His 5, 8, 11, 4, 2 and 9, is Hector, a cape on a large island. His 6, 3, 11, 4, 10 and 11, is Arctic――a large circle. His 5, 12, 3 and 8, is Hard――the tribe of Indians that inhabit British America. His 5, 2, 9 and 1, is Cape Horn, of South America. His 7, 12, 9, 7, 2, 3 and 12, is Marmora, a sea between Europe and Asia. His 1, 8, 10, 7 and 10, is Niemen, a river in Europe. His 11, 3, 10, 7, 8 and 12, is Crimea, a portion of Russia. His 8, 4, 1 and 12 is Etna, a burning mountain. His 11, 5, 10, 1 and 12, is China, a country in Asia. His 5, 8, 3, 12 and 4, is Herat, the capital of a country in Asia. His 12, 11, 5, 8, 8 and 1, is Achun, a town on a large island. His whole is North America――a large portion of the globe. PUZZLE. My whole consists of ten letters. My 9, 8, 5 and 6, is very useful to fur traders. My 5, 6 and 10, is an animal. My 10, 9, 4 and 7, is a burning mountain in Europe. My 9, 5 and 8, is manufactured in large quantities in the Southern States. My 1, 7 and 9, is an animal that goes out only at night. My 10, 2, 3, 6 and 10, is a part of the Eastern Continent. My whole is the name of a distinguished Emperor. A. C. C. ―――― We are requested to express, in a particular manner, the thanks of the Publishers to the post-master of Augusta, Georgia, for his kind offices; and also to Mrs. D――――, who takes a special and efficient interest in our humble periodical. Mrs. S. W. L., of Leighton, Alabama, will also accept our acknowledgments for her kind offices in behalf of our work. We hope it may prove worthy of such kindness. [Music:] The Lily. MUSIC COMPOSED BY GEORGE J. WEBB. Two Voices. By cool Siloam’s shady rill, How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon’s dewy rose! Lo, such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Retard. Is upwards drawn to God! a tempo. By cool Siloam’s shady rill The lily must decay, The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. cres. Must shortly fade, Must shortly fade away, dim. Must shortly fade away. And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man’s maturer age, Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power, And stormy passion’s rage! O Thou, whose infant feet were found Within thy Father’s shrine! Whose years with changeless virtue crowned, Were all alike divine:―― Dependent on thy bounteous breath, We seek thy grace alone, In childhood, manhood, age, and death, To keep us still thine own! Footnotes: [1] The substance of the following memoir is extracted from an address delivered at the funeral of Dr. Channing, by his colleague, the Rev. Ezra S. Gannett.