ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM.

EDITED BY
S. G. GOODRICH,
AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY’S TALES.

VOLUME VIII.

BOSTON:
BRADBURY, SODEN & CO.,
No. 12, School Street.
1844.

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

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VIII.

JULY TO DECEMBER, 1844.

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

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. JULY, 1844. No. 1.

“Now comes July, and with his fervid noon

Unsinews labor. The swinkt mower sleeps;

The weary maid walks feebly; the warm swain

Pitches his load reluctant; the faint steer,

Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along

The slow, encumbered wain in midday 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.

Leigh Hunt, speaking of this month in England, says, “The heat in this month is greatest 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. The gnats

‘Their murmuring mall trumpets sounden wide,’

and here and there, the little musician of the grass touches forth his tricksy note.

‘The poetry of earth is never dead;

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new mown mead;

That is the grasshopper’s.’

“Besides some of the flowers of the last month, there are candy-tufts, catch-fly, columbines, egg plant, French marigold, lavateras, marvel of Peru, verducas, tube roses, which seem born of the white rose and lily; and scarlet beans, which, though we are apt to think little of them, because they furnish us with a good vegetable, are quick and beautiful growing, and in a few weeks will hang a walk or trellis, with an exuberant tapestry of scarlet and green.

“The fruits begin to abound, and are more noticed in proportion to the necessity for them, occasioned by the summer heat. The strawberries are in their greatest quantity and perfection; and currants, gooseberries and raspberries, have a world of juice for us, prepared as it were, in so many crowds of little bottles, in which the sunshine has turned the dew of April into wine. The strawberry lurks about under a beautiful leaf. Currants are also extremely beautiful. A handsome bunch looks like pearls, or rubies, and an imitation of it would make a most graceful earring.

“It is now the season for bathing; a refreshment too little taken in this country, either in summer or winter. We say in winter, because with very little care in placing it in a cistern, and having a leathern pipe for it, a bath may be easily filled once or twice a week with warm water; and it is a vulgar error that the warm bath relaxes.”

Military Chivalry.—“I heard once,” said Father Phil, “a pretty little bit of an anecdote about the way the French behaved to one of our Irish regiments on a retreat in Spain. They were going through a river—they were—and the French, taking advantage of their helpless condition, were peppering away at them hard and fast, until some women ran down, poor creatures, to the shore, and the stream was so deep in the middle that they could scarcely ford it; so some dragoons, who were galloping as fast as they could out of the fire, pulled up on seeing the condition of the womankind, and each horseman took up a woman behind him, though it diminished his own power of flying from the danger. The moment the French saw this act of manly courage, they ceased firing, and gave a cheer for the dragoons; and as long as the women were within gun-shot, not a trigger was pulled in the French line, but volleys of cheers instead of ball cartridges, were sent after the brigade till all the women were over.”

The Life of Martin Luther.

This famous man was born at Eisleben, then in Saxony, but now within the limits of Prussia. His father, Hans, or John Luther, was a native of Mora, near Eisenach; he was originally a woodcutter, and in very humble circumstances. His wife often carried the wood to market on her back. On the occasion of a fair at the latter place, the parents both went thither, and on the night of their arrival, November 10, 1483, the mother gave birth to a son. This occurred on the eve of St. Martin’s day, and hence the infant was called Martin. Six months after this event, the parents went to live at Mansfeld, and ten miles from Eisleben, where the father pursued the business of a miner with great success.

Young Luther was brought up in the strict habits and under the severe discipline of the age. His father was accustomed to inflict on him cruel chastisements, and his mother, for a mere trifle, whipped him till the blood came. Such was the general system of family government at that day. When sufficiently advanced, Martin Luther was sent to Eisenach, where he had access to an institution which taught the learning of the time. But he had no friends, and was obliged to procure his own bread. For this purpose, he used to go about the streets, with some of his companions as poor as himself, singing at the door of such as would listen. He had a fine talent for music, and though he often chanted the favorite songs and ballads of the day, he also sometimes sung his own compositions. This he was accustomed to call “bread music.”

In one of his excursions, he came to the house of a respectable man, named Conrad Cotta. Before it rose some lofty trees. In the shadow of these, young Martin threw himself down, and his heart being burdened with sadness, he poured forth his feelings in a strain of plaintive melody. The wife of Conrad, attracted by the melancholy tones, came to the door, and invited the youth to enter. She then placed before him the fare her humble house afforded. The boy’s gratitude, ardently expressed, touched her heart, and she invited him to come again. Thus an acquaintance began, and Luther was, after a short time, invited to take up his residence at the house, which he did; and thus, relieved from the evils of poverty, he was able to prosecute his studies. Long after, when his fame filled all Europe, these kind and efficient friends had the pleasure to reflect that the great Reformer was the hungry ballad-singer, whom they had comforted and cherished in the days of poverty.

Having spent five years at Eisenach, Luther was sent, in 1501, to the university of Erfurth, then a respectable seminary, but since suppressed. His father wished him to study law, but he had little inclination for this, and devoted himself to general literature and music, which latter he continued to cultivate through life. At the university, he showed the jovial, careless disposition which generally marks the German student. He was, however, much struck when one day searching for an old book in the library, to meet with a copy of the Bible. He had before thought that all sacred writings were contained in the portions which were read in the churches. This discovery doubtless gave occasion to much reflection.

In 1505, an event occurred, which changed the current of Luther’s thoughts, and gave direction to his future life. He was a lover of nature, and one day indulging his taste in this respect, he was rambling through the fields with a friend. A storm was gathering over their heads, but they continued the conversation, which had relation to some serious subject. In the mind of Luther, the pealing thunder was the type of the future judgment. He turned to speak to his companion, when, at the very instant, the latter was struck dead by a flash of lightning. Luther stood a moment in fear and awe; he then knelt by the side of his companion, and lifting his eyes to Heaven, he made a solemn vow to devote his future life to the service of God. Educated in the Catholic faith, this was equivalent to a vow that he would enter a monastery and become a monk, which he did in 1505, in spite of his father’s remonstrances.

It was in the Augustine convent of Erfurth, that Luther had now taken his vows. With the ardor and sincerity of his character, he devoted himself to religious contemplation; but he did not, in the retirement of the cloister, find the peace he sought and anticipated. He was haunted by temptations, and distressed by scruples and doubts. He discovered what had not before been suggested to his mind, that, in the absence of substantial enemies found in the world, the mind may people the solitary cell with demons, which have the power as effectually to stab our peace.

In the convent Luther at last found a friend, who understood his character and ministered to his spiritual wants. This was Staupnitz, the provincial of the order, or ecclesiastical governor of the Augustine convents in the district of Erfurth. He was an intelligent, honest, and kindhearted man, and by advice, instruction, and encouragement, cleared the mind and lightened the heart of the distracted votary.

The talents of Luther were soon appreciated, and in 1508, at the instance of Staupnitz, he was appointed a professor of philosophy in the university of Wittenberg. He here delivered lectures, which were well attended, and which were marked by a freedom of thought and manner unusual at that day. In 1510, he was sent to Italy, on business connected with the order, which laid the foundation of a great change in his views.

Luther was a sincere votary of the Catholic Church. With the simplicity of an honest mind, he supposed that he should find religion in its utmost purity at Rome, and that the Pope, the head of the church, would be a fit representative of the Holy Apostle of whom he claimed to be the successor. How was he doomed to be disappointed in these views!

On his arrival at the city of Milan, he was received into one of the convents as a guest. Here he found his brethren, instead of devoting themselves to the austerities of religion, as was the case at Wittenberg, addicted to every species of luxury. In the seclusion of their cloisters, they sat down to sumptuous tables, loaded with luscious viands, delicious fruits and choice wines. Sheltered from the observation of the world, they cast aside the forms and ceremonies of their order, and gave themselves up to license and indulgence. Fasts were neglected—penances despised. Luther looked on with horror, and at last, unable to restrain his emotions, broke forth in terms of reprobation of these debaucheries.

The monks, being alarmed lest they should be exposed, caused poison to be administered to Luther;—the dose was slight, and they intended to repeat it; but finding himself unwell in the night, he arose and set forward upon his journey. He thus unconsciously baffled his enemies, though his health suffered for a long time from the effects of the poison he had taken.

Pursuing his way chiefly on foot, Luther at last arrived at Rome. When he reached the city, his heart burning with religious veneration, he knelt down, lifted his hands to Heaven, and exclaimed “I salute thee, Holy Rome, sanctified by the blood of the martyrs!” With an eagerness that nothing could repress, he now ran from place to place, all seeming in his pious imagination to be consecrated ground.

The pope at that time was Julius II. He was a man little calculated to satisfy the views of Luther. He had arisen from an humble condition to the loftiest pitch of earthly power. Nothing could be more directly opposed to the meek spirit of Christianity than his whole soul and character. He was a subtle politician, a bold and ambitious statesman, an impetuous and determined warrior. How was Luther shocked, when he expected to hear of the pious virtues of his Holiness, to find him only spoken of for his gigantic ambition; his worldly policy; his achievements in the field, as commander of his own forces; his magnificent schemes of earthly aggrandizement, alike respecting himself and the papal see!

One of his schemes of ambition was to erect a church at Rome, surpassing all others in magnificence. Accordingly, in 1506, four years before Luther’s arrival, the corner stone of St. Peter’s was laid. In a few months, pushed on by the zeal of the pontiff, the walls were towering over the other churches of Rome; but this precipitation caused the enormous masses to crack, and thus, the progress of the vast enterprise was retarded. It was not till long after that this edifice was finished. The expense was enormous, and it will hereafter be seen that this had a direct connection with the reformation of which Luther was the great instrument.

During his short stay at Rome, Luther beheld the pope in a religious procession. He was raised on a platform, and carried on the shoulders of priests, who deemed it a favor thus to bear the sacred representative of God on earth. His head was bowed upon his breast in token of humility, but he was attired in the most gorgeous robes. His crown glittering with jewels, was borne on a cushion by the highest dignitaries. Then followed others with fans, of peacock and ostrich plumes, which they waved around the person of the pontiff, to guard it from every unhallowed mote. Then came the retinue of cardinals and bishops with crosses and relics, and incense, and music, and lighted tapers, and revered trophies, with all the pomp and circumstance, that human ingenuity, seeking to capture the imagination, could invent. The mighty pageant swept by, “and this,” said Luther, “was all I saw of religion in Rome.”

He stayed but a fortnight in that city. He was disheartened and disgusted with what he saw. Rome was filled with vice of every horrid form, and every degree of enormity. He found, too, that the pope and his cardinals were mere men of the world, that the priests were generally voluptuaries, and many of them open infidels. Admitted as he was to intimacy with many of them, he found that they often made a jest and mockery of the most holy rites, and even while performing the offices of the sacrament, in a sort of by-play turned them into ridicule, and sneered at the deluded people who looked with reverence upon these ceremonies. He hastened back to Germany, his heart distressed, his mind bewildered, his faith shaken. It was this going to Rome, however, that laid the foundation of his subsequent career.

Having returned to Wittenberg, Luther devoted himself to his professorship, seeking peace of mind in a vigorous discharge of its duties. Staupnitz, who saw his great powers, urged him to become a doctor of divinity. Luther consented, and Frederick, Elector of Saxony, and called the Wise, being proud of him, as a native of his dominion, and an ornament of the university, paid the expenses of his inauguration.

Julius II. died February 13, 1513, and the Cardinal Jean de Medicis, under the name of Leo X., became the pope. In 1517, he authorized the sale of indulgences in Germany, as Julius II. had done in France, Poland, &c. The avowed object was to raise money to defray the expenses of the Church of St. Peter’s at Rome, and to sustain the christian league against the Turks. Very little, however, of the vast sums of money obtained, was devoted to the objects for which it was avowedly raised.

The practice of granting indulgences, had existed for centuries before the time of Luther. The Romish Church, assuming to embody the power of Christ, claimed the privilege of remitting the penalty and averting the punishment, here and hereafter, of any sin committed, provided it was confessed and repented of. A penance was often imposed, as the condition of such remission and forgiveness. This penance frequently was commuted for a sum of money, given to the church. Thus money, in the light of penance, became one of the means and instruments by which sin was to be pardoned. From this position, the next step, the sale of indulgences, was obvious and easy. The popes and priests wanted money, and holding the consciences of men in their grasp, they easily laid them under contribution.

Leo’s chief agent in the sale of indulgences was a Dominican monk, by the name of Tetzel. He was a man of high rank and station in the church, and possessed all the address, cunning and effrontery necessary to success in such a business. Clothed with the full power of the pope, and encompassed by all the insignia of the church, his manner was lofty and his aspect imposing. He was paid eighty florins, or forty dollars, a month, beside all his expenses. He was allowed a carriage and three horses. His perquisites, however, far exceeded his regular pay. His success was so great, that at the town of Freyberg, he sold indulgences to the amount of two thousand florins, in two days.

To show the effrontery of the man, thus employed by the pope, we may state that he was guilty of the most abominable profligacy, and though a priest, sworn to celibacy, carried about with him two of his own children! These things, however, did not prevent the success of his traffic. When he came to a place, he went into the church, and set up a cross, with the pope’s arms suspended upon it. He then ascended the pulpit, and addressed the multitude who gathered to hear him.

He declared that indulgences “are the most precious and sublime gifts of God;” that “this cross has as much efficacy as the cross of Christ.” “Draw near, and I will give you letters, duly sealed, by which even the sins you shall hereafter devise and commit, shall all be forgiven you.” “I would not exchange my privileges for those of St. Peter in Heaven, for I have saved more souls with my indulgences, than he with his sermons.” “There is no sin so great that the indulgence cannot remit it”—“only pay largely, and the greatest crime shall be forgiven!” “Even repentance is not indispensable.”

Having thus set forth the tempting qualities of his merchandise, he would appeal to the feelings of his auditors: he would draw terrible pictures of the torments of purgatory, to which they were all exposed, and bright ones of the bliss of the heaven they could so easily purchase; he painted the torments of those already in the fires of hell, and appealed to friends around, to know if they would not buy an indulgence for them—for they could even reach such as had already entered into judgment. “Yes,” said he, “the very moment that the money clinks against the bottom of the chest, the soul escapes from purgatory, and flies free to Heaven!”

Thus every art and device was adopted, to cheat the people into the purchase of these impious, corrupting and fraudulent papers. At the present day, it would be matter of course, that such practices would be punished by confinement in the state’s prison; but at that period, under the high sanction of the church, the fraud was not detected by the mass, and multitudes readily availed themselves of the opportunity to appease their consciences for past crimes, and to fortify themselves in impunity for future iniquity. It is scarcely possible to conceive of the state of darkness into which the minds of men had sunk, at this period. Was it not necessary, that reformation should be wrought in that church, which had brought mankind to this condition?

The people flocked in crowds to Tetzel and his coadjutors. Men and women, the young and the old, the poor, and even beggars, came—and with money too—for such was the eagerness to possess the proffered blessings, that all would in some way obtain the means. Close by the cross, and in the church, the seller had a counter, where he received his money and delivered the indulgences. Confession was administered to the purchaser, but this was a mere form; it was not insisted that penitence must be a condition of pardon. Kings, queens, princes, archbishops and bishops, were to pay twenty-five ducats; abbots, counts, barons, &c., ten ducats. Thus the prices were graduated to the condition of the purchaser; and indeed, special bargains were made suited to the ability of the applicant, and the nature of the sins he wished to expiate.[A]

Although the mass of the people believed in the efficacy of indulgences, and the propriety of their sale, there were many who condemned the whole traffic as a cheat. Among these was a gentleman of Saxony, who heard Tetzel at Leipsic, and was much shocked at the imposture. He went to the church, and asked him if he was authorized to pardon sins of intention—or such as he intended to commit? Tetzel replied in the affirmative, and after some chaffing, the gentleman paid thirty crowns for an indulgence, by which he was to be forgiven for beating one against whom he had a grudge.

Soon after this Tetzel set out from Leipsic, and this Saxon gentleman, overtaking him in the forests of Jutterbock, gave him a severe drubbing, and carried off the box in which he had his treasures. Tetzel raised a great clamor for this act of violence, and brought an action before the judges of the district against the perpetrator. The latter, however, pleaded the indulgence, and was fully acquitted.

Luther, at this time, was professor of Theology at Wittenberg, and he soon had an opportunity of seeing the effects of Tetzel’s operations. Upon some persons under his spiritual charge, he enjoined penance; but they refused to submit to this, declaring that they had been released from every penalty by Tetzel. Luther having denied them absolution, because they would not submit to the prescribed penance, some of them went to Tetzel, and made complaints of Luther. Upon this, the former threatened with punishment, here and hereafter, all those who should deny the efficiency of his indulgences.

(To be continued.)

[A] The following is a copy of an indulgence, in the common form.

“Our Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on thee, N. N., and absolve thee by the merits of his most holy sufferings! And I, in virtue of the apostolic power committed to me, absolve thee from all ecclesiastical censures, judgments and penalties that thou mayest have merited; and further, from all excesses, sins, and crimes, that thou mayest have committed, however great and enormous they may be, and of whatever kind,—even though they should be reserved to our holy father the Pope, and to the Apostolic See. I efface all the stains of weakness, and all traces of the shame that thou mayest have drawn upon thyself by such actions. I remit the pains that thou wouldst have had to endure in purgatory. I receive thee again to the sacraments of the church. I hereby reincorporate thee in the communion of the saints, and restore thee to the innocence and purity of thy baptism; so that, at the moment of death, the gate of the place of torment shall be shut against thee, and the gate of the paradise of joy shall be opened unto thee. And if thou shouldst live long, this grace continueth unchangeable, till the time of thy end.

“In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“The brother, John Tetzel, commissary, hath signed this with his own hand.”

The Two Red Cents.

A grocer in Clinton county sold a drunkard a pint of new rum according to law, and made two red cents clear profit. The drunkard shot his son-in-law while intoxicated; and his apprehension, confinement in jail, execution, &c. cost the county more than one thousand dollars—which temperate men had to earn by the sweat of their brows! What say tax-payers? Are you willing to pay a thousand dollars to enable the grog-seller to make two red cents?

But this case is comparatively nothing when contrasted with a recent transaction about the 1st of July, 1843. An Indian, one of those half-civilized, rum-loving creatures who abound in the West, stepped out of Cataraugus county into the State of Pennsylvania, where, it seems, men are sold indulgences to sin, as well as in the Empire State; and then filled his pocket-bottle with real “Red-eye,” and the seller of the poison made two red cents clear profit again. While under its maddening influence, he went into a farmer’s house near by with whom he was totally unacquainted, and murdered a mother and five children;—all that comprised the little family, except the husband and father, who was from home. When he returned to his little interesting family what a sight met his eyes!—enough, it would seem, to curdle his blood, and change the man to stone. There lay the mother and her five little ones—from ten years of age down to infancy, stretched upon the floor—swimming in blood, and all dead! Oh! what desolation was there!

“No more for him the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

And climb his knee, the envied kiss to share.”

Misgive, that you may not mistake.

Charlotte Corday.

There are few incidents of the French Revolution more intensely interesting than those which relate to Charlotte Corday. Paris was the scene of the most violent commotions that have ever been witnessed in civilized society. All France was agitated with the strife of parties that wrestled with each other in the capital. The hearts of men seemed to be filled with frenzy. The common bonds of society were rent asunder; new and strange ideas took possession of the minds of the people. In the midst of this excitement, and wrought up by the fever of the time, to a design beyond her sex, Charlotte Corday appeared upon the theatre of action, and arrested even the attention of the maddened populace of Paris, by her heroic self-devotion.

The triumph of the Jacobins over the rival Girondists in May, 1793, rendered their power uncontrollable. Marat was treated with more honor and respect than any individual since the revolution, and exerted a sway in the Convention and the clubs more absolute than was ever before known in bodies styled deliberative. In fact, they submitted to all his whims and caprices, and seemed to derive to themselves honor from the submission. His extravagances were more bearable from the obvious certainty that the wretch was hastening to the grave, and that nothing could save him. His constitution was never good, and at this time, he was preyed upon by a leprous complaint; which adding its ravages to his natural deformity and habitual want of personal cleanliness, rendered him a most disgusting object. But this man of blood was not destined to end his days by disease.

Of the Girondists, some were arrested and executed, others succeeded in escaping, and were outlawed. Of this latter class, a number, among them Barbaroux, he whose beauty of person and energy of mind could move the heart of the philosophic Madame Roland, had taken refuge at Caen. They held daily meetings at the town-hall, and thither frequently came Charlotte Corday, a young lady of stately figure, with an open and intelligent countenance, and about twenty-five years of age. Her deportment was modest; she was of studious and meditative habits, and was a republican before the revolution. In her visits to the town-hall, she was always attended by a servant, and her inquiry was for Barbaroux, with whom she had been long acquainted, and with whom she pretended to have business. She now heard much of the atrocities of the Terrorists; of the ferocity of Marat, who held in his hands the destiny of her country, and what was as much to her, the fate of Barbaroux. Patriotism and love both prompted her to the commission of an act, by which, at the sacrifice of her own life, she should be the savior both of her country and her friend.

A nun of Caen was desirous to obtain some family papers which were in the office of the Minister of the Interior at Paris. Charlotte offered to proceed thither to procure them, and was furnished by Barbaroux, with a letter of introduction to his friend Dupenet, who would aid her in procuring them.

On the 9th of July we find her seated in the diligence, and the details of her journey are thus given in a letter to Barbaroux.

“You requested an account of my journey, and I will not excuse you from the slightest anecdotes. I travelled with good mountaineers, whom I suffered to talk as much as they pleased, and their discourse, which was as absurd as their persons were disagreeable, contributed not a little to lull me to sleep. I was not perfectly awake till I arrived at Paris. One of my fellow travellers, who is, undoubtedly an admirer of sleepy women, took me for the daughter of one of his old friends, supposed me possessed of a fortune which I have not, gave me a name which I never heard, and, in conclusion, offered me his hand and fortune. When I was tired of his conversation, I said, ‘We are admirable comedians, what a pity that, with such talents, we have no spectators; I will go and fetch our fellow-travellers, that they may have their share of the amusement.’ I left him in a very ill humor; all night he sung plaintive songs, excellent procreatives of sleep. At length I parted with him at Paris, refusing to give him my address, or that of my father, of whom he wished to ask me in marriage.”

She delivered her letter to Dupenet, and the ostensible object of her journey was accomplished. But she said nothing of returning. She visited the Convention. Marat was not there, he was confined to his house by sickness. She proceeded thither, but was refused admittance.

She returned to her inn, and despatched a note, telling him that she was from Caen, the seat of rebellion; that she desired earnestly to see him, and would put it in his power to do France a great service. She received no answer. She wrote another note still more pressing, and carried it herself to the door. He was just leaving his bath, but her business was urgent, and she was admitted to his presence. “I am from Caen,” said she, “and wished to speak with you.” “Be seated, my child. What are the traitors doing at Caen? What deputies are at Caen?” He took out his tablets, and wrote down the names as Charlotte gave them,—“Louvet, Petion, Barbaroux; I will have them all guillotined at Paris within a fortnight.” “Then you shall precede them,” exclaimed Charlotte, and plunged a dagger through his heart.

She was at once seized and committed to prison. We will again quote from her letter to Barbaroux. “I expected to have been instantly put to death, but some men, truly courageous, preserved me from the excusable rage of those I had rendered unhappy. As I really preserved my presence of mind, I felt hurt at the exclamations of some women, but those who save their country think nothing of the cost. May peace be established as soon as I wish it! For these two days I have enjoyed a delicious state of mental repose. The happiness of my country constitutes mine; there is no act of self-devotion which does not overpay in pleasure, the pain of resolving to adopt it. I never hated but one single being, and I have demonstrated how violent that hatred was. But there are thousands whom I love with more warmth than I hated him. A lively imagination and a feeling heart promise but a stormy life; I beg those who may regret my fate to think of this, and they will rejoice at seeing me enjoy repose in the Elysian fields with Brutus and a few of the ancients. As for the moderns, there are few real patriots, who know how to die for their country; they are almost all selfish. What a people to form a republic! I am exceedingly well accommodated in my prison; the jailors are the best kind of people in the world; to keep away ennui they have placed soldiers in my room. I have no objection to make to this by day, but by night it is not so pleasant. I have complained of the indecency, but no one has thought fit to attend to my remonstrance.... My trial comes on to-morrow at eight; probably at noon, according to the Roman phrase, I shall have lived. I cannot say how I shall encounter my last moments; I have no need to affect insensibility, for I never yet knew the fear of death, and never loved life but in proportion to its possible utility.”

On the 17th of July she was put on trial, and avowed the fact and all the circumstances, alleging, as justification, that she considered Marat a criminal already convicted by public opinion, and that she had a right to put him to death. She added, that she did not expect to have been brought to trial, but to have been delivered up to the rage of the populace, torn to pieces, and that her head, borne on a pike before the corpse of Marat, would have served as a rallying point to Frenchmen, if any still existed worthy of the name.

She was led from the place of trial to that of execution. On the way she displayed a firmness and tranquillity which even awed into silence the poissardes, those furies of the guillotine, who in general pursued the victim to death with execrations and reproaches. She submitted to her fate with the same composure that had marked all her previous conduct.

The circumstances which attended this extraordinary action, the privacy with which it was concerted, the resolution with which it was executed, the openness of confession, the contempt of punishment, and, above all, the execrable character of the monster who was the subject of it, have taken off so much of the horror generally felt at an act of assassination, that the name of Charlotte Corday is generally pronounced with respect and a great degree of admiration.

Grammatical Witticism.—“Bobby, what’s steam?” “Boiling water.” “That’s right. Compare it.” “Positive, boil; comparative, boiler; superlative, burst.”

Conjugal Affection.

CHAPTER I.

One of the most remarkable instances of conjugal affection is furnished by the story of Victoria Colonna, which I will relate.

The Marquis de Colonna was accused by one of the emissaries of the Inquisition, of heresy and treason; and at the instigation of his uncle, Montalbert, who wished to ruin him, through private hatred, Colonna was seized and thrown into a dungeon, his chateau ransacked, and his wife and child were dispossessed of their inheritance.

Colonna had been conveyed to the castle of St. Angelo, and this was all that could be heard respecting him. Whether he had been tried and convicted, could not be learned. He was, in short, as dead to the world and all his family and connections, as if he had suffered the usual lot of mortality; and as such occurrences were by no means uncommon in the Italian states during the reign of papal tyranny, Colonna was speedily forgotten by all except his faithful wife, Victoria.

Although interdicted by the cruel laws of the Inquisition, and threatened with the denunciations of the spiritual pater, Victoria traversed nightly the walls of the great citadel; sometimes wading up to her knees in the Tiber, when making the circuit of the towers and bastions, listening in the midnight hour for the slightest sigh, or footfall, that might reveal to her the cell in which her beloved husband was immured. But for several months, all her efforts to discover it were unavailing. Yet, nothing daunted by want of success, and feeling no love of life but in her husband’s company, the faithful woman still continued in the fond and anxious hope that Heaven would, at its fitting time, listen to her prayers, and that she should again be blessed with a sight of him so dear to her, or that she should at least become acquainted with his fate.

Nor were her hopes in the end disappointed; for, early one morning, as she was finishing her accustomed nightly wanderings round the black and desolate pile, her attention was aroused, about the time of dawn, by the clattering of a chip of a tile from the battlements, which fell close to her feet. She immediately looked for the falling object; her quick hopes immediately surmising it to be some signal from the one she sought. Nor was she disappointed; the tile had been scratched upon by a nail, and on it were inscribed the names of Albert and Victoria. In a moment of rapture, she pressed the tablet to her heart, fell on her knees, and offered her thanks to Heaven. She then turned her eyes toward the lofty towers, and again small fragments of stone were made to descend from a small grating about half way towards the top. “Here then,” she ejaculated, “here is the cell of my beloved husband.” She was confirmed in her thoughts, by perceiving the delicate hand of Albert thrust through the narrow aperture of the bars; and the sight of it so affected her that she fell down in a swoon, overcome with hope and love and joy.

When she recovered, she made the best of her way to her dwelling in the city, and immediately began to concert measures for her husband’s escape. But when she considered the height and thickness of the walls, the vigilance of the guards, the jealousy of the priesthood, the suspicions of her neighbors, and the espionage of the minions of the Inquisition, she almost despaired. Yet, as she fervently trusted in Heaven for aid, she determined to use every effort to accomplish her object, and sat down at once to consider the best means of doing so.

The first difficulty that presented itself was that of establishing communication between herself and the prisoner. This the quickness of her mind immediately overcame; or at least fancied it could. She thought that by raising a small paper kite by the side of the tower, its string might be easily made to pass over the grated aperture of the dungeon. But how was the prisoner to be made acquainted with the operation, which must necessarily be made in darkness, and at a time of night, when people are usually in a deep slumber?

Waving all difficulties, however, she determined to make the attempt on the following night. As soon as it was night, she put on the disguise of one of those miserable wretches who search and prowl about on the muddy banks of the river to pick up the refuse of the city. The wind was fortunately fresh, as it was late in the month of October. She had not forgotten to provide herself with the fragile instrument upon which her hopes were built. It was a small paper kite, formed of oil paper, stretched upon two cross pieces of very fine whalebone; and for a string, she employed the strongest silk she could procure. The kite was with some difficulty at length raised, and fluttered up at the sides of the tower. With great patience and ingenuity, the indefatigable wife brought it close against the grating from which the tile had been thrown. The wind caused it to beat and flutter against the bars. It aroused the prisoner. He put his hand forth, and succeeded in obtaining the kite.

Although all was dark, yet the expectant prisoner had light enough in his own thoughts to see that this was the part of some plan for his deliverance; and he could attribute it to no one but to her whom he knew to be attached to him in life or death. Finding, therefore, the string still held below, he gave it several pulls. This was felt by Victoria, who, overjoyed beyond measure, fastened a note to its extremity, explaining the plan for his escape, and promising on the next night, by the same means, to make another communication; and having so far succeeded, she withdrew.

I need not attempt to describe the feverish anxiety of the following day, both to the prisoner and his wife. To Victoria, as well as to Albert, it was an age in length. At length, however, the night did arrive, and at the accustomed hour, Victoria again raised her little kite, and by this means established a communication as before; and through its instrumentality, she supplied the prisoner with paper and pencil to communicate his wishes and his desires.

On the next night, Albert prepared an account of what had befallen him since the period of his arrest; that he had been three times examined before the Inquisition, and exhorted to confess; that he expected daily again to be summoned; and that he had been threatened to be put to the torture. He also begged her to make herself well acquainted with the plan of the prison, its avenues, passages, and character of its keepers; and if possible, to obtain an admission within the walls.

[To be continued.]

Origin of the flower “Forget-me-not.”—Mills, in his work on chivalry, mentions that the beautiful little flower “forget-me-not,” was known in England as early as Edward the Fourth, and in a note gives the following pretty incident: “Two lovers were loitering along the margin of a lake on a fine summer’s evening, when the maiden discovered some flowers growing in the water close to the bank of an island at some distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to possess them, when her knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into the water, and, swimming to the spot, cropped the wished-for plant; but his strength was unable to fulfil the object of his achievement; and feeling that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he threw the flowers on the bank, and casting a last affectionate look on his lady-love, said, ‘Forget me not,’ and was buried in the water.”

Pigs.—The editor of the New York Sunday Mercury appears to hold young pigs in very high esteem, having dedicated a piece of poetry entirely to juvenile porkers. He intimates, however, that he should like them better, if they didn’t make hogs of themselves when they grew up.

Frederick II.

This king of Prussia, who acquired the title of the great, was born on the 24th of January, 1712. He was reared in the school of adversity; his father, Frederick William, being a brutal tyrant, even in his own family. To escape from this domestic tyranny, which was almost insupportable, he planned a clandestine flight from Prussia, with a confidant by the name of De Katt. His father discovered this before it could be carried into effect. The consequence was, that Frederick was arrested along with his friend, and both were instantly tried before an obedient court-martial, which condemned them to death. This sentence would have been carried into effect against the Prince, but for the interposition of Charles the VIth, of Austria, to whose earnest entreaties Frederick William at length yielded, with the prophetic remark that “Austria would one day discover what a serpent she had nourished in her bosom.”

The prince, however, suffered a long and severe imprisonment, in the fort of Custrin, where, as if to aggravate his punishment, the unfortunate De Katt was beheaded on a scaffold, raised before his apartment, to the level of the window, from which he was compelled to witness this cruel and afflicting spectacle. His subsequent treatment in prison was as harsh and severe as that of the meanest felon, and a considerable time elapsed before he found the means of softening its rigor.

This was at length managed through the instrumentality of a Baron Wrech, whose family lived in the neighborhood, and who, at considerable risk as well as expense, furnished him with books, music, and other comforts. By degrees he so gained upon his gaoler, that he was permitted, under cover of the night, to visit at the Baron’s residence; and as the young Wrechs were sprightly and accomplished, as well as anxious to serve him, they got up little concerts for his amusement. In this way, for upwards of a year, his imprisonment was greatly ameliorated.

The old king at last relented, and Frederick obtained his liberty; but it was only on the special condition that he married Elizabeth Christina, a princess of the house of Brunswick. This forced marriage proved utterly abortive of the object intended by the tyrannical old match-maker, for Frederick never lived with the princess, although, through life, he treated her with the greatest respect. She was a woman of meritorious conduct, but quite destitute of personal attractions.

Frederick’s marriage took place in 1732, and from that time till the death of his father in 1740, he resided at Rheinsberg, a village some leagues from Berlin. During this interval of eight years, he devoted himself chiefly to literary pursuits, and wrote his Anti-Machiavel, and Reflections on the Character of Charles XII. The social circle with which he was connected at this time, consisted mostly of learned and ingenious Frenchmen, and probably that circumstance contributed to imbue him with the strong predilection which he ever afterwards displayed in favor of everything French.

His accession to the throne in 1740, brought at once into action the whole energies of his character. He himself entered personally upon all the duties, usually committed by kings to their ministers; and in order to accomplish the multiplicity of business which thus devolved upon him, he laid down strict rules for the appropriation of his time, to which he ever afterwards scrupulously adhered. He rose regularly at four in the morning, occupying but a few minutes with his dress, of which, however, he was careless even to slovenliness; and this practice he continued till a late period of his life.

The details of a peaceful administration were, however, found quite inadequate to the activity of his mind. Accordingly, in the first year of his reign, he resolved on war; but, unfortunately for his character, it was a war of aggression—a war, too, against a female, and the heir of the very house which had saved him from the scaffold. He resolved to wrest Silesia from Maria Theresa, of Austria, and in less than two years he accomplished this object, the province being ceded to him by the treaty of Breslaw, in 1742. It has ever since continued to form a part of the Prussian dominions.

The acquisition of Silesia, and the grasping policy of Frederick seem to have excited the jealousy of other European powers, as well as the enmity of Austria; for a new war broke out in 1742, in which, after a good deal of bloodshed, Prussia was again victorious, and had the possession of Silesia confirmed to her by a new treaty.

In the succeeding ten years, Frederick sedulously cultivated the arts of peace, and by adhering strictly to the systematic apportionment of his time, he was enabled to exercise a personal superintendence over every department of government, without abridging either his pleasures or amusements, and without the slightest abandonment of his literary pursuits. He carried on an extensive correspondence with Voltaire, and several of the most distinguished literati of Europe. He wrote the History of his own Times, and Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg; and he re-established the Academy of Sciences of Berlin. It was in the interval of peace, too, that he invited Voltaire, and other literary characters to reside at his capital. The visit of that extraordinary man, and its result, are well known. The quarrel between him and Frederick, and the terms on which they parted, were little creditable to either; and, besides, they very clearly proved to the world, that in the business of life, philosophers are not superior to ordinary men.

The most important portion, however, of all Frederick’s labors during these ten years of peace, was his civil administration. It comprehended various useful reforms, and the introduction of numerous improvements, for the benefit of the people. He was zealous in the cause of education, and in the establishment of schools and professorships. He also caused the laws to be revised and a new code to be prepared, which, after much labor, was effected, and it still goes under his name. This code abolished torture, and recognized universal toleration in religion. Perhaps the general character of the jurisprudence he established, may be best gathered from his celebrated instruction to the judges:—“If a suit arise between me and one of my subjects, and the case is a doubtful one, always decide against me.”

In the midst of all his improvements, Frederick was again roused to war. He had been advised that Austria, Russia, and Saxony had entered into a treaty for the conquest and partition of his territories. He demanded an explanation from the court of Vienna, which, being unsatisfactory, he immediately struck the first blow by marching an army into Saxony, and taking possession of it almost unopposed. Thus commenced the celebrated “seven years’ war,” the result of which, after numerous battles, and an incredible waste of human life and treasure, was a treaty which again confirmed Prussia in the possession of Silesia, and established the reputation of Frederick as the greatest military genius of the age.

The next ten years were spent in efforts to repair the devastation and misery which Prussia had suffered by the war. Among other ameliorations, may be mentioned his emancipation of the peasantry, from hereditary servitude, which he began by giving up his own signorial rights over the serfs on the crown domains. A good deal of his time was also devoted to literary pursuits, as it was during this period that he wrote his “History of the Seven Years’ War.”

In 1772 he became a party to the partition of Poland, and shared largely in the spoil, as well as in the disgrace of that infamous political robbery. In 1778, he was again in hostility with Austria, respecting the succession to Bavaria, which that power, at the death of the Elector, without issue, proposed on some antiquated, feudal grounds, to re-annex to her own dominions. This war was of short duration, Frederick being successful in settling the question by treaty. In 1785, he had another dispute with Austria, in which he appeared as the defender of the Germanic Confederation, and the rights of its several princes. Here he was also successful, the emperor Joseph yielding the question at issue, without having recourse to arms.

Frederick was now getting old, and his constitution had begun to decay. He also suffered occasionally from gout, the necessary consequence of rich diet and high-seasoned cookery, to which he was all his life exceedingly partial. He had, moreover, a voracious appetite, and he constantly indulged it to repletion. This brought on a complication of disorders, under which he suffered severely, though he never once uttered a complaint, but continued his public services with as much zeal and anxiety, as when in perfect health. He continued to do so up to August, 1786, when a confirmed dropsy having supervened, he fell into a lethargy on the 16th of that month, and expired during the night.

An impartial reviewer of the reign of Frederick, will discard all that is attractive or dazzling in his character, either from his talents as an accomplished warrior, or his wit as a man of letters. He will consider him simply as a ruler of a nation, and a member of the great European community. In that view it is impossible to deny that his administration of affairs was singularly marked by promptitude and energy. Wherever active exertions were required, or could ensure success, he generally prevailed; and to use the words of an elegant writer, “as he was in all things a master of those inferior abilities which are denominated address, it is not wonderful that he was uniformly fortunate in the cabinets of his neighbors.” His reign, however, with all its glory, and all its success, both in diplomacy and war, was a memorable proof that the happiness of the people is of little consequence, even to an enlightened despot, when balanced either against his cupidity or his ambition. It was these qualities alone that embroiled Frederick with his neighbors; and we have only to turn to his own works for a melancholy confession of the disastrous consequences which were thus entailed upon his subjects.

“The state of Prussia,” says he, in his history of his own times, “can only be compared to that of a man riddled with wounds, weakened by the loss of blood, and ready to sink under the weight of his misfortunes. The nobility were exhausted, the commons ruined, numerous villages were burnt, and many towns were nearly depopulated. Civil order was lost in a total anarchy; in fact, the desolation was universal.” In this candid exposure of the consequences of his own policy, Frederick has given the true character of his reign. Such were the results of a successful career of conquest; one which is often regarded as the most brilliant in the annals of mankind—one which conferred the title of “the great,” on the chief actor; and one which has been the almost unbounded theme of eulogy. He increased his kingdom by twenty thousand square miles; left seventy millions of Prussian dollars in the treasury, and an army of two hundred thousand men; yet, while the government was thus enriched and strengthened, we see by the monarch’s own confession, how the people had suffered.

There is abundant evidence that Frederick was a man of art and learning; and we know that he possessed the most unbounded influence over his soldiery. Before the battle of Rostorth, which led to the most celebrated of all the king of Prussia’s victories, Frederick addressed his little army, not amounting to more than twenty-five thousand men, in nearly the following words: “My brave soldiers—the hour is coming, in which all that is, and all that ought to be, dear to us, depends upon the swords that are now drawn for the battle. Time permits me to say but little, nor is there occasion to say much. You know that there is no labor, no hunger, no cold, no watching, no danger, that I have not shared with you, hitherto; and you now see me ready to lay down my life with you and for you. All I ask is the same pledge of fidelity and affection that I give. Acquit yourselves like men, and put your confidence in God.”

The effect of this speech was indescribable. The soldiers answered it by a universal shout, and their looks and demeanor became animated to a sort of heroic frenzy. Frederick led on his troops in person, exposed to the hottest of the fire. The enemy for a few moments made a gallant resistance; but, overwhelmed by the headlong intrepidity of the Prussians, they at length gave way in every part, and fled in the utmost disorder. Night alone saved from destruction the scattered remains of an army, which, in the morning, was double the number of its conquerors.

There are some anecdotes which exhibit the conqueror in a still more pleasing light. He was fond of children, and the young princes, his nephews, had always access to him. One day, while he was writing in his cabinet where the eldest of them was playing with a ball, it happened to fall on the table; the king threw it on the floor, and wrote on; presently after, the ball again fell on the table; he threw it away once more, and cast a serious look on the child, who promised to be more careful, and continued his play. At last, the ball unfortunately fell on the very paper on which the king was writing, who, being a little out of humor, put the ball in his pocket. The little prince humbly begged pardon, and entreated to have his ball again, which was refused. He continued some time praying for it in a very piteous manner, but all in vain. At last, grown tired of asking, he placed himself before his majesty, put his little hand to his side, and said, with a menacing look and tone, “Do you choose, sire, to restore the ball, or not?” The king smiled, took the ball from his pocket, and gave it to the prince, with these words: “Thou art a brave fellow; Silesia will never be retaken while thou art alive.”

During his last illness, he endured many restless nights, which he endeavored to soothe by conversing with the servant who chanced to sit up with him. On one of these occasions, he inquired of an honest young Pomeranian from whence he came? “From a little village in Pomerania.” “Are your parents living?” “An aged mother.” “How does she maintain herself?” “By spinning.” “How much does she gain daily by it?” “Sixpence.” “But she cannot live well on that.” “In Pomerania, it is cheap living.” “Did you never send her anything?” “O, yes; I have sent her at different times a few dollars.” “That was bravely done; you are a good boy. You have a deal of trouble with me. Have patience. I shall endeavor to lay something by for you, if you behave well.” The monarch kept his word; for, a few nights after, the Pomeranian being again in attendance, received several pieces of gold, and heard, to his great joy and surprise, that one hundred six dollars had been settled on his mother during her life.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER VI.

Deliverance—arrival at a strange place—sickness—kindness among strangers—account of Maroontown.

The rushing sound that filled my ears, as I fainted and fell to the earth before the terrific image of the monster that threatened me with instant death, was occasioned by the discharge of a musket. How often does it happen that Providence interposes to save us, when there appears to be no help at hand, and hope itself has departed. A negro hunter happened to be passing at the precise moment that the serpent was about to rush upon me, and crush me in its folds. I was concealed from his view by the bushes that intervened; but he saw the threatening attitude of the reptile, and knew that it was about to strike upon some object near at hand. The huntsman was on horseback, but the serpent was so intent upon its prey, that it allowed the man to approach within a few yards. He then levelled his gun, and the discharge nearly severed its head from the body. The convulsions of the dying monster lashed the earth, and tore the adjacent herbage, while the space around was covered with blood. These struggles gradually subsided; the form was stretched out at length upon the ground in a waving line, and, except a tremulous motion along the back, and a faint vibration of the tail, the creature ceased to move.

Of this scene, I was, however, wholly unconscious. The negro, in looking about for the object of the serpent’s meditated blow, soon discovered me. He raised my head from the earth, and, after a few moments, I slowly recovered my senses. When my eyes first fell upon the face of the negro, his head covered with an immense palm-leaf hat, a strange fancy crossed my mind. I conceived myself to be in the coils of the serpent, and the countenance of the negro seemed to be the image of my destroyer. But this illusion quickly passed away, and I speedily realized my deliverance. A sense of unspeakable joy thrilled through my heart, and I burst into a flood of tears. I was utterly unable to speak, but I clasped the hands of the negro, who was kneeling by me, and showed in his countenance the utmost sympathy and kindness. Never have I felt toward any human being a more grateful emotion, than toward my kind-hearted preserver at that moment.

I was soon able to get upon my feet, but when I saw the outstretched form of the serpent, and beheld the traces of blood, and the earth torn by its dying agony, a faintness again came over me, and I should have fallen to the ground, but for the support afforded by my protector. He now spoke to me, but in a language which I did not understand. He seemed to comprehend my situation, however, and, placing me upon the saddle of his horse, he mounted behind me. After winding through the shrubbery for a short distance, we came to a pathway along which we proceeded for the space of an hour, during which the negro paid the utmost attention to my weakness. He held me upon the saddle, kept the somewhat impatient steed in a walk, and did all in his power to render my situation comfortable.

I now observed that we were emerging from the forest, and that cultivated fields were opening before us. I noticed plantations upon the hill sides, and, at a little distance, I perceived scattered dwellings. These, however, were of a very humble cast, the sides seeming to consist of stakes woven together with palm leaves, and the roofs to be made either of palm leaves or straw. As we passed along, I noticed a number of negroes engaged in various occupations; but I discovered no white people. The population increased as we proceeded, and when at last we entered a long, irregular street, the inhabitants seemed to swarm like a bee-hive. Never have I seen such a strange spectacle. The town consisted of huts, such as I have described, and the people were all black. I had no difficulty in coming to the conclusion that this was Maroontown—the negro settlement, through which I had expected to pass on my journey.

As we proceeded through the street of the town, we soon attracted attention, and I became the special object of curiosity. There were great numbers of children, and being entirely naked, they looked like so many little monkeys. Many of them were lying down at their ease; others were skipping and frisking about like squirrels. Many of these began to follow us, and when once a train had formed behind us, the plot seemed to thicken, and we were soon surrounded by a throng of all sizes and sexes. These flowed onward, leaping, shouting, babbling, laughing and dancing, and performing all sorts of antics.

At length we reached a hovel of somewhat better appearance than the rest. Here my guide dismounted, and, clearing a space among the babbling crowd, partly by threats, and partly by blows, he took me from the horse, and carried me into the dwelling. Placing me upon a bed of straw, he drove out the children that had rushed into the room, and fastened the entrance. He then spoke to his wife and daughter, no doubt giving an account of the manner in which he had discovered me. I became the immediate object of the care and kindness of the two women. They provided for me some rice broth, of which I ate a little, and, overpowered with fatigue, I fell asleep. My slumbers, however, were disturbed, and my mind was agitated with terrific dreams. Worn out with suffering of mind and body, my constitution gave way, and I fell into a raging fever.

During the period of my disease, I had little consciousness, and I have but faint remembrances of what passed. In the lucid intervals which visited me, I could always perceive some one of the kind family watching at my bedside, ready and prompt to attend to all my wants and wishes. For the space of three weeks, I remained in a critical condition, apparently hovering upon the narrow line between life and death. Owing, however, to the prescriptions of a black physician, who attended upon me with great care, and the affectionate nursing of my friends, aided by my elastic constitution, the disease was at last conquered, and I began to revive from my prostrate condition. I was, indeed, wasted to a shadow, and when the fever left me, I could not lift my arm from the bed, nor turn my head upon the pillow. During this period of excessive weakness, I was as tenderly treated, as if I had been an infant, and the heir of the house. Somebody was always at my bedside to wet my parched lips with lemonade, to bathe my forehead, or aid me to change my position. The rough, burly master of the hovel, when called upon to lift me from my bed, seemed to have a new sense of gentleness infused into his clumsy hands and arms.

Under these kindly auspices, when once my disease had left me, I gradually acquired strength, and, in the space of a fortnight was able to totter to the door. I was led out by the two women, and, as I gazed around upon the uncouth scene, the ragged, irregular tenements, and the half-naked inhabitants, it still seemed as though I was breathing the air, and gazing on the landscapes of a sort of paradise. Such was the cheering influence of that sense of returning health, which flowed through my youthful veins.

I now began to make some acquaintances among the people; their language was Dutch, with a mixture of negro and Indian gibberish. Of this, I understood nothing, except the names of a few familiar objects, which I gradually learned. At length, however, I met with a woman, who had been a servant in an English family, and could converse in the English tongue. From her I learned the history of this curious settlement. It seems to have sprung up from the slaves that escaped from their masters at Paramaribo, and the plantations along the Surinam. These were hunted by the white people, and shot down like wild animals, or, if captured, were subjected to the most cruel punishments, and the rigors of slavery were rendered still more severe. The number of these fugitives constantly increased. For a time, indeed, they wandered in the forests, often alone, and reduced to a state of wildness, like the native animals of the woods.

But they soon associated together, and, by their union and numbers, became formidable to their oppressors. They retired to a considerable distance from the Dutch settlements, and, occupying a fertile tract of country, erected such slight habitations as their means afforded, and the climate required. They began to till the soil, and bountiful nature returned an abundant harvest for their efforts. They increased rapidly, and in process of years they established a government suited to their condition. By degrees the hostility between them and the Dutch settlement subsided, and amicable intercourse commenced, and at the time I was there, a considerable traffic was carried on between the inhabitants of Maroontown and those of Paramaribo. The settlement continues to the present time to consist entirely of a negro population, living in the heart of Guiana, almost without the mixture of foreign blood. Their manners are rather those of Africa than America. We shall have something more to say of this strange place in another chapter.

(To be continued.)

The Law of Honor.

A FABLE.

Two musquitoes met upon a cabbage-leaf one fine summer’s morning, glutted with the spoils of the preceding evening. Flushed with success, and anxious for battle, they began to eye each other with no very gentle looks. Still they had no pretence upon which to begin shedding each other’s blood, till one of them ran out his sting, and began to whet it and put it in order for the first emergency. “Do you run your sting out at me?” said the other. “That’s just as you please to take it.” “Sir, that’s a downright insult.” “Very well, sir, I can’t help that.” “Draw, then, and defend yourself!” Upon this challenge, like other duellists, they made a great bluster, and while they prepared for battle with an air of great courage, meanly took great pains to get the advantage of ground and position. After several passes, one was mortally wounded: they then made up, and while one expired, the other, in the most chivalrous manner, said he was a gentleman. So the musquito died with satisfaction.

House in Cairo.

Kahira, or Cairo.

This city, which is the capital of Modern Egypt, is situated in a plain between the eastern bank of the river Nile and the ridge of Mokattam. It occupies about three square miles, and is surrounded by a wall, and commanded by a large citadel, where the pacha resides. The streets are unpaved and narrow, some of them having rows of shops on each side.

The roofs of the houses are flat, and covered with plaster. The ground floor apartments next the street have small wooden grated windows; but those of the upper stories are formed of wooden lattice-work, which is so close that it shuts out much of the light of the sun, but admits the air. In the better houses, the windows are furnished with frames of glass in the inside; these are closed in the winter.

There are many public buildings in Kahira. The mosques are numerous, and some of them distinguished for their size, architecture, and great age. There are also many public baths, which are handsomely ornamented and painted, and in some parts paved with marble. The public gardens are filled with groves of orange and lemon trees, and the cemeteries are also much used as promenades.

The population is estimated at twenty-four thousand, consisting of natives, Jews and strangers. The police maintained in the metropolis is tolerably strict. Malefactors are mostly employed in the public works.

Kahira still maintains the reputation of being the best school of Arabic literature, theology and jurisprudence. Schools for children are very numerous; almost every mosque has a koottab, or day school attached to it, in which children are instructed in reading the Koran, and in writing and arithmetic.

A Patagonian.

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER VII.
CHILI.

Chili lies south of Peru, and is a narrow tract about twelve hundred miles in length, between the Pacific ocean and the Andes. It has a climate remarkably fine and salubrious, and a soil which is very fertile. It seldom rains there, but the dews are abundant. In several parts of the Andes, volcanoes yearly spout forth their fires, and earthquakes are frequent and severe.

Chili was conquered by the Spaniards many years since; but the conquest was achieved with much difficulty. In the native Chilese they found a bold and intrepid people, who fought with desperate courage, and continued the war for fifty years.

The Spaniards who have settled Chili, live principally in the northern part. With these have mingled a few English, French and Italians.

The Creoles, or the descendants of the Spaniards, are generally well made, honorable, intrepid and liberal; yet vain and fond of pleasure. The men generally dress in the French fashion; the women in that of Peru. But the Chilese ladies wear long gowns, and have a more modest air. The Creole population are very extravagant in dress and in their manner of living. The common people of the country lead a happy and tranquil life. They are somewhat gay, and fond of music and poetry.

About one half of Chili is still possessed by tribes of the Aborigines, who are called Araucanians. In many respects they are an interesting people. They are not tall, but strong and robust, and intrepid warriors, devoted to their country, and prodigal of their lives. They are courteous, hospitable, faithful to their engagements, grateful for benefits, and generous and humane towards the vanquished. Many of them, however, are addicted to gaming and drunkenness. Great feasts are sometimes made by them, on which occasions they are guilty of a most wasteful prodigality.

They are copper-colored, but somewhat lighter than most of the northern and central tribes. Their face is nearly round, eyes small, noses flattened, but the mouth well made, and the teeth white and uniform. They have long, black hair. They pluck out their beards by the roots. Many of the women are handsome; are seldom gray before sixty or seventy, nor bald before eighty. It is not uncommon to find among them persons of more than a hundred years, retaining their teeth, and sight, and memory unimpaired.

Of their dress, we shall only say, that it is generally tight or compact, consisting of a shirt, with breeches, and a mantle reaching to the knee. These are generally of wool, and of a blue color; though the mantle is sometimes red or white. They ornament their heads with plumes of feathers. The women wear a gown reaching to the feet, but without sleeves. It is bound round the waist with a girdle, confined by a silver clasp in front. Their hair is left to fall on their shoulders, and is decorated with brilliant stones. Bracelets, necklaces, and rings are also worn, and most of the lower classes have ornaments of silver.

These people do not live in villages, but their habitations are generally at a distance from each other, on the banks of rivers. These are commonly surrounded with trees, under the shade of which the family take their meals. Many of the men have several wives, each of whom daily presents her husband with a dish of food, cooked at her own fire. The Araucanians are distinguished for their horsemanship and for their eloquence. For this last, their language is well adapted.

PATAGONIA.

Patagonia is the most southern country in South America. It has never been much explored; so that we can say but little more about it, than that the northern parts have a milder climate and a more productive soil than the southern parts, which are intensely cold. It is as cold there as Cape Horn, or as it is in the northern part of Canada. Of the inhabitants, also, we can give no very particular account. Some Europeans, however, have visited them, during their voyages of trade or discovery.

In 1764, Commodore Byron landed in Patagonia, and had an interview with the natives. They have always been said to be giants, and he found them to be so. They seemed to him to be generally six feet and a half high, and some of them quite seven feet. The tallest Americans are seldom over six feet; generally not more than five feet, and seven and ten inches.

He found them not only thus tall, but very robust. Only their hands and feet are small. They are a warlike tribe, yet courteous and humane. In their complexion, they are copper-colored. They have straight, black, and coarse hair, usually tied behind with a string. They paint themselves with circles round the eyes, and with various colors. Their teeth are exceedingly white, and remarkably even and well set.

Their dress is made of the skin of the guanaco, sewed together into pieces about six feet long and five broad, which are wrapped as a cloak round their body. The upper part, however, falls back, and thus exposes the neck and shoulders to the weather, and makes them look almost naked. They appear to eat raw flesh of animals. They are excellent horsemen, and will pursue their game on horseback, in places of danger, where an American would be afraid to go.

In 1766, Captain Welles visited Patagonia, and while there, he took several of the people on board his ship; but he was surprised to find that they had no curiosity about anything, excepting a looking-glass, before which they danced and played a thousand tricks.

TERRA DEL FUEGO.

Of Terra del Fuego and its inhabitants, we know still less than of Patagonia, and the people of that country. It is an island, separated from Cape Horn by a strait, called the straits of Magellan, after the navigator who first discovered it. The same navigator gave the name of Terra del Fuego to the island. It signifies “the land of fire,” and was given to the island because he and his men discovered on it numerous fires, which proceeded from volcanoes.

The island is a dreary region; bleak, barren, and mountainous. Winter reigns here nearly the whole year round. The inhabitants are of a middle stature, with broad faces, flat noses, and high cheekbones. They paint their bodies, which are naturally fair, and what clothes they wear are made of seals’ skins. Shell fish is their principal food. Their huts are miserable shelters, built in a conical form, or much like a tunnel.

The inhabitants of the north seem to be quite different from those of the south. The former are said to be cruel and treacherous; the latter harmless and simple. They are alike destitute of curiosity, however, and although the climate is extremely cold, they go almost naked.

Small Matters.—The nerve of a tooth, not as large as the finest cambric needle, will sometimes drive a strong man to distraction. A musqueto can make an elephant absolutely mad. The coral rock, causing a navy to founder, is the work of worms. The warrior that withstood death in a thousand forms may be killed by an insect. The deepest wretchedness results from a perpetual continuance of petty trials. A chance look from those we love, often produces exquisite pain or unalloyed pleasure.

“Take your time,” as the man said, when he returned a borrowed watch.

The Bat Family.

The family of bats is very numerous, and some of its members are queer characters, as we shall presently show. They have puzzled the naturalists not a little; for while they have the structure of quadrupeds, they have the motion of birds. They are the only creatures that unite these two qualities. There are such things, indeed, as flying squirrels, and flying opossums, but these do not raise themselves by wings; they only support their bodies by spreading out skinny membranes on either side, in descending from an elevation, and are thus able to make a long, sloping leap.

The bat, on the contrary, raises himself into the air by his wings, and glances about hither and thither, with all the ease and vivacity of a bird. Yet this creature has no feathers. He is covered with hair, and when his skinny wings are folded up, he looks very much like a mouse or a mole. He even squeaks like a mouse, and thus an appearance of veracity is given to the fable of La Fontaine. In this, the bat is represented as having, on a certain occasion, got into the nest of a weasel, the sworn enemy of birds. When the weasel was about to destroy him as one of the feathered tribe, the little fellow escaped by representing himself to be a mouse. Afterwards, coming in the way of the cat, he was upon the point of being devoured as a mouse; but he now showed his wings, and was let off, on the plea of being a bird.

In a former number, we have spoken of the vampire, which is found in Guiana, and have made mention, also, of certain other species of this curious tribe.

We now proceed to speak of the general habits of the whole race. They frequent caverns, dark ravines, and crevices of rocks. Here they sleep by day, but, as evening approaches, they sally forth, pursuing such insects as have not gone to their repose. They are active and busy during the warm season, but when the cold evenings of autumn set in, they retire to their dim retreats, where they often cluster together by hundreds. Here they remain in a dormant state during the winter. In this condition they show the greatest sensibility to the touch, and their bodies even shrink from the approach of the hand, before it comes in contact with the body. Yet nothing can rouse them from their profound sleep.

There are nearly one hundred and fifty different kinds of bats. In this country they are small in size, and comparatively few in number. In tropical regions they are more numerous, and in some places, they fill the air so thickly, as to increase the gloom of twilight. In India there is a species, called flying foxes, whose outstretched wings measure six feet from tip to tip.

Joshua commanding the Sun and Moon to stand still.

One of the most remarkable events mentioned in Scripture, is that to which the preceding picture relates. It has often been the subject of the painter’s pencil, and gives ample scope for the exercise of his highest talent. The story, as related in the tenth chapter of Joshua, presents a scene of the utmost sublimity. The Israelites having fled out of Egypt, after forty years’ wandering, had been conducted by Moses to the borders of Canaan. This great leader having died in the land of Moab, Joshua became the chief of the nation. Under his guidance they entered the promised land. In the course of their march they were met by the kings of the Amorites, who attacked them in the mountains. Encouraged by divine assurance of success, Joshua withstood the host, and a terrible conflict ensued. The Israelites prevailed, and a miracle, or what seemed a miracle, was wrought in behalf of Joshua and his army. The Amorites were defeated, and Joshua, obeying the divine command, stretched forth his hand, and said, “Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou moon in the valley of Ajalon!” Obedient to this injunction, the sun and the moon paused in their course; the day was prolonged, and the Israelites continued to pursue and cut down their enemies.

There is something in the idea of a great battle, where thousands of men are engaged in the deadly conflict, and of which the Creator is a spectator, and at whose command even the mighty orbs which give light and heat to the universe are stayed in their path, which excites the imagination, and lifts the mind to the loftiest pitch of excitement. The subject is, indeed, almost too grand for human conception, and not even the creative pencil of the painter can fully master it.

Our Correspondence.

The following letter is a sweet one, as our readers will see, before they get through. The writers may rest assured that they will be forgiven, if they put their threat in execution respecting the barrel of sugar. We should like the description of the process of making the article, very much; and it is very likely, when we get it, that we shall hitch a first-rate story upon it.

Baton Rouge, La., April, 1844.

Mr. Robert Merry: Sir,—We take pleasure in declaring to you that your name and the fame of your periodical have at length reached us here in the far south-west. And from the spirit of kind good-nature which seems to mark all your communications with your young friends, we are ready to think that you will not spurn the salutations of your new acquaintances in Louisiana. Though this may be the first voice from the “Creole State,” we hope it will not be the last. We would have you and all your readers down east, and north, and all other parts of our great country, understand that we are not exactly in a barbarous state—nor approaching it—as we mean to show by patronizing the Museum.

That good old gentleman, Peter Parley, has long since become a favorite among us; and it was only necessary to be informed that you were his near kinsman or intimate friend, that you enjoyed his confidence, and are even intrusted with all the precious relics left by him,—to secure you the most ready reception and all that generous hospitality in which the people of our state abound. We have often heard of that place “away down east,” called Boston; and especially how many fine schools, and books, and all such useful things, our young friends there enjoy; and since we found out the characters of Peter Parley and Robert Merry among others of your distinguished citizens, our curiosity is more excited, and, no doubt, many of us will be led to come and see that part of the land if we live to grow up. But if we do, we wish very much not to appear behind others of your black-eyed and blue-eyed friends in intelligence. Therefore we mean to have your interesting and instructive publication, which, with other improvements that are being made in our means of instruction, we think, will help us to keep up with the age, and prepare to act our part as well as the Yankee boys and girls.

Now we don’t like to make promises, any more than yourself; but just to encourage you we will give you a hint at least. You know we raise sugar cane in this state; and we are told that you and your northern readers know nothing about making sugar, but only eating it. Now, if you have a sweet tooth, (for we hope you havn’t become toothless yet,) you wouldn’t despise a barrel of the finest sugar or the best sirop from some plantation in this vicinity—if you should happen to find one on some of your Boston ships, especially, should it be accompanied by a description of the process of making it, for the benefit of all your little sweet-loving readers. Hoping, then, that you will punctually furnish us, as well as your older and nearer admirers, with all the good things you are wont to distribute, we make our bow as

Your New Readers of Baton Rouge.

We thank Pierce L. H. of Brooklyn, N. York, and our friend P., for their communications.

Sarah C. F. is satisfied with our reasons why the eastern coast of America has a colder climate than the western coast of Europe, but wonders that Kamskatka is so much colder than Alaska—both being in the same latitude. She will find an explanation in the fact that the latter is a mere island, and the surrounding ocean moderates and equalizes the temperature. Kamskatka, it is true, is near the sea, but it is contiguous to Siberia, which is an extensive mass of unbroken land, which is always colder than the sea.

We thank H. L. P——, Jane S——r, M. A. K., and John P——e, for their several communications. We hope S—— will comply with his promise, and tell us about the salt works of Syracuse.

We are obliged to omit, this month, a wild story of Bill Keeler’s, called Dirk Heldriver; a tale by the Old Man in the Corner, and something about Inquisitive Jack. They shall come next time.

Happiness.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB.

1. There is a spell in every flow’r,

A sweetness in each spray,

And every simple bird has pow’r

To please me with his lay.

And there is music on each breeze

That sports along the glade;

The crystal dew-drops on the trees

Are gems, by Fancy made.

There’s gladness too in everything,

And beauty over all

For everywhere comes on with spring

A charm which cannot pall!

And I!—my heart is full of joy,

And gratitude is there,

That He, who might my life destroy,

Has yet vouchsafed to spare.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. AUGUST, 1844. No. 2.

August.

This is the eighth month of the year, and derived its name from Augustus, emperor of Rome. In England it is the month of harvest, and the old Saxons used to call it arm-month, arm being the word for harvest. It is everywhere a busy season, and is thus noticed by an old poet:

The ears are filled, the fields are white,

The constant harvest-moon is bright;

To grasp the bounty of the year,

The reapers to the scene repair,

With hook in hand and bottles slung,

And dowlas scups beside them hung,—

The sickles stubble all the ground,

And filful hasty laps go round;

The meals are done, as soon as tasted,

And neither time nor viands wasted.

The fifth day of August is noticed in England for two reasons: it is the birthday of Saint James, and oysters on this day come into use. They are not allowed to be eaten, by order of parliament, till this time, as they are deemed unwholesome during the summer. The event is thus celebrated by the rhymester:

Green groves rise at dawn of sun,

August fifth! come, haste away!

To Billingsgate the thousands run;

’Tis oyster day!—’tis oyster day!

Now, at the corner of the street,

With oysters fine the tent is filled;

The cockney stops to have a treat,

Prepared by one in opening skilled.

Shake off the beard—as quick as thought

The pointed knife divides the flesh;—

What plates are laden, loads are brought,

And eaten raw, and cold, and fresh!

The tenth of August is the festival of St. Lawrence. He suffered martyrdom at Rome, being roasted to death on a red-hot grate of iron. The church of St. Lawrence in London is dedicated to him, and has a gridiron on the steeple for a vane.

The fifteenth of this month is what is called Assumpsion day by the Catholics. It is a great festival with them, and is designed to commemorate the assumption, or taking up of the Virgin Mary into heaven. It is one of the most famous of the Romish festivals, and is celebrated in France, Italy, and other Catholic countries, with processions, songs, ceremonies, and every variety of religious pageantry.

If we may be permitted to say a word to the farmers, we would advise them to declare a war of extermination on the thistles in and about their premises. It is said by some correct cultivators, that if the Canada thistle is cut in August, before its seed is ripe, it will die in an accommodating manner; because the stalk, which is hollow, will fill with water and destroy the root.

It is also said, if you cut bushes in the old of the moon in August, you will destroy them root and branch. We doubt if the moon will interfere in the matter; but August is the best time for cutting bushes, because vegetation having come to a close for the season, the bushes will not so readily sprout again from the roots.

Bill and the Boys.

DIRK HELDRIVER.

I recollect, one winter evening, when Bill and myself, with three or four young companions, were assembled around the fire of the “Cock and Bull,” it chanced to be Bill’s turn to tell a story. It was a wild night, for the wind blew, and the sleet rattled against the windows, as the heavy gusts swept round the corner of the old tavern. When Bill was about to begin his story, I could see that his cheek was a little pale, and his eye glistened as if there were something extraordinary in his mind. At length, he began, and related the following story, as nearly as I can recollect it.

About sixty miles north of the city of New York, a range of lofty highlands crosses the Hudson, nearly from west to east, which passes under the name of the Fishkill mountains. The river has cut away this mighty barrier for the space of two or three miles, but it rises on either side and lifts its blue summits almost to the clouds. At the foot of the eastern portion of this range is now the pretty village of Fishkill, and scattered along the banks of the river are the luxurious country-seats of the De Wints, Verplancks, and other old Dutch families.

But our story goes back for nearly a century, to a period when there were only a few scattered settlements along the banks of this noble river, and while yet the savage, the bear, and the panther were found in the forest. At this time, a man, who bore the semblance of a gentleman, purchased a large tract of land along the bank of the river, and at the distance of two or three miles from the eastern branch of the mountains we have described. Here he caused a large mansion to be constructed in the Dutch fashion, and having laid out his grounds with considerable care, he removed hither with his wife, and a large retinue of servants. He bore the name of Hielder, and supported the style and figure of a man of fortune.

After a few years he had a child, a daughter, which became the special object of the care and attention of both parents. Hielder himself was a somewhat stern and gloomy man, and he seemed to impress his character upon everything around him. The mansion was deeply imbedded in the tall trees, and the apartments, wainscotted with oak and feebly lighted, had a peculiarly sombre aspect. The servants gradually assumed a dark and mysterious look, and the lady herself, though very beautiful, was always dressed in black, and was distinguished by a complexion of almost deathlike paleness.

Several years passed, and the little girl, who was named Katrina, might now be seen walking with her mother amid the long, straight, shady avenues that were cut in the forest. Excepting the persons connected with the establishment, few persons visited the spot; it was therefore marked with peculiar loneliness, which seemed to increase the gloomy and mysterious aspect of the place. The proprietor of the mansion had no intercourse whatever with the people of the vicinity, and never, except once a year, when he made a short visit to the city of New York, did he leave his residence. He spent much of his time in reading, and devoted several hours each day to the instruction of his child, who now seemed to be the only object of his affections. It appeared indeed that there was some deep-rooted bitterness at his heart, which he attempted to alleviate by the education of his daughter.

The child was indeed worthy of all his care, yet she seemed the very opposite of everything around her. She had light, flaxen hair, blue eyes, snowy complexion, and an ever-laughing expression of countenance. Seated in the gloomy library with her father, she seemed like a spot of playful sunshine, lighting the recesses of a cavern.

It was remarkable, that although she was the favorite of all around, and evidently the object of the deepest interest to her parents, the father still seemed not to reflect from his own heart any portion of the child’s cheerfulness and vivacity. Though she romped, frolicked, laughed and toyed, a ray of pleasure, or even a passing smile never lighted his countenance. Her spirit shone upon him, but it was like light falling upon a black surface, which absorbed, but did not throw back, its rays. A keen observer, indeed, would have said that the moody father felt even a rebuke in the joyous gaiety of his child.

With the mother there was this difference, that though she was generally sorrowful, the springs of happiness seemed not wholly dried up. She felt a mother’s pride in the surpassing beauty of the child, and was often cheered by the little creature’s hoyden mirth. In the presence of the master, the servants were habitually silent and gloomy. But if at any time they found the little girl apart, they not unfrequently indulged in a game of romps.

Such was little Katrina, a playful, happy creature, in the midst of shadows and gloom—the idol of all, and apparently the object in which the affections of the parents, as well as the rest of the household were centred. It was when she had reached the age of about six years, that an incident occurred of the deepest interest. At the close of a summer evening, a small sloop anchored in the river, near the house we have described. A boat was let down, and a man, wrapped in a cloak, was landed upon the beach. He proceeded to the mansion, and, inquiring for the master, was conducted to the library. The room was vacant, but the stranger sat down, and occupied himself in gazing around the apartment. At length, the proprietor came, his countenance being marked with something of anxiety. The stranger arose, laid aside his cloak, and stood before his host. For a moment he did not speak; but, at last, he said, “You pass, I understand, by the name of Hielder. I know your real name, and I presume you know mine.”

“I know you not,” said Hielder, sternly.

“Then you shall know me,” said the stranger. “My name is Hieldover, the victim of your perfidy, and I am here to avenge my wrongs.”

“This is a pretty tale,” said Hielder; “and you bear yourself bravely. Perhaps you are one of Robert Kidd’s men, and have come here in search of gold; but you have mistaken your errand. I have but to ring the bell, and my servants will execute my will upon you.”

“This bullying will not answer your purpose,” said Hieldover; “nothing shall turn me from my purpose, which is to extort from you the fortune that you have obtained by the basest perfidy and fraud. You pretend not to know me; I will refresh your memory. Fifteen years since you were made my guardian at Amsterdam, by my father’s will. You possessed yourself, by forgery, of my ample fortune. You departed from the country in secrecy, and I was left a beggar. I have since been a wanderer over the earth, and have known toil, and suffering, and sorrow, while you have been revelling in the wealth which was mine. I have traced you through the four quarters of the globe, and had sworn in my heart to follow upon your track like the bloodhound, till I could find you and bring you to justice.”

During this speech, the pale countenance of Hielder was frequently flushed with anger. At last, he said, sneeringly, “You have spoken freely—have you done? If so, I will show you the door.” Hieldover seemed to be on the point of giving vent to his rage; but he checked himself, and said, “You deny my claim, then? You refuse to do me justice?”

“I have no answer to make,” said Hielder, “to an idle braggart.”

“Beware, then, of my vengeance,” said the other, clenching his fist, and looking defiance in the eye of Hielder. He then took his leave.

This scene passed without the knowledge of any individual, except the parties concerned. Yet for several days the master of the house seemed even more gloomy than usual. He spoke little to any one, and remained almost wholly in the seclusion of his library. After a month, however, had passed away, he seemed to be restored to his former condition, and resumed his wonted occupations. He seemed more than ever devoted to his child, although he maintained his accustomed sternness. For a time he would hardly allow the child to be out of his presence, but at length the mother was permitted to resume her walks, attended by her daughter.

One day, she went out in the morning, but did not return at the usual hour. Some anxiety was excited, and the servants were sent forth in search of their mistress and the child. They returned without being able to find her. All was now alarm. Hielder himself went forth, and the people were directed to scour the woods in every direction. They soon brought tidings to their master that the lady was found, but the child was missing. When discovered, she was insensible; but when she came to herself, she stated that while she was walking in the woods, a stranger suddenly sprung upon the child, and bore it away. He fled toward the mountains, and she pursued till she swooned and fell to the ground. Here she remained, in a state of insensibility, till she was taken up by the people who were in search of her.

(To be continued.)

Curran and the Miller’s Dog.—“Curran,” says Barrington, in his memoirs, “once related, with infinite humor, an adventure between him and a mastiff, when he was a boy. He had heard somebody say, that any person, throwing the skirts of his coat over his head, stooping low, holding out his arms, and creeping along backwards, might frighten the fiercest dog, and put him to flight. He accordingly made the attempt on a miller’s animal in the neighborhood, who would never let the boys rob the orchard; but he found to his sorrow, that he had a dog to deal with, who did not care which end of a boy went first, so that he could get a good bite of it.

“‘I pursued the instructions,’ said Curran; ‘and as I had no eyes save those in front, I fancied the mastiff was in full retreat, but I was painfully mistaken; for, at the very moment I fancied myself victorious, the enemy attacked my rear, and, having got a reasonably good mouthful of it, was fully prepared to take another, before I was rescued.’”

Natural Curiosity.—In Scotland, at the entrance of the river Leven, is a lofty rock, occupied as a castle. On the surface of this, there is a huge figure, formed by nature, which makes an excellent profile of the celebrated Duke of Wellington. It is an object that always attracts the attention of the passengers of the steamboats, as they are passing the castle.

“Be content with what you have,” as the rat said to the trap, when he left his tail in it.

Inundation of the Nile.

The River Nile.

The whole northeastern part of Africa consists of a mighty expanse of desert sand, extending for upwards of a thousand miles in each direction. The chains of wild and rocky mountains by which it is traversed, give only a more rugged and dreary character to this immense waste. One vast feature alone breaks this terrible monotony. From the high chains of Abyssinia, and from the still loftier mountains of the moon, that traverse Central Africa, descend numerous and ample streams, which, long before entering Egypt, unite in forming the Nile, a river of the first magnitude.

Although the Nile in its whole progress through this desert does not receive the accession of a single rivulet, it brings so vast an original store as enables it to reach and pour a mighty stream into the Mediterranean. For many hundred miles in the upper part of its course, confined between high and rocky banks, it is merely bordered by a brilliant belt of fertility, the sandy waste stretching indefinitely on both sides; this is Nubia.

After traversing the barrier of the cataracts, it passes through a broader valley between mountains of some height, and on its banks are many shaded or inundated tracts, which yield products of considerable value; this is Upper Egypt. Emerging from these mountains, the Nile enters a flat and extensive plain, where it separates, and by two great and divided streams, with various intersecting branches, enters the Mediterranean; this is Lower Egypt.

In the last part of its course, the Nile is nearly on a level with the district which it intersects, and when swelled by the autumnal rains of Central Africa, overflows it entirely. The waters begin to rise about the 18th or 19th of June, attain their greatest height in September, and subside as gradually as they rise, and within about an equal space of time. The land thus covered with the fertilizing alluvial deposit, collected during so long a course, becomes the most productive, perhaps, on the face of the globe; and notwithstanding its limited extent, and the mighty wastes on which it borders, has always maintained a numerous population.