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.

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.

Thus it appears that the fertility of Egypt is solely dependent on the Nile, and that, but for this, it would be, like the rest of Africa in this quarter, a sandy and desolate waste.

The Old Man in the Corner.

THE PHILOSOPHER REBUKED.

There was once a learned man, or philosopher, who was fond of prying into the works of nature, and every other source of knowledge. At last he became vain of his great stores of information, and was somewhat rash in forming his opinions.

One evening, as this philosopher was conversing with a friend, the discourse turned upon the Bible, and the former declared that he did not believe in it. A somewhat warm dispute ensued, in the course of which the philosopher said that he rejected the Bible, because it contained many doctrines which he could not comprehend; “and _I make it a rule_,” said he emphatically, “_never to believe anything which I cannot understand_.”

It happened that there was a little girl in the room, the daughter of the philosopher. She was about eight years old, and though of a lively and playful turn, she was remarkably intelligent and observing. While the father and his friend were engaged in conversation, she was occupied with her toys upon the floor, and seemed absorbed in her sports. Yet she listened to the discourse, and though she did not understand it all, yet she caught the remark of her father which we have noticed above, and treasured it up in her heart. She also noticed the inferences which her father drew from the proposition to which we have alluded.

Without paying the least attention to the little girl, the gentlemen pursued their conversation, and the philosopher declared, that, as he could not understand how the death of Christ could contribute to the salvation of the sinner, he rejected the doctrine of the atonement, as unworthy of belief.

“It appears to me,” said his friend, “that if you reject everything which you cannot wholly conceive or comprehend, you must not only reject the Bible, but adopt the views of the atheist, and deny the existence of a God.” The philosopher admitted the force of this observation, and declared, that, as he had no sensible, or visible, proof of the existence of the Deity, he disbelieved the existence of such a Being.

Thus far the watchful ear and quick sense of the child caught and comprehended the conversation, and as her mother had given her a religious education, she was not a little startled and surprised at the opinions which her father had uttered.

She said nothing about it, however, at the time, and two or three weeks passed before she gave any indications of having noticed the conversation. She was one day walking with her father, when they chanced to discover a single violet--the first they had seen, for it was the beginning of spring. She stooped down to pick it, but paused a moment, and looking her father in the face, inquired, “What makes this little flower grow, father?”

“The heat and moisture and the principle of vegetable life,” was the reply.

“But how does it grow?” said she. “Can heat and water and seeds make a flower?”

“It is the course of nature, my child,” said the philosopher.

“But I want to know,” said she, “what this course of nature is? I want to know how it operates? Is nature alive? Has it power to make flowers? and by what means does it work?”

“I cannot tell you, child,” was the answer. “We do not understand these things,--we only know the fact that such things are.”

“Well, don’t you believe that the flower grows, father?” said the child.

“Certainly,” was the reply. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I heard you tell Mr. B., the other day, that you never believed anything you could not understand.”

The philosopher here turned the conversation, and they walked on.

A few days after this the child was taken sick of a fever. As she lay upon her bed, she could distinctly feel the beatings of her heart, which shook her whole frame. Her father was by the bedside. Though suffering from disease, the mind of the little girl was perfectly clear.

“What makes the heart beat?” said she to her father.

“It is the principle of life,” said he.

“And what is this principle of life?” said the child.

“I cannot explain it to you,” said the philosopher; “we do not comprehend it; we only know that there is such a thing, and that by its impulse the heart beats and the blood circulates.”

“Put your hand on my breast,” said the child. The father did as requested.

“Does not my heart beat, father?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“And yet you cannot comprehend how this is. You said we must believe nothing which we cannot explain. Yet I know that my heart beats, though you cannot tell me how, or why. Dear father, may I not believe in a God, though I cannot comprehend his nature or existence; and may I not believe in the Bible, and its wonderful doctrines, even though they may be beyond my feeble reason?”

The philosopher stood rebuked, but again he turned the conversation.

The fever which had attacked the little girl proceeded in its rapid course, and in a few days she drew near her end. As her spirit was about to depart, she called, in a faint whisper, for her father. He placed his ear near to her lips, and caught her last words; “Father, may I not believe that Christ died for sinners? may I not believe, though I cannot fully comprehend, the doctrine of the atonement?”

The philosopher wept, and answered, “Believe, my child; you have conquered my unbelief!”

The Hunting Leopard.

This handsome animal of the Cat family,--sometimes called the _Ounce_, and also the _Chetah_,--is of the size of a large dog, and has a very long tail. It is of a pale yellow above and white beneath,--the body being marked with irregular black spots. It is of a slender make, and its agility is surprising. It is less ferocious than the tiger, panther and true leopard; and having blunted claws, like a dog, is used, in the southern parts of Asia, for hunting the antelope and other game. It is a native, also, of Africa, but it has never been trained for this purpose.

The chetah is chiefly used in hunting by the nobles of India. The mode of proceeding is thus described. The animals are carried to the field in low chariots, being tied and hooded. This is done in order to deprive them of the power and temptation to anticipate the word of command by leaping forth before the appointed time. When they are thus brought within view of a herd of antelopes, which generally consists of five or six females and a male, they are unchained, and their hoods are removed, their keeper directing their attention to the prey, which, as they do not hunt by smell, it is necessary that they should constantly have in sight.

When this is done, the wily animal does not at once start forward towards the object of his pursuit, but, seemingly aware that he would have no chance of overtaking an antelope in the fleetness of the race, in which the latter is beyond measure his superior, winds cautiously along the ground, concealing himself as much as possible from sight, and, when he has in this covert manner nearly reached the unsuspecting herd, breaks forth upon them unawares, and, after five or six tremendous bounds, which he executes with almost incredible velocity, darts at once upon his terrified victim, strangles him in an instant, and takes his fill of blood.

In the mean while the keeper quietly approaches the scene of slaughter, caresses the successful animal, and throws to him pieces of meat to amuse him and keep him quiet while he blinds him with the hood, and replaces him upon the chariot, to which he is again attached by the chain. But if, as is not unfrequently the case, the herd should have taken the alarm, and the chetah should prove unsuccessful in his attack, he never attempts to pursue them, but returns to his master with a mortified and dejected air, to be again let slip at a fresh quarry whenever a fit opportunity occurs.

Conjugal Affection.