she went to pieces.

CHAPTER VII.

General Washington was now stationed upon the west bank of the Hudson river, about twenty miles from New York. It was young Joinly’s scheme to take his captive directly to the camp, and solicit, in person, an exchange of the British officer for his father. The sloop was, therefore, turned up into a little creek, where Joinly, with one of his companions and the prisoner, were landed. These proceeded on their journey, while the rest of the adventurers found their way safely back to Saybrook in their little vessel.

In the space of two or three days, Joinly reached the American camp, and was soon conducted to the head quarters of the commander-in-chief. That officer was alone, and the young man was ushered into his presence. He told his story with simplicity, and closed with a request that steps might be taken for the release of his father.

“This is a strange feat you have performed,” said Washington, “and you must have had a strong motive for an adventure so perilous.” The tears started to the young man’s eyes as he replied,

“My father, sir, has been in captivity for almost three years. His health is wasted with toil, anxiety and care; his fortune is scattered; his lands are impoverished; his home is desolate. Are not these motives which should make a son forget his own safety and comfort, and think only of his father’s release?”

“I can well believe that they are,” said the general, in a softened tone; “I can well believe that they are. I have not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with your father, but I know that he is a man of exalted worth. He has suffered deeply for his country; but, alas! this is what all are called upon to endure. He, however, has some compensation, in satisfying the promptings of a patriotic breast and fulfilling the suggestions of a kind and generous heart.

“My young friend, your father is worthy of the effort you have made, and, if I can reconcile it with my sense of duty to the country, your object shall be accomplished. There is one difficulty, however, which you have overlooked. Your father is a colonel, and the officer you have captured is but a captain. Sir Guy Carleton will hardly make an exchange so unequal as to give up the former for the latter. However, if you will call upon me to-morrow, you shall know the result.”

Young Joinly now went away; but, on the morrow, returned to the office of the general at the time appointed. He found him alone, as before. Washington received him with that serene dignity, that mixture of command and kindness, which characterized him. After a brief explanation, he handed the youth a sealed packet, addressed to General Carleton. “My young friend,” said he, “you will take this to Sir Guy, at New York. It contains a proposal for an exchange of Colonel G——, a British officer, who has been recently captured, for your father. I regret that a specific exchange of the officer you have yourself taken, could not be proposed. It would not be consonant to the rules of war, nor would it be accepted by the British general. Here is a letter to your father, expressing my high sense of his generous services and his patriotic sacrifices in behalf of his country. And, for yourself, remember that, if I can ever do you a personal service, it will be cheerfully rendered. Farewell.”

With a mingled feeling of affection and awe toward this remarkable man, young Joinly departed. Being duly provided with a pass, he easily made his way to New York, and presented his communication to Sir Guy Carleton. The proposed exchange was readily accepted, and the youth was permitted to proceed to his father’s quarters and communicate the intelligence of his release.

With a beating heart, he entered a boat, and proceeded to the barracks at Brooklyn, upon Long Island, then occupied by American prisoners of war. On reaching the gate, he was permitted, by the sentinel, to enter, and one of the prisoners offered to conduct him to his father’s room. He led him through a long passage, and young Joinly noticed, as he passed, a considerable number of the prisoners. It is impossible to describe the wasted and haggard aspect of these miserable wretches. They were ragged, and filthy, and emaciated. They not only seemed to be deprived of the comforts of life, but degraded by a feeling of utter desolation and abandonment.

On reaching his father’s apartments, Joinly was informed that he had gone to visit some patients, at one of the prison-ships, which was moored in the river near at hand. As he passed by the apartments of the prisoners, he noticed a large room, in which there were several persons lying upon beds of straw. These were sick, and several of them were approaching their end. Yet their companions around them seemed to take little heed of their sufferings or their condition. Some were walking about, some were talking, and others were disputing. Rough words and strong oaths were frequently uttered.

In a corner of this dismal room, there was one group that riveted the attention of the youth. Two persons were sitting upon the floor, for there were no chairs nor seats in the room. Between them lay the cold, lifeless form of one of their companions. Yet these persons, made familiar with death, were shuffling a pack of greasy cards over the dead body, which they used as their table. Shocked at the scene, and suffocated with the offensive atmosphere, our youthful friend hurried away from the apartments, and went in pursuit of his father.

As he passed along, his mind was busy in reflecting upon the scenes he had witnessed. “I once thought,” said he, mentally, “that I should like to be a soldier, but I am getting to look upon his vocation with horror. It seems that war not only takes away the lives of men in battle, but degrades and brutifies them in the prison-house. And my poor father, too! It is in such scenes as these, the mere sight of which makes my head giddy and my heart sick, that my father has toiled and suffered for the last three years.” With reflections like these; the youth proceeded, in a boat, to the prison-ship.

This was the hulk of a large ship of war, which, being unfit for service, was dismantled, anchored in the East river, and converted into a prison. He mounted the side of the enormous vessel, and stood upon the deck. Standing, sitting, or lying around, were a large number of prisoners, bearing even deeper marks of misery than those we have before described. On making inquiries for his father, the young man was told that he was below.

He descended, accordingly, into the bowels of the ship, though the revolting atmosphere nearly stifled him. He was conducted to a remote part of the vessel, and pointed to a person sitting by the side of a sick man, upon a couch of straw. Although the back of the individual was toward him, and the room dark, he immediately recognised the well-known form of his father. The latter, however, was bent over the sick man, and seemed intently occupied in conversing with him.

Partly restrained from his emotions at once more seeing his father, and in such circumstances, and partly from an unwillingness to break in upon such a scene, young Joinly paused. His father, unconscious of the presence of his son, continued to address the sick man. “My poor friend,” said he, in tones of the utmost kindness, “set your heart at rest upon that point. I induced you to join the fatal expedition which resulted in your captivity and mine. I assure you, if I am ever delivered from this confinement, and am restored to my home, your wife and children shall never want for the comforts of life.

“Let not fears for them disturb these last moments of existence. You will, at least, leave the inheritance of a good name to your children,—the reputation of one who died in the service of his country. In the possession of such an inheritance, they can never suffer from poverty or neglect. This fearful war must soon end, and it will result in the independence of our country. Let it lighten our hearts, and cheer even this prison-house, and shed consolation upon our dying moments, that we have been permitted to participate in that suffering which has made a nation free.”

“My dear colonel,” said the poor man, in a faint voice, “I thank you a thousand times. I should now die in peace, were it not for one painful thought.”

“And what is that?” said Colonel Joinly.

“It is, that you will yourself be sacrificed in these horrid dungeons. Your constitution is failing, and you cannot much longer sustain this wear and tear of body and mind.”

“Do not let these thoughts trouble you, my friend,” replied the colonel. “Having made your peace, as I trust, with God, let these last moments be peaceful also; and fear not for me. I know no other, and I seek no other path than that of duty. There is a sun always shining over that path, through whatever trials it may lead. If it is Heaven’s will that I be sacrificed, what better can I do than fulfil Heaven’s decree?”

“But, colonel,” said the sick man, “it is rumored, in the ship, that an exchange is about to be offered to you. Many of the prisoners are in despair lest you should leave them, for you are their only comfort. I know your character, and fear that your sense of duty may lead you to refuse to accept an exchange. Let me pray you not thus to lay down your life.”

“Nay, nay,” said the colonel, “fear nothing on that score. I am aware that my health is failing, and I know that I could not much longer endure the kind of life I have led. If an exchange is made, it is not for me to refuse. I assure you, however, I would not leave these poor prisoners to their fate if the hope was not presented that, in being released, I might make representations to the British officers, and an appeal to the American people, which should effect something in their behalf. I have great hopes of obtaining something from the noble heart of Sir Guy Carleton, who has succeeded the weak and heartless Sir Henry Clinton.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said the sick man, earnestly. “I am now relieved from every anxiety. Farewell, colonel; you must now go to the other prisoners. I trust we shall meet in a happier world than this.”

Colonel Joinly pressed the poor man’s emaciated hand beneath both his own, while the tears fell down his cheeks. The sick man folded his arms upon his breast, and closed his eyes. The pallid and wasted features showed the havoc of suffering and disease upon a countenance still youthful; but, amid the ghastly aspect of death, there was a smile, which seemed to show that the soul within was at peace. Colonel Joinly remained in his chair some moments, his face buried in his hand. With a strong effort, he then arose, and turned to depart. He now met his son, who had stood aside during the scene we have described.

We shall not dwell upon the first interview of the father and son. The story of the latter was soon told, and Colonel Joinly was apprized at once of his own liberation and the gallant achievement by which it had been accomplished. Nearly overpowered with his feelings, he was desirous of leaving the ship and going to his own room. He, therefore, mounted to the deck, for the purpose of departing; but a scene awaited him here which he had not anticipated.

The rumor of his exchange had reached the prisoners, and a large number of them had now assembled to express their thanks and give vent to their sorrow. They formed a line on each side, from the companion-way to the ladder, and, as he passed along, they reached out their hands in token of farewell. Many of them were in tears, and several were earnest in their supplications to the colonel to do something for their families, or, perhaps, make an effort for their own deliverance from their dungeon.

This painful and trying scene was at last over, and the father and son soon reached the apartment of the former. A short time was spent in mutual inquiries and explanations, and then preparations were made for their departure. Colonel Joinly’s first steps, however, were in behalf of the suffering soldiers for whom he had labored so long. He visited several of the British officers in New York, and especially Sir Guy Carleton. A promise was given—and we are happy to say that it was fulfilled—that the prisoners, thenceforward, should receive the care and attention due to Christian men.

The father and son now set out for Saybrook, where they arrived in due season. The colonel was greatly changed by the suffering he had endured. His tall and robust form was emaciated and bent over; his hair had grown thin and white, and his countenance had become at once sallow and deeply furrowed with traces never to be effaced.

It was obvious to all that his constitution was broken, and that he had brought back to his home but the wreck of that manly form and dauntless spirit which characterized him in earlier days. The joy of his wife and family, at his return, was chastened by this change in his appearance; but they were still overflowing with gratitude, and content once more settled upon the group around the fireside.

Colonel Joinly now returned to his medical practice, devoting a large share of his attention to the public interests, and especially to the means of improving the condition of the American prisoners at New York. His shattered fortunes were, however, never repaired. The remainder of his life was spent in comparative poverty and the imperfect health which attends a broken constitution. Still, he never repined, but found compensation and consolation in the consciousness of having discharged his duty, and in the cheering reflection that his sacrifices had been made in behalf of that arduous, yet successful struggle which resulted in the independence of his country.

This famous holiday takes place on the 25th of December. It is little observed, at the present day, in comparison of what it was in former times. Even in England, it is now chiefly celebrated by family parties and services in the churches, these being decorated with evergreens. In this country, it is little noticed, except by persons belonging either to the Catholic or Episcopal church.

In former times it was otherwise, especially in England. The day was then celebrated, in that country, by a great variety of merry customs. It was common, in those days, for persons, called mummers, to promenade the streets, dressed up in masks, and representing fantastic characters. A group of these jesters would sometimes go about, representing Old Father Christmas, with a long beard, white shoes, high-crowned hat, with scarfs and garters tied around it, and a drum beating before him.

He was attended by a numerous family of children, among whom Roast-beef, Plum-pudding, &c., were conspicuous.

There was another character in this group, called Misrule, who was a great rowdy, and made a vast deal of sport on these occasions. He was a great fat fellow, with an enormous hat, and he strutted forward, playing on a musical instrument. These maskers went from place to place, during Christmas, exciting a great deal of mirth and amusement wherever they went.

As Christmas is the anniversary of the birth of our Saviour, we cannot see much propriety in these amusements, and we think it is well that they have passed away. There was another custom, that of singing Christmas carols, which is also laid aside.

This was done by a party of singers, who went about, from house to house, on Christmas eve, singing their songs in honor of the Virgin Mary and the nativity of Christ. They were generally welcomed by the people, and often received a loaf of brown bread, a pot of beer, and some few silver pennies. Sometimes, late at night, by the chill rays of the moon you would see an old man and the a boy carolling beneath the windows, hoping to be compensated for their harsh and grating music.

Many other of the Christmas ceremonies of England, which were in vogue two centuries ago, have passed away, and the occasion is more quietly and more properly noticed by religious services, acts of charity to the poor, a meeting of friends, and a general diffusion of cheerfulness and festivity.

Tasso’s Wish.—Tasso being told that he had an opportunity of taking advantage of a very bitter enemy, “I wish not to plunder him,” said he; “but there are things which I wish to take from him; not his honor, his wealth, nor his life—but his ill will.”

“I do not admire a man,” says Pascal, “who possesses one virtue in all its perfection, if he does not at the same time evince the opposite virtue in an equal degree, such as was Epaminondas, who to extreme valor joined the utmost kindness and benignity.”

The Life of Columbus.

CHAPTER V.

Columbus sails on his second voyage.

The discovery, which Columbus had made, was everywhere deemed of great importance. But its vast results were not yet foreseen. Curiosity was alive. Ferdinand and Isabella themselves were anxious to follow up the discovery which had been made, and they authorized Columbus to fit out, at their expense, a large expedition for the new world.

By September, three ships, and fourteen smaller vessels, were equipped and manned, ready for the voyage. On the 25th of that month, this fleet sailed from the bay of Cadiz. We shall not stop to relate the incidents of this voyage, excepting some interesting events which took place at one of the Caribbee islands. These islands were discovered by Columbus during this voyage. One of these islands goes by the name of Guadaloupe, which was given to it by Columbus himself.

On the 4th of November the fleet reached this island, and here several of the Spaniards landed. What was their surprise to find human sculls and bones in the houses of the natives, and many other evidences that the people were cannibals, or eaters of human flesh!

From this point, Columbus proceeded, with his fleet, to some distance, where he found a more commodious harbor. Here they discovered several persons who had been recently killed, and whose limbs the natives had put upon the fire to roast. These were captives, taken in a war which was then waging between the people of this island and the people of islands not far distant.

While Columbus remained here, a number of female captives made their escape, and fled to the Spaniards for safety. These Columbus took with him on his voyage. He was now in great trouble. He wished to hasten his departure; but a party of nine men, who had gone ashore, had not returned. The next day no tidings were heard of them. Great fears were entertained that they might have fallen into the hands of the savages, and been eaten at one of their feasts.

Columbus was unwilling to leave the place without knowing something more certain as to the fate of these unfortunate men. In this state of anxiety, a bold young man, belonging to the fleet, offered to go, with a party of forty men, in search of them.

This offer was accepted, and the party now went forth on their hazardous expedition. They marched all day, making search in every place—in the open country and in forests—but all in vain. They, themselves, met with no accident, but they could hear no tidings of their lost companions.

Some days had now elapsed since their departure. Columbus was reluctant to leave the island, since it was possible that they might have become lost in some extensive forest. But the greater probability was, that they had fallen a sacrifice to the cannibals.

Orders were at length given to make sail. Just at this critical moment, the long-lost party were discovered on the shore, making signs to their departing companions. It was a fortunate and joyful discovery. A little longer, and the poor fellows must have been left to have fallen into the hands of the savages, who would have feasted upon their bodies. Boats were despatched, which quickly brought them on board, worn out with fatigue and anxiety, reduced by famine, and their bodies wounded by briars and thorns. They had lost their way; they had wandered about, through forests and through thickets, and had arrived at the shore just in time to escape being left to perish in an inhospitable land.

Columbus now continued his voyage, and, on the 27th, cast anchor about a league from the spot on which he had built the fort of La Navidad, and where he had left a party of Spaniards, as we have related, to await his return.

CHAPTER VI.

What took place in the new world.

Columbus, as I said, arrived off the fort of La Navidad on the 27th of November, 1493. It was in the evening when the fleet cast anchor. The fort could not be distinguished, but many an eye was turned that way, hoping to discover some light. But nothing was seen. Columbus now directed some cannon to be fired, to give the people in the fort notice of their arrival.

No sooner were the guns fired, than all on board listened for an answer, and looked for a signal in return; but they looked and listened in vain. All was dark and solitary. What could this mean? No one was prepared to answer; but all secretly, and some even aloud, prophesied that some dreadful disaster had befallen the people of the fort. Nothing, however, could be certainly known until the morning. This was, therefore, waited for with no little anxiety and impatience.

About midnight, however, several Indians, from the island, came on board. They were persons whom Columbus had seen before. One was a relation of Guacanagari, the chief of the Indians in that part of the island.

These Indians informed Columbus of the sad fate of the Spaniards. They were almost all dead. Some had fallen sick and perished; some had quarrelled among themselves; some had separated from the rest; and the few, who he believed to survive, were in another part of the island. They also told Columbus how Coanabo, a mighty chief, had, during his absence, come from the mountains of Cibao, and had nearly ruined Guacanagari and his people; that their chief had been wounded in battle, and was still confined.

The following day, a party from the fleet went on shore, and visited the fort. It was a heap of ruins. Suspicions were now entertained that all was not right on the part of Guacanagari and his people. Several circumstances seemed to indicate that they had been concerned in the murder of the Spaniards. One fact, that excited the suspicions of Columbus more than all others, was that none of the Indians came near him. A few were seen lurking about, but they were shy. The country looked desolate and deserted.

After a time, however, the truth came out. The Spaniards had wrought their own ruin. They had quarrelled; they had abused Guacanagari and his people; they had separated from one another. Some had died through their own indulgences; and a party, who had wandered into the dominions of Coanabo, had been seized by him and put to death. After their death, Coanabo had raised an army, had invaded the territories of Guacanagari, had routed his people, wounded him, and burnt his village.

This was sad intelligence for Columbus, and cast a gloom not only over his mind, but over the minds of all on board the fleet. Columbus, however, lost no time in searching for a suitable spot on which to commence a settlement. One was, at length, found, about thirty miles from La Navidad; and here was commenced the building of a city, which Columbus named Isabella, after the queen of Spain.

At length, when matters were somewhat settled, Columbus despatched twelve of the vessels to return to Spain. He remained in the new world to superintend the affairs of the colony.

Not long after the sailing of the fleet, Columbus experienced a severe trial. He was himself worn out with fatigue, and became seriously ill. To add to his trouble, several of the colonists became uneasy and were mutinous. For a time, affairs assumed a serious aspect. But, fortunately, through the firmness and good management of Columbus, the difficulties were settled.

Columbus now made preparations to explore the island. This he did himself, in company with a select band of men. With this expedition, Columbus was highly gratified. After his return to Isabella, he sailed on a visit to Cuba, and, during his voyage, discovered the important island of Jamaica.

CHAPTER VII.

What happened during the absence of Columbus on an exploring voyage, and other matters.

Some time before Columbus departed on his voyage, he had erected a fortress in the mountains of Cibao, within the territory of Caonabo. When completed, he gave the command of it to Pedro Margarite, who had with him fifty-six men. To these he afterwards added a reinforcement of twenty men, having learned that the fort was in danger of an attack from Caonabo.

Pedro was ordered to explore that part of the country still farther, and, during his absence, to leave the fortress to the care of Alonzo de Ojeda. With this he complied. But, instead of exploring that part of the country which he was required to do, he went into a different region, where he and his men conducted themselves towards the Indians most improperly.

This conduct, Don Diego Columbus, the brother of the admiral, who had accompanied the latter in his voyage to the new world, and who now had command of the colony during the absence of Columbus, heard of, and sent a letter to Pedro, ordering him to conduct differently. This, Pedro greatly resented, and, suddenly leaving the command of the men, came to Isabella, and, seizing a ship, went on board of it, with other enemies of Columbus, and sailed for Spain, with a design to do him there all the injury in his power.

I said Ojeda now had the command of Fort Thomas. He was a bold, brave man. He was small in stature, but he had nearly the strength of a giant. When Caonabo found that Pedro had abandoned that part of the country, and had taken off a large part of the garrison with him, he assembled ten thousand men, well armed, and, secretly passing through the forests, suddenly came upon Fort Thomas, with the hope of cutting off Ojeda and his men at a single blow. Ojeda, however, was not to be taken by surprise. He was ready for his enemy at all times. Caonabo now besieged the place, and, for thirty days, watched it as a tiger would watch for his prey. By this time, the men in the fort were reduced to great want, but they were determined never to yield. They often made sallies from the fort, and slew many of Caonabo’s bravest warriors. At length, finding it impossible to take the fortress, Caonabo and his men retired.

Not long after the return of Columbus, Ojeda proposed to him a plan by which to seize Caonabo. To get possession of him was eminently important for the peace and safety of the Spaniards. He was a mighty chieftain, and their implacable foe,—bold, cruel and desperate. Columbus listened to the plan of Ojeda, and, although he thought it wild and dangerous, he at length consented to it.

At the head of a party of brave men, Ojeda took up his march through the forests into the dominions of Caonabo. Having found him, he proposed to him to accompany him to Isabella, there to enter into a treaty of peace and friendship with Columbus.

Ojeda told him that, if he would go and enter into such a treaty, he should have the bell upon the church of Isabella. This was a powerful temptation; for nothing had struck the Indians with more wonder and admiration than the sound of this bell. Caonabo himself had heard the sound of it, in some of his secret prowlings around Isabella. He had listened to it with rapture, and now the offer of it determined him to accompany Ojeda. But, when the time came, Caonabo appeared at the head of a large body of warriors.

“Why is this?” asked Ojeda. “Are you not going as a friend?”

“O yes,” replied Caonabo; “but, as I am a king, I must appear like one.”

Finding Caonabo unwilling to go without his warriors, Ojeda consented that they should accompany him. One day, while on their return, they came to a river, on the banks of which they halted. Here Ojeda proposed that Caonabo should bathe; after which, he should mount his horse, and ride in state. To this, Caonabo consented, highly pleased with the idea of riding so fine an animal. Ojeda, accompanied by Caonabo and the Spaniards, now went a short distance, into a retired spot, and bathed. On coming out of the water, Caonabo was assisted to mount the horse behind Ojeda. When mounted, a set of beautifully polished steel shackles were fastened round the feet of Caonabo. To these he had no objection, not knowing for what they were intended, but supposed they were designed to add honor to him as a prince.

Ojeda and the Spaniards now mounted, and, with Caonabo following, now rode in among the warriors, making their horses prance and appear as fine as they were able. With this manoeuvre, the Indians appeared to be well pleased. Ojeda had made known his plan to his followers. So, riding round and round, they at length went to a considerable distance from the warriors. All at once, Ojeda gave the word of command, and the whole party of horsemen fled with their prisoner.

It was a bold project; yet it succeeded. The Indians were unable to equal the speed of the horses. Ojeda and his companions were soon out of sight, and far off at a distance from the warriors of Caonabo. It was in vain for him to attempt to escape. The shackles held him fast. But, at length halting, they bound him tight, and thus he was conducted in safety to Isabella.

Columbus was rejoiced to have him in his power. He was deemed to have forfeited his life by killing the Spaniards belonging to Fort La Navidad, and destroying that fortress. He was therefore detained as a prisoner by Columbus, who intended, at a proper time, to have him conveyed to Spain.

Caonabo was a proud chief. Even in confinement he carried himself loftily. Towards Columbus, he appeared to bear the bitterest hostility, while, to Ojeda, he gave much credit for his sagacity. We shall here add, respecting the fate of Caonabo, that, some time after, Columbus, on returning to Spain, took this haughty chief with him. But he died during the voyage.

CHAPTER VIII.

Columbus returns to Spain.

I have related how Pedro Margarite seized a ship, and, with some others, fled to Spain. Here they found full exercise for their enmity to Columbus. They accused him of many wicked acts, which, though unfounded, obtained some credit, and served to lessen his justly-acquired popularity.

The king and queen, thinking, perhaps, that all was not right, despatched a man, by the name of Aguado, to see how matters stood, and to assist in preserving the tranquillity of the colony.

No sooner had Aguado arrived at Isabella, than he began to assume a tone of authority, and to treat Columbus as an inferior. Among other things, he endeavored to hunt up accusations against him, which he might present to the court of Spain on his return.

Perceiving what was going forward, and what was intended against him, Columbus determined to return to Spain at the same time that Aguado did. On the 10th of March, 1496, both embarked in different vessels. After a fatiguing voyage of three months, they landed at Cadiz.

On his arrival in Spain, Columbus found that his enemies had been at work in good earnest. They had spread various injurious reports about his management. Although these reports had doubtless reached the king and queen, they received him with great kindness, and treated him with attention.

In the autumn of that year, a large sum of money was ordered to be advanced to Columbus, in order to fit out another expedition under his command. Various circumstances occurred, however, to delay the sailing of the vessels, and it was not until the 30th of May, 1498, that Columbus was enabled to leave Spain on his third voyage for the new world.

CHAPTER IX.

Third voyage of Columbus—Fresh troubles.

Columbus left Spain, on his third voyage, in May, 1498. During this voyage, he and his men suffered greatly in being becalmed, in the middle of summer, within the tropics. For eight days, they could make no progress, but lay motionless upon the water, under the heat of a scorching sun. So intense was the heat that they could scarcely breathe. Their meat spoiled, and they lost nearly all their wine and water.

At length, they were enabled to proceed, and, on the 31st of July, to their inexpressible joy, they discovered the island of Trinidad. At this time, they had but one cask of water remaining in the ship. On the 30th of August, Columbus arrived at Hispaniola. During this voyage, he had suffered greatly from watching and fatigue, from fever and gout. Yet he indulged the hope that his constitution, which had been uncommonly good, would recover itself after his arrival. But Columbus was destined to new toils and new trials. He found the colony in a sad state. The Spaniards had experienced troubles during his absence. They had had wars with the natives, difficulties with one another, indolence had prevailed, and a famine had almost ensued.

We must pass over many interesting particulars, and content ourselves with letting our readers know, in general, that, after the return of Columbus, affairs proceeded still very badly. Many of the Spaniards in the new world were hostile to Columbus, resisted his authority, formed conspiracies against his government, and continued to send home complaints against him to Spain.

It was unfortunate for Columbus that the expectations of the people in Spain had been raised so high, respecting the wealth of the new world. They expected, from the accounts which had been received about the gold found there, that Spain would become rich in consequence of this discovery.

Even Ferdinand and Isabella had their hopes greatly raised. But, at length, they found that they were obliged to be at continual expense for the support of the Spaniards in the new world. This tended to lessen their gratification at the discovery, and prepared them to listen, with less reluctance, to complaints against Columbus.

For a time, they continued to regard him with kindness, and were unwilling to admit the truth of complaints which were made against him. But they were so numerous, so often repeated, so confidently asserted, that, at length, they began to doubt whether all was right on the part of Columbus.

His enemies were now about triumphant. The king and queen appointed a man, by the name of Bobadilla, to repair to Hispaniola; as governor, to assume the administration; and, at the same time, they required Columbus to surrender everything into his hands. Having made an examination, if Columbus and his brothers were found to have abused their authority, their power was to be taken from them altogether.

CHAPTER X.

Columbus arrested, and sent home in chains—His fourth voyage—His sufferings and death.

Bobadilla arrived at Isabella in July, 1500. Columbus, at this time, was in another part of the island. No sooner was the former landed, than it was apparent to the friends of Columbus, especially to his brothers, what he intended. He began to issue his commands as chief of the island, and took possession of the house of Columbus and everything in it.

Soon after, this arrogant man summoned Columbus to appear before him. This was truly humbling to the exalted mind of Columbus, conscious, as he was, of no wrong. Yet he judged it wise to suppress his feelings and comply with the command.

But little did Columbus expect such a reception as he met with. Little did he imagine that it was in the power, even of enemies, to treat him with so much injustice and indignity as he now experienced. No sooner did he appear at Isabella, than he was seized, loaded with irons, and confined to the fortress. His brothers, Diego and Bartholomew, shared a similar fate. They were separated from each other, and Bobadilla, himself, did not condescend even to see them.

Soon after, orders were issued for the departure of a vessel for Spain; and in that vessel went the noble Columbus and his brothers as prisoners and in irons. What a reverse of fortune! How often have the benefactors of mankind met with unkindness from those from whom they had a right to expect gratitude! How often have they met with injustice, where they ought to have experienced honor and reward!

It was, doubtless, trying to Columbus to be thus seized, imprisoned, and loaded with chains, and sent home apparently disgraced; but it must have been most trying of all to him to have met with insults and hoots from the multitude who had assembled to witness his departure. The voyage was short. The master of the vessel treated Columbus with kindness and respect, which served to soften the troubles which now preyed upon his wounded spirit.

When Columbus arrived in Spain, and in chains, there was a general burst of indignation, throughout the country, that he should have been thus treated. The king, therefore, pretended that he had no share in this treatment of the discoverer of the new world, and ordered him to be set at liberty. It seems, however, that the heart of the monarch was turned from him; for, during nine long months, Columbus remained in neglect, and, finally, the king appointed Nicholas Ovando governor of Hispaniola.

It was at last decided that Columbus should proceed on a fourth voyage, which was commenced May 9th, 1502. His powers were indeed restricted, and his constitution shattered; but still he panted for new adventures and discoveries. He had this time four small ships and one hundred and fifty men.

His particular object now was to discover a passage to India through the Gulf of Mexico. After coasting along the shores of this gulf, and making various discoveries, he was forced, by the crazy state of his ships, to return to Hispaniola. He stopped at Jamaica, and finally arrived at Santo Domingo. After experiencing a great variety of sufferings, he departed for Spain, where he arrived in November. On reaching Seville, he heard of the death of his friend and patron, queen Isabella.

The sun of prosperity had now set upon Columbus. He was suffered to linger in neglect and poverty. He was also attacked with sickness, and detained till 1505, at which time, weary and exhausted, he arrived at Segovia, the seat of the Spanish court. Here he applied to the king for redress, but this was denied him. He lingered a year longer in obscurity and poverty, till death gave him relief. He died at Valladolid, on the 20th of May, 1506.

Thus ended a noble and glorious career, and one which teaches us a sad lesson of the wrongs, injustice and cruelty of kings. As if to make some amends for the sufferings of Columbus, his remains received a pompous funeral,—a circumstance, however, which shows that his merit was known, and that those who had injured him were conscious of the wrongs they had done him.

The Cat and the Mouse.—A mouse, ranging about a brewery, happening to fall into one of the vats, was in imminent danger of drowning, and called to a cat to take him out. “It is a foolish request,” replied the cat; “for, as soon as I get you, I shall eat you.” The mouse piteously replied that that fate would be better than to be drowned in beer. The cat lifted him out; but the fumes of the beer caused pussy to sneeze, and the mouse took refuge in his hole. The cat called upon mousey to come out: “You rascal, did you not promise I should eat you?” “Ah!” replied mousey, “but you know I was in liquor at the time.”

Fable of the Humming-bird and Butterfly.—A humming-bird once met a butterfly, and, being pleased with the beauty of its person and the glory of its wings, made an offer of perpetual friendship.

“I cannot think of it,” was the reply, “as you once spurned at me, and called me a crawling dolt!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the humming-bird. “I always entertained the highest respect for such beautiful creatures as you.”

“Perhaps you do now,” said the other; “but, when you insulted me, I was a caterpillar. So let me give you this piece of advice: Never insult the humble, as they may one day become your superiors.”

Some time since, some men took twenty-one geese from a farm-yard in Kent, England, belonging to a Mr. White. A gander, which belonged to the flock, was left behind, with a bag tied round its neck, containing twenty-one pence, and the following poetic excuse written on a slip of paper:

“Dear Mister White,
We wish you good night,
We are sorry we cannot stay longer;
We have taken twenty-one geese,
At a penny a piece,
And left the amount with the gander.”

Washington Irving’s cottage.

Washington Irving’s Cottage.

It is curious to observe the interest attached to everything connected with a great man. We love especially to visit the residences of those who have excited our admiration either by their writings or their actions. It may be pleasant to our readers, therefore, to see the picture, on the opposite page, of the cottage of Washington Irving, a pleasant and amusing writer, who has acquired great reputation. There are very few persons, in this country, who have not read some of his books.

The cottage, of which we have given a picture, is situated in a secluded spot, on the eastern bank of the Hudson river, a considerable distance above New York. The place is called Sleepy Hollow, and is the scene of one of Mr. Irving’s best stories. The building is a curious one, seeming to partake partly of the English and partly of the Dutch style of architecture.

The place is remarkable for the quiet and tranquillity that reign around. The whistle of the quail and the tapping of the woodpecker are almost the only sounds that are heard.

In this delightful spot Mr. Irving fixed his residence some years ago. But, about two years since, he was appointed minister to Spain, and in this capacity he is now living at Madrid.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

CHAPTER VI.

If I were to give a minute account of all that happened while I was with the Indians, it would fill a large book. Perhaps I may, some time or other, give a more particular account of my adventures; but I must now condense my narrative, and give only the leading events of my life with the Indians.

I continued for nearly six years with the tribe of Kickapoos, who first made me their captive. During this period these Indians frequently shifted their abode, partly with a view to the acquisition of game, and partly to escape the neighborhood of troublesome enemies. We had occasional skirmishes with other tribes, and once a serious war with the Osages.

Small companies of white hunters and fur traders sometimes visited our camp, taking our furs, and giving us powder, ball and trinkets in return. The trade in furs became more and more an object to the tribe, and, finally, it was a part of their system to despatch some of the men every winter to the mountainous country at the west, for the purpose of killing foxes, wild-cats, and other animals, in order to obtain their skins.

I accompanied one of these parties, which consisted of eleven men. We proceeded, early in the autumn, to the Rocky Mountains, and, hearing that game was very abundant on the other side, we traversed that immense range, and found ourselves upon its western slope. We came to a river, which, it was said, emptied its waters into a great salt lake. Impelled by curiosity, we continued our ramble to the westward, and, at last, reached the shores of the Pacific.

Novelty strikes even the imagination of the savage. Our party were, therefore, not a little excited when they gazed at the boundless sea, and noticed the greenish tinge of its waters. When they tasted it, and perceived its salt and bitter flavor, they spit violently, and uttered a great many exclamations of astonishment. It was here that I first saw a ship. This was one of the American vessels, going to trade with the Indians on the north-west coast, and obtain their furs. She passed near us, and I could easily distinguish her sails, her ropes, and some of the men. I had often heard of the white people, since I had been with the Indians, but nothing I had ever seen had given me such an idea of their skill and power as did this vessel.

We lingered along the shores of the Pacific for some weeks, and here we met with various tribes of Indians. Some of these were called Flat-heads, the upper part of their heads being flattened, by placing them in infancy between two boards. It may seem difficult to account for the prevalence of such a painful and unnatural custom; but we must remember that fashion governs the Indians as well as the white people. Some of the savages bore holes through their ears and noses, for the purpose of suspending jewels therein. Some submit to a burning of the flesh, in order to tattoo the skin; and those we have just mentioned compress the skull between two boards. These things are all done in compliance with fashion.

We at last returned to the Rocky Mountains, and spent the winter in the pursuit of game. We killed a number of wild sheep and wild goats, and several beautiful little antelopes. These creatures we found in small herds at the eastern foot of the mountains. They were exceedingly agile, with gentle, black eyes and mild countenances, and seemed to speed over the ground almost as swiftly as a bird could fly.

Loaded with furs of various kinds, we set out for our return. One night, as we were encamped upon the banks of a small river, we were attacked by a party of about twenty Pawnees. Two of our Indians were killed, and the rest escaped. I was myself taken prisoner, and nearly the whole of our furs fell into the hands of the assailants.

I was now taken with my new captors to the encampment of the Pawnees, a distance of five days’ journey. I submitted with apparent satisfaction to my captivity, and, making myself useful, soon acquired the favor of the people among whom I was now adopted. I had, however, no real attachment to them, and determined to seize the first favorable opportunity for my escape. Several months passed, and I began to be more reconciled to my lot, particularly as I was now regarded as a leader among the hunters of the tribe.

A plan was now set on foot for a marauding expedition against the Indians dwelling far to the eastward of our present position. We had plenty of horses, and thirty of us, well mounted and equipped, set forth upon the proposed adventures. We proceeded eastward, and traversed a large extent of country, and, at last, came within the vicinity of some scattered settlements of white men.

I now discovered that it was the purpose of my companions to attack these settlements,—a circumstance which they had before concealed from me. This concealment probably arose from their knowledge that I was of white descent, and they were, perhaps, afraid that I would not join them heartily in plundering my own kindred.

At last, however, they told me their scheme. Though I had been long with the Indians, and had adopted their customs and feelings, yet I was by no means pleased with the idea of attacking these white settlements. I knew it was unsafe for me, however, to avow my scruples; for, if their suspicion was excited, they would not hesitate to send a bullet through my heart. I therefore received their proposition with apparent unconcern. Perceiving, however, the keen eyes of an old chief bent suspiciously upon me, I thought it necessary to profess an interest in the enterprise which I did not feel.

The intention of escaping from the tribe, which I had formerly cherished, now revived, and an opportunity was only wanting for me to take leave of them forever. While I was in this state of mind, we came into the vicinity of a small white settlement, consisting of four or five houses. One of our party had been in this quarter before, and knew the situation of these dwellings. They were all scattered, and one of them he described as apart from the rest, and as likely to afford considerable plunder.

It was thought best, however, before making the attack, to gain more exact information of the present state of things among the settlers; and, with this view, it was proposed that four of us should paint and dress ourselves as Osages, and pay a visit to these white people under pretence of selling them furs. We halted in the thick forest, and made our preparations. Our party of spies then set out on foot, and proceeded to visit the houses of the white men. We found five or six log-houses built upon the borders of the White river, each of them having some cleared and cultivated lands around them.

A little higher up the stream, we came to the other house which has been before mentioned. It was larger than those we have described, and had the appearance of considerable comfort and thrift on the part of the inhabitants.

When we entered the house, we saw two women; one of them about middle age, the other about sixteen. It was now several years since I had been with the Indians, during which period I had not seen a white woman. The moment I looked on those now before me, my former associations and trains of thought revived. We addressed the oldest of the females, and asked for a cup of water. She replied in tones of kindness and courtesy, but I thought I could perceive something of trepidation and anxiety in her manner. Her voice, also, awakened indescribable emotions in my breast.

The young lady soon brought us a pitcher of water, and, when I looked upon her, it seemed to me that I had never beheld a creature so lovely. As the man of the house was not at home, we soon departed, and, as our business was now accomplished, we proceeded straight to our companions, whose lurking-place we reached late in the evening. We communicated the information we had acquired, and it was soon resolved to make an attack upon the last house we had visited, the very next night.

The situation in which I now found myself was most painful. The deepest interest had been excited in my breast toward those whom the savages had resolved to sacrifice. The forms of the mother and daughter continually haunted my mind; and a strange fancy that it was my mother and sister whom I had seen, seized upon me. Improbable, impossible, indeed, as this seemed when I considered it calmly, there was still a conviction resting upon my heart that I was about to engage in assailing the dwelling-place of my parents, with every chance of sacrificing the lives of my kindred.

I was not long in resolving to take no part in this murderous scheme, except to baffle it. But what could be done? To escape from the savages, forever on the watch, and, doubtless, in some degree suspicious of me, was a thing by no means easily achieved. I determined, however, to make the attempt, even if it cost me my life.

It was the plan of the Indians to remain where they were till about midnight, then to proceed on horseback to the vicinity of the settlements, and, having tied the horses in some sheltered spot, to go on foot to the assault they meditated. Early the next evening, the whole party laid down for the purpose of obtaining some repose, their horses having been fastened, so as to be at command. I had taken care that my own horse should be imperfectly tied, so that I knew he would soon get loose.

In the course of an hour, and after most of the company were asleep, I heard the animal moving about. I then rose up, expressed some surprise, and remarked that my horse was loose, and that I must go and take care of him. One or two Indians, who were still awake, heard what I said, and, seeing nothing suspicious in my conduct, I was permitted to depart without interruption. I soon caught my horse, and cautiously led him away from the slumbering party. When I had gone to the distance of fifty rods, I mounted his back and plunged into the woods.

For more than a mile I took a direction opposite to the houses of the settlers. Then, making a wide circuit, I turned and pursued my way toward them. Coming to the bank of the river, I was guided in my course, and ere long reached the first of those settlements which I had visited with my Indian companions. I now woke up the people in the several houses, and, in the imperfect English I was able to command, told them of the attack that was meditated.

Four men, well armed, immediately started with me for the house which was to be the first object of attack. It was nearly midnight when we arrived and roused the inmates of the house. There was no time to be lost, and immediate preparations to receive the enemy were made. In about an hour we saw their dark forms gliding out from the edge of the forest, and approaching the house. With a soft and stealthy tread they approached. Two of them seized upon a large stick of timber, and were advancing to the door, for the purpose of beating it in, when I thrust my head out of the window and uttered the war-whoop. The astonished Indians started back, and for a short time concealed themselves in an adjacent thicket.

I knew that they would recognize my voice, and understand that their plot was detected, and that preparations were made to repel it. I hoped, therefore, that they would retire and give up their enterprise. Such, however, was not their determination. In a short time they rallied, and, setting up the war-cry, advanced with rapid steps toward the house.

I marked the leader of the band, whom I knew to be the bravest man of the party, and, presenting my rifle, I fired. The Indian fell with a terrific scream. The rest of the party halted. There was a momentary bustle, and the savages disappeared. We continued on the watch till morning, and were then happy to discover that the enemy had carried off their wounded leader, and abandoned the enterprise that had brought them hither.

I had been too intently occupied, during the night, to think of much beside the immediate business in hand, but I now turned my eyes upon the inmates of the house. These consisted of four persons,—a husband and wife of middle age, and a son and daughter now in the flower of youth. The thought again crossed my mind that here were my parents, my brother and my sister. At last, in the conviction that this was so, I placed myself before the matron, and said, as well as I knew how, “Did you ever lose a son?”

“Yes, yes! why do you ask?” said she, looking at me with intense curiosity.

“He is here,” said I.

“You my son?” said she.

But I cannot describe the scene. It will be sufficient for the reader to know that I had the happiness this day of being restored to my family and saving them from the perils of an Indian assault.

“Where have you been this week?” “Me? I’ve been fishing.” “Catch anything?” “Yes, a cold.” “Where were you last night?” “Ducking.” “Get any?” “Yes, one.” “Where?” “In the river.” “How?” “Tumbled in.”

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER XI.

About Butterflies.

Our readers must not suppose that our little hero had no interest in anything but insects. It is true that his mind being once engaged upon this subject, his curiosity increased with his knowledge, and for a time he preferred the study of insects to that of anything else. At one period, as I have told you, he was greatly interested in beetles; then in spiders; and then in bees. Finally he turned his attention to butterflies. You may be tired of my story, but you must hear about this.

One beautiful summer day, he saw a large butterfly seated upon a flower—its wings were splendidly marked with figures of brown, black and gold. They were almost as large as the palm of his hand. As the insect sat upon the flower, he waved them up and down, seeming to fan the blossom upon which it was resting.

Jack’s first idea was to rush upon the butterfly, and seize it. But he had now acquired a habit of investigation. He had lost that instinct which leads little, thoughtless children to snatch at every new and pleasing object. He was no longer a mere child, but a thinking boy. His mind was awake, and the pleasure he derived from its exercise was a very great pleasure.

So Jack, having approached near to the butterfly, paused and examined it carefully. He found that it had four wings, two large and two small ones, and that it had six legs, four only of which seemed to be used.

While Jack was thus pursuing his observations, he gradually drew nearer, until the alarmed insect took to flight, and, with a wavering motion, swept across an adjacent meadow, until it was lost in the distance. As Jack was in the habit of thinking about what he had seen, he mused upon the little butterfly, and then he asked his Aunt Betsey about it. She was ever ready to gratify his curiosity, and so she proceeded to tell him about butterflies, pretty much as follows:

“You must know, my dear Jack,” said she, “that the family of butterflies is very numerous; this consists not only of those which pass under the name of butterfly, and which go abroad in the daylight, but of those which are called moths, and which fly about at night.

“The butterflies have ever been regarded as among the most beautiful objects in nature. They seem almost like flowers or gems, which have become endowed with life, and, taking wings, soar away upon the breeze. Thus the poet Moore speaks of them, as creatures

‘Which flutter round the jasmine stems,

Like winged flowers, or flying gems.’

“Who, indeed, has not observed these little creatures flying from flower to flower, sipping the nectar from each, and seeming only to think of the present happy moment? And who has not thought how like to happy, heedless, children are these pretty butterflies?

“It is natural that the poets, who were always looking out for beautiful things, should seize upon such a subject as the butterflies, and we therefore find them often alluded to in poetry. Spencer, an old English poet, thus describes one of these insects,—and it is a very good description too:

‘The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,

The silken down with which his back is dight,

His broad, outstretched horns, his airy thighs,

His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes.’

“The moths have also attracted the attention of the poet; and as they are dazzled by a lamp at night, and frequently fly into it and scorch themselves to death, they have been often compared to giddy youth, who rush thoughtlessly into dangerous pleasures, and are thus lost forever.

“The butterflies and moths have not only four wings and six legs, and two horns or feelers, but they have a little tube or proboscis, with which they suck in the juice of flowers. When this is not in use, it is nicely rolled up, and packed beneath the head of the animal, under a hairy cover made for the purpose.

“When examined with a glass, the body of the insect appears to be covered with hair, and the fine brilliant dust upon the wings is found to consist of minute scales.

“But the eyes of butterflies, are, perhaps, their most remarkable quality. Some of these are simple, while others are composed of a collection of magnifying lenses. It is said that in some butterflies the eye consists of sixteen thousand lenses. If so, it would seem that when a butterfly of this sort looks at a person, he sees sixteen thousand images of him! Of the butterfly tribe, some live upon the honey of flowers, others upon the leaves of plants, and others upon dead wood. Some of them subsist upon animal substances, and are very destructive to woollen cloths, furs and feathers. The honey-comb moth we have already mentioned as often infesting the bee-hive, and preying upon wax.

“While the butterflies, in their perfect state, have always attracted the attention and excited the interest of mankind, the wonderful steps by which they reach their perfect state have not formed a less interesting subject of observation. Most insects have three states of existence; they are first eggs, then worms, and then the winged and perfect insect.

“But the transformations of the butterfly have ever been regarded as very wonderful. The female deposits her eggs upon such plants as are proper to nourish the little caterpillars which are to proceed from them. The common white butterfly places hers upon cabbages. The tortoise-shell and peacock butterflies place theirs upon nettles, &c. These are generally attached by a kind of glue to the surface of the plant. The moths are usually more careful, for they generally deposit their eggs in some concealed place, and wrap them up carefully in a downy substance.

“Butterflies do not enshroud themselves in a silken case, or cocoon, spun from the mouth, as is done by many other insects; but their process is more wonderful. When the butterfly egg is hatched, it produces a caterpillar. This is a kind of heavy worm, usually furnished with sixteen feet.

“It grows rapidly after changing its skin, which process lasts three or four minutes, and frequently proves fatal. It is now furnished with twelve round eyes, and feeds voraciously upon leaves. Having reached its full size, it ceases to eat, and retires to some solitary place to undergo its wonderful transformation.

“Here it proceeds to form a mass of silken threads, which it spins from its mouth. This is attached to a proper place, and the caterpillar is soon seen suspended by the tail. It now raises its head a little, giving a curve to its back. This motion is repeated until a slit is formed, first behind the head, and then along the back. At length the skin of the larva disappears, and the chrysalis is formed. This consists of a smooth, shining mass, speckled with gold.

“The newly-formed chrysalis of a butterfly, when opened, is found to contain only a mass of pap, in which no trace of the limbs of the future butterfly can be observed, yet the outer covering is marked with all the external organs of the future butterfly in a very short time after the skin of the caterpillar has been cast off. On opening the chrysalis, indeed, after a proper space, we shall find, encased in separate parts, the wings, eyes and other organs of the future butterfly.

“When the insect has remained in this pulpy or chrysalis state for a proper time, a motion may be perceived within. The skin, which is now thin and dry, gives way, and bursting into four distinct and regular pieces, liberates its little prisoner. This now emits a reddish colored liquid, which superstitious people have called bloody rain; its wings rapidly assume their proper size, and it joins its companions in the air. The old poet Spencer thus happily describes the new-born insect:

‘When he arriving, round about doth fly
From bed to bed, from one to other border;
And takes survey, with curious, busy eye,
Of every flower and herb there set in order;
Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,
Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder;

Nor with his feet, their silken leaves deface,

But pastures on the pleasures of each place.’”

CHAPTER XII.

About insects in general.

I will now give my readers a short chapter upon insects in general, extracted from Aunt Betsey Piper’s talk to her inquisitive nephew.

Insects are so called because they appear to be divided into two parts, and the word insect means cut apart. The insect tribe are divided by naturalists into several orders. The first consists of those that never have wings, as the spider, flea, louse, &c.; the second consists of those which have wings, but so cased up as not to appear when first produced, such as the grasshopper, earwig, dragon-fly, &c.; the third is of the moth and butterfly kind; the fourth such as come from a worm instead of a caterpillar, as the beetle, bee, fly, gnat, &c.

We are very apt to conceive that insects, from their extreme littleness, are very insignificant. But this is a wrong view of the subject. In the first place, they are exceedingly ingenious in their structure, and wonderful in their habits and instincts. A writer on natural history says, that if we compare insects with the higher ranks of nature, such as quadrupeds, birds, &c., we shall perceive in the former all the peculiarities which belong to the latter; the piercing eye of the lynx and the falcon, the hard shield of the armadillo, the splendid tail of the peacock, the imposing horns of the stag, the swiftness of the antelope, the fecundity of the hare, the architectural powers of the beaver, the climbing powers of the squirrel, the gambols of the monkey, the swimming of the frog, the burrowing of the mole, and the leaping of the kangaroo; all these things are found amongst insects, and often, indeed, in a redoubled degree. The eye of the fly, with its thousand lenses, the scales of the diamond beetle, the wonderful works of the hive, the ingenuity of the spider, the transformation of the butterfly,—these and many other interesting circumstances show that this class of animated nature possesses strong claims upon our attention.

The amazing extent of the insect tribes also increases the interest of this subject. In the royal collection at Berlin, in Prussia, there are no less than twenty-eight thousand species or kinds of beetle. Celebrated naturalists have calculated that there are, in the world, five hundred thousand different kinds of insects, and countless myriads of each kind. It is said that one single insect of the aphis or louse tribe may be the living parent of six thousand millions of descendants. If all the insects in the world were collected into one heap, it would doubtless rise ten times as high as the top of Bunker-Hill monument, near Boston.

The importance of insects may be gathered from another consideration.—Some of them are very useful. The bee we have already noticed. We may also mention the cochineal insect, which exists in great numbers in the East Indies and in South America. It is a minute creature, of the aphis tribe, one of which is hardly so large as a peppercorn. Yet it is produced in such quantities, that many thousands of pounds are sent every year, in a dried state, to America and Europe. They contain a coloring principle, called carmine, which produces an intensely red color. These insects are chiefly used for dying scarlet. In Brazil, large estates are devoted to the cultivation of plants, for the purpose of breeding them. Great quantities are also produced in different parts of Spain.

Among the useful insects, we may notice the Spanish fly, which is about three fourths of an inch in length, with brilliant green wings. These are shaken down from the trees, it being their habit to feign death when disturbed. They are called cantharides, and are used in medicine, especially for producing blisters.

We might notice many other useful insects, but must pass them by. We might speak, also, of the beautiful fireflies, which appear in myriads, during the night, over our meadows and amid the forests; of the glow-worms, which seem to burn with a mild and steady blaze, to illuminate the darkness; and the great lantern moth of South America, which is sometimes used to decorate the heads of females, and several of which will answer the purpose of a torch.

But we must pass over these wonderful things, and consider that the surface of the earth, the waves of the sea, and the very atmosphere around the whole globe, are all the abodes of countless insects. Even the stalks and leaves of plants are filled with them. If you will take a microscope and look into the stalks of certain plants, you will see thousands of little busy, bustling insects there, all of them seeming to be in the full enjoyment of existence. Nay, if you will apply the microscope to a tumbler of pure water, you will see that this also is filled with living things. Thus the poet says:

“Full nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass

Of animals, creatures organized.

Through subterranean cells,

Where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way,

Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf
Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure,
Within its winding citadel, the stone

Holds multitudes. But chief the forest boughs,

That dance unnumbered to the playful breeze,
The downy orchard, and the melting pulp
Of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed
Of evanescent insects. Where the pool
Stands mantled o’er with green, invisible,
Amid the floating verdure, millions stray:
*   *   *   * Nor is the stream
Of purest crystal, nor the lucid air,
Though one transparent vacancy it seems,
Void of their unseen people.”

CHAPTER XIII.

Conclusion.

I hope my readers are satisfied, by this time, that Inquisitive Jack, in pursuing the study of insects, was not wasting his time. It not only gave him a great deal of pleasure, but he obtained from it much useful information. He went on, from one step to another, until he understood the whole science of insects, which is called Entomology.

But I have told you the story of our curious little friend, not so much to recommend the particular study of insects, as to show the utility of habits of observation and investigation. You have seen, by the story I have told you, that, by means of these habits, Jack not only enjoyed a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction, but that he became a very learned man; but I must tell you, what I have before intimated, that his whole attention was not confined to insects. He observed and investigated plants and flowers, and thus became a botanist. He studied into the habits and nature of birds, and thus became an ornithologist; and, in short, he mastered the whole field of natural history. Perhaps I shall, some time or other, give you an account of his proceedings in relation to some of these matters.

The Close of the Year.

Look at the picture! It is winter—and the old man is toiling through the deep, deep snow. A heavy burthen is on his back; the sky is dark and gloomy; the scene around is desolate and chill. We can easily fancy that the heart of the aged traveller is heavy; that his limbs are weary; that a damp, cold moisture is upon his brow, and an expression of bitterness and sorrow around his lips; yet he plods stoutly on—and why should he not? If he were to despair, he would but make the snow his pillow, and the sleety drift his winding-sheet. Beside, he is not alone. A cheerful friend is with him; a humble one indeed, yet one that will not desert him, whether in sunshine or storm, in summer’s joy or winter’s sorrow.

There is something of truth and nature in this scene, and old Bob Merry feels that it may be properly placed at the head of his annual goodby. I cannot but entertain the idea that the old man in the cut, may stand for my representative. He has his burthen, and I my cares; he is making his way through the heavy drift, and I too am stumping it on, amid obstacles and difficulties. He has his cheerful friend, beckoning him on, and I, old and decrepit, am attended by the angel of Hope, which ministers to me, even when all beside have deserted me. That hound in the picture may seem to tell the weary and wayworn traveller of the home that is at hand, of the bright hearth that burns for him, of the warm hearts that are ready to receive him. And Hope, the comforter, tells me too, that there are some bright firesides where Bob Merry is a welcome guest; where his monthly visits are not a tax, but a pleasure; where to him the latch of the door is free and the string never pulled in.

These are my fancies—and though they may be but the dreams of a conceited old man, I will still cherish them. Real or fantastic, they lighten my heart, cheer my steps, and give me courage to pursue my journey.

And now, my gentle readers, we are at the close of the old year! May it find you good and happy. We are at the threshold of the new year; may this, too, find you good and happy. What better wish can I utter? And will you continue for twelve months more, the acquaintance which we have so long sustained? Come! Black Eyes, Blue Eyes, and Grey Eyes—one and all—let as pursue our rambles, and I promise still to exert myself for your pleasure and profit! I have some of Bill Keeler’s stories, which I have picked up, and which I intend to give you. I have some curious adventures in South America; some stories of the Old Man in the Corner, and other nuts to crack for you. So, girls and boys, come along!

Our Correspondence.

The following letter we insert with much pleasure:—

Rindge, N. H., Oct. 27, 1843.

Mr. Merry:

I have taken your Museum the past year, and like it very much. I should like to have you put in another anecdote about Bill Keeler. Will you be so kind as to put in the following Riddles, if you please, to gratify a boy ten years old?

1.
It is in the bolster, but not in the bed;
It is in the grave, but not in the dead;
It is in the rock, but not in the stone;
It is in the marrow, but not in the bone.
2.
I’m captain of a company
That counts full twenty-six;
And also with a party five
I deign to intermix;
With Adam I was seen to stay,
But Eve I do not like;
I’m always found throughout the day,
But never in the night.

Your affectionate friend, Samuel B——.

We have received answers from Mary G. D., F. W. B., J. F. T., and some others, to our Twenty Questions about Animals, in the October number of the Museum. Most of them are correct. As a specimen of the letters on this subject, we insert the following, adding a few notes of correction:—

Bristol, Oct. 25th, 1843.

My dear Mr. Merry:

In the last number of your Museum, you wished your little readers to send you the answers to twenty questions given to us. I am quite a small boy, but I thought I would try to answer them; and those that I may answer wrong I should like to have you correct in your next number, and oblige a little friend and subscriber, who is yet too young to write for himself.

1st question. The five most remarkable quadrupeds in Africa are the Lion, Zebra, Hippopotamus, Camelopard, Hyena.(1)

2d. The three most famous animals in Asia are the Elephant, Rhinoceros, and Lion.

3d. The Elephant is the largest quadruped, and is a native of Asia.

4th. The Giraffe is the tallest animal in the world, and found in Asia(2) and Africa.

5th. The Ostrich is the largest bird, and found in Asia and Africa.

6th. The largest kind of serpent is the Boa Constrictor, and found in Asia.

7th. The smallest bird is the Humming-Bird, and found in America.

8th. The largest animal is the Elephant,(3) and lives in Asia.

9th. The Orang-Outang most resembles man, and is found in Borneo, one of the East India Islands.

10th. The Horse is the most useful animal to man.

11th. The Bison is the largest quadruped found wild in America.

12th. The Grizzly Bear is the most fierce and formidable wild quadruped in the United States.

13th. The Rattlesnake is the celebrated poisonous serpent that belongs to the United States.

14th. I think the largest bird of prey in the world is the Eagle.(4)

15th. To the question, what are the two most remarkable animals of New Holland? I don’t know but one; that is the Kangaroo.(5)

16th. The Eagle is the king of birds.

17th. The Butterfly is the most beautiful of insects.

18th. The Bee is the most useful insect to man.

19th. The Dog seems most attached to man.

20th. The Lion is the most powerful known quadruped.

Now, Mr. Merry, I have got through, and I should like very much to know if I have answered them right, and especially to know the other remarkable animal of New Holland.

Your little friend and subscriber, E. M. G.

(1) Not Hyena, but Rhinoceros, of which there are two kinds in Africa, the one-horned and the two-horned.

(2) The Giraffe is not a native of Asia.

(3) The largest animal is the Whale.

(4) The Condor is the largest bird of prey.

(5) The other most remarkable animal of New Holland is the Duck-billed Platypus, a small quadruped, with fur like a beaver, and a bill like a duck, living chiefly around the water.

Transcriber’s Note:

One footnote was moved to the end of the article.

Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged unless indicated below. Obsolete and alternative spellings were retained. Misspelled words were corrected. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added.

Links to audio files were added for music. 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 items were changed:

- Added word “to” … to throw my hat off my head.…

- The article “Truth Triumphant” was moved to the end of the May issue so as not to interrupt the preceding dialogue between Ann and Lucy.

- “Kitty” changed to “Nancy”.

- Added missing page number to entry for Eccentric Characters in the Table of Contents, Volume 6.

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Table of Contents

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM:

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME V.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

- JANUARY, 1843. Vol. V. No 1.

A New-Year’s Bow.

- THE TWO TRAVELLERS.

Fidelity of a Negro Servant.

The Maple Tree Temple at Matibo, in Italy.

The Lost Found.

The Snow Man.

True Stories.

The Narval, or Sea-Unicorn.

Come and get it.

The Effects of Music on Animals.

WINTER EVENING,

The White Bear.

The Story of Hercules.

Little Chapters for little Readers.

The Lost Friend.

The Walk.

Discontented Betty.

HOPE.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

- FEBRUARY, 1843.

- Vol. V. No. 2.

Sources of History.

Something about Government.

- THE LAW IS EVERYWHERE.

- EQUALITY.

Anecdotes of Storks.

Conundrums.

Artificial Ice for Skating.

True Stories.

The Love of Nature.

True Stories of the Young.

Winter.

Smiles.

The Water-Spout.

“Beauty.”

The Elephant and Fox.

- A FABLE.

The Vain Search.

Varieties.

Imagination.

Sister.

Burning of the Tower of London.

The Gleaner.

Metals.

The Prussian Exercise; a Game for Children.

Anecdotes of Bonaparte.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Amusements.

All by Themselves.

A Roman Story.

The Rock of Gibraltar.

Order and Disorder.

The Little Mariner.

The Old Lady and her Cat.

A Sliding Party:

- A MOTHER’S STORY.

The Old Owl.

The Zebu, or Indian Ox.

The Bison, or American Buffalo.

The Medallion.

Good and Evil.

The Story of Limping Tom.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER I.

The Snow Drift.

The Seasons.

Constantinople.

Tsze Pun Yu!

Signs of the Zodiac.

Invention of Printing.

Comparison

- BETWEEN GOOD AND BAD HOUSEWIFERY.

An Equinoctial Storm; or, Adventures of a Hat.

Yellow Hair.

April.

True Stories.

Shops in London.

Fishes playing the Jewsharp.

Tea.

The Finland Mother.

Comets.

Things that have happened.

The Blind Beggar and his Dog.

Mother’s Advice.

The Snow Drift.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

The Moon.

The Meadow Lark.

The Bird’s Nest.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Shrine of San Rosalia, at Palermo.

May.

The Village of Economy.

Mohammed.

A Fourth of July Oration

Heathen Mythology.

The Elephant.

The Lion.

The Gnoo.

A Swedish Girl.

The Story of “Gander.”

The Dog of Montargis.

Natural Lamps.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

The School-Ma’am.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER IV.

Lucy and Ann.

- A DIALOGUE.

The Little Flower Girl.

Dash won’t learn his Lesson!

To Correspondents.

Truth Triumphant.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Louisa Vinning.

Importance of a Fly.

June.

A Chapter of English Kings.

True Stories.

Geography.

The Bob-o-link.

The White or Polar Bear.

The Unfaithful Servant.

The Barber of Paris.

The World within a Plant.

The Kildeer Plover.

Early Impressions.

- A STORY FOR PARENTS.

About the Chicadees,

The Two Travellers.

- A FABLE.

To our Correspondents.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER V.

The Hoop; or Look ere you Leap.

Hay-Making.

The Moth.

Chapter on Spices.

The Balloon.

The Harrow.

Handsome is that handsome does.

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

- CONTENTS OF VOLUME VI.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

A Midsummer Morning.

Listening.

Eugene Aram.

Bald Eagle.

Gallantry in a Dog.

Charon.

A Civilized Bear.

The Palisadoes.

A real Hero.

A Revolutionary Story.

- CHAPTER I.

Having a Good Time.

July.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

- CHAPTER I.

Passage of Mountains in India.

WHISTLING TOM;

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

The Giraffe, or Camelopard.

The Arbor.

Fire-works at Rome.

Careless Nancy.

Charity.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER VI.

The 4th of July.

To Correspondents.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Hindostan.

Peter Somebody and the Woodpecker’s Nest.

London, Past and Present.

Whale Stories.

- NO. I.—DESTRUCTION OF A VESSEL BY A WHALE.

- NO. II.—DEATH OF A HARPOONER BY A WHALE-LINE.

- NO. III.—PERILOUS SITUATION OF A BOAT-STEERER.

- NO. IV.—A BOAT UPSET.

- NO. V.—WHALING AMONG ICE.

The Life of Columbus.

- CHAPTER I.

Ancient Castles.

Æronautics,

- OR ART OF NAVIGATING THE AIR WITH BALLOONS.

Eccentric Characters.

A lost Elephant found.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

- CHAPTER II.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

The Old Oaken Bucket.

France.

The Moose.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER VII.

The Race.

The Swing.

A Strange Bird.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

September.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

- CHAPTER III.

The Smuggler.

The Poet’s Dog.

A Shark Story.

Eccentric Characters

Punch and Judy.

Attakullakulla.

A Droll Mimic.

Whale Stories.

- CONTEST ABOUT A WHALE.

- DISTRESSING ADVENTURE OF FOURTEEN WHALEMEN.

The Life of Columbus.

- CHAPTER II.

Turn the Carpet.

- A Dialogue between Dick and John.

A Monkey Trick.

“The Light of all Nations.”

Precocity of Frenchmen.

September Thoughts.

To our Correspondents.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

Christ Healing the Sick.

Going to School.

The First Sailor.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER VIII.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

October.

The Island of Hong Kong.

Tippoo Saib.

A Revolutionary Story.

- CHAPTER II.

The Blue-Bird.

- Green.

What is it to be Polite?

Early Rising.

Pope Julius II.

Eccentric Characters

The Life of Columbus.

- CHAPTER III.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

- CHAPTER IV.

LITTLE LEAVES FOR LITTLE READERS.

Mamma’s Lessons.

Questions.

Old Age.

The Sun, Moon and Stars.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER IX.

What is Habit?

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

A long Chapter upon November.

Pierre Ramus.

A Revolutionary Story.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

The Musical Snuff-box at Church.

John Hancock.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

- CHAPTER V.

The new London Exchange.

The Imperial Joss.

A Salt Water Scene.

The Life of Columbus.

- CHAPTER IV.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER X.

Stomach of the Horse.

Patriotism.

The Wooden Horse.

Hannibal crossing the Alps.

The House of our Childhood

Blessing on a Child.

Varieties.

Our Correspondence.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

A Revolutionary Story.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

The Life of Columbus.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

Washington Irving’s Cottage.

Jumping Rabbit’s Story.

- CHAPTER VI.

Inquisitive Jack.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

The Close of the Year.

Our Correspondence.

- Transcriber’s Note:

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE