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twelve bishoprics and an enormous revenue. Now the Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopal, Baptist, and other churches are established and growing. None of these can vie with the Catholic for centuries, if ever, in grand and costly churches, rare paintings, ecclesiastical residences and revenues. The traditions of the people are Catholic, and saints days and festivals keep their traditions alive. The Church also sends its evangelists or missionaries into every quarter and none have ever been more zealous. The majority of these missionaries are illiterate. Bat they are themselves convinced, and exhort with faith in their own doctrines.

For some cause the literature of every country and creed and age agrees in representing monks as merry and friars as facetious, and both as the equals of Brillat Savarin in gastronomy. The early English songs accord with French chansons and Italian madrigals in this; and the Mexican example apparently harmonizes. The four drawn by our artist seem to have proceeded from the law of variation or reversion rather than that of evolution. They are types of Don Quixote's monks and those of Robin Hood. They evidently prefer meat to mass and their brandy to their breviaries. They are true fellows to those of Peru and Chili. But though the Mexican clergy have won no higher fame than Mexican physicians, lawyers, financiers, artists and artisans, they are not without sterling virtues and some scholarship. There are true types, but the original is not the best. They belong to the civilization of the middle ages and are evidently better judges of wine than wisdom—of gTOg than of godliness. Education will relieve and may cure the wrong. The law that abolished convents necessarily terminated most of the evils of which it complained and many of the uses it failed to recognize.

The native populations of Mexico are cut into many groups, and those from other lands are greatly subdivided. The gypsy, as such, is a recent introduction there and here, and though George Borrow lived with that strange people in Spain, and could read and write and speak their Roromany dialect, he has left their origin almost as doubtful as he found it. A majority of the Mexican gypsies are not such, but are mere wanderers and loafers. The Zingali, however, have abounded in Spain for many centuries, and have been tolerated much of the time. It was easy for them to reach Mexico. They have flourished Vol. XIV.—17

there as they do here, and have not deteriorated —perhaps on the principle that prevents a bad egg from degenerating. They have not increased in numbers rapidly. The Indians view them as a sort of crazy and intolerable burlesque upon themselves. The negroes denounce them as trash. They are jockeys, fortune-tellers, farriers, thieves, and prove the purity of their blood by the nature and number of their offences.

The maguey, or agave American, is one of the most striking plants of Mexico. It borders all of the ditches and covers many fields. The central stem often rises thirty feet. It is a rapid grower, and its broad green leaves give it prominence and beauty. Owing to its local character Mexico has used it frequently for a national symbol. It is, however, for its practical rather than its poetical character, that it is most esteemed. The sap and juice collected in the central stem is enormous and almost incalculable. One such stem will often yield one hundred and fifty gallons, and this juice is by the simplest of processes transformed into pulque. Pulque may be described as a drink which equals or excels either rum or whisky in its intoxicating power. Its flavor is disagreeable to Americans and Europeans but very acceptable to Mexicans of every blood, and a taste for it is readily acquired. The maguey was exhibited at the fair in the capital a few years ago, and some expectations were shown that it might be of use as a textile. It was condemned for any other purpose than giving shade and producing pulque. The earliest records of Mexico show that the plant was highly esteemed. It is cut in the stalk to secure the juice.

The bummer is the product of no land, century, race or government in particular, but appears and flourishes, under Pharaoh and Bonaparte, in Peru or Portugal, with similar regularity and characteristics. He is as eternal as the planets, and as ubiquitous as the atmosphere, and bids fair to remain so until the Saturnian period has not only dawned, but been developed. The Mexican bummer is born and educated with great advantages. Guatemozin tolerated his antetypes, though disapproving of them, and he therefore has some official recognition. The climate is as though it were made for him, and renders houses as unnecessary for his class as they were to the gay wanderers with Robin Hood. The Church dispenses food and advice freely to all. Fruits are rank on every side.

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: forays upon other families of whites around , and burned their houses, the colonial Whit

who refused the protection of the garrison,

never molested.

ie dwelling in which the bard of Merrimac

I was born, December 17th, 1808, was

ed by his great-great grandfather, in the

1716. He was a brave old gentleman, who

i more upon the weapons of his faith than on

: of a carnal nature in his dealings with the

le red men who infested the neighborhood.

said that the family used to hear the restless

igtnes at the windows on the still winter

ts, and occasionally would see a red face and

! eyes at the window-pane; but they never

opted to force an entrance.

lis historic old mansion is on a by-road lead

*from the main thoroughfare to Amesbury and

buryport. It is a large two-story edifice, sub

ially built, and faces the east. Mr. Whittier

has described, with almost photographic ac

:y, the scenery which surrounds it:

The old farm-house nestling in its valley, hills

ching off to the south, and green meadows to

east; the small stream, which came noisily

1 its ravine, washing the old garden wall and

y lapping on fallen stones and mossy roots of

,ies and hemlocks; the oak forest, sweeping

>ken to the northern horizon; the tall sentinel

irs at the gateway; the grass-grown carriage

.. with its rude and crazy bridge—the dear old

cape of my boyhood lies outstretched before

ike a daguerreotype from that picture within

ii I have borne with me in all my wander11

ow vividly do we recall the tender memories he "Barefoot Boy," as we read his descripof that little stream "which came noisily n the ravine."

Laughed the brook for my delight,
Through the day and through the night;
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall.

he story of youth's hardships and winter joys is most charmingly in his idyl, entitled, "Snow:id." Descriptive as it is of the scenes of his . boyhood, it is full of vigor of style and lifeearnestness of expression. Every line seems owed with the flame of deep poetic feeling, I rally inspired by the home love of this eminent ! The reader of these beautiful lines cannot

fail to sympathize with the sentiment that dwells upon the pleasures of the household pictured to him.

Midway between the village and the locality made famous by his most popular poem, lies that "fair mirror of the woods and skies," Kenora Lake, formerly known by the prosaic name of Great Pond. Its present appellation, which was given to it by the poet, signifies, "Lake of the Pickerel."

During our residence in that pleasant old New England town near by, we loved to visit the shores of this quiet, secluded sheet of water; and as we paddled by moonlight over its silvery surface, we recalled the lines of him whose genius has made the fair scene classic:

Kenora, o'er no sweeter lake

Shall morning break, or noon-cloud sail;

No fairer face than thine shall take
The sunset's golden vail.

In 1840 Mr. Whittier reluctantly disposed of the old homestead in which he had resided much of the time for nearly thirty years, and removed to Amesbury, that lovely little hamlet at the foot of Powow Hill, in full sight of his much-loved Merrimac. How often has he sung of the beauties of this stream of the mountains! How often has he contemplated the grandeur of its waters, the loveliness of its banks, and watched the glow of the sunrise over its smooth surface, red with the promise of the coming day. From his study window he has watched the sun setting, when its last rays lingered on the hills and made golden the valleys; aye, he has walked down to the shore, his white locks kissed by the breeze while he toyed with the sedges by the water edge!

Mr. Whittier has deeply regretted the necessity which compelled him to part with the paternal homestead, for since his removal the house and out-buildings have become sadly dilapidated, and are rapidly going to decay. "The entire premises," says a late visitor, "wear an aspect of poverty and thriftlessness, although their owner is reputed to be one of the wealthiest farmers in the parish. The old oak forest which once covered the small hill in the rear of the house has fallen beneath his axe; and a magnificent and umbrageous elm, which stands by the roadside a few rods distant, would have shared the same fate, but for the urgent entreaties of the poet, backed up by a pecuniary consideration."

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tier_i{ * ' -tjn^k^1 of the school an absolute necessry . ac CDC t~a*n, the Toathrol pedagogue and ;.i ztqj^i were act only disturbed, bat absolateljr =-4 It doenestic squalls in the adjoining ruinr. w 1 :i were occasiooaDy so violent that they »se -jl- red to q=it tbe preoises and burry to —*■- h^enrs As may be surmised at once, the Jii>;,:cd was a man of intemperate habits, and, viz. .-treated, powred of the full vials of bis writi rtcs a head of his patient and long-suffer-^f s>«ase, who, not being able to "stand every-•d sometimes burst into a flame f ire: was kindled at the end of her :::r* to fcrod heat, and she would close the w: Fr i harazcae by asserting her unalienable rights - ::rxs and tones more emphatic and sonorous :z-lz elegant and sweet. For many years she has bee- a widow, and, if we mistake not, still occut.» the home of her youth. She often speaks to n>.::ri of J:ha as "an amiable and quiet boy;" iz-i o: his rczsger brother, Matthew, as "a rrc-oh L:tle chap, up to all sorts of fan 1"

Oa a by-way which intersects the main road to the thou sands the little schoolhouse in which the poet co=:jleted his primary training, previous to e-ter.r^ the Haverhill Academy, for the c: w-..jh he is said to have written an ode. T- s ec.-.ce closely resembles one of those shoe7. ikirs" s'-cp-s, numbers of which may be seen on "RT rc-.:>.de in almost every village in the eastern s o: New England, and will comfortably seat ab.xi: Twenty scholars. The Quaker poet reel.rc.'.y alludes to the pleasant hours he passed Nrzeath its roof in several of his poems, notably :r. the cue entitled, "In School Days;" and in "Srow-Sctird," that inevitable figure in a picture of New F.r.g'.ard life in the more primitive days, the 't' schoolmaster, is drawn with skill.

Bratnard very truthfully says: "To every careful reader of Whittier's poetry who visits his birthplace it must be apparent that the scenery of the exquisite ballad of Maud Muller is drawn from the ! poet's early surroundings. Here is the 'the little I Donny brook falling through the wall;' and, I crossing the road, a few yards beyond it, are the

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