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 Adam and Eve.

The story of Adam and Eve—their residence in the Garden of

Eden; their temptation; their fall; their expulsion from the place
which was so beautiful, and where they had been so happy; their
incurring the displeasure of their Divine Benefactor; their going forth
—with prospects so changed—where toil and care should attend
them; where thorns and briars must be in their path, and where
they must thereafter get their bread by the sweat of the brow,—all
this is a picture at once exceedingly touching, and at the same time
full of instruction.
Most people are very apt to think that if they had been situated
like this first human pair, they should have behaved more wisely. But
do we not all of us have nearly the same experience as our first
parents? We are all capable of living innocently—and of enjoying the
bliss, the Eden, the paradise—which innocence bestows. But we
voluntarily cast away our innocence; we eat the forbidden fruit; we
commit sin; we become degraded; we lose the favor of God; we
stand before him as sinners!
Like Adam and Eve, then, we are cast out; like them we find
thorns and briars in our way; like them we encounter cares, and
doubts, and fears, and sorrows, in our journey through life. We eat
our bread by the sweat of the brow.
Who is there, that does not feel that his errors are his own—that
he, and he only, is responsible for them? Instead, therefore, of
saying that if we had been placed in another’s situation, we had
done better than he has done, let us rather look to ourselves—and
instead of palliating or hiding our faults, let us confess them before
God, with an humble, and contrite, and obedient heart—and ask
forgiveness for them in the name of the Redeemer.

The mole.—It is said that the mole, in its movements under

ground, always turns its back to the sun, burrowing from east to
west in the morning, and from west to east in the evening.
 Merry’s Adventures.

chapter xx.

A month passed away after my uncle’s death, during which I was

in a sort of maze; I did not know what to do, and now, after many
years are gone, I can hardly recollect anything that occurred during
that period. I only know that I wandered over the house, from one
room to another; I then went into the fields; rambled about the
farm, and seeming by a sort of instinct to avoid everybody. I did not
wish to speak to any one. I seemed lost, and it was not till the day
came when the tavern was to be sold, with all its furniture, that I
was fully recalled to consciousness.
I remember that day well. The sale was by auction, and the place
which had been a home to me for years, was knocked off to the
highest bidder. The purchaser was a stranger to me, and took
immediate possession. I still remained in the house; and it was not
till three or four days after he and his household had come, that the
idea entered my head that I was to leave it. The man said to me one
day—“Well, Mr. Merry—when do you intend to go?” I did not
understand him at first, but in a moment it rushed into my mind,
that this was a hint for me to depart.
I felt a sense of mingled insult and shame; for it seemed that it
was almost turning me out of doors, and that by my stupidity, I had
subjected myself to such an indignity. I made no reply—but took my
hat and left the house. I wandered forth, hardly knowing which way
I went. In a short time I found myself ascending the mountain,
toward old Sarah’s cave. It now came suddenly to my recollection
that the hermitess had invited me to come and see her, if at any
time I was in trouble.
 Although she was not, perhaps, the wisest of counsellors, yet, in
my present disturbed state of mind, it suited me well enough to go
to her. Indeed, I felt so miserable, so lonely from the loss of my
uncle, so helpless from the loss of my property, that I thought of
taking up my abode with the gray old dame of the rock, and living
there the rest of my life. With these strange notions running in my
head, I approached her den.
It was a chill December evening, and I found her in her cave. She
bade me welcome, and I sat down. “I knew it would come to this,”
said she: “I knew it long ago. Your uncle was kind-hearted, as the
world say; but is it kind to spend what is not one’s own? Is it kind to
waste the property of the orphan, and leave one’s sister’s child to
beggary? Is it kind to eat, drink, and be merry, when another’s tears
must pay the reckoning?”
“Nay, nay;” said I, “You must not speak in this way. My uncle is
dead, and I will not hear his name mentioned, but in words of
kindness and charity. Oh, do not blame him; it was his misfortune,
not his fault, to lose my property, as well as his own. At all events,
he loved me; he ever spake kindly to me; he was to me as a father;
he could not have done more for a son than he did for me.”
I could say no more, for tears and sobs choked my utterance, and
old Sarah then went on. “Well, well; let it be so, let it be so. But I
must tell you, Master Merry, that I knew your mother well. We were
both of the same country, both natives of England, and we came to
America in the same ship. She was a good woman, and in the dark
days of my life, she was kind to me. I will repay it to her child.”
Saying this, she went to the end of the cave, and took a small
wooden box from a crevice in the rock. This she opened, and
handed a parcel to me, adding; “this will repair your loss.” I looked
at her in some doubt. “Examine what I give you,” said she, “and you
will understand me.”
I opened the parcel, which consisted of a roll, with a covering of
silk. I found in it several thin pieces of paper, resembling bank notes,
and reading them as well as I could by the dim light which came in
at the entrance of the cave, I perceived that they were government
bills, of a thousand dollars each. “I am glad for your sake,” said I,
handing back the parcel to Sarah—“that you have so much money,
but I cannot consent to take it from you.”
“And what do I want of it?” said she, quickly. “It has been in my
possession for forty years, yet I have never seen the need of it. This
rock has been my shelter—this rock is my bed. The forest yields me
food, and charity gives me raiment. Oh no; that money can never be
used by me. It would feed my pride and tempt me back into the
paths of folly. I have sworn never more to use it, and if you do not
take it, it will perish with me.”
I endeavored to persuade the hermitess to change her views and
her mode of life. I urged her, as she had so much money, to leave
her cave, and procure the comforts and luxuries which her age and
infirmities required. But she was fixed in her purpose, and my
reasoning was without effect. We talked till the night was nearly
gone. At last I consented to take a part of the cash, but she insisted
that I should take the whole; and believing that she would never use
it, I received it, intending to reserve, at least, a portion of it for her
use, in case of need. The kind-hearted old creature seemed much
delighted, and my own heart was lightened of a heavy burthen. I
felt, not only that I had again the means of independence, but that I
had also a sure and steadfast friend.
It did not diminish my pleasure that this friend was a gray old
dame, clothed in rags and regarded with contempt by the world;
poor as she seemed, she had done for me what no rich person
would ever have done. The rich will seldom give away their money,
or if they do, it is sparingly and with reluctance. The song says—
“’Tis the poor man alone,
When he hears the poor’s moan,
Of his morsel a morsel will give.”

My own experience has verified the truth of these touching

words. The rich consist usually of those who have a supreme love of
wealth, and who sacrifice everything else to obtain it, or keep it. A
person who eagerly pursues riches all his life time; who gives
nothing away; who turns a deaf ear to the calls of charity; who
never opens his purse to a friend; who never feels the appeals of
society to his liberality—or if he does these things, does them
narrowly and selfishly—and in his charities regards himself alone;
such a one is almost sure to be rich in purse, though he is more
certain to be poor in soul. Such a person may live and die rich in this
world, but he goes a pauper into the other—
“Not one heaven current penny in his purse.”
But poor Sarah parted with the good things of this life, and no
doubt, she laid up riches in that world where neither moth nor rust
can corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.
I left her the next morning, with many thanks, and a heart
overflowing with gratitude. I descended the mountain, and entered
the high-road. It was about three miles to the village, and feeling
fatigued from my imperfect repose upon Sarah’s bed of rock, I asked
a fat gentleman, who was riding along luxuriously in a coach, drawn
by two sleek horses, to let me ride. He did not deign to open his lips,
but shook his head, and the coach rolled on. I had not gone far
before a poor man, with an old wagon and a thin, raw-boned horse
overtook me. The whole establishment bespoke poverty; yet, when I
asked the man to grant me a ride, he cheerfully complied with my
request, as if it gave him real satisfaction to do an act of kindness.
“Here it is again,” thought I; “if you want a favor, ask it of the poor.
The rich man, in his easy coach, and with his fat horses that have
hardly enough to do to keep them from apoplexy, possesses a heart
as hard as flint; while the humble wagoner, with a beast that drags
one leg painfully after another, is ready to slave himself and his
horse, out of mere good nature. Thus it is that riches turn the soul
to stone; thus it is that poverty keeps the heart soft, and, like a
generous, well cultivated soil, ever prepared to yield good fruits.”
I soon reached the village, and immediately went to see
Raymond, to tell him of my interview with the hermitess. Having
related what had happened, I took out the money, and placed it in
his hands. Guess my surprise and disappointment, when he told me
that the ten bills of a thousand dollars each, were “Continental
notes,” and not worth a farthing! They had been issued by the
government during the war of the revolution, but had depreciated,
so that a thousand dollars of this paper, were sold for a single dollar
in silver! The government had, indeed, made some provision for the
payment of such notes as were brought forward before a certain
time, but these had been withheld beyond the period, and were now
utterly without value.
I had, of course, no suspicion that Sarah was aware of this fact.
The money was once good; and having lived apart from the world,
she had not known the change that had come over the currency.
Having no want of money, it was all the same to her, whatever might
be its worth; and it was only till she desired to do an act of kindness
to the child of an early friend, that what was once a fortune to her,
came into her mind.
I therefore felt no diminution of my gratitude to the poor old
woman, when I learnt that her gift was all in vain, and that it still left
me a beggar. Concealing the fact from her, I took counsel of
Raymond as to what I must do. I was perfectly helpless; it was my
misfortune that I had been brought up to think myself rich, beyond
the need of effort, and in fact, above work. This silly idea had been
rather encouraged by my uncle, who, being an Englishman, had a
little aristocratic pride in me as a member of the family, and one
born to be a gentleman, or, in other words, to lead an idle and
useless life. His feelings, and purposes were kind, but short-sighted.
He had not foreseen the destruction of my property; and, besides,
he had not learned that, whether rich or poor, every person, for his
own comfort and respectability, should be educated in habits of
industry and in some useful trade or profession.
After a good deal of reflection, Raymond advised me to go to
New York, and get a situation as a clerk in a store. This suited my
taste better than any other scheme that could be suggested, and I
made immediate preparations to depart. I went to take leave of Bill
Keeler, who was now a thriving shoemaker, with a charming wife,
and two bright-eyed laughing children. I bade them good-bye, with
many tears, and carrying with me their kindest wishes. How little did
I then think of the blight that would come over that cheerful group
and that happy home! It is true I had some fears for Bill, for I knew
that he loved the bar-room; but it did not enter my imagination that
there was a thing abroad in society so nearly akin to the Evil Spirit,
as to be able to convert his good nature into brutality, and change
an earthly paradise into a scene of indescribable misery.
Having taken leave of all my friends—and now it seemed that I
had many—I set out on my journey to New York on foot, provided
with two or three letters of introduction, furnished by Raymond and
his brother, the minister, and with about five dollars in my pocket;
the whole amount of my earthly portion!
 Gaza.

This city is often mentioned in the Bible, and is particularly noted

for the feats which Samson performed there, in carrying off its
gates, and in pulling down the temple of Dagon, upon which
occasion he lost his life. (See Judges chap. xvi.) It is situated about
forty-five miles southwest of Jerusalem, and not far from the
Mediterranean Sea. The high road from Syria, and other eastern
countries, to Egypt, passes through it: it has therefore been often
taken in the wars that have been waged in these regions.
When Alexander, the Macedonian conqueror, made his famous
expedition against Cyrus, he besieged Gaza, which was in his route.
It made an obstinate resistance of five months; but it was at last
taken by storm, its brave defenders were slaughtered at their posts;
their wives and children were sold as slaves; and the city was
repeopled with inhabitants, drawn from the surrounding country.
The crusaders found it in ruins, but they erected a castle here,
and entrusted it to the Knights Templars. From that time, it began to
revive: it soon passed into the hands of the Saracens, and then to
the Turks, who still hold it. Dr. Robinson, a very learned American
minister, has lately visited the place. He says there are now fifteen or
sixteen thousand people there, which makes it a larger city than
Jerusalem. He says the city is built upon a small hill, and bears few
marks of its former greatness. Its walls have entirely disappeared,
and most of the houses are miserable mud huts.
 Knights Templars, and other Orders of
Knighthood.

In a former number of the Museum (p. 145) we have given an

account of the order of Knights Templars, with an engraving
representing their appearance. In this number we give another
picture, delineating more accurately their dress and armor.
We have stated that the order of Knights Templars originated
about the period of the crusaders: but other orders of knights
existed long before. So early as the year 506, history tells us that
knights were made in England, with great ceremony. A stage was
erected in some cathedral, or spacious place near it, to which the
gentleman was conducted to receive the honor of knighthood. Being
seated on a chair decorated with green silk, it was demanded of
him, if he were of good constitution, and able to undergo the fatigue
required of a soldier; also, whether he was a man of good morals,
and what credible witnesses he could produce to affirm the same.
Then the bishop, or chief prelate of the church, administered the
following oath: “Sir, you that desire to receive the honor of
knighthood, swear, before God and this holy book, that you will not
fight against his majesty, that now bestoweth the honor of
knighthood upon you; you shall also swear to maintain and defend
all ladies, gentlemen, widows, and orphans; and you shall shun no
adventure of your person in any way where you shall happen to be.”
The oath being taken, two lords led him to the king, who drew his
sword, and laid it upon his head, saying, “God and Saint George (or
whatever other saint the king pleased to name) make thee a good
knight.” After this, seven ladies, dressed in white, came and girt a
sword to his side, and four knights put on his spurs. These
ceremonies being over, the queen took him by the right hand, and a
duchess by the left, and led him to a rich seat, placed on an ascent,
where they seated him, the king sitting on his right hand, and the
queen on his left. Then the lords and ladies sat down upon other
seats, three descents under the king; and, being all thus seated,
were entertained with a delicate collation; and so the ceremony
ended.
The famous order of the Garter, which is still conferred as a badge
of honor, by the kings of England, upon such as they desire to favor,
was instituted in 1344. The Knights of the Bath, another famous
order, also still continues: this originated in France, and took its
name from the ceremony of bathing, which was practised by the
knights previous to their inauguration.
The Knights of the Thistle is a Scottish order; that of the Knights
of St. Patrick was instituted by George III., in 1783. There are a
great multitude of other orders, and among these, that of the Bear,
the Elephant, and the Death’s Head. In former times, as I have told
you, knights went about in quest of adventures, or they were
devoted to warlike enterprises. But in modern times, being a knight
is nothing more than to have a sash, or ribbon, or star, with a few
diamonds or precious stones attached to it, conferred by a king or
queen, with some ceremonies of no great meaning.
 A Page for Little Readers.

How well Ben remembered what his mother told Tim.

There are some little boys, and little girls too—some with black
eyes and some with blue—who remember a great deal better what
their parents tell their brothers and sisters, than what is told to
themselves. Once upon a time there were two boys, one named
Benjamin, and the other Timothy—but called Ben and Tim—whose
story will afford a good instance of what I refer to.
These were nice little boys, and about as good as children in
general; and they loved their mother very much; but still, they did a
good many little mischievous things, that gave her trouble. She had
a neat little garden, and in it were some pretty flowers—especially
some red roses, which were very beautiful.
Now these two boys picked some of these roses, and, as their
mother wished to keep them, she told them both not to pick any
more. Well, for a day or two they obeyed; but at last little Ben, who
was the eldest, saw a beautiful little rose, and it looked so pretty, he
yielded to temptation, and plucked it. Tim saw him, and he plucked
one too.
They said nothing about it, for a time; but the next day little Ben,
who was very fond of telling tales, came out with the story, so far as
Tim was concerned. “Mother,” said he, “didn’t you tell Tim not to pick
any more roses?”
“Yes, I did,” said the mother.
“Well, he did pick one yesterday.”
“I didn’t!” said Tim.
 “I say you did!” said little Ben.
“I say I didn’t!” said Tim.
“Oh, mother, he did, for I seed him pick it: it was a beautiful red
rose; and when he’d picked it, he smelt of it; and then he pulled it
all to pieces!”
Here Tim began to cry. “Well,” said he, “you picked one too!”
“Oh-o-o-o-o!” said Ben.
“I say you did pick a rose; you picked one first, and if you hadn’t
picked one I shouldn’t have picked one, and so there!”
Here Ben began to snivel. “I see how it is,” said the mother. “It is
too often so, my dear Ben: it is too often so. You remember very
well what I tell Tim, but you forget what I tell you. Now I forbade
you both to pick the roses; and it seems you were the first to
disobey; and in this you were more to blame than Tim, for you led
the way to disobedience, and thus, by a bad example, made Tim
disobey also.
“But, what is worse than all, your love of telling tales induced you
to tell of Tim, when you were more to blame yourself. Fie, for
shame, Ben! This is all wrong, very wrong. You ought to remember
better what I tell you, than what I tell Tim, for you are the oldest;
you ought to be more ready to receive blame, than to bring it upon
your little brother.”
Poor Ben was in tears, and his little heart was very sad, and he
could not be comforted till his mother forgave him, and took him to
her bosom, and said she hoped he would never do so again. This he
promised, and then he brightened up, and the two children went to
their play.
Now I suppose that Ben was really sorry for his fault, and no
doubt his promise not to do so again was very sincere; but when
once a child has got a bad habit, it is very hard to get rid of it. It
was, therefore, a long time before he could remember what was said
to him, better than what was said to Tim. He however mastered this
difficulty, and at last, when his mother laid her commands upon him,
he was sure to take them to heart, and obey them.
Now I recommend it to all blue-eyed, and black-eyed, and gray-
eyed children, to think of this little story, and see that they are sure
to remember better what their parents tell them, than what they tell
any one else. Let them learn the story of Ben and Tim by heart, and
heed the lesson it conveys.

A Word to Correspondents.

We are obliged to defer replying to our numerous Correspondents

till the next number, where the reader will find answers to the
puzzles, and something more to task his Yankee faculty of guessing.
 BOB O’LINKUM’S SONG TO THE MOWER.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Tinkle, Tinkle, Mister Ninkum,

I am merry, Bob O’ Linkum!
Prithee, tell me what’s the matter,
That you’re making such a clatter—
Can’t you leave us, honest folks,
To sing our songs and crack our jokes?

It is cruel, Mr. Ninkum,

Thus to bother Bob O’Linkum—
I had thought the meadow mine,
With its blossoms all so fine,
And I made my little nest
’Neath the clover, all so blest.

But you come, oh naughty Ninkum,

All unheeding Bob O’Linkum—
And you swing your saucy blade
Where my little nest is made—
And you cut the blooming clover,
Which did wrap my young ones over.

Get you gone, oh ugly Ninkum—

Leave the field to Bob O’Linkum;
Let him on his light wing hover
O’er the summer scented clover—
Let him sing his merry song,
And he’ll thank you all day long.
 MERRY’S MUSEUM.
V O L U M E I V . — N o . 2 .

The Sense of Touch.

The sensations of smelling, tasting, hearing, and seeing, are

conveyed by distinct organs, severally devoted to these objects, and
all confined to the head. But the sense of touch, or feeling, extends
over almost every part of the body. Though we may call every
sensation feeling, yet what is properly denominated the sensation of
touch, consists of the feeling or sensation excited by bodies brought
in contact with the skin, and especially the tips of the fingers.
It is by the sense of touch, that men and other animals are able
to perceive certain external qualities of objects. It is by this sense
that we acquire ideas of hardness, softness, roughness, smoothness,
heat and cold, weight and pressure, form and distance.
The accuracy of this sense is much improved by habit. In some
cases, when persons have become deaf or blind, the sense of touch
has grown so acute as partially to supply the loss of the sense of
seeing or hearing. Blind persons have sometimes been able to
determine the qualities of objects, with wonderful accuracy, by
touch, and even to distinguish the colors of cloths, by being able to
discriminate between the substances used in giving these their hues.
 Merry’s Adventures.

chapter xxi.

With a heavy and doubting heart, I proceeded on my way to New

York. My situation was, in every respect, gloomy and depressing. I
was alone in the world, and utterly unpractised in taking care of
myself. I was cast forth to work my way in the rough voyage of life. I
was like a person, who, while sailing confidently upon a raft, sees it
suddenly sink in the waves, leaving him no other resource than to
swim for his life, and that too, without preparation or practice.
It is, however, true, that necessity is, not only the mother of
invention, but of exertion also, and by degrees I began to brace
myself up to the emergency in which I was placed. It is a great thing
—it is, indeed, the first requisite in order to obtain success—to have
the mind and feelings prepared. I saw and felt that I had no other
dependence now, than myself; that even my food, my clothing, my
shelter, must henceforth, be the fruit of my own toil. It was a
strange and startling position; and it was necessary for me to go
over the events which had recently transpired, again and again,
before I could realize a state of things so utterly at variance with the
whole tenor of my life, my education, and my habits of thought.
It was long before, I could bring my pride down to my humble
condition; it was long before I could resolve to grapple earnestly and
heartily with the burthen which a life of toil presented to my
imagination. I had heard of a punishment of criminals in Holland, in
which they were obliged to work at a pump incessantly, to save
themselves from being drowned; if they relaxed for a moment, the
fatal element would rise over their heads and they would be lost
forever. In my hour of distress, I looked upon my condition as little
better than this. But necessity, necessity, that stern teacher,
admonished me hour by hour, and at last its lesson was indelibly
written on my heart. From that moment, fully estimating my
dependence, I felt assured, and with a firmer step pushed on toward
the place of my destination.
The day after my departure from Salem, as I was passing through
the town of Bedford, I came to a handsome white house, the
grounds of which seemed to bespeak wealth and taste on the part of
its owner. It was at this moment beginning to snow, the flakes falling
so thickly as to obscure the air. It was evidently setting in for a
severe storm, and I was casting about for some place of shelter,
when a tall, thin gentleman, of a very dignified appearance,
approached me. There was that air of kindness about him, which
emboldened me to inquire if he could tell me where I could get
shelter till the storm was over.
“Come in with me, my friend,” said he kindly; at the same time
opening the gate, and walking up the yard toward the house I have
mentioned. I did not hesitate, but followed on, and soon found
myself in a large room, richly carpeted, bearing every aspect of ease
and luxury. Being desired to take a seat, I placed myself by the
cheerful fire, and waited to be addressed by the hospitable host.
“It is a stormy day,” said the old gentleman; “have you far to
travel?”
“I am on my way to New York, sir;” said I.
“Indeed! and on foot?” was his reply; “then you had better stay
here till the storm is past.” He then proceeded to make some
inquiries, and soon learnt my story. He had known my uncle well,
and seemed on his account to take some interest in my behalf. The
day passed pleasantly, and when evening came, there was quite a
circle, consisting of the members of a large family, gathered around
the fireside. The conversation was lively and entertaining. The host
appeared to be about sixty years of age, but he had a look of calm
dignity, an aspect of mingled simplicity and refinement, which made
a strong impression on my mind. I had never seen any one who so
much excited the feeling of reverence. I did not know his name, but
I had a feeling that I was in the presence of a great man. The
deference paid him by all around, tended to heighten this
impression.
About ten o’clock in the evening, the servants of the family were
called in, and all kneeling, the aged man offered up a simple, but
fervent prayer to heaven. It seemed like the earnest request of a
child to a father; a child that felt as if he had offended a parent
whom he loved, and in whom he confided. The scene to me was
very striking. To see a man so revered by his fellow-men—a man of
such wisdom and knowledge—kneeling in humiliation, like a very
child, and pouring out his soul in tears of supplication before the
Father of the Universe, affected me deeply. It was one of those
things which was calculated to have a decisive and abiding effect. I
had then heard little of religion, except as a matter of ridicule. I have
since met with the scoffer and the unbeliever; but the scene I have
just described, taught me that the truly great man may be a sincere,
meek, pious Christian; it taught me that the loftiest intellect, the
most just powers of reasoning, may lead to that simple faith which
brings the learned and the great to the same level as the unlettered
and the humble—submission to God. If, in after days, I have ever
doubted the truth of the Bible; if I have ever felt contempt for the
Christian, that good man’s prayer, that great man’s example, have
speedily rebuked my folly. These things have led me to frequent and
serious reflection, and, during the subsequent stages of my life,
have induced me to remark, that the unbeliever, the scoffer, is
usually a person of weak mind, or ill-balanced judgment. I have met
many great men, who were Christians. I never have met a great
man who was a doubter.
In the morning the storm had abated, and after breakfast, I took
my leave, having offered sincere thanks for the hospitality I had
shared. As I was departing, the gentleman put into my hands a
letter, addressed to a friend of his in New York; and which he
requested me to deliver in person, on my arrival. This I promised to
do; but candor compels me to say that I did not keep my promise;
and bitterly have I had occasion to repent it. It is true, I sent the
letter to the gentleman, but I did not deliver it myself. I had not yet
learned the importance of a precise and accurate fulfilment of duty,
and performance of promises. Had I done as I was directed, it
would, no doubt, have altered the whole tenor of my life. I
afterwards learned, but all too late to be of avail, that the letter was
to an eminent merchant of New York, commending me warmly to
him, and requesting him to take me into his counting-room; and this
letter was from a man of such distinction,[12] that his request would
not have been slighted. Yet, through my carelessness, I missed this
excellent chance for getting forward in life.
I proceeded on my journey, but although I travelled very
industriously, the snow was so deep, that at night I had made little
progress. The fourth day after my departure, however, just at
evening, I entered the city of New York, and took up my lodgings at
a small tavern in Pearl street. Having taken supper, I went to the
bar-room, where were about a dozen men, drinking and smoking.
One of them, rather genteely dressed, came and sat by me, and we
fell into conversation. After a little while, he ordered some flip, and
we drank it. I felt my heart warmed, and my tongue loosed, and I
told the stranger my story. He appeared to take great interest in me
and pretty soon proposed to go into another room. Here were two
other persons; and we sat down—my new friend ordering more
liquor, and introducing me to the strangers. The liquor was brought,
and also a pack of cards. In an easy way my companion began to
shuffle the pack, and handed them to me to cut; seeming to take it
as a matter of course that I would play. I had not the courage to
refuse, and drew up to the table. The game went on, and in a very
short time, I had lost every dollar in my pocket!
“Wit that is bought, is worth twice as much as wit that is taught,”
says the proverb. We have good counsels bestowed upon us, but
words make a faint impression. It is only when these counsels have
been despised, and we are made actually to suffer, that we obtain
lessons which stick by us, and influence us. A father once warned his
son against certain evil ways. “Why do you counsel me, thus?” said
the boy. “Because I have tried these things and seen the folly of
them,” said the parent. “Well, father,” replied the inexperienced
youth, “I want to see the folly of them too!” Thus it is that we will
not take the experience of others; we will not heed the warnings of
wisdom; we must needs taste of evil, and then, but not till then, do
we bear in mind the bitterness that is in the cup of indulgence.
So it was with me; I had heard the dangers of gambling, but I
had not seen and felt the folly of it. But now the lesson of
experience had come, and it was deep and bitter. I went to bed with
a heavy heart. Sleep came not to my eyelids that long, long night.
My fancy was filled with real and imaginary evils. The death of my
uncle; the loss of my fortune; the desolation of my condition; my
visit to old Sarah’s cave; the bitter disappointment connected with
the continental notes; my farewell to friends; my launching forth
upon the sea of adventure;—all, came again and again to mind,
each thought with oppressive force and distinctness. Ideas seemed
like living images marching and countermarching in fearful
procession, through the grisly shadows of the night. Nor was this all.
To these realities, were added the fantasies suggested by
apprehension, the painful emotions of an offended conscience, and
the bitter self-distrust, which a conviction of my weakness and folly,
at the very threshold of active and responsible life, forced upon me.
All these came in to increase my misery. In vain did I try to close my
eyes in repose; in vain did I seek to shut out the truth from my
mind. The more I courted sleep, the more wakeful I became; the
more I tried not to think, the more bright and vivid were my
conceptions. My soul was like an illuminated house, filled with bustle
and noise, when the proprietor would fain have sought the silence
and repose of the pillow.
Morning at last came, and with it something like comfort. “I have
learnt a lesson,” said I, “and will never gamble again.” Such was the
fruit of my experience, and it was worth all it cost me; for from that
time I have kept my resolution. I went to deliver the letters which
had been given me by Raymond and his brother. The persons to
whom they were addressed, received me kindly, and one of them, a
bookseller, took me into his shop as a clerk, on trial.
It its scarcely possible for any one to conceive of a youth so
poorly qualified to be useful, as I was at this time. My education was
very imperfect; I had no habits of industry; I was not accustomed to
obey others; I had no experience in doing the thousand little things
which are to be done, and which practice alone can render easy. On
the contrary, I had grown up in idleness, or at least to work, or play,
or do nothing, just as my humor might dictate.
Now those children who have had the guidance of parents, and
who have been taught habits of industry and obedience, ought to be
very thankful—for they will find it easy to get along in life; but, alas,
I had grown up almost to manhood, and had been educated to none
of these things; and now I was to reap the bitter fruits of my own
neglect and the misfortune of having no parent and no friend, save a
too indulgent uncle. How much I suffered, from these sources, I
cannot express; but my experience may warn all children and youth
against the foolish desire of being indulged in their wishes and
humors. ’T is far better that they should learn to perform their
duties, to help themselves, to be industrious, and to obey those in
whose charge they are placed.
The bookseller with whom I was now placed, was named Cooke—
a large man, with red hair standing out like bristles, and staring,
fiery eyes. When he first spoke to me, he was soft as cream in his
tones, but I soon learnt that when roused, he was hot as a volcano.
For two or three days he was, indeed, very gentle, and I fancied that
I should get along very well. But soon the fair sky was overcast with
clouds, and a terrible tempest followed.

[12] I suppose that Robert Merry here refers to John

Jay, one of the greatest and best men who ever lived; for
about this period he dwelt in the town of Bedford, and was
such a person as is described. He had filled many
important offices; had been a member of congress,
 governor of New York, ambassador to Spain and England,
and chief justice of the United States. At the period of
Merry’s journey from Salem to New York, he had retired to
private life, devoting himself to religious and philosophical
inquiries. In 1798, he negotiated a famous treaty with
England, which was the subject of much discussion. There
is a simple anecdote which shows the excitement on this
subject, and exhibits Governor Jay in a pleasing light. One
day being at market, the butcher said to him, “There is a
great pother about this treaty of yours, governor; pray
what sort of a treaty is it?” “Well, my friend,” said Mr. Jay,
“there is some good and some bad in it; but, on the whole,
I think it a pretty good treaty: it is much like your beef—
there’s a streak of fat and a streak of lean—but it’s very
good beef after all.”

Irish wit.—A soldier in an Irish corps observed to his comrade that

a corporal was to be drummed out of the regiment. “By my faith,”
said he, “I hope it’s the corporal that is so troublesome to our
company.” “Pray, what’s his name?” enquired the soldier. “Why,
Corporal Punishment, to be sure, Pat!”

Mode of Invitation in China.—An invitation to a party or feast in

China is sent several days before, on a crimson colored ticket to the
person expected, on which is written the time appointed, and the
guest is entreated to bestow the “illumination of his presence.”
 Uncas and Miantonimo.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, &c., of the

Indians of America.

chapter xxi.

Dutch settlement in New York.—​Indian account of the matter.—​

Uncas, chief of the Mohicans.—​His war with the Narragansets.—​
Philip.—​His wars and death.—​Present state of the Indians in New
England.

The country around the mouth of the Hudson, and the island on
which the great city of New York is situated, were first settled by the
Dutch. They found the land occupied by a powerful tribe of Indians,
descended from the Delawares, called the Mohicans, by whom they
were received with the greatest kindness and respect. The natives
give an amusing account of the first arrival of these strangers.
 “A great many years ago,” say they, “when men with a white skin
had never been seen in this land, some Indians, who were out a
fishing at a place where the sea widens, espied at a distance
something remarkably large floating on the water, and such as they
had never seen before. These Indians, immediately returning to the
shore, apprized their countrymen of what they had observed, and
pressed them to discover what it might be. They hurried out
together, and saw with astonishment the phenomenon which now
appeared to their sight, but could not agree upon what it was: some
believed it to be an uncommonly large fish or animal, while others
were of opinion that it must be a very big house, floating on the
water.
“Runners were sent off in every direction with the wonderful
intelligence, and the people crowded to the shore to view the
strange appearance. They concluded that the Manito, or Great Spirit,
himself was coming to visit them, in this huge vessel. All the idols
and temples were put in order, and a grand dance and feast was
prepared to entertain him. While in this situation, fresh runners
arrived, declaring it to be positively a large house, crowded with
beings of quite a different color from that of the Indians, and clothed
differently from them; that, in particular, one of them was dressed
entirely in red, who must be the Manito himself.
“The house, or as some say, large canoe, at last stops, and a
canoe of smaller size comes on shore, with the man in red, and
some others in it; some stay with the canoe to guard it. The chiefs
and wise men form a circle, towards which the man in red clothes
advances with two others. He salutes them with a friendly
countenance, and they return the salute after their manner; they are
lost in admiration at the dress, the manners, and the whole
appearance of the unknown strangers; but they are particularly
struck with him who wore the red coat, all glittering with gold lace,
which they could in no manner account for. He surely must be the
great Manito, but why should he have a white skin?
 “Meanwhile a large bottle is brought by one of his servants, from
which he pours out an unknown liquid into a small cup or glass, and
drinks:—he then fills it again, and hands it to the chief nearest him,
who only smells of it, and passes it to the next, who does the same;
and the glass is about to be returned to the red-clothed Manito,
untasted, when one of the Indians, a brave man and a great warrior,
suddenly jumps up and harangues the assembly on the impropriety
of refusing the request of Manito, and not drinking the liquor, when
he had set them the example. For himself, he declared, that rather
than provoke the wrath of the Great Spirit by this conduct, he would,
if necessary, devote himself to death for the good of the nation.
“He then took the glass, and bidding the whole assembly a
solemn farewell, drank up its whole contents: he soon began to
stagger, and at last fell prostrate to the ground. His companions now
bemoan his fate, thinking that he has expired; suddenly he wakes,
jumps up, and declares that he has enjoyed the most delicious
sensations from drinking the liquor, and asks for more. The whole
assembly imitate him, and all become intoxicated.
“After they had recovered from the effects of this scene, the
strangers distributed among them presents of beads, axes, hoes,
&c., and then departed. In about a year they returned, and
concluded to settle there: for this purpose, they only asked for as
much land as the hide of a bullock, which was then spread before
them, would take in. The Indians readily granted this slight request;
but the whites then took a knife, and cut the hide into a long strip of
rope, not thicker than a child’s finger, with which they were able to
encompass a large piece of ground. The Indians were surprised at
the superior wit of the whites, but did not care to dispute about a
little land, as they had still enough for themselves; and they lived for
some time contentedly with their new neighbors.” The Dutch,
however, did not long keep possession of the country, which they
had thus unfairly gained; about fifty years afterwards, it was taken
from them by the English, who called it New York.
 The first grand chief, or sachem, of the Mohicans known to the
English, was called Uncas: he was a crafty and ambitious chieftain,
brave and cunning in war, and cruel to his conquered enemies. He
was always a firm friend to the English, probably because he saw
that it was for his interest to be so; for he was generally at war with
the Six Nations on the north, and the Narragansets, a numerous
warlike people on the east, who inhabited the country now called
the state of Rhode Island.
In one of these wars, Miantonimo, the Narraganset chief,
suddenly invaded the country of the Mohicans, with eight hundred of
his bravest warriors, giving Uncas only time to collect about half that
number to meet him. He saw that if he should attempt to oppose
him by main force, he should certainly be beaten; he therefore
resolved to attempt a stratagem.
When the two armies had approached near each other, ordering
his warriors to conceal themselves in the long grass, he advanced
before them, and challenged his adversary to single combat, saying
that it was a great pity that so many brave men should be killed,
merely to decide a private quarrel. But Miantonimo knew well that
he had the advantage in numbers, and he was resolved not to lose
it. “My warriors,” said the fierce chieftain, “have come a long way to
fight, and they shall fight.”
Uncas had expected this answer, and instantly fell flat to the
ground. His men, rising, poured on their enemies a volley of arrows,
rushed on them with a hideous yell, and soon put them to flight.
Miantonimo was taken prisoner; he scorned to beg his life of his
victorious enemy, and was put to death, but without cruelty, on
account of the request of the English.
After the death of Uncas, which happened about the year 1680,
his tribe gradually dwindled away, under their continual wars with
the whites, and the other Indians, and their own evil passions, until
the feeble remnant of a once powerful people was compelled to
abandon their ancient hunting-grounds, and flee for protection to
their grandfather, the Delawares, now almost as wretched and