_The Indians._
In a former number we have given some account of the northern Indians,
called Esquimaux; and as our readers may like to know how these people
look, we give a likeness of one of them. He would hardly be thought a
beauty among us, but no doubt he would find some one to fancy him
among the girls of his tribe, who live on fish and blubber oil.
All our readers know that when America was discovered, it was
inhabited by tribes of copper-colored people, whom we generally call
_Indians_. These were divided into many tribes, and spoke many
different languages, but they bore a general resemblance, which led to
the conclusion that this remarkable race came originally from Asia,
and had a near affinity to the roving, warlike tribes there, called
Tartars.
The American Indians, at the time of the discovery of Columbus, might
be viewed in four groups: 1st. The Mexicans, who had built cities,
established a permanent government, carried on manufactures and
commerce, and cultivated the earth with care and success; 2d. The
Peruvians, who had made nearly the same advances in civilization as
the Mexicans, though differing in many of their arts, manners,
customs, and opinions; 3d. The Caribs, a warlike nation, inhabiting
the Caribbean isles and the adjacent coast of South America; and, 4th.
The various scattered tribes of the continent.
We shall not enter into a minute account of these several groups, for
so much has been said of the Indians, that almost all persons are
pretty well acquainted with the subject. Among the chief tribes of New
England, when our forefathers settled there, were the Pequots,
Narragansets and Mohegans. In New York, are the Mohawks, Senecas,
Oneidas, Delawares and Ottoes. In the south and west, there are many
other bands or nations.
These tribes, of which there were perhaps several hundred in North
America, varied in number from two hundred to five thousand
inhabitants each. They all lived chiefly by hunting and fishing,
raising a few pumpkins and melons, and a little corn, to aid in
obtaining a subsistence. They knew not the use of iron or other metals
for cutting; they had no domestic fowls or animals, except, perhaps,
dogs far to the north; they lived a wandering life, having no better
houses than huts of wood and mud.
Their weapons of war were hatchets of stone, bows and arrows; their
fishhooks were the bones of fishes. They had no tables or chairs; no
religious edifices, and but few religious notions. The men spent their
time in hunting and the chase, and the women performed all the
drudgery.
In war, these savages were cunning, deceitful and cruel: they could
track their enemy through the forest by the traces left upon the grass
and leaves; they would lurk in the thickets for days, and then
suddenly and unexpectedly burst upon their victims. The warriors taken
in battle, were often tortured and put to death――but these disdained
to show the slightest emotion, even though knots of pine were stuck in
their flesh and set on fire!
At first, these Indians received our forefathers with kindness, but,
exasperated by various acts of injustice and cruelty, they became
treacherous and vindictive. Many bloody encounters took place between
the settlers and the savages, in all of which the latter suffered
defeat and loss, until they became extinct along the Atlantic border,
and the remains of their tribes only continue to linger along our
western frontier.
The natives that dwelt in the West Indies, some of which were very
numerous, have entirely disappeared. Mexico was conquered by Cortez
more than three hundred years ago, and the whole Indian race,
amounting to six or eight millions, belonging to that nation, were
subjugated. The Indians of Mexico now acknowledge the authority of the
established government, pay taxes, and generally belong to the
Catholic religion. They are still an ignorant and half barbarous race.
The Peruvian nation, also amounting to millions, was conquered by
Pizarro about the year 1535, and from that period the natives became
subject to the laws of the white man. These, as in Mexico, are
partially civilized.
There are still many South American tribes, which are independent, and
maintain their savage habits. The Araucanians, a Chilian tribe, the
noblest race of aboriginal Americans, have never been fairly subdued,
and though partly civilized, they maintain a lofty spirit of
independence. Far south, toward the extremity of South America, the
broad-shouldered Patagonians live in savage wildness, and around the
rocky and tempestuous shores of Cape Horn, the naked, shivering
Fuegians snatch from the raging elements a precarious subsistence.
At the present day there are several tribes inhabiting the vast
regions that lie west of the Mississippi, consisting, for the most
part, of fragments of tribes driven by the white man from more eastern
settlements, to their present abodes. Here they are still lords of the
forest, prairie, river and mountain, and here they maintain their wild
independence and savage customs. They have become in some degree
changed by intercourse with the white race; they have horses, and
fire-arms and blankets, and a few utensils derived from civilized man;
but they are still hunters and warriors, are still without books, or a
settled government, or fixed habitations, or extended agriculture, or
any of the leading features of civilization. In another number we
propose to tell something about the Indians as they now are.
A Monster of the Deep.
Our readers know that in some parts of the ocean there are enormous
sea animals called Sepia, which are a kind of polypi. They have very
long legs, and are said sometimes to seize upon the coral divers along
the coast of Italy. Mr. Beale tells us the following adventure with a
creature of this sort.
“While upon the Bouin Islands, searching for shells on the rocks,
which had just been left by the receding tide, I was much astonished
at seeing at my feet a most extraordinary looking animal, crawling
towards the retreating surf. I had never seen one like it before. It
was creeping on its eight legs, which, from their soft and flexible
nature, bent considerably under the weight of its body, so that it was
lifted by the efforts of its tentacula only a small distance from the
rocks.
“It appeared much alarmed on seeing me, and made every effort to
escape, while I was not much in the humor to endeavor to capture so
ugly a customer, whose appearance excited a feeling of disgust, not
unmixed with fear. I, however, endeavored to prevent its career, by
pressing on one of its legs with my foot; but, although I used
considerable force for that purpose, its strength was so great that it
several times quickly liberated its member, in spite of all the
efforts I could employ in this way, on wet, slippery rocks. I now laid
hold of one of the tentacles with my hand, and held it firmly, so that
the limb appeared as if it would be torn asunder by our united
strength. I soon gave it a powerful jerk, wishing to disengage it from
the rocks to which it clung so forcibly by its suckers, which it
effectually resisted; but the moment after, the apparently enraged
animal lifted its head, with its large eyes projecting from the middle
of its body, and, letting go its hold of the rocks, suddenly sprang
upon my arm, which I had previously bared to my shoulder for the
purpose of thrusting it into holes in the rocks to discover shells,
and clung, with its suckers, to it with great power, endeavoring to
get its beak, which I could now see, between the roots of its arms, in
a position to bite.
“A sensation of horror pervaded my whole frame, when I found this
monstrous animal――for it was about four feet long――fixed so firmly on
my arm. Its cold, slimy grasp was extremely sickening, and I
immediately called aloud to the captain, who was also searching for
shells at some distance, to come and release me from my disgusting
assailant. He quickly arrived, and taking me down to the boat, during
which time I was employed in keeping the beak away from my hand,
quickly released me by destroying my tormentor with the boat knife,
when I disengaged it by portions at a time. This animal was that
species of Sepia which is called by whalers ‘rock squid.’ Thus are
these remarkable creatures, from the different adaptation of their
tentacles and slight modifications of their bodies, capable of
sailing, flying, swimming, and creeping on the shore, while their
senses, if we may judge from the elaborate mechanism of their organs,
must possess corresponding acuteness and perfection.”
The Sperm Whale.
The Sperm Whale is much less known than the common whale, which is
usually taken by our whalers. The following account of it, furnished
by Thomas Beale, is interesting.
“The sperm whale is a gregarious animal, and the herds formed by it
are of two kinds――the one consisting of females, the other of young
whales not fully grown.
“These herds are called by whalers, ‘schools,’ and occasionally
consist of great numbers; I have seen in one school as many as five or
six hundred. With each herd or school of females, are always from one
to three large bulls, the lords of the herd, or, as they are called,
the ‘school-masters.’ The full-grown whales, or ‘large whales,’ almost
always go alone in search of food; and when they are seen in company,
they are supposed to be making passages, or migrating from one
‘feeding ground’ to another. The large whale is generally very
incautious, and if alone, he is without difficulty attacked, and by
expert whalers generally very easily killed; as frequently, after
receiving the first blow or plunge of the harpoon, he appears hardly
to feel it, but continues lying like a ‘log of wood’ in the water,
before he rallies or makes any attempt to escape from his enemies.
[Illustration (whales)]
“Large whales are, however, sometimes, but rarely, met with,
remarkably cunning and full of courage, when they will commit dreadful
havoc with their jaws and tail; the jaw and head, however, appear to
be their principal offensive weapons.
“The female breeds at all seasons, producing but one at a time. The
young when first born are said to be fourteen feet long. The females
are much smaller than the males. They are very remarkable for their
attachment to their young, which they may be frequently seen urging
and assisting to escape from danger with the most unceasing care and
fondness. They are also not less remarkable for their strong feeling
of sociality, or attachment to one another; and this is carried to so
great an extent, that when one female of a herd is attacked or
wounded, her faithful companions will remain around her to the last
moment, or till they are wounded themselves. This act of remaining by
a wounded companion, is called ‘heaving to,’ and whole ‘schools’ have
been destroyed by dexterous management, when several ships have been
in company, wholly from their possessing this remarkable disposition.
The attachment appears to be reciprocal on the part of the young
whales, which have been seen about the ship for hours after their
parents have been killed.
“The young whales, or ‘young bulls,’ go in large schools, but differ
remarkably from the females in disposition, inasmuch as they make an
immediate and rapid retreat upon one of their number being struck, who
is left to take the best care he can of himself. I never but once saw
them ‘heave to,’ and in that case, it was only for a short time, and
seemed rather to arise from their confusion than affection for their
wounded companion. They are also very cunning and cautious, keeping at
all times a good look-out for danger. It is consequently necessary for
the whaler to be extremely cautious in his mode of approaching them,
so as, if possible, to escape being heard or seen, for they have some
mode of communication with one another in an incredibly short space of
time; the distance between them sometimes amounting to five, or even
seven miles. The mode by which this is effected remains a curious
secret.”
THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.
The days are cold, the nights are long,
The north wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty babe!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There’s nothing stirring in the house,
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse;
Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light,
’Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain;
Then, little darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.
[Illustration]
Squirrels.
[For Merry’s Museum.]
The Chip Squirrel or Ground Squirrel is the most common and familiar
of all the squirrels. “He is most commonly,” says Godman, “seen
scudding along the lower rails of the common or ‘Virginia’ fences,
which afford him at once a pleasant and secure path, as, in a few
turns, he finds a safe hiding place behind the projecting angles, or
enters his burrow undiscovered. When no fence is near, or his retreat
is cut off, after having been out in search of food, he becomes
exceedingly alarmed, and runs up the nearest tree, uttering a very
shrill cry or whistle, indicative of his distress; and it is in this
situation that he is most frequently made captive by his persecuting
enemies, the mischievous school-boys.” I shall presently mention a
much better mode of treatment of them by children, than the one here
alluded to, and which is far too common.
He is not only the most numerous, but the most beautiful of all the
squirrels I have named. His general color (if it is necessary to
describe an animal so well known) is a reddish brown, but he has five
black stripes running lengthwise along his body, one in the middle of
the back, and two on each side, and between the two on each side is a
stripe of pure white. These stripes, together with white stripes on
each side of his head, above and below the eyes, give him a very
beautiful appearance, and it is no wonder that children, who are
commonly pleased with what is beautiful in nature, take a strong
liking to him. He is sometimes called the Striped Squirrel, on account
of his markings, but he is more commonly called the Chip Squirrel, or
Chipmuck, from the chipping sound he is accustomed to make, or the
Ground Squirrel, because he makes a burrow in the ground for his
lodging-place instead of residing in a tree, as the other squirrels
do. Mr. Godman says he is sometimes called Hacky; but why so called, I
am unable to tell. I have mentioned his being a familiar animal; I
will now state a circumstance, to show how familiar he may be made,
and how far kind and gentle treatment operates to deprive wild animals
of their fears. One, which had a hole not far from my house, used
frequently to come about the house for food, which my children
observing, would throw walnuts or hickory nuts to him. He soon became
so gentle he would take the walnuts from their hands, and, after
biting off the sharp and jagged ends of the nuts, he would stow them
in his capacious cheeks or pouches, sometimes taking from their hands
and stowing away in this manner four hickory nuts, two in each pouch,
which he would carry off and deposit in his hole, and then immediately
return for another cheekful.
The Flying Squirrel is the smallest of all the squirrels in New
England, and in some respects the most interesting. He is not as well
known as the other three kinds I have described, principally on
account of his nocturnal habits; that is, he generally sleeps during
the day, and is in motion during the night. He is not so beautiful in
his colors and markings as the chip squirrel. His general color is a
brownish ash or gray on the upper part of the body, and white
underneath, with a yellowish margin which unites with a dark stripe
that borders the gray color of the upper parts. His form and attitudes
are beautiful, however; his hair very soft and silky, and his eyes,
which are black, are large and prominent. But what makes him the
greatest object of curiosity, is, that the skin on each side of his
body is dilated and attached to both his legs, nearly or quite down to
the claws, so that when he extends his legs horizontally it forms a
kind of wings or parachute, by which he is enabled to sail obliquely
through the air a considerable distance. He cannot, however, rise, as
he never flaps his wings; but by taking a leap from the top of a tree
and spreading his sails, he reaches the body of another tree several
rods distant, and running to the top of the latter, he again makes a
similar flight, and in this way passes rapidly through the forest. His
tail is flattened horizontally, and doubtless answers the purpose of a
rudder.
His food is similar to that of the other squirrels, consisting of
nuts, grain, &c. They make their abode in hollow trees, from which
they will frequently run out, when the tree is struck with an axe and
smartly jarred, to see what is the matter.
They frequently enter human dwellings. Last winter I caught, in
succession, seven, in the upper chamber of my house, and kept six of
them shut up till spring, when I carried them to the woods near by and
released them. They also became pretty familiar, and would eat and
gambol in my presence and that of my family in their box. In the
course of last summer, I again saw one in my house, probably one of
the same. Three other instances have come to my knowledge in which
they were found in dwelling-houses.
In the animals we have been considering, we see an interesting
specimen of that wonderful variety and beauty which constitute the
charm of the great world of life. The study and contemplation of the
works of God, animate and inanimate, will be attended with continued
and increasing admiration, and if the mind is properly attuned to the
harmonies that pervade them, it will be made better and better, and
will be led, in the words of the poet, “from nature up to nature’s
God.”
SCIURUS.
Our Correspondence.
We have received the kind New Year’s greeting of R. B. Jr., for which
we offer a return of our best wishes. We have also the pleasant letter
of P. L. H., and that of E. D. H. His answer――Constantinople――to the
puzzle, is right. We have also received the communications of D. A.
B――k. Our little friend, a “reader of the Museum” at Pulaski, will see
that we have hardly got room for his thoughts on “Liberty.” His
sentiments, however, are very just. The puzzle from Goshen, though a
good one, must be omitted. We must say the same of the geographical
enigma from a place without a name. The complimentary note of Charles
A. H――y is received, and his answer to the puzzle is right. The “young
subscriber from New Hampshire” will see that we have not space for his
pleasant enigma.
We insert the following letter with pleasure. In regard to the word
“_Cowpig_,” as used by Mrs. Trudge, we venture to suggest that she
meant _Cupid_; but, as we would not be too confident on this point, we
propose to ask her what she did mean, when we next see her.
_Sandwich, January 8th, 1844._
DEAR MR. MERRY:
I wish you a happy new year. I think I have found out the answer
to the puzzle in the January number, which is Constantinople. As
I am not much of a poetess, I cannot put it in the form of an
acrostic or rhyme, and I hope a plain answer will do. It is the
first one I have ever found out, but I think it is because I have
not had patience enough, for I found it very easy. I am glad you
are going to have some good long stories, equal to the Siberian
Sable-hunter, in this year’s Museum. I feel much interested in
the story of Bridget Trudge. I laughed well at the red bonnet and
_yallar_ silk gown, and fan with Wenus on one side, and Cowpig on
the other. But none of us can tell what Cowpig means. Please
explain it in the next chapter about them.
P.S. My sister Lottie is very disappointed at not finding any
“Little Leaves.”
E.P.C.
The letters of R. P. H., E. B. P., and James P., will appear in the
next number.
――――
We insert the following with pleasure, which the writer tells us is a
true picture of a _dear home_. It makes our old heart glad to find
that we are welcome, even among the mountains.
A WINTER EVENING IN THE COUNTRY.
Away among the mountains a pleasant farm house lies,
And round its fireside gather sweet faces and bright eyes;
The blazing fire of maple-wood lights up the spacious room,
And branches of the fragrant birch give out a sweet perfume.
And we are happy――’midst these hills our childhood has been past,
And beautiful they seem to us, with forests old and vast;
The summer and the autumn bring golden fruits and flowers,
But dearer than the summer days are pleasant winter hours.
The happy winter evenings, we love their social mirth,
For many pleasant tales are told beside our lighted hearth;
A welcome face sometimes looks in upon our circle here,
And brings to us the happiest hour in all the glad New Year.
It is an old man’s face, with clustering gray hair,
And a wrinkled forehead wearing, though furrowed not by care;
Old Robert Merry, with his smiles, his tales of other climes,
His Museum of curious things, new stories and old rhymes.
We knew him by another name in years that are gone by,
And loved good Peter Parley with his kind brow and eye;
Each month unto our mountain home, came “Parley’s Magazine,”
’Till “Merry’s Museum” took the place where it so long had been.
We love our guest far better because our own young hands
Have labored for the pleasure he brings from other lands;
When autumn leaves fell round us, the autumn nuts grew brown,
We and the squirrels gathered them as they came rattling down.
O, merry was our harvest time――we made the woods ring out,
Through all the long, bright autumn day, with our gay, careless
shout;
And then we sold our nuts, and thus have the pleasure still,
Of seeing Robert Merry in our home upon the hill.
M. T. B.
_Lowell, Jan. 4._
――――
THE LITTLE SOLDIER.
We insert the following, with thanks to the writer, and should be glad
to receive the remainder of the story:
MR. MERRY:
I am one of your “blue-eyed friends,” and although not a
“little” one, I have been much interested in the articles
which have appeared in the Museum, connected with the war of
our Revolution.
I know many of the warm advocates for _peace_, query how far
it is judicious to interest the minds of the rising
generation, in the details of _war_; still, I must believe
that many of the blessings we enjoy, peculiar to our own
country, were purchased by the self-sacrifices of our
fathers, and their “children’s children,” should not
overlook this fact.
It has occurred to me that a little sketch of one who took
an active part in the scenes of those eventful days, may
perhaps amuse your readers. The old soldier from whom I have
my history, enlisted into the army at the age of fifteen, as
a fifer. He was much below the common size of boys at that
age, and, for this reason, chose to be a musician. He heard
the sound of the guns on the morning of the Lexington
battle, and soon after this event, he was ordered, with the
company to which he belonged, to New York. His good mother
furnished him with all that a kind, pious mother could think
of, for his comfort, even to a ball of yarn and a needle, to
repair his stockings. He returned them to her, after his
service in the army, “_safe and sound_.”
Soon after their arrival in New York, the alarm was given
that the enemy were approaching; and not doubting a
skirmish, at least, a company of men volunteered to go out
and meet the enemy. They were ordered to be in ambush, and
then rise suddenly upon the foe. The little fifer (a mere
boy) joined the party, and soon found himself in the heat of
battle. He has often told me that he felt no sensation of
fear at the time; the dense smoke, the roaring of the
cannon, the groans and shrieks of the dying, were alike
unheeded by him. His only wish was to load――aim――fire, and
_kill_ one of the British. He always thought he accomplished
his object, and God seems to have awarded a quick
retribution.
Just as he had fired, his party were ordered to retreat,
and, in turning to obey the orders, the poor fellow received
a ball in the back, which lodged near the spine. He thought
it must be his death-wound, and after moving on a few rods,
he left his comrades, and concealing himself behind a small
white oak tree, he set up his gun, and falling on his knees,
he committed his soul to the Saviour. His eye-sight and
hearing left him; he was bleeding profusely, and of course
believed this to be his last hour on earth.
How long he was in this state he could not tell, but hoping
his strength would permit, as soon as he could see and hear,
he crawled on his hands and knees into the road, and soon
met the surgeon, who, with the vehicle for the wounded
soldiers, was on his way to the place where the skirmish was
fought. The hospital was a mile distant, and the lad chose
to remain where he was, until the cart came back. He was
placed in it, and, in the course of a day or two after his
wound had been given, the surgeon attempted to extract the
ball, but it could not be done without causing instant
death.
He remained in the hospital eight or ten weeks, slowly
recovering his strength. He was two hundred miles from home;
poor, feeble, and in this sad condition, he resolved to
attempt a journey home on foot. A young man, who was his
intimate friend and fellow-townsman, agreed to be his guide
and protector, and they started on their melancholy journey.
If the sketch, thus far, has awakened any interest, the
writer will cheerfully communicate some touching incidents
connected with the “soldier’s return home.” What is _your_
opinion, Mr. Merry?
A SOLDIER’S DAUGHTER.
[Music:] Evening.
WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; THE LATTER BY GEO. J. WEBB.
How sweet when the daylight
In summer is flown,
And the soft veil of evening
Is thrown o’er the scene,
’Mid dewdrops and fragrance
To wander alone,
As free as the fairies That dance on the green.
How changed is each scene!
Though familiar it be,
Now strange and fantastic
It comes to the eye,――
E’en the sigh of the zephyr,
That rustles the tree,
Seems the whisper of spirits
That stoop from the sky.
The stars, that shrunk back
All abashed from the gaze,
When the sun in his glory
Shone down from above,
Now timid and tender
Melt the soul with their rays,
And woo it to Heaven
On pinions of love.
Sweet Evening――how fair
Are thy charms to the heart,
And how blest thus to wander
With thee all alone!
Yet dearer――far dearer,
Blest Evening, thou art,
When I praise thee to Mary.
And call her my own!
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
Vol. VII. APRIL, 1844. No. 4.
[Illustration (cow in pasture)]
APRIL
[Illustration: A]pril has stolen in upon us, and deserves a welcome at
our hands. In our New England climate it is not so gentle as in some
other lands. It brings us no flowers, but still, the blue-bird and the
robin visit us, and tell us of a thousand pleasant things that May and
June will bring with them. This month has been thus described by a
lively and pleasant writer.
“April,” says the author of the “Mirror of the Months,” “is
Spring――the only spring month that we possess――at once the most
juvenile of all the months and the most feminine, never knowing her
own mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first
lover, toying it with the young sun, till he withdraws his beams from
her, and then weeping till she gets them back again. April is
doubtless the sweetest month of all the year; partly because it ushers
in the May, and partly for its own sake. It is to the confirmed
summer, what the previous hope of joy is to the full fruition; what
the boyish dream of love is to love itself. It is indeed the month of
promises; and what are twenty performances compared with one promise?
April, then, is worth two Mays, because it tells of May in every sigh
that it breathes, and every tear that it lets fall. It is the
harbinger, the herald, the promise, the foretaste of all the beauties
that are to follow it.”
Dick Boldhero.