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. [Illustration] Smelling.