Robert Merry's Museum, Volumes I-II (1841)

by Various

To the Black-ey’d and Blue-ey’d Friends of Robert Merry.

It is now about a twelvemonth since our acquaintance commenced; and I hope the feeling is such between us, that there is a mutual desire to continue it. I know that the young, the happy, and the gay-hearted, are apt to think that we old fellows are sour and sad—disposed to look with an evil eye upon childhood and its sports; and more ready to preach than practise charity.

I will not pretend to deny that, now and then, a person gets cross and crabbed as he grows old, and like cider too long kept, turns to vinegar: but this is not my case, or, if it be, my ill-humor never displays itself toward the young. They are to me the buds and blossoms of life, and their presence ever brings the welcome feelings that belong to sunshine and summer.

Old age has been often compared to winter—the close of the year; the season of desolation; the period of storms and tempests; the funeral-time of the vegetable world; the time when the leaves, the fruits, and the flowers are laid in their tomb, and covered over with a winding-sheet of snow. This is a sad picture at first view; and I believe many a child is led to avoid old people from the habit of regarding them in this light—from the idea that they are shrivelled, frost-bitten, bitter, and disagreeable.

Now, I will not deny that there is some resemblance between winter and old age: an old man has not the warm blood of youth; his pulses are, perhaps, like the river, chilled and obstructed by ice; his temper is sometimes capricious and gusty, like the winds of December; and his head, bald, or covered with a few silvery hairs, is like the oak, stripped of its covering, and having its boughs powdered with snow.

All this may be true enough; but it is not good reason why the old should be deserted by the young. I remember very well, that, when I was a boy, there was a fine old walnut-tree, upon a hillside, not far from where I lived. Now, I never thought or cared about this tree, till the time when winter approached. Then, when the leaves were scattered, the nuts were all ripe, then it was that the tree became an object of interest to me. Then it was that I loved to visit it; to climb its limbs and give it a shake, and hear the fruit rattle down like hail. Never, in all my boyhood days, did I meet with anything more delightful than this!

And let me tell you, my black-ey’d and blue-ey’d friends, that this old walnut-tree was like many an old person you may meet with. You will remark that, in this case, it was when winter had come, or was near at hand, that the fruit was ripe, and ready for those who would climb up for it and gather it. And let me tell you, that old people, like this tree, have many a good nut to crack, many a good story to tell, to those who will climb up in the lap and ask for it.

This is my view of the matter; and I hope that young people, instead of running away from me, as a crusty, crabbed, one-legged old chap, will treat me as I did the old walnut-tree—give it a shake, and see if the nuts don’t rattle down!

I am not fond of making great promises; but, as I am anxious to have my readers, who have set out on a journey with me, still keep me company—at least for one year more—I am ready to engage to do my best to please them. I shall, if I live, tell the rest of my own story, and bring the history of Brusque to a close. The tale of the Sable-Hunters, the travels of Thomas Trotter, the stories of the Indians, will be continued and completed; and a variety of other things are in store.

I can promise one thing more—and that is, some tales from the pen of Peter Parley. That pleasant, kind-hearted old man is no more; but I knew him better than anybody else, and all his papers are in my hands. Among them are several tales, and I intend to publish them in my magazine. My young readers, perhaps, do not know how shabbily poor old Peter was treated. The fact was, that several people in this country, as well as in others, wrote stories, and put his name to them; thus pretending that they were actually his! Some of these were very silly, and some were very improper. This cut Peter to the heart, and it served greatly to shorten his days. I am sorry that, even now, people are palming off trumpery works of their own as Peter Parley’s.

But the tales that I propose to give, are genuine; there is no mistake. They are by the same hand that wrote the tales about Europe, Asia, Africa, and America; and I hope they may be as acceptable as those were.

I return a thousand thanks to my many young friends, who have written me letters, whether of criticism, advice, or commendation. I am glad to know that so many of them like Bill Keeler: let them be assured his whole story will come out in due time. I shall be very glad to get the bear story, which L. S., of Vermont, offers to tell. The Indiana legend of the Wolf and the Wild-cat, is received, and will appear soon. Jane R—— will accept my thanks for—she knows what! If she were not so many hundred miles off, I should ask her to let me see whether she is a blue-eyed or black-eyed friend. The basket of chestnuts were duly received from Alice D——, and were very welcome. Ralph H—— will see that I have done as he requested; I have given a portrait of the fine gray squirrel he sent me, in this number. He is well, and as lively as ever.

Robert Merry.