FROM THE MSS. OF A TRAVELER IN THE EAST.

NO. I.

A DEATH AND BURIAL.

I was called last evening to see young Captain Nicolo, one of my old acquaintances and campaigning companions. He was wounded in an affair with the Turks several days ago,not mortally, however, as we thought, and had been brought here for recovery; but the moment I entered his room last night, I saw that the hand of death was upon him; he was lying on a hard mattress on the floor; and, as he heard my footstep, he quickly turned his head-and eagerly stretching out his hand to me as I advanced, he grasped mine within both of his with a convulsive effort as though he would cling upon me for life, and gazing wildly and with staring eyes in my face, he cried-“ I am dying,—but oh! I cannot die-will not die-save me, oh! do save me!" There was such a startling eagerness in his manner, and such horror in his eyes, that I was thrown off my guard-he saw the expression of my face, and, letting go my hand, he sunk back, and, looking up, muttered to himself," Then I must indeed die." The poor fellow had been called brave, and was so in the hurry and excitement of war, and he tried to call his courage and his pride to aid him in his dreadful extremity, and when his tormenting pains left him, he mustered his feelings so as to seem calm; but there was no calm in his soul; he was dying,-resolutely, indeed, but not resignedly. I tried to console him, and mentioned the vanity and little worth of life. "Aye," cried he, "you call it vanity, you, who are in the full enjoyment of it; but were you about to be hurled as I am into darkness, beyond which you can see no light-you would shrink back as I do. Oh," continued he, eagerly, "I wish I could believe in a God, and a future state; but no matter; I have done my duty to the best of my knowledge. I will take the extreme unction, and my chance will be as good as the rest." The priest now came in, muttering his prayers and making crosses and benedictions; the consecrated candles were lighted and the silver incense-pot began to swing backward and forward, when I left him to his offices and went to my quarters. I had been sitting there almost two hours when I heard dreadful screams of women in the house of Nicolo. I went over and found him in his last agony, his clammy hands grasping the coverlid; his head was thrown back; his eyes staring fixedly, his mouth open as if gasping for breath, which, however, came quick and convulsively, and rattled hollowly in his throat; it was a dreadful scene, in which the dying man acted but part, for the long suppressed agony of grief had now burst forth-the mother lay upon the floor, tearing her hair, beating her breast, and wailing most piteously; the other female relatives were alike affected; some were running screaming about the house, while others sat and moaned out aloud and accompanied their cries with violent gestures. This scene continued with little relaxation until the sufferer gasped his last gasp, and then the screaming, the moaning, and tearing of hair was renewed more violently than ever. Other women now came in from the neighborhood, and I soon observed there was some system in this scene-for the new comers seemed to make ready as for an en

counter; before they set up their shout, they loosened their hair, shook it about their shoulders, and deranged their garments, and then set up their wailing in chorus with the others. I saw farther that in a half an hour these wailing neighbors seemed to spell each other, for, when exhausted nature silenced the real grief of the mother or relatives, or when one of the new comers was obliged to stop to breathe, another would strike in in her place, and keep up the clamor. I retired when the old women began to arrange the corpse, and, sitting down at the door of my tent, which looked into the windows of Nicolo, I gazed upon the scene, which seemed more striking from without. The windows were all open; lights were flying about; female figures, with their hair streaming down their shoulders, were flitting around, some throwing up their arms, others sitting still with their heads lowered between their knees, others bending over, and arranging the corpse, and all weeping, wailing, and screaming aloud. tried to shut out the sound as well as sight, and, lying down, wrapped up my head in my cloak and tried to sleep; but the noise was too near and too great. I went out, and strolled about till near morning, I wandered to the ruins of the ancient port. I mounted to the old temple of Venus on the hill, and, leaning against the long column, gazed for a while on the beautiful gulf of Salamis, and tried to forget Nicolo in thinking of Themistocles; but it would not do. Facts are too stubborn for fancy. The death of Nicolo was more to me than that of ten thousand Greeks who died twice ten centuries ago, or that of an hundred thousand men who should have died to day, but at a thousand leagues from me. When I returned, I found all was still, except the voices of two women, who were hired mourners, and who had commenced their functions now that the violent emotions of the relatives had worn them out. These two women looked, as I saw them through the open windows, like two hags of hell;" one was sitting at the head of the corpse, which was laid out in the middle of the room, rocking herself backward and forward over it, and chanting, forth in cracked tones-though in regular cadence-what I soon found to be a sort of an address to the dead body. The other was flitting about the room with a taper in her hand, and joining in chorus to the chant of her sister hag. Their song or chant was in commemoration of the virtues and good qualities of the deceased, and ran about thus;

Wo is us that he is dead-the beautiful boy! the brave boy! the sweet boy! Nicolo! Nicolo! why did you die? thou wast too young-too beautiful-too brave to die. Thou wast the light of thy mother's eyes-the staff in her handthe oil that fed her lamp of life.

Oh! he is dead--the brave boy! The light is gone out! The staff is broken! The oil is exhausted!

Thy mother sits in darkness, Nicolo! Why did you leave her? Why did not another die for you? for none was so brave, none so beautiful.

The soldiers loved thee. The Turks feared thee. The maids looked down when Nicolo approached them.

Oh! wo is us that the brave has fallen!

How many enemies thou hast slain! how brave wast thou in battle! how swift in the march!

But thou art dead, brave boy! thou shalt never rise again!

Oh! wo to us! wo to thy aged mother!

6

This morning the burial took place with all the ceremonies of the Greek church. The procession started off from the house, headed by about thirty priests in their full robes, each bearing a long wax taper in his hand and singing, in clear, musical tones, the service of the dead; then came the incense-bearers, swinging their silver incensepots, and throwing up clouds of smoke; then came the Host, before which all prostrated themselves on their knees; then followed the bishop in his gorgeous robes, walking under a splendid canopy, held up by four priests, and after him was borne the corpse on an open bier, dressed in his gayest robes, with flowers on his breast and in his hands. Around it walked the pale and haggard relatives, and the more pale and haggard looking hired mourners, with black robes and disheveled hair. It was a showy and a noisy scene-for the riches and pomp of the church were displayed. The song of the priests and the wailing of the mourners ceased not, and as they passed along rapidly, every man raised his cap, and, bowing, made the sign of the cross, and every woman and child in the streets knelt down, and all muttered blessings. All felt an interest in the scene, all but poor Nicolo. He lay pale and still on his bier, and was borne along like a victim bound for the sacrifice, and the flowers on his breast and the flowers in his hands seemed to be but in bitter mockery of his fate. Arrived at the grave, the procession halted around it, and proceeded to the last church rites with pomp and parade, accompanied by such violent and noisy expressions of grief on the part of the spectators, as strongly contrasted in my mind with the simple solemnity and deep silence around our graves, when their new tenants are lowered in; a silence broken by nought but some ill suppressed sob, or the hollow grating of the ropes on the descending coffin.

Poor Nicolo was now laid in his narrow bed without covering or coffin; the holy water was sprinkled, and the last prayer said, and priests and relatives were hurrying away, when I took a last look into the grave at the poor fellow as he lay dressed as for a bridal. He had not the wan and hollow look of those who die by disease; and, but for the marble whiteness of his face and neck, made whiter by the clustering of his long dark locks, and the deep shadow of the narrow grave, I could have thought he slept, so beautiful did he look; but, as I gazed, a shovel full of earth was thrown upon him; his head started and shook; another and another shovel full were thrown in on his breast; the dark earth looked strangely black on his white kilt, and as it fell on his whiter neck and face, it seemed to smite him too rudely, and I turned away, more affected than when I had seen him in his agony.

We are strangely wedded to fashion in all things; and, to our ideas, nothing could be more shocking than a delicate young person thus rudely interred, the earth shoveled directly upon his form and face; yet, to the Greek, it signifieth nothing, though he might be as much shocked if he could say no masses for his friend's soul, nor go from year to year on his birth day to his grave to weed it, and hang flowers upon it, and pray for blessings upon his soul. There is something extremely touching in these visits to the resting place of departed friends, and I have thought, when I have seen a long-bereaved widow, stooping over her husband's grave, that every weed she plucked, and every

pebble she flung away, must have more soothed the soul of the departed, than though she had an ever downcast look, and had sacrificed hundreds of yards of black crape to his memory.

Methinks I should not wish my lover long to mourn for me, or lose one day of rational enjoyment or one evening of social mirth; but I would have her plant a rose-bush at my grave's head; and I could wish that twice or thrice a year I might hear her approaching footsteps; that she might weed my grave, and drop one tear upon it; and once pronounce my name with a sigh and a blessing and go away and be happy.

THE PROGRESS OF EXAGGERATION.

THE rapidity with which a story, like a snow ball, gains in its progress has been frequently illustrated. The tendency to exaggeration was never more manifest than at the present day. A trifling skirmish of outposts, by the time it has undergone a translation through one or two newspapers, gets to be a bloody engagement; and a riot is sometimes magnified into a revolution. The characters of men are subject to the same process; and the most ordinary partizan, raised to an office by political intrigue, by the time his name has gone the rounds of the newspapers, gets to be a man of talent and worth,--equally to his own astonishment and that of the public. We have seldom seen this tendency to add a little to the current report, at each repetition, acted upon with less scruple, than in the following extracts, which we give to our readers as we find them.

NO. I.

It is well known, that the common domestic fowl is remarkably fond of rose-bugs. The abundance of this insect, the present season, promises a rich repast to the tenants of the poultry yard. Massachusetts Farmer, for June 15th.

NO II.

We see it remarked in the Massachusetss Farmer that, as the common domestic fowl is remarkably fond of rose-bugs, a rich repast will be enjoyed by this portion of the feathered race, the present season, the insect alluded to being quite abundant. It has occurred to us, that it might be a matter of economy, worth attending to, by those who keep fowls for the market, to collect these insects, as an article of food, as they must be considerably cheaper than Indian meal; and, it is said, in consequence of the horny nature of their wings, no addition of gravel is required for the purposes of digestion. New-England Husbandman.

NO. III.

Important to Agriculturists. We observe it stated in substance, in the Massachusetts Farmer, of June 15th, that the attention of one class of our husbandmen has lately been called to a subject, which is likely to turn out of the very first importance, both to the farmers and to the inhabitants of our cities. It is well known, that good fowls are a very

important article of supply, in the domestic economy; but that, in consequence of the dearness of Indian corn, their price has of late been so much enhanced, as to place them beyond the reach of a considerable portion of our citizens, who are consequently reduced to an unsatisfactory diet of beef and mutton-chops. It appears, that, in consequence of the great abundance of rose-bugs, the present season, and the known fondness of the domestic fowl for this insect, our farmers have set about collecting them, as an article of food for their poultry; and, as we understand, the fowls never came into market so plump and fat. An incidental advantage of considerable importance is, that, in consequence of the horny nature of the wings of the rosebug, the fowls require no gravel. This interesting fact will not escape the attention of those, who are curious in their gravel-walks, and who wish to preserve them from the dilapidation, produced by their being promiscuously frequented by domestic poultry. American Economist.

NO. IV.

Something New. The Massachusetts Farmer of the 15th of June informs us, that a considerable reduction has taken place in the price of southern corn, in consequence of the abundance of rose-bugs, which our farmers, in all directions, are collecting for their poultry. Dough is now served out in the farm yard, as we understand, only on Sunday mornings; the remainder of the week, the fowls are kept to the bug; and are found to thrive remarkably well. Letters from some of the principal houses on Long wharf have gone on to the South, countermanding their orders for shipments of corn, the demand for which is already nominal. We also learn from the same paper, that as the hard wings of the rose-bug are found to take the place of gravel, the destruction of gravel-walks by the poultry has entirely ceased, and the sale of the hammerings of granite, at the State Prison, which have been extensively used in repairing gravel-walks, has been almost wholly arrested. Whether any disturbances are likely to take place at the prison, in consequence of the convicts being thus, in part, thrown out of employ, we are uninformed. Should this be the case, we trust that the sagacity of some of our distinguished citizens will be exerted, to devise some way, in which the safety of the prison can be reconciled to the reduction of the demand for hammerings, consequent upon the abundance of rose-bugs.

Since writing the above remarks, we learn that boys are out in every direction collecting the bug. Mass. Agriculturist.

NO. V.

The Entomological System. Our friends have doubtless heard of the Tullian system, (not Marcus but Jethro,) and the soiling system in agriculture; but we believe the entomological system is likety to prove of more importance than either. We perceive a brief sketch of it, in the Massachusetts Farmer, for June 15, where it is described, as practised by a distinguished agriculturist of Massachusetts. It has long been a fact, well known to practical farmers, that the common domestic fowl, (gallus gallinacius) is remarkably fond of rose-bugs. Many of our readers have doubtless witnessed the mode, in which even the young chicken seizes a bug in his beak, rubs him one or twice on the ground, and then swallows him, and catches at another. In conse