The Altoona tribune. (Altoona, Pa.) 1856-19??, March 11, 1858, Image 1

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VOL. 8.
tfoCRUU A ALLISON, Pablidicn And Proprietors.
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|The Cheapest Paper in the County!
With the present number, the 7Hi«««has en
tered upon it,s third volume. Commenced at a
time when the confidence of the citizens of Al
: ioonii in newspapers and newspaper publishers
, wus'considerably shaken, if not totally annihila
ted, it has slowly but , surely restored that con
fidents, and now stands upon a surofoundatibn,
and is universally acknowledged to. be one of
the fixed institutions of our town. But this re
sult has not been achieved without a hard strug
gle, and considerable expenditure of time and
means on the part of its ; editors. The steady,
increase of patronage, how'cvc-r, afforded in
dubitable evidence tbittheir labors ln\vc been ap
In entering upon tie hew volume it is almost i
unnecessary to sjiy that the Tribune will contin
ing biassed neither by fear, favor nor’affection,
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is only accessary to say that the past affords a
‘.fair index as to our future course.
It has always been our aim to make the Tri
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believe that'in that character alone, country pa
pers con successfully compete with their flashy
city' neighbors. To this end wc have secured
correspondents in various parts of the county,
who furnish us with all the items of local niter- i
eat in their vicinity. We purpose adding others |
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ring the next year we shall redouble bur efforts ]
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llshing from time to time “ Original Sketches of i
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|tecogni*ing, .the principle that contracts to
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moat to numbers who would otherwise discon*
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taken the paper, we offer it at the fallowing
Jnir-cates for the coming year:
- I copy, one year $l6O '
10 copies “ ($1.26 per copy) 12 60
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-ItndftU. above 20 at the same rate—si pi* copy.
' : Wast. W “««. accompany the
t " above it will be seen that onr paper
1 Je,emphatically the cheapest in the county,—
jtpitoihieritfl we leave In to tie public to de-
onr fHentfaifcbropgb:-
oftbem can readily .obtain » cl|b
i^-ttairndghborhood.■ •
3 months. 0 month*.
t 1 60 i 3 00
2 SO 4 00
4 oo e oo
6 00 8 00
6 00
10 00
10 00
14 00
26 00
or thz
t f\ ' - '• 4 ' ii'l
1 X
Held ||wtrjr.
Killies to a Worn-Out Font ot
I’m sitting at my desk, George, >
Before me on the floor,
There lies a worn-out fount of type.
Full twenty thousand score;
And many months have passed, George,
Since they were bright nnd new.
And tnany are the tales they’ve told—
The false, the strange, the true.
1 year.
$5 00
7 00
10 00
12 00
14 00
20 00
40 00
1 76
10 00
Their beauty has all gone, George,
You scarcely now may trace,
Gpon the snowy medium,
The likeness of their face;
They ’mind me of a man, George,
Whose morn of life, arose
’Mid hopes and golden promises
That faded ere its close.
6 00
What tales of horror they have told, \
Of tempest and of wreck— ;
Of murder at the midnight hoar,
Of war, full many a x “ speck”—
Of ships, that far away at sea,
Went down before the blast—
Of stifled cries of agony,
As life's last moment passed—
Of earthquakes and of suicides—
Of failing crops of cotton—
Of bank defaulters—broken banks,
And banking systems rotten—
Of boilers bursting—steamboats snagged—
Of riots, duels fought—
Of robbers with their prey escaped—
Of thieves'with booty cuught— ' •
Of land-slides and of water-spouts
Of ants, and alligators—
Of serpents in the briny deep—
j Of giant sweet potiturs—
Of children lost, and children focal—•
; Finances in disorder—
pf fights ’mong firemen at home,
Of troubles on the border.
'They’ve told us of a nation, George,
Bent sorrowing o’er the dust
Of one whom she hud called to fill
Her highest, dearest trust- -
Of sparkling crowns for youthful brows—
Of regal coronations —
Of plans to rid tiie earth of kings.—
Of tcmp’rauce reformations—
,0f flood, and fire, and accident,
Thyse worn-out types have told ;
And how the pestilence hath swept
j the youthful and the old—
’Of marriages, and girths and deaths—
Of tljipgs to please or vex us—
Of .some who cut life’s brittle thread,
And some who “cut” for Texas.
They've told how long sweet summer days
Have faded from our view ;
r llow autumn's chilling wind hath swept
The leaf crowned forest through;
How winter's reign hath come and gone—
Dark reign of storm and strife— the smiling spring hath warm’d
The pale flowcrs back t» life.
I can't pretend to mention half
My inky friends-have told,
|Sincc, shining, bright and beautiful,
They issued from the mould—
How unto some they joy have brought,
To others grief and tears;
Yet faithfully they record kept
Of fast receding years.
i Hdfd Htorj|.
' r \ . !'
B;r the author of “Here nnd There,” “The
Founding of thi Circus,” &c., &c.
year, from childhood up, in the
Spring and in the Autumn, I have been
in the habit of visiting at my Uncle Mer
rill’s. Perhaps I should not have said
“habit”—but we will let it pass ;if it was
i habitual with me to go, it was just ashab
-1 itual with them! to meet me when the , old
stage stopped at thei farm-gate, and the dri
ver unstrapped the boot to take down my
great trunk. I -always felt better after
visiting there; and!l know too, that the
joyousness and vivacity of my nature, im
parted] much of hope and strength to thoif’s
—to the natures of] my white-haired un
cle and his wife. \( ’
I was on .a visit-there one Autumn: the
trees were arrayed. jin, russet, the brown
nuts were pattering on the fallen leayes,
and the wind Wept through the glade&at
night with thp heavier Jnohotonjps. of win
ter. I was seated on a mossy knoU, sketch
ing the ojid stone foil! some distancebelow
P#* J hod Qutdincd it, and wasjaa'tWQrk
ihg jn Jhe heavier shadiag T when d-. was
bysome ode hrumiing amiuaf mp.
.1 .wi&out’giettihg urn how
ties.” She was attired in a plain, white
dress. Her hair was black and luxuriant,
falling hi negligent masses around her neck
and shoulders, contrasting strangely with
her face, which was very pale—no, very
white. When I looked into her face I
thought her positively beautiful; there
was something so soft, so trustingVso subdu
ed in the delicate limnings; but when she
set her eyes full upon mine, I tyalf stalled
back in affright. I
There was a maniacal gleam in those
eyes; true, a ipassive gleam—but their
depth, shaded as they were by long, heavy
lashes, assured ;hie that they were at times
lit up with a that would make the very
blood in my veins to tingle.
‘ You are not afraid of me ?’ she asked,
with a low laugh.
‘ Why shouiS I bo afraid of you ?” I re
torted, for I had recovered myself, and was
gazing fixedly jupon her.—“ You are but a
woman like myself. Come, sit down be
side me.’
‘ No—l am no woman ;lam a ghost I
Don’t they call me ‘the White-ghost Mar
gery?’ And don’t the children run away
from me in affright ? Yes, they do ; all
except om —little Maud. She is just like
me, though —a very gypsy. Perhaps I
am disturbing; you V she added, seating
herself, however, very demurely beside me.
‘No you ate not, Margery; you arc
quite welcome; .We must become better
acquainted, Margery.’
Scarcely had I uttered those words ere
the maniacal fire seemed to fiood her veins.
She rose quickly to her feet gazed as quickly
around, and then, with her eyes streaming
fire and her hinds working half menacing
ly, she asked, somewhat coarsely,
‘ Who spoki ?’
‘We are uidne, Margery ; it was I who
spoke,’ I replied, feeling quite uneasy, 1
do confess. j
She gazed ifi; me a minute longer—and
the old quiet, ihalf vacant look came back
into her eyes. |
‘ I did'nt frighten you," did I ? I have
such queer ways ! Pot jou mustn’t mind
Your words, and the tone Of your
voice took me! back into the beautiful long
ago I I thought it was Ralph who spoke.
Nobody ever laid ‘Margery’ so sweet as he
before. Put; don’t mind me. 1 ain’t
riahrl Poor i White-ghost Margery I
The tears Were streaming down her
cheeks and she sat down again and buried
her face in bar hands.
Her words had made ruy heart beat fast
and thick ; to me there was more than a
common meaning in them. I had a brother
Ralph —my voice was very much like his ;
what had Ralph to do with the While
ghost Margery? A d«-ep. undefined dread
came creeping up into my heart.
‘ What, Ralph do you speak of, Mar
gery ?’ I asked.
‘I don’t wjint to go back into the long
ago. T don't want to be communicative.
You aint communicative; you hav’nt even
told me your name. • I heg your pardon
then, Margery. I will tell you now. My
name i.* Blanche.’
So ! —I like that name; I like you,
too, Blanche,’ —and she looked up trust
ingly into in j'face.
■Do you then we will be fast friends.
I am verv triad von said that Margery. But
won't you tell mo what Ralph you spoke
of?’ i
‘Oyos —l can draw' quite well!’—she
said, taking iny sketch from my hands.
I gave her a searching look, but I could
not tell whether her reply was the cunning
evasion of the maniac, or simply expres
sive of the vficancy and unfixedness of her
4 Will you give roe the pencil ?’
4 Certainly ; you may finish the picture,
too.’ x f
She took the pencil with a graceful in
clination of her head, and commenced up
on the picture. An artist's soul then
gleamed from her dark eyes, and every
touch seemed like the touch of ecstatic
genius. I almost clapped my hands with
delight as my vague, undefined lines rap
idly began to break out into beauty and
She paused at length, and looked long
and silently upon the drawing. I bent
down my head that I could see up into
her eyes. Tiiey were cold, radiautless,
glassy. ' ■ 1
‘ Margery,! I said, in a low, soft tone,
‘ you draw beautifully.’
She started, and looked at me ; and I
was almost fiUcinated as I watched the
warm, beautiful light again bedewing her
eyes. She turned the picture, and writing
some verses ph the back, replaced it on my
‘ Blancho-4—if you sometime meet Ralph
—give him that But why do Lsay thiff?
Won’t he meet me in the dell when the
twilight thickens? To be sure he .will !
Ralph is notuihg to you.’
Then tossing her ringlets with a grace
ful air, of indifference, and with a laugh
upon her which was really joy ous and
natuiftl, iih'e [passed away, noiselessly as she
had-come, ftpd- very like a white ghost!
J pat there long after. Varied emotions
were teuohcjl: in my soul; earnest < i sympa-'
.njgiwpciwto mywqnL-<
[independent in everything.]
The following were the verses that she
had written—and I was as certain they
were impromptu as I was that the woof
of this beautiful maniac’s life was to be
woven yet closer with the future of my
own ;
I met Margery often afterward, but
nothing of her past history, touching that
which I was most curious upon, could I
learn from her or others. Maniac as she
was, there was something attractive and
agreeable in her society. I was gradually
gaining an influence over her, and could,
to some extent, control her fits of lunacy.
All I could learn of my aunt was that
she bad come to that neighborhood and ta
ken charge of a school. She was sad ayd
moody, quite sedentary in her habits, and
all could see that there was some dark,
sickeuing, life-sapping secret iu her soul.
Before the close of her engagement she
had become'deranged, and was living upon
the charity of the peopjc. She was per
fectly harmless, and found a home of wel
come every where. Sometimes she would
stay at my aunt’s (that was before I came,)
for weeks, and sew, and attend to the house
hold duties —neither speaking nor seeming
to take any interest in anything whatever
—even performing her labors mechanical
ly ‘ ‘ ‘
“If thou could’st know what’t la to nnila,
To smile, whilst scorn'd l>y every one,
To hide by many an urtful wile,
A heart that knows more grief than guile,
Thou would’st not do as I have done.
At»d oh! if thou could’sc think how drear
ityhen friends are chang'd and health Is gone,
The world would to thine eyes appear;
If'thou. like me, to none wort dear,
Thou would’st not do os I have done.”
In her lucid intervals she was witty
and vivacious; but in neither state could
be owriued from her the saddening secret
within her breast.
The rain poured down in torrents ; it
beat fust and thick again.-1 the casement ;
it ran riot through the spouting ; it rushed
in under the door; it flooded the yard, the
quick flashes of lightning revealing where i
the water lay in broad, shallow puddles, or |
where it swept like a miniature river along 1
the narrow walls, and all the time a heavy, i
dreary, Incessautrain —blind'.ngiu its veloc- '
ity, dronchingin its abundance, and sound- j
ing everywhere as load as it did under the ;
dripping eaves, ’I here was no thunder, |
save ever and anon a distant and prolong- ;
ed roar; it was the play of the elements |
without their master spirit —an orchestra, j
without its depp-toned, bass aeompaniment. |
Hero a young peach tree groaned under I
the heavy trolljs-work that had fallen upon j
it ; there a gate swung to and fro on one j
hinge, and all around the house the shut- i
ter* kept banging at irregular intervals.
On such aa eve there was a short, rapid j
knock at the hall door. 1 took the light i
and went to answer the call. M hen I open- j
ed the dour—a figure entered, dripping :
vvi-bh rpin, and with the. dark hair stream- ;
ing arbund her shoulders. -
It was the White-ghost Margery!
‘ Shelter from the rain—the drenching,
surging, boating, blinding rain ! she cried. )
1 You shall have it, Margery ; you have I
found a friend here,’ T answered. |
‘ Found a friend? ha, ha. ha.l Don’t j
mock mo when my feet are dangling over
j the edge of my own open grave ! Who !
; calls me Margery? I aint the White ghost i
i Margery any more. lam rhjht non: 1’ j
| ’ ‘ I am not mocking you, Margery, I he- |
j lievc that you are right again. Sit down j
i by the fire till I comei’
• She sat down by the bright hearth,
j while I ran up to my room to get a change
of clothing for her.
‘ Margery, you are wringing wet; allow
me to assist you to change.’
She arose willingly, but was yet quite
When we had finished she eat down
again, and folded her hands in her lap.
There was a warm glow upon her cheek
and her eyes, though melancholy, did not
wear the maniacal fire of yore.
‘ Margery —do you not remember
Blanche ?’.I asked.
‘ Blanche, Blanche?’ and she passed her
hand dreamily over her forehead. * No, I
don't remember, and yet it seems to me I
do. That is a contradiction, aint it? But |
lady, can you remember the names and I
faces you have heard and seen in your
dreams ? I have been dreaming —onelong,
wild, weird-like, 1 aching dream ! But I
am awake now 1 I aint crazy any more !
Blanche, did you say? I might have
known you once. I ani sc tired; how in
viting that sofa looks ? Will you let me
lie down, Blanche?'Do, please do; then
rub your hand over my burning foreheads
I led her to the sofa. Soon I was sooth
ingly passing my hand, as she had bid
me, over her forehead—-her high white
forehead, with its delicately traced veins
of blue; and soon she sank into a sweet, re
freshing sleep. . ,
Superbly beautiful she looked, as she
rested there. My eye detected theJoop of
a hue gold chain and I pulled it oiit; she
did pot awaken. Sure enough it was: a
locket I touched the spring—-I gazed up
on the mixuature.
It was that of my brother Ralph !
■ The discovery ran through me like an
electro shock’. * THOh I wWdotenninod to
3 ■'
face of Margery—Margery the beautiful!
Soon piy feet were tripping up the stair
‘ Ralph !’ I said, opening the door ofthe
study— 1 Ralph; come down stairs a min
‘What is the matter now, sis? Has tab
by-cat been eating the starch? Well—l
guess I must come; it was not in the tone
of a request —it was positively a command.’
Ralph shut the book he was reading, and
turned round to me with one of his sweet,
jovial smiles. x
‘ Why—how white you are, Blanche 1
Your lips arc purple, too, and ybu seem to
press them inward, as if to hide their tremor I
Gracious God, Blanche ! Whatiswrong.’
‘ Come and see, Ralph. My Heart may
break to-night! 0, I almost wish that I
were dead!
* Blanche—you will drive me mad!—
What means this ? Shut your eyes—turn
them to the floor —to the ceilingr—only so
you don’t look at me so reproachfully!’
lie seized my arm with a force that made
me cry out with pain. He was very much
excited, and hurried me along so fast that
my feet hardly touched the steps.
When we reached the sitting room 1
took the lead. We stopped before the sofa.
‘ Ralph,’ I asked, ‘ who is this ?
His face assumed an ashy hue ;his arms
fell listlessly to his side.
‘ O Blanche 1’ he murmured.
He leaned his head upon one arm,
against the mantel. ■’* '' ,
‘ Ralph !’ I cried, sternly, yetburriedly
withal, ‘ answer me, who is this? Good
Heavens 1 Have you kept locked up for
months in your soul, some dark secret;
locked away from me, your sister, your
best beloved, as you have so often called
me ! Oh 1 this is bitter!'
He turned round to me; a sorrowful
smile wreathed his lips. It was his' eyes
that were expressive now of reproach. His
feature- were still pale, but settled.
-Blanch, sister Blanch, I will answer !’
Then he knelt down at the sofa, by the
side of Margery. He took her soft white
hand in his, and kissing her lips passion
ately, said.
‘ Margery, my beloved, my tci/e ! look
f» *
up 1
iShe awoke ; she seemed bewildered for
a moment. Then recognizing him, she
threw her arms wildly about him; she suf
fused his bronzed face with kisses; she
cried aloud.
1 (Jed be praised! Mercy is the Lord’s
and the fullness thereof! O that sweet
endearing name of ici/c ! My ears did not
belie me then ! Oh, Ralph, my worship
ped one ! will you take me back into your
heart again ?■’ " .
‘ You have always been in my heart,
Margery,’ and Ralph wept like a very
And the White-ghost Margery was my
brother Ralph’s wife 1 Who was more be
wildered than I?
The mystery is soon told. Ralph had
met Margaret Arnold while stopping for
some months at Norfolk, Va. He was cap
tivated with her society ; he became devo
tedly attached to her; they were married,
and Ralph intended to bring her to his
house near Litiz, as a ‘ surprise.’ He was
wealthy, of excellent extraction, refined
and intelligent, and the very soul Of integ
rity. I have "found her all a jealous sis
ter’s heart could wish!
On the evening before his departure for
home, when coming up the verandah, he
found her in the arms of a tall, handsome
stranger. She was leaning on bis shoul
der, weeping bitterly, while he passed bis
hand soothingly through her long, soft
‘ Miss Arnold, Margaret, you do love
me. Your love seeks no disguise; lei
your heart speak for me.’
‘ If I did, or do love you, Mr. Bell, it is
too late now. lam married;!’
Ralph could hear no more;: he rushed
forward and pushed his wife rudely against
the railing, The stranger interfered, and
Ralph felled him to the floor., ’
‘ Strumpet I’ he hissed through his
clenched teeth.
‘ Ralph, stop! wait! let ine explain !’
cried his wife in terror and 1
‘ Your conduct needs noexphmation, we
part to-night forever !' Ralph turned upon
his heel and they never met'lor eighteen
long months. Like cold, icy hakesof Show
Ralph's words must have fallen on her
warm, gushipg heart. .. lieqogld speak *9.
coldly if he wished j and therp;was;npneed
of sarbasm in his Words when h>S ‘eyes
They neither exchanged letters, normet,
as I have said, for, months—and that was
ou» that rainy .night, by the sofa.
Mr. Bcll was an admirer of Miss. Ar-.
nold’s. He had saved her frijitn a watery
grave at a steamboat explo3io.n»oh the Mis
sissippi" She vl as grateful id her preser
ver, but nothing more. Ho oottld not touch;
her inmost soul ; so thnliingly; as Ralph
could. Mr. Bdll met her on that evening,
and-, 1 believing! her single, ivas. siinpljr
pressing his claims. She wps
to repulse him,
vances such as tb noedit. T Have t methfr.
her dark eyes stamped her wordswiththe
sacredness of truth. Ralp£
himself bitterly for his haste and I; httNt««
osityj and is doing penance,
ray sweet sister Margery the most
aoos attentions a loving, impuMveße&it
like hers could wish. il
Margery, beautiful Margery ! Proudaen-*
aitive souT,how she had suffeiudi t Nona*
vances would ever have coino
How strong her love must have
ul, to moke reason thus loan haiftottenng
from her throne. ’ • ’ , '
Ralph and his wife are happy; a ‘llttlb
Maud,’ a «very gyp sy.; like Margery,Vls
teasing her aunt for that promised walker?
and so I put the last dash of the pen
story of
A Romanee.
The Shippensburg News baa theibliaw
ing::—About-three years ago, Gtaorab Fryj
of this vicinity, became cnamCtod of i
beautiful Gipsy girl, who, in company
with a number, of her people, had enoattip?
ed in a wood near this place. Mr. Fryj
love was fondly reciprocated by 1 the fait-
Gipsy, and she consented to marry hintf
But ‘.true love never did ran smooth,’ and '
so it happened in this-Oase. The cpnsopti
of the lather-of the lady could not bo bb
taiped to her marriage with ‘ a man not ac
customed to gentility !’. However, ‘Love
laughs at' locksmiths !* When Mr. Fiy
found that ho ‘could not win tho favor pf
the old folks,’ he set about planning, ways
and means to steal the object of his affeo
tions. In this he was successful One night
when the hard-hearted old man was wrap*
pod in the arms of Morpheus, Mr. Fry ap
proached the camp of the wanderers, and
was met by her for whom his heart had
long in agony N sighed ! After fondly efil-N
bracing her, lie solicited: heb taaccompahy
him, without delay, to a village a fow miles
distant. Without hesitation shecompUbd
with his request, and on the following day,
they were married. * * The m
the old Gipsy when he found that MS*
daughter had ‘sloped,’ can better be int»
agiued, .than described. Nothing: Opnhb
soothe his temper save the return of
child. In vain he sought for her. ’
ing could be heard from'her. Finally,*
when he found that he himself could'lintF
no traces of her, he offered a heavy rewarck
to the person who would discover, hp&
whereabouts, and in the presence of apver|d
‘kidnappers,’ he exhibited large quantities*
of gold and silver, which induced them* to*
make the effort, and a few evenings, after,-
in a most inhuman manner, they accoms
plisbed their object. In the absence *of
■Mr. Fry they wrested her away andlig|iv~;
gred her over to’the hands of
susceptible of the divine feelings* of
Immediately the entire group of Gipsied!
fled from the country, liumor sjaid ‘that*
they had returned to England, from whence,
they hailed. Two years noiselessly glided'
by, and nothing was heard by Mr. Pry
from his absent wife, although he lOng
cherishod the" hope that she-would, escape
from her ‘ tyrannical parent,’and return to ,
him whom she loved. Time, however,
gradually rusted Mr. Fry’s love tor hht
Gipsy wife. He felt that itwas'notgood*
to be alone' so long, and at the end o£ twin
years ho. again united his_ destinies wiihi
autther of Eve’s, fair daughters. Suffice,
it to say, with the latter he experieneba no"
visible difficulty. Things inovOd smiling-'
ly along—Mr. : Fry lived happily •with hid
wife and the rest of mankind. B|ut wlash
how short-lived arc some connubial; com
binations I Last week Mr. Wi ffe
—his Gipsy wife—in company with
‘ George Fry the second,’ amved in thiir'
place, in search for him 1- By the assis
tance of officer Shade, she was. successful
in finding him. Limited space forbids p -
from entering into details, at this time, of’
the excruciating suffering _ Mrs. ~Pry has
undergone since her departure frbitt this*
place. The intelligence of hethnsbanck’st
second marriage wasp severe shock toWy
but she omphatieaUy;4ecla|w her cxcla
slye right to him. lt By
that Mr. Fry V sccondwifS was' awidOw/ 4
that her husband went to Galtfcpiia cornel
ypays agp> and. soou after
it was rumored that ho was
few weeks’dnee a
him by hbr, wc have been infomed.inl
which he'states that he will return in the
next steamer, &o. >
were shown on Wednesday almost
table freak (#nature v '
was taken from a sow which had' been 1
slaughtered dh the farm of Dr. Thorn,Tay* v
Iqr £O. Va- It has a regular trunk like
an elephant’s j one ear like a natural pig’s,
and the/other shaped and hanging down 1
precisely like an elephant, it has hut oho
eye, and that is placed in the center of m ■;
bead,and contains two distinct sights; it
jus quits upper lip a horn, like arhi
npeer<»; in 1 the place of a lower jaw it has
a distinctly formed human chin ; its two
Hind legs and feet are perfectly developed,
the same as a natural pig’s, while one of
its foire feet has a protuberance nearly re
sembling a human thumb, and the Othw
fore foot more nearly resembles a camera
thingwe canlilcenittc.The*
body is but very sparsely covered
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