Our Correspondence.
We have this month our usual stock of letters from our good natured friends,—but we can only find room to notice them briefly. We are particularly well supplied with puzzles—enough, indeed, to get our brains, and those of our readers too, into a snarl—if we were to publish them all. There seems to be a great love for these things, and abundance of talent to produce them; why don’t somebody set up a Magazine entirely devoted to them? It might be called “The Universal Puzzler,” or the “Puzzler Puzzled, consisting of puzzles, original and select, foreign and domestic, and embracing the most celebrated puzzles of ancient and modern puzzlers—edited by Peter Puzzle, Esq., aided by all the little Puzzles!” If any one is disposed to start the work, we give him the title gratis. But to our correspondence.
H. D. W——r, of Fruit Hill, Rhode Island, guesses that the answer to the riddle of our Quincy subscriber, is North America; and that of the one that comes from Portsmouth, is R. Merry’s Museum. Master Walker is right—as are several other correspondents, who send us the same answer.
The letter of F. H. B. of Quincy, is received, as is that of E. D. H., Elizabeth B——g, &c., &c. The following deserves insertion as it has travelled so far.
Athens, (Georgia) April 19th, 1844.
Mr. Merry:
Dear Sir,—I have received your Museum, and I am perfectly delighted with it. I am trying to get you more subscribers in our town, and I know that when I show the late numbers to some of the other little girls and boys, I shall have some new subscribers for you. I take a great deal of interest in your puzzles, and every time that your Museum has some of them in it, I sit down and try to solve them. Sometimes I succeed, and sometimes I do not. I write this to you because I see that you say in your last, that you love to hear from your little subscribers; and I am also encouraged to do so, seeing that you published a letter from a subscriber in Decatur, which is not very far from this place. I have found the answer to the Enigma of Frederick H. B. of Quincy; and I also send one of my own, which you will please publish if you think it deserves it. All that I have now to add is, that you are not forgotten in Georgia.
Your young friend,
A. C. C******.
HERE IS THE ANSWER TO FREDERICK’S ENIGMA.
His 5, 8, 11, 4, 2 and 9, is Hector, a cape on a large island.
His 6, 3, 11, 4, 10 and 11, is Arctic—a large circle.
His 5, 12, 3 and 8, is Hard—the tribe of Indians that inhabit British America.
His 5, 2, 9 and 1, is Cape Horn, of South America.
His 7, 12, 9, 7, 2, 3 and 12, is Marmora, a sea between Europe and Asia.
His 1, 8, 10, 7 and 10, is Niemen, a river in Europe.
His 11, 3, 10, 7, 8 and 12, is Crimea, a portion of Russia.
His 8, 4, 1 and 12 is Etna, a burning mountain.
His 11, 5, 10, 1 and 12, is China, a country in Asia.
His 5, 8, 3, 12 and 4, is Herat, the capital of a country in Asia.
His 12, 11, 5, 8, 8 and 1, is Achun, a town on a large island.
His whole is North America—a large portion of the globe.
PUZZLE.
My whole consists of ten letters.
My 9, 8, 5 and 6, is very useful to fur traders.
My 5, 6 and 10, is an animal.
My 10, 9, 4 and 7, is a burning mountain in Europe.
My 9, 5 and 8, is manufactured in large quantities in the Southern States.
My 1, 7 and 9, is an animal that goes out only at night.
My 10, 2, 3, 6 and 10, is a part of the Eastern Continent.
My whole is the name of a distinguished Emperor.
A. C. C.
We are requested to express, in a particular manner, the thanks of the Publishers to the post-master of Augusta, Georgia, for his kind offices; and also to Mrs. D——, who takes a special and efficient interest in our humble periodical. Mrs. S. W. L., of Leighton, Alabama, will also accept our acknowledgments for her kind offices in behalf of our work. We hope it may prove worthy of such kindness.
The Lily.
MUSIC COMPOSED BY GEORGE J. WEBB.
By cool Siloam’s shady rill,
How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon’s dewy rose!
Lo, such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upwards drawn to God!
By cool Siloam’s shady rill
The lily must decay,
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
Must shortly fade,
Must shortly fade away,
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man’s maturer age,
Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power,
And stormy passion’s rage!
O Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father’s shrine!
Whose years with changeless virtue crowned,
Were all alike divine:—
Dependent on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still thine own!