Chapter VI: Serious Adventures

It might seem that, under the circumstances described, Emilie would have been surprised and alarmed as the dark figure emerged from the shadow of the rock, and stood forth in the full light of the moon; but she betrayed no such emotion. On the contrary, she proceeded directly towards the person, and was soon clasped in his arms. The meeting was evidently one of affection; yet apparently there was more of grief than joy--for sobs and sighs seemed to choke the utterance of both. When at last they spoke, it was in broken sentences, yet in a low and subdued voice, as if they were apprehensive of discovery.

After remaining here for nearly half an hour, Emilie bade her companion a hasty farewell, and climbing up the rock, with a light and hurried step proceeded toward the tent which had now become her home. She was still at some distance, however, and as she was passing through a thicket of orange trees, she was abruptly accosted by a man, who placed himself in her path, and calling her by name, took hold of her arm, as if to arrest her progress. Emilie saw at a glance that it was Rogere, and her eye did not fail to remark, at a little distance, a dark group of men, whom she readily conjectured to be his companions.

Emilie felt that she was in danger, but she lost not her self-possession. Shaking off the grasp of Rogere, and standing aloof, she said--“Is it possible that this rudeness is offered by M. Rogere? It is a poor occupation for a gentleman to insult a woman, because she is alone and unprotected!”

“A gentleman!” said Rogere, sneeringly. “I am no gentleman, thanks to the gods--no, no, fair Emilie--I am something better--I am a freeman and a lover!”

“Indeed!” said Emilie. “Is he a freeman who takes advantage of the strength that nature has given him, to injure and distress one who is weaker than himself? Is he a lover, who wounds and insults the pretended object of his regard?”

“Nay, fair lady,” said Rogere; “this sounds mighty pretty, and in France would be heroic; but remember that we are not now under the tyranny of artificial laws and despotic fashion. We are now restored to the rights and privileges of nature. There is no government here, save that which is established by the God of nature.”

“I will not stay to hear you,” said the young lady, indignantly. “Every word you utter is an insult, every moment you detain me you are guilty of insolence and wrong. Shame, shame upon a Frenchman who can forget to be woman’s protector, and become woman’s tyrant!”

“Mighty fine all this, certainly; but remember that I repudiate France and the name of Frenchman: I am a man, that is enough, and I shall assert man’s privileges. You must listen; you shall hear me. Look around, and everywhere you see that in the dynasty of nature all is regulated by force. There is a power of gravitation, which controls matter, and bids the earth roll round in its orbit. Even matter, then, the very soil, the inanimate clod, the senseless stones, obey the law of force. And it is so with the animal tribes: among birds, the eagle is master of the raven; with quadrupeds, the lion is lord of the forest; with fishes, the whale is monarch of the deep.

“Then, in communities of animals, we see that everything is regulated by power; even among a band of wolves, the strongest has the first choice: privileges are exactly proportioned to power. It is so throughout nature--might is right. It is on this universal principle that I claim you as my own. I am the strongest man on the island; I have therefore a right to whatever I desire. Nay, lady, start not! you must, you shall listen! I have those near at hand who can and will aid me, if I do but utter the word. You shall listen--you shall obey! Why is woman made weaker than man, but that she is to be the servant of man?”

“M. Rogere,” said Emilie, sternly, “it is humiliation for me to be obliged to remain for one moment in your presence; it is degradation to be obliged to speak with you. For all this you will be made to answer.”

“By whom, pray? Who is there that can call me to account? There is no law here, remember, that can restrain or punish me. Nature has given me power, and I shall use it for my own pleasure.”

“I fear not that power; I fear neither you nor your menaces; and if I remain a moment here, it is not from respect to your strength. You dare not lay your hand upon me, for there is another power than that of limbs and muscles. If you are a man, you have a soul, and that soul has power over the body. Before you can, like the wolf, become a mere creature of selfishness, before you can act upon the principle that might is right, you must rid yourself of that soul, that thing within called conscience. Even now it is at work; it is this which makes you resort to false philosophy and shallow argument to justify an act that your humor dictates, but which your soul and conscience condemn. The wolf stops not to reason, but M. Rogere, who pleads the example of the wolf, cannot wholly shake off reason. He cannot imitate the brute, without offering an apology. The wolf is no coward, but M. Rogere is a coward; there is something within that tells him that he must not, shall not, dare not exert his strength against a woman!”

As Emilie uttered these words, she rose to her full height, her eye flashing with indignation. Rogere looked upon her with astonishment. As she moved to depart, his feet seemed riveted to the ground, and it was not till she had already proceeded a considerable distance towards her home, that he recovered his self-possession. He then set out in pursuit, and had no difficulty in soon overtaking the fugitive; but at the moment he was about to lay his hand upon her shoulder, his arm was arrested, and the well-known form of Brusque stood before him. “Hold!” said the latter, fiercely; “touch not that gentle being, or, by heaven, your audacity shall be punished. I have been near, watching over the safety of this lady, and I have heard your unmanly words to her. I now know your designs. Beware, or even your boasted strength shall be insufficient to protect you from the chastisement which an insolent coward deserves!”

Brusque waited not for reply. Leaving Rogere fixed to the spot and overwhelmed with confusion, he hastened forward, drew Emilie’s arm within his own, and proceeded with her to her house. The poor girl was almost fainting with agitation, and Brusque could do no less than enter the tent. After leaving her in her mother’s charge, and giving a few words of explanation, he departed. On the morrow he called to see her, but he found her feverish, and unable to leave her bed.

The next day, Emilie sent for Brusque, and the two friends had a long interview. She thanked him tenderly for his protection from the rudeness of Rogere; and although something seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind, he still seemed cheered and softened by her tenderness. “It is indeed most welcome to me, Emilie,” said he, “to hear you say these things--would that I were more worthy of your esteem.”

“Nay, dear Philip,” said Emilie, “do not be forever indulging such a feeling of humility--I might almost say of self-abasement. What is it that oppresses you? Why are you always speaking in such terms? It was not so once, my dear friend.”

“It was not indeed,” said Brusque. “Let me speak out, Emilie, and unburthen my bosom. I was at St. Adresse your happy lover. I then dared not only to love you, but to speak of my affection, and seek its return and reward. But I am changed.”

“Changed! how? when? what is it? changed? Yes, you are changed; for you are distant and reserved, and once you were all confidence and truth.”

“Listen, Emilie, for I will make you my confessor. I left our village home and went to Paris, and engaged with the ardor of youth in the Revolution; so much you know. But you do not know that I shared in the blood and violence of that fearful frenzy, and which I now look back upon as a horrid dream. You do not know that I was familiar with the deeds of Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat. Yet so I was. These hands have not indeed been dyed in the blood of my fellow-men, but yet I assisted in many of those executions, which now seem to me little better than murders. It is in your presence, Emilie, that I most deeply realize my delusion. There is something in your innocence and purity, which rebukes and reproaches my folly, and makes it appear as unpardonable wickedness. I once loved--nay, I love you still, Heaven only knows how truly; but I should ill act the part of a friend by allying your innocence to my degradation.”

Emilie was now in tears, and Brusque became much agitated. “Speak to me, my friend,” said he; “dry up those tears, and let your sense and reason come to our aid. I will be guided in all things by you; if you banish me, I will depart forever.”

“No, no indeed,” said the weeping girl. “You must stay--you must stay and protect my poor parents; you must stay and be my protector also, for Heaven only can tell how soon I shall stand in need of protection from violence and wrong.”

Brusque was evidently touched by this appeal, but the gleam that seemed to light up his face for a moment was instantly followed by a cloud upon his brow. Emilie saw it, and said, “Why this doubt? Why this concealment? What is it, Philip, that disturbs you?”

“I will be frank,” said he. “Since we have been upon this island, I may have seemed distant and indifferent towards you; but my heart has ever been with you, and indeed often, when you knew it not, I have been near you;--this night, I was on the rocks by the sea-shore, and witnessed your meeting with some one there. Tell me, Emilie, who was that person?”

Emilie was evidently disconcerted, but still she replied, firmly, “That is a secret, and must remain so for the present. It shall be explained in due time; but I pray you, do not seek to penetrate the mystery now.”

“Well, Emilie, it is not for one like me to dictate terms. My confidence in you is so complete, that I believe you are right, however strange it may seem, that, on this lone island, you are in the habit of meeting a man, and a stranger, upon the solitary sea-shore, and with marks of affection that seem only due to a brother!” Emilie started at these words, but she made no reply. Brusque went on. “I submit to your law of silence; but, my dear Emilie, as you have appointed me your protector, and given me a right to consider myself as such, let me tell you that events are approaching which will demand all our courage, as well as our wisdom; and I cannot but feel the most anxious fears as to the result.”

“You allude to the state of the island.”

“I do. The anarchy is now at its height. Rogere has rallied round him the rough and the ignorant, and taught them that license is liberty. While he cajoles them with dreams of freedom, he is seeking his own object, which is to become sole master and despot of this island; and I fear these deluded men will be his dupes and instruments. It is always the case that the ignorant and degraded portion of the community are disposed to run after those who flatter, only to cheat them.

“The condition of the island is in every respect becoming alarming. The fruits, that were lately so abundant, are fast diminishing, because they belong to no one in particular; and no one has any power or interest to preserve them. We have no fields tilled, for the lands are common to all. If a man were to cultivate a field, he has no right to it, and if he had, there is no government which can secure to him the product of his toil. Everything is therefore going to waste and ruin. We shall soon be in danger of starving if this state of things continues. Nor is this the worst. Rogere will soon bring matters to a crisis, and try the law of force.”

“And what is your plan?”

“I intend to procure, if possible, a meeting of all the men of the island to-morrow, and after showing them the actual state of things, and the absolute necessity of established laws to save us from famine and from cutting each other’s throats, I shall appeal to them once more in behalf of settled government. I have hopes as to the result--but still, my fears outweigh them. It is impossible to yield to the demands of Rogere. Nothing but giving up all to him and his brutal followers, will satisfy him. If we cannot obtain the consent of a majority to the formation of some settled laws, we must come to the question of necessity and determine it by blows. If it comes, it will be a struggle of life and death.”

“I know it, dear Philip; I have long foreseen it.”

“I am glad that you take it so calmly. I should be flattered if your quiet were the result of confidence in me.”

“Well, well, but you are fishing for a compliment, and I will not tell you that I depend on you alone! I may have hopes from another source.”

“Will you tell me from whom?”

“Nay--I shall keep my secret; but be assured that in the hour of danger, should it come, Heaven will send us succor. Good night.”

“Good night, dear Emilie--good night.” And so the lovers parted.

Brusque sought his home, but with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain. The restoration of former relations between him and Emilie, was a source of the deepest satisfaction; but many circumstances combined to cloud his brow, and agitate his heart with anxiety.

An Incident from Ancient History.

About 470 years before Christ, Xerxes, king of Persia, was leading an immense army against the Greeks. It is said that it consisted of a million of men. When they were all gathered in a vast plain, the king mounted a throne on the brow of a hill to review them. It was a splendid spectacle! There were the young, and the strong, and the ambitious, and the enterprising; and some were richly attired, and gallantly mounted on fine horses, and armed with shields and swords of glittering steel. It was, indeed, a proud army. But suddenly the thought came across the mind of the king--“In the space of one hundred years; all these living and breathing men will be in their graves!” It was a solemn thought; and it is said that even Xerxes shed tears.

EFFECTS OF PROHIBITION.

Mankind have seldom a strong desire for any thing lawful, that is easily obtained. We are not driven to our duty by laws so much as by ambition. If it were enacted that persons of high rank only should dine upon three dishes, the lower grade would desire to have three; but if commoners were permitted to have as many dishes as they pleased, whilst the rich were limited to two, the inferior class would not exceed that number. If gaming were reckoned ungenteel, cards and dice would lose half their attraction. In the history of the Duke of D’Ossuna, there is a remarkable instance given of this perverse nature in man.

A rich Neapolitan merchant prided himself upon not having once set his foot out of the city during the space of forty-eight years. This coming to the ears of the duke, the merchant had notice sent him that he was to take no journey out of the kingdom, under the penalty of 10,000 crowns. The merchant smiled at receiving the order; but, afterwards, not being able to fathom the reason of the prohibition, he grew so uneasy that he paid the fine, and actually took a short trip out of the kingdom.--_English paper._

Saturday Night.

“Oh! it is Saturday night!” exclaimed Ellen; “I had forgotten that. A Bible story, then. I am sure I think the story about Joseph, or that about Isaac, or the prodigal son, or Lazarus and his sisters, as interesting as a fairy story.”

“They are a hundred times more interesting,” said Charles.

It was the custom of Ellen’s mother to tell her children a short story every night after they were in bed. She was very glad to find that the true and instructive histories from the good book, interested her children as much as those stories that were contrived to delight them.

“My dear children,” she said, “I shall not tell you a story from the Bible to-night, but I am going to relate an anecdote--which, you know, means a short story--of some little children of our acquaintance.

“There are two children who have a great and kind Friend, who is always taking care of them, whether they are awake or asleep.”

“I suppose you mean their mother,” said little Charley, who was always impatient to get at the story.

“No, my love; this Friend gave them their father and mother.”

“Oh, you mean God,” whispered Ellen.

Her mother did not reply to her, but proceeded,--

“This bountiful Friend has given to them the most beautiful and wonderful gems in the world.”

“Gems! what are gems, mother?” asked Charles.

“Precious jewels, my dear. Those I am speaking of are very small, but so curiously formed that as soon as the casket which contains them is opened, there is immediately painted on them a beautiful picture of all the objects toward which they are turned. If it be a landscape, like that which you see every morning from your chamber window, there appear on the gems those beautiful mountains that rise one above another; the mist that curls up their sides; the bright lake that glistens in the depth of the valley, and which you call the mountain mirror, Ellen; the large orchards, with their trees gracefully bending with their ruddy and golden fruit; the neat house opposite to us, with its pretty curtain of vines hanging over the door, and rose-bushes clustering about the windows.”

“What, mother!” exclaimed Charles; “all these things painted on a little gem?”

“Yes, Charles, all; the high mountains, and the rose-bushes, every leaf and bud of them. And then, if the gems are turned towards the inside of the house, the landscape disappears, and all the furniture is painted on them, and the perfect pictures of their friends; not such pictures as you see done by painters, looking grave and motionless, but smiling, speaking, and moving.”

“Oh, mother, mother,” exclaimed Ellen, “this is a fairy story, after all.”

“Are there, in reality, any such gems?” asked Charles, who did not like that the story should turn out a fairy story.

“There are, my dear Charles; and the same Friend who gave the children these gems has given to them many other gifts as wonderful. He has given to them an instrument by which they can hear the music of the birds, the voices of their friends, and all other sounds; and another by which they can enjoy the delicious perfume of the flowers; the fragrance you so often spoke of, Ellen, when the fruit trees were in blossom, and the locust trees in flower, and the clover in bloom.”

“Oh, what a generous friend that must be,” said Charles, “to give such valuable presents, and so many of them. Are there any more, mother?”

“Yes, Charles, more than I can describe to you if I were to talk till to-morrow morning. There is a very curious instrument by which they can find out the taste of everything that is to be eaten; and another that, by just stretching out their fingers, they can tell whether a thing is smooth or rough, hard or soft.”

“Why, I can tell that by my fingers,” exclaimed Charles.

“Yes, my dear,” said his mother; “and cannot you taste by putting food into your mouth? and is there not an instrument set in your head by which you can hear?”

“My ear, mother?” asked Charles.

“Yes, my dear,” said his mother.

“And do you mean the eyes by those wonderful gems?” asked Ellen.

“Yes.”

“But I am sure there is no painting in the eyes.”

“Yes, Ellen; every object you behold is painted upon a part of the eye called the retina; but that you cannot understand now, and you must let me go on with my anecdote of the two children. When they arose in the morning, they found that their Friend had taken such good care of them when they slept that they felt no pain; that their limbs were all active, and they could every moment receive pleasure from the precious gems and instruments I have mentioned. They both looked out of the window, and exclaimed, ‘What a beautiful morning!’ The little girl turned her gems toward the multiflora, now full of roses and glistening with dew-drops, and she clapped her hands, and asked her brother if he ever saw anything so beautiful; and he turned his gems to a pair of humming-birds, that were fluttering over the honey-suckle, and thrusting their tiny pumps into the necks of the flowers; and as their bright images shone on his gems, he shouted, ‘Did you ever see anything so handsome?’”

“You mean, mother,” said Charles, “that he looked at the humming-birds, when you say he turned his gems?”

“Yes, my dear; and when he heard the pleasant humming they make with their wings, it was by the instrument set in the head which you call the ear. There was not a moment of the day that the children did not enjoy some good thing their Friend had given to them. They learnt their lessons by using the memories he had given them, because he had given them minds by which they understood them. They loved their parents, and relations, and companions, because their Friend had given them affections.”

“It seems to me,” interrupted Charley, “that Friend gave them everything. It must be God, mother, for I know he gives us everything we have.”

“Yes, my dear Charley; and I am sorry to say these two children neglected their Friend. They had often been told by their mother never to get into bed without first kneeling and thanking him for all his gifts; but they did not think of him. They used and enjoyed his gifts, but they sometimes forgot the Giver.”

Ellen laid her head on her mother’s bosom,--

“Mother,” she said, “you mean us.”

“My dear Ellen,” replied her mother, “your conscience is like the ring in the fairy tale. Yes, I did mean you and Charles. I was sorry, when I came into the room to-night, to see you getting into bed without saying your prayers. God has given you a voice to speak, my children. Your dog, Dash, Charles, cannot speak to thank God for anything he receives; but you can.”

“And I will!” exclaimed the good little boy, ashamed that he had been ungrateful and thoughtless. “Come, Ellen, we will jump up and say our prayers; and,” he added in a whisper, “we’ll speak for Dash too.”

Oliver Cromwell.

This individual was one of the most wonderful men that ever lived. He was born at Huntingdon, in England, April 28, 1599. It is related of him, that, when an infant, a large ape seized him, and ran with him up to the top of a barn; there the creature held him, and refused, for a long time, to give him up, frightening the people with the idea that he should let him fall. It is said that, while he was still young, a gigantic female figure appeared at his bedside, and foretold his future greatness.

Cromwell was well educated; but, after quitting the university, he became very dissipated. At twenty-one, he married Elizabeth Bouchire, from which time he became regular in his life.

In 1625 he was chosen to parliament; and thus began, at twenty-six years of age, that public career which ended in his becoming the sole ruler of England, and one of the most energetic and powerful sovereigns of Europe. He was soon distinguished as a speaker in parliament, always taking part against the court and the established church. In 1642, when civil war was about to commence, he raised a troop of horse, and seizing the plate of the university of Cambridge, appropriated it to the paying of the expenses of the army. He was engaged in several battles, where he displayed the utmost skill and courage. In 1645, the famous battle of Naseby was won by his valor and good management; and, in consideration of his services, parliament voted him the annual sum of £25,000 during his life.

King Charles I., against whom Cromwell and his party were acting, was betrayed into their hands by the Scotch. By the intrigues of Cromwell, he was tried, condemned, and beheaded. Cromwell himself became, soon after, the ruler of the kingdom, under the title of Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland and Ireland. Though he had obtained his power by a series of violent acts, and by the practice of every species of hypocrisy, Cromwell now set himself about promoting the strength, power, and prosperity of his kingdom. Though this was done harshly, yet it was with wisdom and energy. The country flourished at home, and the name of England was much respected abroad.

But though Cromwell had risen to the utmost height of honor and power, he was a miserable man. He was perpetually haunted with superstitious fears, the promptings of a conscience ill at ease. The death of the king, which was effected by his management, weighed upon his spirit like a murder. He went constantly armed, and yet he was constantly in fear. At last, when Col. Titus wrote a book, entitled, _Killing no Murder_, in which he attempted to prove that it was a duty of the citizens to kill Cromwell, he was thrown into a fever, and died, Sept. 3, 1658, leaving his weak brother, Richard, to wield the sceptre for a few years, and then surrender it to a son of the murdered Charles I. Cromwell was buried in Westminster Abbey; but, after Charles II. came to the throne, his body was dug up and hung on a gibbet, beneath which it was buried!

Musings.

I wandered out one summer night--
’Twas when my years were few:
The breeze was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
The moonbeams lay upon the hill,
The shadows in the vale,
And here and there a leaping rill
Was laughing at the gale.

One fleecy cloud upon the air
Was all that met my eyes;
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild
As here and there I flew;
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.

The waves came dancing o’er the sea
In bright and glittering bands:
Like little children wild with glee,
They linked their dimpled hands.
They linked their hands--but ere I caught
Their mingled drops of dew,
They kissed my feet, and, quick as thought,
Away the ripples flew.

The twilight hours like birds flew by,
As lightly and as free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand in the sea;
For every wave with dimpled cheek
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.

The young moon too, with upturned sides,
Her mirrored beauty gave;
And as a bark at anchor rides,
She rode upon the wave.
The sea was like the heaven above,
As perfect and as whole,
Save that it seemed to thrill with love,
As thrills the immortal soul.

The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred,
Made murmurs on the air--
Low murmurs, that my spirit heard,
And answered with a prayer:
For ’twas upon the dewy sod,
Beside the moaning seas,
I learned at first to worship God,
And sing such strains as these.

The flowers, all folded to their dreams,
Were bowed in slumber free,
By breezy hills and murmuring streams,
Where’er they chanced to be.
No guilty tears had they to weep,
No sins to be forgiven;
They closed their eyes, and went to sleep,
Right in the face of heaven.

No costly raiment round them shone,
No jewels from the seas,
Yet Solomon upon his throne
Was ne’er arrayed like these:
And just as free from guilt and art
Were lovely human flowers,
Ere sorrow set her bleeding heart
On this fair world of ours.

I heard the laughing wind behind,
A playing with my hair--
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were!
I heard the night bird warbling o’er
Its soft, enchanting strain--
I never heard such sounds before,
And never shall again.

Then wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay?
I’d give the world for their sweet art,
The simple, the divine;
I’d give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.
_Sou. Lit. Mess._

* * * * *

ANECDOTE OF AN ATHEIST.--An atheist on his death-bed was addressed by his son,--“Father, the physician says you can live but a few hours.” “I know it, my son. Have you anything to say to me?” “My father, you and my mother have held different creeds; my mother is a Christian--you believe there is no God. Shall I follow her faith or yours?” “My son,” said the dying parent, “believe in the God of your mother.”

Thus it is in the hour of sickness, at the moment when the frail supports of pride and passion are wrecked, that the sinking atheist clutches at the plank of the Christian. Thus it is that the atheist, when he is brought upon the stand before his Maker, confesses that his creed is not one that he would wish to bequeath to his children.

* * * * *

Here is a picture of the bones or skeleton of a horse. What a wonderful piece of mechanism it is! How many bones and joints, and how they are all fitted to each other!

Now, every horse has such a skeleton or frame-work of bones: and who contrives and makes them? Can men make such curious machinery? Certainly not. Men may make steamboats, and ships, and cotton-factories, but they cannot make the bones of an animal; nor can they put muscles and life to these bones. Now, if _man_ cannot do these things, who can? God only: he only can do these wonderful things.

* * * * *

WISDOM OF THE CREATOR.--The happy proportioning of one thing to another shows the wisdom of the Creator. Man, for instance, is adapted to the size and strength of a horse. If men were giants, they could not ride horses. If men were either pigmies or giants, they could not milk cows, mow grass, reap corn, train vines, or shear sheep, with anything like the conveniency they do now. If men were pigmies, they would be lost in the grass and rushes, and their children would be carried off by birds of prey. Every one can see, that, other things being as they are, man would suffer by being either much larger or smaller than he is.

* * * * *

YANKEE ENERGY.--A few days since, a gentleman of the city of New York was standing near the canal, at Albany, when he saw a small yawl-boat approaching him, propelled by a lad about seventeen years of age. The boat contained also the boy’s mother, six sisters, and a small brother. Our friend asked him where he was from, and where bound, and was answered, in substance, as follows:

“We are from Ohio. My father died there, and as we were nearly destitute, mother thought we had better go back to Saybrook, Conn., where we used to live; so we raised money enough to get this boat, and started from Ohio last fall. We came through Lake Erie, and got into the canal, where we were stopped by the ice. During the winter we hauled our boat up by the side of the canal, where we remained till the ice broke up. Sometimes we were considerably cold, and at times were sick a little, but on the whole we all got along right smart. We shall go down the North river, and up the sound to Saybrook.”

During this conversation, our friend was walking along the margin of the canal; our noble Yankee boy, being unwilling to lose any time, kept constantly propelling his boat forward, the younger brother, a lad of only seven or eight years of age, steering the craft. It was Sunday morning, and the mother and daughters were clad in their Sabbath suits, and engaged in reading. A small furnace was standing on the deck of the boat, and a sail, snugly stowed, was lying fore and aft. The few cooking utensils, bedding, and clothing belonging to this poor family, were securely placed under the deck.

Here is an instance of industry and perseverance, which commends itself to the notice of the rising generation--ay, and the present one too. No doubt, if this boy lives, he will yet make a stir in the world; and if we knew his name, we would publish it.

* * * * *

WHO MADE MAN?--Look at the foot--how ingeniously is this contrived! Look at the arm: what piece of mechanism can compare with it? But of all parts of the body, the eye is perhaps the most wonderful. It has in it a lens, like that of a telescope, through which the rays of light pass; and at the back of the eye a little picture of whatever comes before the eye is formed. This picture falls upon a nerve which lines the interior of the eye, and thus it is we see. All this contrivance is very ingenious. And observe how the eye itself is placed in the head. See how easily it turns this way and that! Consider these things, and tell me, who but a Superior Being, one who contrives, one who thinks, could have made man?

* * * * *

POWER OF GOD.--The sun is as large as three hundred and thirty-seven thousand of our worlds. Jupiter is as large as one thousand two hundred and eighty-one of our worlds. Mercury flies along in its path at the rate of twenty miles in a second. Uranus is seventeen times as large as our world, one billion eight hundred milions of miles from the sun, and flies along at the rate of two hundred and forty miles every minute!

Here, then, is the power of God! A world, with all its mountains, and oceans, and kingdoms, is but a pebble in the hands of the Almighty!

THE BIRD’S ADIEU!

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Farewell to the meadow,
For summer is past;
Farewell, for its leaves
Now whirl o’er the blast.
Farewell to the bough
Where my cradle was swung,
And the song of my mother
Was joyously sung.

2

How sweet was that song
Of the light-hearted bird;
No other I’ll sing--
’Twas the first that I heard.
And though to far lands
I must hasten away,
Wherever I roam,
I will carry that lay.

3

How sweet are these scenes,
For my birth-place is here;
And I know that in absence,
They’ll be but more dear.
I’ll sing of them there,
In the land where I roam,
And, winter departed,
I’ll return to my home.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.--No. 4.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.