Dr. B. I knew-his character and to reason correctly. This was rather late, but there is an old maxim, “ Better late than never ;" and it was not so late but that I found it in my power to change some of my bad habits. habits-very well. He was called a great man and a good man. True, he was negligent in regard to dress; and sometimes went slip-shod. This neglected part of his dress was indeed one of the first things to strike you on seeing him at his room. It was one of the first things too, that misled me. It is true, I never exactly put together the two words "slip-shod" and "philosopher;" but then Dr. B. sometimes went slip-shod, and he was a philosopher, and I gradually imbibed the notion that philosophers were negligent of their dress. In fact, there was an opinion quite prevalent where I lived, in those days, that this was the case. Now it was that it became a part of my ambition to appear unmindful of my dress. How or in what manner this was going to give me a philosophic turn of mind, I never knew; but I thought that somehow or other, and at sometime or other, I should be a philosopher. From that day forth, for many years, I grew negligent and slovenly. My mother took great pains to counteract this tendency, but she did not succeed. I do not remember that I ever went slipshod very much, but I did not brush my hair, or my clothes, or my shoes; scarcely for extraordinary occasions. It was not till I came to be a man of twenty or twenty-five that I discovered my error, and found that philosophy did not consist in going slip-shod, but rather in learning to think and reason; and If any reader of these remarks has imbibed the same notions about being negligent in order to become a philosopher, I hope he will at once see their folly and discard them. A true philospher should be as much more neat-I do not say foppish-in his person and dress than other people, as he is more thinking and wise. I would not give much for a philosophy that makes us worse children, worse men, or worse women; or which makes us, in any respects, worse citizens. VANITY PUNISHED. THERE is a curious story by this name in Berquin's Children's Friend, but like most of the stories in that book they are too long for our little magazine. I will try to give you the best part of it. VALENTINE was a city boy always strutting about with a book in his hand, pretending to be a hard student and very wise, and regarding Michael, a young country boy, as altogether beneath him. Valentine, in order to make the company at his father's think him a kind of philosopher, went off into the grove one evening, with his book, and straying a little farther and remaining a little later than he at first intended, he became lost in the woods. He takes His friends send into the woods for makes up a bed on the ground. Soon him, but cannot find him. The mes- the potatoes are roasted. sengers return; and little Michael, whom he so much despised, goes out, and at length finds him, and prepares for lodging in the woods. Valentine is much rejoiced, but dislikes the idea of staying in the woods all night, and begs to be conducted back to the house that night. But Michael is determined on staying, perhaps to humble him. Michael takes a tinder box, with flint and steel out of his pocket, and with the help of some leaves and dry wood, makes a fire. When the fire gets well to burning, he lays some potatoes close to the fire, and covers them with dust, (for want of ashes) to keep them from burning. While the potatoes are roasting, Michael goes and gets some hay, and them out, and gives them all to Valentine, reserving none to himself. Valentine is greatly surprised to see the boy whom he had before despised, so very kind to him; but at length consents to eat the potatoes. Supper over, Valentine lies down in the hay bed, and Michael, after covering him with some hay and his own jacket, watches the fire to prevent it from going out. The morning comes. Valentine has slept soundly. He thanks Michael again and again. They soon go home to Valentine's anxious parents, who receive him with great joy. Valentine is completely cured of his pride and vanity. Valentine's parents give Michael three guineas for reforming and reclaiming him. 220 LETTER TO THE EDITOR. VISIT TO PUTNAM'S CAVE. MR. EDITOR, Having observed something which was said in your magazine, with respect to Putnam's wolf den, in Pomfret, Conn., I thought another short article on the same subject might not be wholly with out interest to your readers. About the middle of March last, having some business in the above named town, I set out early one morning, and arrived at the house of a friend about noon, when, having taken some refreshment, I resolved to pay a visit to this place, which, although in itself less remarkable than many works of nature of the same kind, yet from the notable incident connected with it has attracted the attention of the curious from various parts of the United States. In pursuance of my resolution I set out on foot for the place of my destination, (being about three miles distant,) by a course which ran partly by the road and partly through swamps and morasses, over walls, fences and small streams, all of which are very plenty in that part of the country. After having experienced about half an hour of toil and fatigue, 1 arrived at the house of a Quaker, upon whose land I had been told the den was situated. I inquired of him if he could direct me to the object of my search; to which he very mildly replied, "Go up the road a little way, and thou wilt find the house of the guide who is in the habit of conducting those thither who wish to see it." I thanked him for his kindness, and immediately repaired to the dwelling of the negro man to whom I had been directed. I found him ready to accompany me, and immediately took the winding path leading to the ledges where the cavern was situated. As you approach these rocks of the wood, your mind is naturally filled with the deepest solemnity, arising partly from the scenery which surrounds you, and partly from the history of Putnam and the wolf. You are ushered by a narrow path into an open space, covered very thickly with briars and bushes, besides which there are no other signs of vegetable growth, except here and there an aged and venerable oak, which, having outlived the storms of many a bitter year, stands firmly in its strength, the landmark of the dreary plain. You proceed a little farther and turning to the left, you enter the thick gloom of a wood composed of the oak, the ash, and the pine, which shooting up thickly together to a great height, present a scene of the most dismal aspect. You shudder and look around you for signs of animal existence. The birds are silent in their native boughs, and no tokens of animated being are discoverable, except, perhaps, some howling, surly, meagre-looking hound, pursuing his solitary course along the precipice's top. The next thing you expect to see, is Putnam, or his wolf, starting out from behind some tree or rock. The whist THE EVENING PRIMROSE. ling of the wind through the boughs which overhang your head, becomes to your fancy the growling of a wild beast or the stern voice of the General, saying, "No coward in my family." With feelings somewhat like these, you descend gradually a regular slope, when all of a sudden yawns beneath your feet a lofty and extended range of rocks, piled in order one above the other, until they form a natural stair case. scending by these you are immediately brought before the mouth of Putnam's wolf den, rendered immortal in story by the bravery of one, who long since has slept in the bosom of the grave. You are almost tempted to apply your ear to the aperture and listen for the expected signal. But one moment's reflection convinces you that that brave patriot is no more. De You look around upon the trees which bow themselves majestically over the cavern, and behold, cut into their trunks, the names of hundreds of your own New England brethren, besides the Macs and Vans, and a thousand hard names which are the epithets of the Irish and Dutch. Many noble trees have been utterly destroyed by the industrious pocket knives of those whom curiosity has collected together here. But I have written a long story already, and if this suits you and your readers, I will send you the rest another time. Yours, &c. Plainfield, Conn. May 5th. ADELPHUS. THE EVENING PRIMROSE. BY AGNES STRICKLAND. LOVELY blossom, meek and fair, But the moon's chaste silvery beam BAD SPELLING. 221 A man came to a bookstore, in Boston, lately, to buy a book. He did not know the name of the book; for he was sent by another person, who had written, as he supposed, its name on a piece of paper which was handed to the mer chant. It read thus, "Femail Donquitisim." Now there are two books in the bookstores, out of which this strange name seems to have been made by the blundering writer. There is "Don Quixote ;" and there is also "Female Quixotism." But there is no Femail Donquitisim. |