To my Correspondents.

Whew! what a lot of letters I have got from my little black-eyed and blue-eyed friends, this month! Some contain answers to old puzzles, and some contain new puzzles, and some put questions which puzzle me not a little. However, I am very glad to hear from anybody who takes an interest in poor Bob Merry; and I think all the better of young people, who can be kind to an old fellow with a wooden leg, and content to hear stories from one who never went to college. I feel cheered by these pleasant, lively letters; and sometimes, when my old pate reels with hard work, and my eyes grow dim as I think over the sad fortunes that pursue me, I go to the package of my correspondents, and there find consolation. “No matter—no matter,” say I to myself, “if all the world deserts or abuses me, at least these little friends will be true to me!” So, thereupon, I wipe my eyes, clean my spectacles, whistle some merry tune, and sit down to write something cheerful and pleasant for my Magazine.

Well, now I say again, that I am much obliged to my kind friends, and I am glad to observe that they always pay their postage. Only one instance to the contrary has occurred: my little friend, Cornelius W——, of Newark, New Jersey, forgot to pay the postage on the specimen of his handwriting that he sent me. I mention this for his benefit, because the habit of forgetting to do things as they ought to be done is a very bad habit. Suppose, for instance, that a person should get into the habit of eating carelessly; why, at last, instead of eating the meat, and rejecting the bones, he might swallow the bones, and reject the meat! Think of that, Master Cornelius.

I have received the answers of A. L., W. H. S., C. F. W. P., F. A. S., and others, to the puzzles in the March number, all of which are right. The first is Bunker Hill Monument; the second is A Black-eyed Friend.

The following request I will reflect upon.

Mr. Merry—I wish very much to have the story of Philip Brusque continued. I wish to know what Mr. Bonfils did. Was he a good king, and did they have any more riots? If you will “lift the curtain,” you will satisfy my wishes, and oblige

A Subscriber.

Boston, March 5, 1842.

The “Meditations of an Old Man” are a little too melancholy for our young readers; they do not like to weep very often, and I expect that Bob Merry’s story will, by and bye, call for all the tears they can spare.

I insert the following with pleasure. It seems that young Bare-Head is a “Wolverene;” and if he will tell his real life and adventures, no doubt they will be worth hearing. What a good title it will be!—“The Adventures of Ben Bare-Head, the Wolverene!”

MASTER BARE-HEAD’S PUZZLE.
I am a name of 13 letters.

When this is solved, you shall have a harder one.

Ben. Bare-Head.

Bertrand, Michigan, Jan. 31, 1842.

The following lines are pretty good for so young a writer:—

THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH, THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN.

Brightly o’er those proud cities

The morning sun arose,

And over those princely palaces

His robe effulgent throws.

But whether on stately palace,

Or spire, or idol fane,

He shows his gorgeous coloring

There it ne’er must rest again.

And lovely, O most lovely,

Was the scene he shone on, now!

From the verdant flower-decked vale,

To the mountain’s pine-clad brow,

With the crystal stream’s meandering flow,

And its waters dancing bright,—

All nature teems with beauty,

With joy, and life, and light.

And from every shrub and flower

What a fragrant perfume breathes,

While fruit of almost every clime

Hangs in rich clusters from the trees;

And birds, of plumage rich and rare,

Pour forth their notes of love,

In strains so wild, so thrilling, sweet,

From every sheltering grove!

And who would deem that sin

Could mar a scene so beauteous, bright,

So filled with things that please the eye,

And give the mind delight?

And yet such guilt stalked proudly here,

Such sin without alloy,

As to tempt the Almighty’s wrath to curse,

His anger to destroy.

But soon, ah me! how very soon,

And what a change is there!

A bellowing earthquake shakes the ground,

Loud thunders fill the air;

Bright fire from heaven flashes

In sheets of liquid flame,

And a heap of wretched ruins

Those proud cities then became.

What keen remorse and anguish

Must have through those bosoms thrilled,

What shrieks and shouts of agony

Must the echoing air have filled!

But no remorse, or anguish,

Could then avail to save,

And those once splendid cities

Found one promiscuous grave.

H. D. B.

Well done, my gray-eyed friend—P. J. U. Come and see me, and I will give thee a hearty shake of the hand!

Esteemed Friend:—

I have received thy Magazine, and write on purpose to inform thee of my wish to see the last of our friend Brusque on the island of Fredonia; and hope it will be of no inconvenience to unravel the whole. Although I am a gray-eyed little friend, I have taken the liberty to write thee a few lines, and hope thee will receive it from an unknown boy, aged 11 years, who longs to see thee and hear those interesting stories which I hope will soon appear in our pretty little books; but as that cannot be at present, I still hope to get them, with yellow covers, with my father’s name on the back.

From a gray-eyed friend,

P. J. U.

The suggestion of a “Black-Eyed Friend,” as to juvenile plays or dialogues, is received, and shall be duly considered. I notice his remark that I have not given the names of all the kinds of type; and he is correct in his observation. J. H. W., Oak street, Boston, writes a fair, handsome hand, and this is a pleasant thing to a blear-eyed old fellow, like me. His solution is right. G. W. F., of Pittsburgh, also writes very neatly, and his letter is expressed with great propriety. He, too, is correct in his answers to the riddles. The enigma of J. W. P. is ingenious—but the name itself is a puzzle. Here it is: “General Diebitsch Sabalkansky.” Why, this name reminds me of a stick that was so crooked it could never lie still!

Irish Wit.—“Please your honor, is a thing lost when you know where it is?” said an Irish footman to his master.

“To be sure not, you booby.”

“Och! thank your honor for that; the de’il of harm then, for the new copper takettle’s at the bottom of the well!”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME III.—No. 5.