ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM:

VOLUMES I. [II.]

Boston:

PUBLISHED BY BRADBURY & SODEN,

10, SCHOOL STREET.

1842.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

INDEX

TO THE

FIRST VOLUME.

FROM FEBRUARY TO JULY 1841, INCLUSIVE.

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Address to the Reader.

Kind and gentle people who make up what is called the Public—permit a stranger to tell you a brief story. I am about trying my hand at a Magazine; and this is my first number. I present it to you with all due humility—asking, however, one favor. Take this little pamphlet to your home, and when nothing better claims your attention, pray look over its pages. If you like it, allow me the privilege of coming to you once a month, with a basket of such fruits and flowers as an old fellow may gather while limping up and down the highways and by-ways of life.

I will not claim a place for my numbers upon the marble table of the parlor, by the side of songs and souvenirs, gaudy with steel engravings and gilt edges. These bring to you the rich and rare fruitage of the hot-house, while my pages will serve out only the simple, but I trust wholesome productions of the meadow, field, and common of Nature and Truth. The fact is, I am more particular about my company than my accommodations. I like the society of the young—the girls and the boys; and whether in the parlor, the library, or the school-room, I care not, if so be they will favor me with their society. I do not, indeed, eschew the favor of those who are of mature age—I shall always have a few pages for them, if they will deign to look at my book. It is my plan to insert something in every number that will bear perusal through spectacles.

But it is useless to multiply words: therefore, without further parley, I offer this as a specimen of my work, promising to improve as I gain practice. I have a variety of matters and things on hand, anecdotes, adventures, tales, travels, rhymes, riddles, songs, &c.—some glad and some sad, some to make you laugh and some to make you weep. My only trouble is to select among such variety. But grant me your favor, kind Public! and these shall be arranged and served out in due season. May I specially call upon two classes of persons to give me their countenance and support—I mean all those young people who have black eyes, and all those who have not black eyes! If these, with their parents, will aid me, they shall have the thanks and best services of

ROBERT MERRY.

A Tree with Nests of Sociable Weavers upon it.

The Sociable Weavers.

Men find it convenient to devote themselves to different trades. One spends his time in one trade, and another in another. So we find the various kinds of birds brought up and occupied in different trades. The woodpecker is a carpenter, the hawk a sportsman, the heron a fisherman, &c. But in these cases we remark, that the birds do not have to serve an apprenticeship. It takes a boy seven years to learn to be a carpenter; but a young woodpecker, as soon as he can fly, goes to his work without a single lesson, and yet understanding it perfectly.

This is very wonderful; but God teaches the birds their lessons, and his teaching is perfect. Perhaps the most curious mechanics among the birds, are the Sociable Weavers, found in the southern part of Africa. Hundreds of these birds, in one community, join to form a structure of interwoven grass, (the sort chosen being what is called Boshman’s grass,) containing various apartments, all covered by a sloping roof, impenetrable to the heaviest rain, and increased year by year, as the increase in numbers of the community may require.

“I observed,” says a traveller in South Africa, “a tree with an enormous nest of these birds, to which I have given the appellation of Republicans; and, as soon as I arrived at my camp, I despatched a few men with a wagon to bring it to me, that I might open the hive and examine the structure in its minutest parts. When it arrived, I cut it to pieces with a hatchet, and saw that the chief portion of the structure consisted of a mass of Boshman’s grass, without any mixture, but so compact and firmly basketed together as to be impenetrable to the rain. This is the commencement of the structure; and each bird builds its particular nest under this canopy, the upper surface remaining void, without, however, being useless; for, as it has a projecting rim and is a little inclined, it serves to let the water run off, and preserves each little dwelling from the rain.

“The largest nest that I examined was one of the most considerable I had anywhere seen in the course of my journey, and contained three hundred and twenty inhabited cells, which, supposing a male and female to each, would form a society of six hundred and forty individuals. Such a calculation, however, would not be exact. It appears, that in every flock the females are more numerous by far than the males; many cells, therefore, would contain only a single bird. Still, the aggregate would be considerable; and, when undisturbed, they might go on to increase, the structure increasing in a like ratio, till a storm, sweeping through the wood, laid the tree, and the edifice it sustained, in one common ruin.”

About Labor and Property.

All the things we see around us belong to somebody; and these things have been got by labor or working. It has been by labor, that every article has been procured. If nobody had ever done any labor, there would have been no houses, no cultivated fields, no bread to eat, no clothes to wear, no books to read, and the whole world would have been in a poor and wild state, not fit for human beings to live happily in.

Men possess all things in consequence of some person having wrought for these things. Some men are rich, and have many things, although they never wrought much for them; but the ancestors, or fathers and grandfathers, of these men, wrought hard for the things, and have left them to their children. But all young persons must not think that they will get things given to them in this way; all, except a few, must work diligently when they grow up, to get things for themselves.

After any one has wrought to make a thing, or after he has a thing given to him, that thing is his own, and no person must take it from him. If a boy get a piece of clay, and make the clay into a small ball or marble to play with, then he has labored or wrought for it, and no other boy has any right to take it from him. The marble is the property of the boy who made it. Some boys are fond of keeping rabbits. If a boy have a pair of these animals, they are his property; and if he gather food for them, and take care of them till they have young ones, then the young rabbits are his property also. He would not like to find, that some bad boy wished to take his rabbits from him! He would say to the bad boy, “I claim these rabbits as my property; they are mine. You never wrought for them; they are not yours.” And if the bad boy still would take the rabbits, then the owner would go to a magistrate, and tell him of the bad boy’s conduct, and the bad boy would be punished. All things are the property of some persons, and these persons claim their property in the same way that the boy claims the marble that he has made, or the rabbits that he has reared. It is very just and proper that every person should be allowed to keep his own property; because, when a poor man knows that he can get property by working for it, and that no one dares to take it from him, then he will work to have things for his own use. If he knew that things would be taken from him, then he would not work much, and perhaps not at all. He would spend many of his days in idleness, and live very poorly.

When one person wishes to have a thing which belongs to another, he must ask permission to take it, or he must offer to buy it; he must never, on any account, take the thing secretly, or by violence, or by fraud; for that would be stealing, and he would be a thief. God has said, “Thou shalt not steal;” and every one should keep his hands from picking and stealing. Some boys think, that, because they find things that are lost, they may keep these things to themselves. But the thing that is found is the property of the loser, and should be immediately restored to him without reward; it is just as bad as stealing to keep it, if you can find the owner.

My First Whistle.

Of all the toys I e’er have known,

I loved that whistle best;

It was my first, it was my own,

And I was doubly blest.

’Twas Saturday, and afternoon,

That school-boys’ jubilee,

When the young heart is all in tune,

From book and ferule free.

I then was in my seventh year;

The birds were all a singing;

Above a brook, that rippled clear,

A willow tree was swinging.

My brother Ben was very ’cute,

He climbed that willow tree,

He cut a branch, and I was mute,

The while, with ecstasy.

With penknife he did cut it round,

And gave the bark a wring;

He shaped the mouth and tried the sound,—

It was a glorious thing!

I blew that whistle, full of joy—

It echoed o’er the ground;

And never, since that simple toy,

Such music have I found.

I’ve seen blue eyes and tasted wines—

With manly toys been blest,

But backward memory still inclines

To love that whistle best.

The Harpy Eagle.

Owls and Eagles.

It has been remarked, that, as mankind apply themselves to various trades and pursuits, some being carpenters, some house-builders, some hunters, some fishermen, so we find that the animal tribes appear to be severally devoted to various professions. And as we find among men bold, open pirates, who rob by day, and secret thieves, who plunder by night; so, among animals, we find those that seem to have taken up similar vocations.

The eagles, for instance, are daylight robbers; and it is wonderful to observe, how well adapted they are for the life they are designed to lead. They are strong of wing, with powerful talons to grasp their prey, and a sharp, hooked beak, calculated, like the knife of a butcher, to cut their food in pieces. Their eye is keen and long-sighted, so that they can mark their victim afar off; and their flight is swift, so that they may strike down upon it with certainty. Thus qualified to pursue a life of rapine and plunder, their very air and bearing correspond with their profession. They have a bold, haughty, and merciless look. The description in the thirty-ninth chapter of Job, portrays the character of these birds in a few sentences, and it is impossible to mend the description: “Doth the eagle mount up at thy command,” saith the inspired writer, “and make her nest on high? She dwelleth and abideth on the rock, upon the crag of the rock, and the strong place. From thence she seeketh the prey, and her eyes behold afar off. Her young ones, also, suck up blood; and where the slain are, there is she.”

The Eagle Owl.

Thus, if the eagles are the open, daylight robbers, the owls are the secret thieves and plunderers by night. And it is interesting to observe how well these creatures, also, are fitted for their vocation. In order to see at night, they need large eyes, and, accordingly, they have large heads to accommodate these organs. Their business is to steal upon their prey in the darkness and silence of the night. Accordingly, they are covered with an abundance of light, yielding feathers, so that they may glide through the air on a noiseless wing, and come upon their victim unheard and unsuspected. If you have ever seen an owl at evening, or during a cloudy day, (for it is seldom that they venture abroad in the sunshine,) you must have noticed, that he skims along as if he were almost as buoyant as a soap-bubble. How different is this from the whistling rush of the pigeon, or the whirring flight of the partridge!

Among the owls there are at least fifty kinds; and, taken all together, they are a most curious and interesting family. Among these, the largest is the great eagle owl, which is found in Europe. Its home is among the deep recesses of mighty forests, and the clefts of rocks amidst the mountains. From its lonely retreat, where it reposes in silence during the day, it issues forth, as the dusk of evening throws a yet deeper gloom over the dark pine forest or rocky glen, to prowl in quest of prey. On silent wing it skims through the wood, and marks the fawn, the hare, or the rabbit nibbling the herbage. Suddenly wheeling, it sweeps upon the unsuspecting victim, and, if not too large, bears it off in its talons. Other and less noble game is also to be reckoned as its prey, such as rats, mice, squirrels, and frogs. These are swallowed entire, after being merely crushed into a mass by the efforts of the bill; the bones, skins, feathers, or hair, rolled into a ball, are afterwards ejected from the stomach.

In our American forests, we have an owl very similar to the one I have described, both in looks, size, and habits. These large owls seldom approach the abodes of men; but the little barn owl is more familiar. He often takes up his residence in a barn, and, hiding in some nook by day, sallies forth at night, making prey of such little animals as he can find. He is very useful in destroying rats and mice. Mr. Waterton says that he has seen one of these little owls bring a mouse to its nest of young ones, every twelve or fifteen minutes during the evening. It is also stated, that this bird will sometimes take up its residence in a pigeon-house, and live there, without giving the pigeons the least disturbance, or even taking their young ones.

The ancients called the owl the bird of wisdom, because he looked so sober and solemn. Many superstitious people now-a-days look upon him with foolish dread. The owl is frequently mentioned in the Bible; but the most interesting allusion is that of Isaiah, chap. xiii., in which the prophet foretells the coming destruction and desolation of Babylon, then a great and powerful city. His words are, “Wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there.” This prophecy has been literally fulfilled. Many years after the time of Isaiah, Babylon was destroyed, and the place became a scene of desolation. Travellers tell us, that now the place is surrounded with caverns, which are the refuge of jackals and other savage animals, and that in these cavities there are numbers of bats and owls.

Origin of “The House that Jack
Built.”

The following curious article shows that the idea of the popular legend of “The House that Jack built,” is of ancient date, and derived from the Jews. That famous story is in fact modelled after an ancient hymn, conceived in the form of a parable, sung by the Jews at the feast of the passover, and commemorative of the principal events of the history of that people. The original, in the Chaldee language, is known to scholars; and, as it may not be uninteresting to my readers, I will furnish the literal translation, which is as follows:

1. A Kid, a Kid, my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

2. Then came the Cat, And ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

3. Then came the Dog, And bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

4. Then came the Staff, And beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

5. Then came the Fire, And burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

6. Then came the Water, And quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

7. Then came the Ox, And drank the Water, That quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

8. Then came the Butcher, And slew the Ox, That drank the Water, That quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

9. Then came the Angel of Death, And killed the Butcher, That slew the Ox, That drank the Water, That quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

10. Then came the Holy One, blessed be He!

9. And killed the Angel of Death,

8. That killed the Butcher,

7. That slew the Ox,

6. That drank the Water,

5. That quenched the Fire,

4. That burned the Staff,

3. That beat the Dog,

2. That bit the Cat,

1. That ate the Kid that my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

The following is the interpretation:

1. The Kid, which was, among the Jews, one of the pure animals, denotes the Hebrews. The Father by whom it was purchased is Jehovah, who is represented as sustaining this relation to the Hebrew nation. The two pieces of money signify Moses and Aaron, through whose mediation the Hebrews were brought out of Egypt.

2. The Cat denotes the ancient Assyrians, by whom the ten tribes were carried into captivity.

3. The Dog is symbolical of the ancient Babylonians.

4. The Staff signifies the Persians, a powerful nation of antiquity.

5. The Fire indicates the Grecian empire, under Alexander the Great.

6. The Water betokens the Romans, or the fourth of the great monarchies, to whose dominion the Jews were subjected.

7. The Ox is a symbol of the Saracens, who subdued Palestine and brought it under the Caliphs of Bagdad.

8. The Butcher, that killed the Ox, denotes the Crusaders, by whom the Holy Land was wrested out of the hands of the Saracens, for a time.

9. The Angel of Death signifies the Turkish power, by which the land of Palestine was taken from the Crusaders, and to which it is still subject.

10. The commencement of the 10th stanza is designed to show, that God will take signal vengeance on the Turks, immediately after whose overthrow the Jews are to be restored to their own land, and to live under the government of the long-expected Messiah.

My own Life and Adventures; by Robert Merry.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

I am inclined to think, that, among the various pleasures of life, talking is one of the greatest. Eating and drinking are very good things, especially when one is hungry and thirsty, and has a good meal before him. But they are very short in their duration. The heartiest supper is over in a few minutes, and drinking, in as many seconds. Beside, these are selfish pleasures, and afford only the single satisfaction of an immediate appetite. But talking is not confined to self, nor is it limited to the body. It exercises the mind, and extends alike to the speaker and the listener.

The love of talking exhibits itself in very infancy. The little prattler, even before he can speak words, tries to amuse you with his inarticulate gabble. And when he has learned a word, with what glory does he repeat it to you! A young soldier touches off a cannon with less exultation than the infant pronounces his first articulate syllable.

And then, look at a group of children! How eager are they to speak to each other! How their little tongues rattle! Sometimes all will speak at once, whether anybody listens or not. It is often hard to get a word in edgewise among such a set of orators.

Suppose some child has been away, and comes home with a piece of news. How does he rush into the room, scarcely taking time to hang up his hat or cap, and with staring eyes and ruddy cheeks, set forth the wondrous tale! Suppose a child has seen something new, as a lion or an elephant; how does he talk of it to his companions! Or, suppose he has been rambling in the woods, and has seen an eagle, or a gray squirrel, or a woodchuck,—something he had never seen before,—how eager is he to talk about it!

Thus it is with the young; they love to talk of things that interest them; and thus it is with those who have passed from the morning of life toward its setting sun. It may be that old people are less talkative than young ones; but still we all love to speak to others of that which excites our own feelings, or occupies our minds. Talking, then, is one of the great pleasures of life, and God has no doubt made it so for good and wise purposes. How large a portion of the happiness of life would be cut off, if we were all dumb!

For myself, I was a great rattler in youth, and, even now that my hair is grizzled with years, I must confess that I am not greatly altered in this respect. My life has been a varied one, and I have seen a good deal of the world. I cannot pretend to be so great a traveller as Peter Parley, nor can I match him in telling stories to babies. But still, give me a good listener, and something to speak about, and I can talk from sunrise to sunset.

I love better to talk to youth than to others. Those who are from eight to sixteen years old, are my chosen friends. I always find some way of entertaining them. Several bright-eyed girls and boys are in the habit of coming to see me, and I tell them my long stories. They come again and again, and I infer that they are pleased with them. I tell them sometimes of giants and fairies; but it is curious, that, while most young people prefer these tales of fancy, I succeed much better in pleasing my listeners by talking to them about things that really exist, or have really happened. Truth, after all, is more attractive than fiction, if it is only dressed in a proper guise.

My own adventures seem to give my listeners the most pleasure; for I have been all over the United States; have been a soldier, and seen service; have been a pedler, and travelled thousands of miles on foot; have met with strange accidents and hairbreadth escapes from danger; and have had my share of what is called hard luck. Still, I have reason to thank Heaven that my heart is happy, and my mind cheerful. I love sunshine as well as when I was a boy, and see much more occasion to laugh than to cry. I have indeed my serious moods, for there are some subjects that demand seriousness and reverence. Religion claims some of our time, and much of our thought. The Sabbath is with me a day of solemn reflection and prayer. I bend over the Bible, with a feeling that I am listening to the voice of God. These things make me serious, but not sad. As the sun seems to shine brighter, when it comes out from a cloud, so my heart is ever more serene and cheerful, for its communion with holy things.

But this is enough for an introduction. I am now going to tell the story of my own life, which I hope may prove both amusing and instructive.

CHAPTER II.

About my Birth.—​The Death of my Parents.—​My first Journey.—​My Wonder at seeing the Country.—​Lambs.—​I find out where Milk comes from.—​Reflections and good Advice.

I was born in the city of New York, in the year 1790. My parents were both English people. At first, they were in poor circumstances, but my father became a merchant, and acquired some property. He died, however, in the midst of success; and in a few months after my mother followed. I was thus left an orphan, at the age of six years, but with a fortune of about ten thousand dollars.

My mother had a brother living in the small town of Salem, situated upon the eastern border of the State of New York, and touching the line of Connecticut. He kept a tavern; and, as it was upon the great road that was then the route between Boston and New York, he had a good situation and a thriving business.

To the care of this uncle I was committed by my mother’s will, and immediately after her death I was taken to my uncle’s residence. I had never been out of the city of New York, and had never seen the country. I had supposed the world one great city, and never fancied that there were hills, and forests, and rivers, and fields without any houses. I still remember my journey from New York to Salem very well. I remember that the sight of so many new things, put the recollection of my father and my mother out of my mind, and banished the sorrow I had felt at seeing my parents laid into the coffin, and carried away, to return to me no more. I was delighted at everything I met, and particularly remember some lambs that I saw playing on a hill-side. They were scampering about, jumping from rock to rock, and chasing each other at full speed. I had never seen a lamb before, and I thought these the prettiest creatures that were ever made. I have since seen lions and tigers, and many other strange creatures; but I have never met with any animal, that excited in me half the admiration that I felt when I saw those little lambs.

I suppose some of my young friends in the country will laugh at what I am now going to tell them; but it is nevertheless true. As I was going from New York to Salem, we stopped one night at a small inn. When we arrived at this place, the sun was an hour high, and I had some time to play about the house. As I was running around, peeping at every new and strange thing, I saw some cows in the barn-yard. I had seen cows before, but still I went up to the gate and looked through, and there I saw a woman, sitting upon a little stool, and milking one of the cows. Now I had never seen a cow milked before, nor, indeed, did I know where milk came from. I had not thought about it at all. If I had been asked the question, I should probably have said, that we got milk as we do water, by pumping it from the cistern, or drawing it out of the well.

I looked at the woman for some time, wondering what she could be about. When she had done, she came out of the yard, and I saw that her pail was full of milk. “What is that that you have got?” said I. “It is milk,” said the woman. “Where did you get it?” said I. “I got it from the cow, you little simpleton!” said the woman; and then she went into the house.

I did not like to be called a simpleton, for I had come all the way from the great city of New York, and supposed that I knew everything. I soon found, however, that I was ignorant of many useful things that children of my age in the country were well acquainted with.

The little incident, however, that I have just related, was not without its use to me. It set me thinking about other things, and I began to ask questions about every article of food and dress,—where they came from, and how they were made; and, in this way, I obtained a great deal of knowledge. I would recommend it to my young readers to follow my example in this respect. They will find it very amusing to study into these matters. Let them one day inquire about hats, what they are made of, where the materials come from, how they are obtained, and how they are wrought into hats. Another day, let them take up the subject of coats, and learn all about the cloth, the buckram, silk, twist, and buttons, that are used in making them. So let them go through with dress; and then they may inquire about bread, and other articles of food; and then they may learn all about the furniture in the house. From this subject, they may go on and learn how houses are built. I can assure my young readers, that, in this way, they may spend their time very pleasantly, and become well acquainted with all those useful things with which we are surrounded. If I had done this before I went to Salem, I should have known where milk came from, and not been called simpleton by a milkmaid.

CHAPTER III.

Wise Observations.—Story of the Hat.

I fancy that some of my readers imagine, that it would be a dull business to study into the history of hats and coats, bread and butter, and such other common-place things. But there is an old proverb which says, “Look ere you leap;” and another which says, “Think twice and speak once.” These admonish us never to be over-hasty in speaking or acting; and, on the present occasion, I shall endeavor to show, that this good rule has been transgressed by those who despise my advice about hats and coats, bread and butter.

Here, Philip! give me a hat; let it speak for itself. Come, old hat, tell us your story! tell us what you are made of; where the materials of which you are made were obtained, how they were put together, and the price at which you were sold. Come, old beaver, speak out! What! dumb? Not a word? Then I will speak for you. So here is

THE STORY OF THE HAT, SUPPOSED TO BE TOLD BY ITSELF.

“I am made partly of wool, which is the hair of sheep, and partly of furs, of different kinds. There is some beaver’s fur, some musquash’s, and some wildcat’s in me.

“I suppose that everybody knows how we get wool,—by shearing it from the sheep’s back; but we do not get furs in the same way. Musquashes, beavers, and wildcats are not tame, like sheep, and they will not let you take them into a barn, and shear off their nice, soft fur. These creatures live far away from the abodes of men; they seek the distant solitudes beyond the hills and mountains, and those who would catch them must go and find them in these wild retreats.

“Sometimes, it is true, a beaver is found nearer to our houses, and now and then a wildcat, that has strayed from his native forest, is found in the neighboring woods. The musquash builds his habitation on the banks of streams, and is not very uncommon even in districts frequented by man.

“But these animals are, on the whole, so scarce, that, in order to obtain a supply of their fur, a great many hunters and trappers spend their time in roaming through the mountains, valleys, and prairies of the far West, in order to obtain them. These people meet with a great many strange adventures. Sometimes they will follow the branch of a river for five hundred miles, in a boat, during which time they will not meet with a human habitation, save the wigwams of the Indians. Sometimes they will sleep at night upon the ground, with no covering but a blanket; sometimes they will meet with a party of Indians, and have a fight with them. Sometimes they will meet with friendly Indians, who receive them into their lodges, and entertain them kindly; sometimes they are confronted by a grizzly bear, who places himself in their path, and must receive at least a dozen bullets in his breast before he is killed. Sometimes they will roam over wide deserts, and suffer very much for want of water. Sometimes they will be in the midst of a vast prairie, the grass of which is on fire, and then they have the greatest difficulty to escape from the flames. Sometimes they are robbed of all their furs by hostile Indians, and sometimes they meet with Indians who sell them large quantities of fur.

“After a great many cares, and trials, and dangers, and often after an absence of two years, the fur-hunter comes back with his load of skins; and a pretty figure he is. The clothes he carried with him are worn out, and he is now attired in the skins of various wild beasts. On his head you see the grizzled fur of a raccoon, with his tail hanging down behind. His coat is made of a wolf’s skin, and his vest of the skin of an otter. But his trowsers are the drollest part of his attire. They are made of a bear’s skin, and each leg looks like a great, shaggy, black dog, standing upright! Altogether, the hunter is a most curious object. He looks like three or four wild animals all sewed into one!

“What a great variety of adventures has this man met with in his wanderings of two years. How many pleasant stories could he tell, if he would sit down of a long winter night, and recount all that happened to him; all about the bears, the foxes, the wolves, and the wild Indians that he saw. How much this poor man must have suffered; what toil, hunger, thirst, danger and privation; and all this, that master Philip might have a hat; all this to get furs to make hats of.

“The wool and fur being obtained, these are prepared by the hatter, who, in the first place, makes a sort of cap, shaped something like a sugar-loaf. This is then soaked in hot water, and, being put upon a block, the crown is made of a proper shape. The whole is stiffened with gum, colored, dressed, put in boxes, and sent to the hat-seller. The price paid for me was two dollars. Philip has worn me for about a year, but I am in a sad condition. The hole in my crown was made by a stick, which went through me one day when Philip threw me at a red squirrel on the fence. The rent on my brim was caused by a saucy fellow, that tried to pull me off one day; but I chose to be torn, rather than see Philip insulted by having his hat knocked off; for, though the boy has his faults, I like him better than anybody else.”

Such is the story of the hat. My object in giving it to you is, to show, that the commonest article of daily use has its history, if we will only inquire into it.

CHAPTER IV.

Arrival at my Uncle’s.—​The Village.—​Bill Keeler.—​My first Day at School.—​Trouble.

I must now return to the story of myself. The morning after I left the little tavern where I discovered how milk was obtained, we proceeded on our journey, and at evening arrived at my uncle’s house. It was an old-fashioned building, painted red, with a large sign swinging in front, upon one side of which was the picture of a stout barn-yard cock, and on the other side was the head of a bull. So my uncle’s tavern went by the name of the “Cock and Bull.”

I soon became acquainted with the family, and in a few weeks was quite familiar with the main street and all the by-lanes in the village. My uncle had no children, but there was living with him a boy about ten years old, by the name of Bill Keeler. He became my principal companion, and, being a very knowing sort of lad, gave me an insight into many things, which I could not otherwise have understood.

After I had been at my uncle’s about six months, it was concluded to send me to school. I was now seven years of age, but, strange as it may seem to boys and girls of the present day, I did not know my letters, and, what is more remarkable, I had a great dislike to the idea of going to school. I believe it is the case that all people who grow up ignorant acquire a settled dislike to learning and learned people. As an owl can see best in the dark, because the light seems to put his eyes out, so ignorant people love ignorance and darkness, because truth and knowledge offend and distress them. I mention these things as a warning to my reader against growing up in ignorance, and thereby becoming a lover of darkness, rather than light.

Well, I went to school for the first time, and I remember all about it to this day. The schoolhouse was situated in a large space, where four roads met. It was a bleak and desolate hill-side, partly covered with heaps of stones, thrown out of the path, or gathered from the neighboring fields. There were a few groups of tangled briers and stunted huckleberry bushes amid these heaps of stones. On the lower side of the hill, there was an old gnarled oak growing out of a heap of splintered rocks, at the foot of which there bubbled forth a small stream of pure water. This fountain went by the pretty name of “Silver Spring.”

Bill Keeler led me into the school, which was then kept by Mistress Sally St. John. She looked at me through her spectacles, and over her spectacles, and then patted me on the head, told me I was a good boy, and sent me to a seat. In about an hour I was called up, the spelling-book opened, and the alphabet being placed before me, the mistress pointed to the first letter, and asked me what it was.

I looked at the letter very carefully, and then gazed in the face of Mistress St. John, but said nothing. “What’s that?” said she, peremptorily, still pointing to the first letter of the alphabet. Now I hadn’t been used to being scolded, and therefore felt a little angry at the manner in which the school-mistress addressed me. Beside, at that moment I saw Bill Keeler at the other end of the room, looking at me with a saucy twinkle in his eye, which made me still more angry.

“What’s that?” again said the school-mistress, still sharper than before. It was time for me to do something. “I’ll not tell you!” said I. “Why not?” said the school-mistress, greatly amazed at my conduct. “Because I didn’t come here to teach you your letters; but I came here to learn them.”

The school-mistress shut up her book. Bill Keeler rolled up his eyes, and made his mouth into a round O. “Go to your seat!” said the school-mistress. I turned to go. “Stop!” said the school-mistress, fetching me a slap on the side of the head; at the same moment she opened the book, and again presented the alphabet to my view. “Look, there!” said she, pointing with her finger to the top letter; “do you see that?” I answered, “Yes.” “Well, that’s A,” said she. “That’s A?” said I, doubtingly. “Yes,” said the mistress sharply. “I don’t believe it!” said I. “Why don’t you believe it?” said she. “Because I never heard of it before,” I replied. “Go to your seat!” said the school-mistress; and away I went.

Such was my first day’s schooling. In the evening, Mistress St. John called upon my uncle, and told him I was the most stupid creature she ever saw, and very ill-mannered beside; and she hoped I would by no means be permitted to come again to her school. My uncle was greatly offended, not with me, but with the school-mistress. He declared I should not go near her again; and, for more than a year, I was permitted to amuse myself in my own way. I was greatly pleased with all this at the time, but I have since often thought how severely I was punished for my ill behavior at school. For more than a year, I was left to run about in idleness, getting bad habits, and losing the precious time that should have been devoted to the acquisition of knowledge. Thus it always happens, that, soon or late, we are made to suffer for our misconduct.

(To be continued.)

Swallows.

Of these birds there are several kinds, but I am going to speak of only one or two of them now. The common barn swallow is one of the most interesting. It does not come much among us at the north, till the settled warm weather of May. A straggler now and then appears before, which has led to the adage, “One swallow does not make summer.”

The flight of the swallow is often low, but distinguished by great rapidity, and sudden turns and evolutions, executed as if by magic. Over fields and meadows, and the surface of pools and sheets of water, all the day may this fleet, unwearied bird be seen, skimming along, and describing, in its oft repeated circuit, the most intricate mazes. The surface of the water is indeed its delight; its insect food is there in great profusion; and it is beautiful to observe how dexterously it skims along, and with what address it dips and emerges, shaking the spray from its burnished plumage, as, hardly interrupted by the plunge, it continues its career. Thus it feeds, and drinks, and bathes upon the wing.

Bank Swallows.

The swallow breeds twice a year, and constructs its nest of mud or clay, mixed with hair and straw; the clay is tempered with the saliva of the bird, (with which nature has supplied it,) in order to make it tenacious and easily moulded. The shell or crust of the nest, thus composed, is lined with fine grass or feathers, firmly fixed against the rafters of barns or out-houses. The writer has heard of a pair that yearly built in the rafters of a wheelwright’s shop, undisturbed by the din of the hammer or the grating of the saw. The propensity which these birds, in common with their family, exhibit to return to the same spot, and to build in the same barn year after year, is one of the most curious parts of their history. During their sojourn in foreign climes, they forget not their old home, the spot where they were bred, the spot where they have reared their offspring; but, as soon as their instinct warns them to retrace their pilgrimage, back they hasten, and, as experiments have repeatedly proved, the identical pair that built last summer in the barn, again take up their old quarters, passing in and out by the same opening.

It is delightful to witness the care which the swallow manifests towards her brood. When able to leave the nest, she leads them to the ridge of the barn, where, settled in a row, and as yet unable to fly, she feeds them with great assiduity. In a day or two they become capable of flight, and then they follow their parents in all their evolutions, and are fed by them while on the wing. In a short time they commence an independent career, and set up for themselves.

The notes of the swallow, though hurried and twittering, are very pleasing; and the more so as they are associated in our minds with ideas of spring, and calm serenity, and rural pleasures. The time in which the bird pours forth its melody is chiefly at sunrise, when, in “token of a goodly day,” his rays are bright and warm.

“The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed,”

unite alike to call man from his couch of rest, and to praise “the God of seasons as they roll.”

After the work of rearing the young, ere autumn sears the leaf, the swallow prepares to depart. Multitudes, from various quarters, now congregate together, and perch at night in clusters on barns or the branches of trees, but especially among the reeds of marshes and fens, round which they may be observed wheeling and sinking and rising again, all the time twittering vociferously, before they finally settle. It was from this circumstance that some of the older naturalists supposed the swallow to become torpid and remain submerged beneath the water during winter, and to issue forth from its liquid tenement on the return of spring; a theory utterly incompatible with reason and facts, and now universally discarded. The great body of these birds depart about the end of September.

The Holy Scriptures make frequent allusions to this interesting bird. Jeremiah, reproaching the Jews for their turning away from God, alludes to the swallow as obeying His laws, while they who have seen his glory rebelled: “Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord.” viii. 7.

The Psalmist notices the partiality of this bird for the temple of worship, the sanctuary of God: “Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.” Psalm lxxxiv. 3. Hezekiah, king of Judah, wrote of himself, “Like a crane or a swallow, so did I chatter.” Is. xxxviii. 14. In these casual notices we at least trace out that the habits, migration, and song of the swallow, were known to the inspired writers; a circumstance of no little value, since a false assertion that the facts of natural history are not correctly stated in the Bible, has long been among the weak engines used by the infidel against the validity of that book, “which maketh wise unto salvation.”

The Sand Martin, or Bank Swallow, is a most curious bird of this family. It is the least of the tribe, and the first to arrive, appearing a week or two before the swallow, and often while the weather is severe. Its flight is vacillating, but it is equally fond of skimming over the surface of the water. This bird, unlike its race, mines deep holes in sand or chalk cliffs, to the depth of two feet, or even more, at the extremity of which it constructs a loose nest of fine grass and feathers, artificially put together, in which it rears its brood.

The sand martin is of a social disposition; hence flocks of them unite to colonize a favorite locality, such as a precipitous bank or rock, which they crowd with their burrows. Professor Pallas says, that on the high banks of the Irtish, their nests are in some places so numerous, that, when disturbed, the inmates come out in vast flocks and fill the air like flies; and, according to Wilson, they swarm in immense multitudes along the banks of the Ohio and Kentucky.

What, it may be asked, are the instruments by which this little creature is able to bore into the solid rock, and excavate such a chamber? Its beak is its only instrument. This is a sharp little awl, peculiarly hard, and tapering suddenly to a point from a broad base; with this tool the bird proceeds to work, picking away from the centre to the circumference of the aperture, which is nearly circular; thus it works round and round as it proceeds, the gallery being more or less curved in its course, and having a narrow funnel-shaped termination. The author of “The Architecture of Birds” informs us that he has watched one of these swallows “cling with its sharp claws to the face of a sandbank, and peg in its bill, as a miner would do his pickaxe, till it had loosened a considerable portion of the sand, and then tumbled it down amongst the rubbish below.”

The Human Frame likened to a House.

Man’s body’s like a house: his greater bones

Are the main timbers; and the lesser ones

Are smaller joists; his limbs are laths daubed o’er,

Plastered with flesh and blood; his mouth’s the door;

His throat’s the narrow entry; and his heart

Is the great chamber, full of curious art.

His stomach is the kitchen, where the meat

Is often put, half sod, for want of heat.

His spleen’s a vessel nature does allot

To take the scum that rises from the pot;

His lungs are like the bellows, that respire

In every office, quickening every fire;

His nose the chimney is, whereby are vented

Such fumes as with the bellows are augmented;

His eyes are crystal windows, clear and bright,

Let in the object, and let out the sight;

And as the timber is, or great or small,

Or strong or weak, ’tis apt to stand or fall.

Chinese Spectacles.

Mr. Davis, in his account of China, tells us that the people there do not make glass that is fine enough for spectacles, and therefore they use pieces of rock crystal for the purpose. The rims of the spectacles are of immense size and width, and give a very wise appearance to the wearer. The spectacles are attached to the head by silken strings slung over the ears, as represented in the picture.

View of the Bastile.

Story of Philip Brusque;

SHOWING THE NATURE AND NECESSITY OF GOVERNMENT AND LAWS.

CHAPTER I.

Early Life of Philip Brusque.—​He engages in the French Revolution.—​Is at length suspected by Robespierre, and obliged to fly.—​Enters on board a Ship, and is cast away upon an uninhabited Island in the Indian Ocean.—​Description of the place.—​Philip fancies that he is now happy, having found perfect Liberty.

Philip Brusque was a young Frenchman, who engaged very heartily in the revolution that began to agitate France about the year 1789. He was young, ardent and discontented. Though he had little education, he had still read many of the papers and pamphlets of the day. These had filled his mind with a horror of kings, and the most intoxicating dreams of liberty. Knowing little of political government, except that of France, and which he saw to be corrupt and despotic, he adopted the idea that all government was bad, and to this he attributed nearly all the evils of society. With the ardor of a young but heated fancy, he looked forward to the destruction of the monarchy as certain to bring a political millennium, when every man should walk forth in freedom and happiness, restrained by no law except the moral sense of man, and the innate perception and love of human rights.

With these views, which were then common among the French people, and which artful disorganizers had disseminated, in order thereby to acquire power, Philip arrived at Paris. He was soon engaged in several of the debating clubs of that great metropolis, and being possessed of natural eloquence, he speedily became a leader. He was present at the destruction of the Bastile, and his own vigorous hand battered down more than one of the iron doors of that horrid prison. Looking upon these gloomy walls, with their dark chambers, and the chains and instruments of torture which were found there, as at once emblems and instruments of that tyranny which had cursed his country for ages, Philip felt a high inspiration in witnessing its demolition. As one portion after another of the massy wall was hurled to the earth, he seemed to fancy that a whole nation must breathe more freely; and in seeing the pallid wretches delivered from the dungeon, where some of them had been imprisoned for years, he seemed to think that he saw the spirit of his country set at liberty.

The Bastile was soon but a heap of ruins. The whole fabric of the French monarchy, which had existed for twelve centuries, in a few brief years had shared the same fate. Louis XVI. had been beheaded, and his beautiful queen had been brought to the block. In all these scenes Brusque had taken a part. He was present at the execution of Marie Antoinette. He had no respect for majesty, but he was not yet lost to a sense of decency in respect to woman. The shocking and brutal insults offered to the queen, worse than anything ever witnessed among savages, disgusted Philip. He was indeed sick of blood, and he ventured to speak his sentiments aloud. His words were repeated to Robespierre and the rest of the bloody men who then held the sway. Philip became suspected, and he was obliged to fly to save his life. He reached the coast of France with difficulty, and entering on board a merchant ship as a sailor, set out upon a voyage to China.

Nothing remarkable happened for some time; but when the ship had doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and entered the Indian Ocean, a violent storm arose. The vessel contended bravely with the waves for a time, but at length her masts were swept away, the helm was broken, and the hull of the ship rolled like a log amidst the tumbling waters. She then drifted for a time at the mercy of the winds, and at length came near a small island. She then struck on a rock, and went to pieces. All the crew were drowned except the hero of our story, who seized upon a plank, and, after two days of toil and suffering, reached the shore of the island.

He landed upon a pebbly beach, but he was so exhausted as only to be able to draw himself up from the waves. There he lay for a long time, almost unconscious of existence. At length, his strength returned, and he began to think over what had happened. When his reason was, at last, fully returned, he fell upon his knees, and thanked Heaven for his preservation. It was the first prayer he had uttered for years, for Philip Brusque had been told by the French revolutionists that there was no God, and that prayer was a mere mockery. But now he prayed, and felt in his heart that there was indeed a God, that claimed gratitude and thanksgiving from the lips of one who had been saved from death, while his companions had all been drowned.

Philip was soon able to look about the island and make observations. It was a lovely spot, about four miles in circuit, and pleasantly varied with hills and valleys. It was almost covered with beautiful trees, on some of which there were delicious fruits. Birds of bright feathers and joyous notes glanced through the forests, and sweet perfumes were wafted on the warm, soft breezes. Philip walked about the island, his delight and wonder increasing at every step. And what seemed to please him most of all was, that the island was without a single human inhabitant except himself.

“Now,” said Philip, in the fulness of his heart, “I shall be happy. Here I can enjoy perfect liberty. Here is no prison like the Bastile; here is no king to make slaves of his fellow-men; here is no Robespierre to plot the murder of his fellow-citizens. Oh liberty! how have I worshipped thee, and here, in this lone island, I have now found thee. Here, I can labor or rest, eat or drink, wake or sleep, as I please. Here is no one to control my actions or my thoughts. In my native country, all the land belongs to a few persons, but here I can take as much land as I please. I can freely pick the fruit from the trees according to my choice or my wants. How different is my situation from what it was in France! There, everything belonged to somebody, and I was restrained from taking anything, unless I paid for it. Here, all is free; all is mine. Here I can enjoy perfect liberty. In France, I was under the check and control of a thousand laws; here, there is no law but my own will. Here, I have indeed found perfect liberty.”

(To be continued.)

The Sailor’s Family.

There once lived in Ireland a sailor, who had a wife and one child. He was poor, but still he provided a small house for his family, had it decently furnished, and, as he always brought them money when he came home from his voyages, they were quite comfortable.

He was very fond of his little boy, and he, too, was very fond of his father. The sailor used to go in a ship to the West Indies, and, when he returned, he always brought back some nice oranges and other good things for his little son.

Well, the Irishman, whose name was Kelly, had once been gone on a voyage to the West Indies for several months, and his family were expecting every day that he would return. Whenever the door was opened, the boy looked up to see if it was not his father who had come.

Four months passed away, and no news came. And now Mrs. Kelly had become very much afraid that something had happened to her husband. She feared that the vessel had been cast away upon some rocky shore, or that it had sunk in the deep sea, or that some other misfortune had occurred, by which her husband had perished.

The boy, too, became very uneasy, and was every day expressing his wonder that his father did not come back. At length, a man, who lived near by, came into the house, and told Mrs. Kelly that he had brought sad news. He then went on to tell her that the vessel in which her husband sailed, had been driven ashore in a gale of wind, and dashed to pieces upon a rocky island, and it was supposed that all on board had perished.

Some persons from another vessel had landed upon the island, and found papers and pieces of the wreck upon the shore, by which they knew it was the vessel in which Kelly had sailed. The island was small, and there was no person upon it.

This was sad intelligence to the poor sailor’s wife, and it was long before she could find it in her heart to break the news to her child. When he heard it, he shed many tears, and peace returned no more to the sailor’s home.

Being deprived of the assistance of her husband, Mrs. Kelly was obliged to make great exertions to support herself and child with comfort. She was, however, very industrious, and, for a time, she got along pretty well.

At length she was taken sick, and a little girl was added to her family. When she was partially recovered, she found herself poor, and a good deal in debt to her landlord. He was a cruel man; he took away her furniture for what she owed him, and then turned the widow and her family into the street.

The poor woman was still unwell; and it was with great difficulty that she walked about a mile to the house of a farmer, whom she knew, hoping that he would render her assistance. But he would give her nothing.

She was now in great distress, and did not know where to find even shelter. Sad, sick, and almost broken-hearted, she crept toward a stable, and sat down upon some straw. Here she remained for some time, with her infant in her arms, and her boy’s head resting on her lap.

Where could she now look for aid? She had no friends, from whom she could expect assistance. At length her thoughts turned to that good Being, who is ever the friend of the poor and the distressed. To him she prayed fervently, and so deeply was her mind absorbed in this act of devotion, that she did not notice a man who at the moment was passing by, on the public road.

He was on foot, and seeing the woman and her children, stepped toward them, to observe them more carefully. When Mrs. Kelly had finished her petition and opened her eyes, the man was standing before her.

She instantly perceived that he was a sailor, and that his countenance bespoke amazement; and then it struck her that he seemed to bear a wonderful likeness to her lost husband. At length he spoke her name, and the poor woman, betwixt fear and joy, would have fallen through faintness to the ground. Kelly supported her, for it was he!

When she recovered, mutual explanations took place. She told her story, and he related his, which was this. The ship in which he sailed was wrecked upon the island, and all perished save himself and two others. These were taken off the island, by a vessel going to the East Indies. As soon as he could, he left this ship, and got into a vessel that was going to England; and thus, after an absence of eight months, returned to his country. I need not attempt to describe the happiness that now filled again the hearts of the sailor’s family.

The Groom and the Horse;

A FABLE, TO SHOW THE DISADVANTAGES OF DECEPTION.

A groom, whose business it was to take care of a certain horse, let the animal go loose into the field. After a while, he wanted to catch him, but the brute chose to run about at liberty, rather than be shut up in the stable; so he pranced round the field and kept out of the groom’s way. The groom now went to the granary, and got the measure with which he was wont to bring the horse his oats. When the horse saw the measure, he thought to be sure that the groom had some oats for him; and so he went up to him, and was instantly caught and taken to the stable.

Another day, the horse was in the field, and refused to be caught. So the groom again got the measure, and held it out, inviting the horse, as before, to come up to him. But the animal shook his head, saying, “Nay, master groom; you told me a lie the other day, and I am not so silly as to be cheated a second time by you.”

“But,” said the groom, “I did not tell you a lie; I only held out the measure, and you fancied that it was full of oats. I did not tell you there were oats in it.”

“Your excuse is worse than the cheat itself,” said the horse. “You held out the measure, and thereby did as much as to say, ‘I have got some oats for you.’”

Actions speak as well as words. Every deceiver, whether by words or deeds, is a liar; and nobody, that has been once deceived by him, will fail to shun and despise him ever after.

The Druids.

The Druids were a remarkable race of priests, who first came into Europe with the Celts, the first settlers of that quarter of the globe, and who seem to have exercised almost unlimited sway in civil and religious matters. Of their origin and history very little is known; but the early writers have given such accounts of them as to make it evident that their influence among the Gauls and Britons was very great. At the time they flourished, Christianity had not penetrated into those countries, and the religion of the Druids was exercised there without check or control. The best account of them is given by Julius Cæsar, who conquered Gaul and a part of Britain about fifty years before Christ; but these countries were so wild and uncultivated, and the manners of the people so barbarous, that all the intelligence he could collect respecting this singular race of men, is far from satisfying our curiosity.

The Druids appear to have exercised the office of civil magistrates, as well as that of ministers of religion. Neither their laws nor precepts of religion were committed to writing, but were preserved in poems, which were learned by heart, and recited on special occasions. They had the power of life and death over the multitude; and such was the superstitious terror with which they inspired the people, that their orders were always implicitly obeyed. The most characteristic part of their religious worship was their veneration for the oak tree, and the mistletoe, which is a plant that grows on the trunks of the oak. No ceremony was performed by the Druids without some part of this tree being used to consecrate it. They wore garlands of oak leaves upon their heads, for they believed that everything which grew upon this tree came from heaven.

The ceremony of gathering the mistletoe was always performed with much solemnity, and in such a manner as to strike the multitude with awe. This plant is very rare, and when any of it was discovered, the Druids set out with great pomp to procure it. This was always done on the sixth day of the moon, a day which they deemed of particular sanctity. When they arrived at the oak on which the mistletoe grew, a great banquet and sacrifice was prepared under the tree. Two white bulls were tied by the horns to the trunk of the tree. One of the priests, clad in a white garment, then mounted the tree, and with a golden knife cut off the mistletoe, which was received by another priest in a white cloak. They then offered up their prayers and sacrifices. The mistletoe, besides being an object of religious veneration, was considered an antidote to poison, and to possess many other virtues.

The Druids performed their worship in the deepest recesses of the woods, far from human dwellings; a circumstance which added to the superstitious awe with which the common people regarded them. One of these spots is described by the poet Lucan. This wood, according to his account, had never been touched by the axe since the creation. The trees of it grew so thick and were so interwoven, that the rays of the sun could not penetrate through the branches, and a damp and chilling darkness reigned throughout. Nothing was to be seen in the neighborhood except a multitude of altars, on which human victims had been sacrificed, and the blood of which had stained the trees of a horrid crimson. Ancient traditions affirmed that no bird ever perched upon their branches, no beast ever walked under them, no wind ever blew through them, and no lightning ever struck them.

The idols which these gloomy recesses contained, were a species of rude and shapeless trunks, having some resemblance to the human figure, and covered with a tawny yellow moss. If the superstitious belief of the multitude might be credited, these mystic groves were frequently shaken by some unearthly movement, and dreadful sounds issued from the caverns and hollows which abounded in them. Sometimes, we are told, the woods would be wrapt in a flame of fire without being consumed; and sometimes the oaks would be twined round with monstrous dragons. At the hours of noon and midnight the priests entered these gloomy abodes, to celebrate their mysteries with trembling and terror. Such appalling accounts of these frightful regions, probably originated with the Druids themselves, who wished to deter the multitude, by every sort of dreadful description, from penetrating into the secrets of their superstitious practices.

Plutarch informs us that a Roman commander named Demetrius was sent by one of the emperors to an island of the Druids, for the purpose of making discoveries, but that the Roman adventurers were repulsed by a strange phenomenon. Immediately on their arrival, says the account, the heavens grew black; the winds arose; strange apparitions were seen in the sky; a dreadful tempest sprung up, and the heavens were filled with fiery spouts and whirlwinds. The Romans desisted from their attempt, in the dread of being destroyed for their sacrilegious invasion of a consecrated spot. Probably all this was nothing more than an ordinary thunder-storm, which the fright of the Romans magnified into a supernatural occurrence.

The Druids were also addicted to the horrid practice of sacrificing human victims. These were sometimes criminals who had offended either the laws or the religious prejudices of the Druids. It often happened that, when a man’s life was in danger, from sickness or any other cause, the Druids undertook to secure his safety by a human sacrifice to their false deities. When criminals could not be found, innocent persons were taken for victims. Huge hollow piles of osier twigs, bark or hay were erected, and filled with these unhappy wretches; after which the whole was set on fire and consumed. Under the guidance of the Druids, the people at their funerals burnt the bodies of the dead, and threw into the blazing pile all their most valuable property, and even their servants and slaves. Sometimes the near relatives of the deceased burnt themselves with their friends, in the manner practised at the present day by the Hindoo widows.

The Druids extended their worship over the greater part of the modern kingdom of France, which was then named Gaul, the southern part of the island of Great Britain, and the island of Hibernia, now Ireland. Their most celebrated abode was the island of Mona, now called Anglesey, on the coast of Wales. In this island are some remains of the Druidical superstition, consisting of immense blocks of stone, supposed to have been altars. The celebrated structure in the south of England, known by the name of Stonehenge, is also considered a remnant of Druidical architecture, though we are not positive that the Druids ever performed their worship in temples.

From all the accounts transmitted to us by the ancient writers, it is pretty evident that the Druids were possessed of considerable knowledge for so barbarous an age, and that they made all possible use of this knowledge to perpetuate their authority and keep the rest of the people in ignorance of the true character of their religious mysteries. Their influence, wherever they prevailed, was very great. When the Romans invaded Britain, they found the inhabitants almost entirely subject to their control. The Druids offered an obstinate resistance to the Romans, and incited the Britons, on many occasions, to revolt against them. The Romans perceived at length that the subjugation of the island would never be effected until the Druids were entirely extirpated. They therefore waged a war of extermination against them, put them to death in every quarter, and the last of the race having fled for shelter to Anglesey, the Romans crossed over to that island, destroyed their idols, cut down their groves, and burnt the priests to death, as they had been accustomed to burn their victims. Such was the end of the race and religion of the Druids.

Plain Dealing.—An impertinent fellow asked Lord Guilford, who that plain lady was before him. “That lady,” said his lordship, “is my wife. It is true, she is a plain woman, I am a plain man, you are a plain dealer, and that is the plain truth.”

Hospital of the Invalides, where Napoleon’s body is now entombed. Paris.

The Re-entombment of Napoleon.

Of all the great and remarkable men of modern times, Napoleon Bonaparte was the most wonderful. He was a son of a lawyer of Corsica, an island in the Mediterranean sea, belonging to France. From a humble station he rose to be the emperor of France, and the greatest general of modern times. He hurled kings from their thrones, and put others in their places. He dismembered empires, and created new ones. He made the whole earth ring with his mighty deeds. But one thing he could not do—he could not conquer himself. His ambition led him on from one step of injustice to another, till the embattled armies of Europe appeared in the field against him. He was defeated, dethroned, and taken on board a British ship to the rocky and lonely island of St. Helena, where he died in 1821.

After being entombed for almost twenty years, the king, Louis Philippe, sent out a ship to bring back his body to France, to be re-entombed in the capital of the empire of which he once swayed the sceptre. The hearts of many of the French people adore the name of Napoleon; and the ceremony of his re-entombment, which has just taken place at Paris, is the theme of the fallowing lines.

Sound the trumpet, roll the drum!

Come in long procession, come!

Come with sword and come with lance,

Children of heroic France;

Come from castle’s frowning wall,

Come from the ancestral hall,

Come, poor peasant, from thy shed,

Cowled monk and crowned head!

From the hamlet’s green retreat,

From the city’s crowded street,

From the proud Tuilleries’ door

Let the royal escort pour;

Duke and baron, king and queen,

Gather to the august scene;

In your purple pomp arrayed,

Haste to swell the grand parade.

Brow of snow and locks of gold,

Matron, maiden, young and old!

Sound the trumpets, roll the drum,

For Napoleon’s ashes come!

Sound the trumpet, roll the drum!

Let the cannon be not dumb;

Charge your black guns to the brim,

Invalides! to welcome him!

War-worn veterans, onward march

To Etoiles’ towering arch.

Let the column of Vendome,

Let the Pantheon’s soaring dome,

Champs de Mars and Elysees,

Hear the clang of arms to-day;

Let the Luxembourg once more

Hear Napoleon’s cannon roar.

Bring the eagles forth that flew

O’er the field of Waterloo,

Bring his tattered banners, red

With the blood at Jena shed,

Scorched with fire and torn with steel,