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The Evolution of Biological Information
 The Evolution of
Biological Information
HOW EVOLUTION CREATES COMPLEXITY,
FROM VIRUSES TO BRAINS

CHRISTOPH ADAMI

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

PRINCETON & OXFORD
Copyright © 2024 by Princeton University Press
Princeton University Press is committed to the protection of copyright and the
intellectual property our authors entrust to us. Copyright promotes the progress
and integrity of knowledge. Thank you for supporting free speech and the global
exchange of ideas by purchasing an authorized edition of this book. If you wish
to reproduce or distribute any part of it in any form, please obtain permission.
Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work
should be sent to permissions@press.princeton.edu
Published by Princeton University Press
41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540
99 Banbury Road, Oxford OX2 6JX
press.princeton.edu
All Rights Reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Adami, Christoph, author.
Title: The evolution of biological information : how evolution creates
complexity, from viruses to brains / Christoph Adami.
Description: Princeton : Princeton University Press, [2024] | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022060838 (print) | LCCN 2022060839 (ebook) | ISBN
9780691241142 (hardback) | ISBN 9780691241159 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Information theory in biology. | Evolution (Biology) |
BISAC: SCIENCE / Life Sciences / Evolution | COMPUTERS / Information
Theory
Classification: LCC QH507 .A336 2024 (print) | LCC QH507 (ebook) | DDC
570—dc23/eng/20230505
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060838
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060839
British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
Editorial: Alison Kalett and Hallie Schaeffer
Cover Design: Heather Hansen
Production: Danielle Amatucci
Publicity: William Pagdatoon
This book has been composed in Arno Pro
Printed on acid-free paper. ∞
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 CONTENTS

Preface ix
Acknowledgements xv

1 Principles and Origins of Darwinism 1

1.1 Principles of Darwinian Theory 2
1.2 Origin of Darwinian Thought 14
1.3 Summary 32

2 Information Theory in Biology 35

2.1 Random Variables and Probabilities 37
2.2 Entropy and Information 46
2.3 Information Content of Genes 55
2.4 Information Channels and Communication 76
2.5 Summary 95

3 Evolution of Information 101

3.1 Evolution as a Maxwell Demon 101
3.2 Evolution of Information on the Line of Descent 113
3.3 Information Loss and Gain in HIV Evolution 120
3.4 Evolution of Information in DNA Binding Sites 138
3.5 Summary 163

4 Experiments in Evolution 167

4.1 The Dallinger Experiment 171
4.2 The Lenski Experiment 178
4.3 Digital Life: A Brief History 187
4.4 Promises and Rewards of Experimental Evolution 209
4.5 Summary 227
v
 vi contents

5 Evolution of Complexity 233

5.1 What Is Complexity? 235
5.2 Complexity of Networks, Modules, and Motifs 253
5.3 Long-Term Trends in Evolution 274
5.4 Short-Term Trends in the Evolution of a Single Lineage 283
5.5 Summary 317

6 Evolution of Robustness 321

6.1 The Neutral Theory of Evolution 323
6.2 Evolution of Mutational Robustness 325
6.3 Evolution of Drift Robustness 346
6.4 Mutational and Drift Robustness in Trypanosomes 360
6.5 Summary 375

7 The Informational Origins of Life 379

7.1 The RNA World 380
7.2 The Likelihood of Information 385
7.3 Experiments with Digital Abiogenesis 395
7.4 The Fitness Landscape before Evolution 403
7.5 Summary 408

8 Information for Cooperation 413

8.1 Evolutionary Game Theory 416
8.2 Strategies That Communicate 422
8.3 Quasi-Strategies 435
8.4 Summary 439

9 The Making of Intelligence 441

9.1 Intelligence by Design or Evolution 442
9.2 Elements of Intelligence 450
9.3 Evolution of Intelligence 468
9.4 A Future with Sentient Machines 493
9.5 Summary 495
 contents vii

10 The Many Roles of Information in Biology 499

10.1 Life as Information 500
10.2 The Power of Communication 508
10.3 Predicting the Future 516
10.4 Summary 519

References 521
Index 551
 P R E FA C E

Darwin’s theory of evolution occupies a unique place in the history of science.

Among the great discoveries of the last five hundred years set in motion by
Copernicus and Galilei, Darwin’s theory about the common origin of all forms
of life and their evolution represents a major leap forward in our understand-
ing of the world. Alongside those discoveries in astronomy and physics that
concern the inanimate universe, Darwin’s theory stands out because it con-
cerns the origins of the investigator himself. Discoveries about the place of
humankind in time and space have always necessitated the removal of a mental
and emotional barrier, both in the originator of the idea and in the public that
receives them. Darwin’s proposition is unique in history because it obliterates
the last vestiges of human hubris and declares us kin with bacterial slime and
leaves of grass. Loren Eiseley (1958) poignantly remarks:

It is my genuine belief that no greater act of the human intellect, no greater

gesture of humility on the part of man has been or will be made in the
long history of science. The marvel lies not in the fact that bones from
the caves and river gravels were recognized with trepidation and doubt as
beings from the half-world of the past; the miracle, considering the nature
of the human ego, occurs in the circumstance that we were able to rec-
ognize them at all, or to see in these remote half-fearsome creatures our
long-forgotten fathers who had cherished our seed through the ages of ice
and loneliness before a single lighted city flickered out of the darkness of
the planet’s nighttime face.

While the theory of evolution by no means materialized out of the blue (as
I shall discuss) and while an assortment of naturalists and scientists formu-
lated ideas similar to the central tenets of Darwinism, only Darwin himself
wrote about them fully conscious of their world-shaking implications.1

1. In a January 11, 1844, letter to England’s most eminent botanist, J. D. Hooker, Darwin
reveals his apprehensions: “At last gleams of light have come, and I am almost convinced (quite
contrary to the opinion I started with) that species are not (it is like confessing a murder)
immutable.” (F. Darwin, 1887, p. 384)

ix
 x preface

Among the celebrated theories that constitute the framework of our knowl-
edge about the world, Darwinism is unique in another way. At the time of its
inception, the theory of evolution was based solely on observation and logical
deduction, not on empirical facts obtained by experimentation. It is perhaps
not unreasonable to see Darwin as akin to a sleuthing detective, weighing the
evidence available to him while formulating and rejecting hypothesis after
hypothesis until hitting on the one explanation that is consistent with all
available facts. While evolutionary theory can be couched in abstract terms
just as any theory in the physical sciences, its predictions could (at the time)
not be submitted to experimental tests, not even after the molecular revolu-
tion that brought with it the discovery of the genetic code and the molecular
mechanisms giving rise to variation. This is because macroevolution (that is,
speciation, adaptation, and innovation) would have taken too long for the
meticulous experimental approach that characterizes progress in the physical
sciences. Macroevolutionary timescales are usually measured in the millions
of years, or in the hundreds at the very best.2
This weakness of evolution as a scientific theory must be recognized as one
of the two major elements that have prevented Darwinism from being fully
accepted by both scientists (most of whom accepted it almost instantly) and
the public alike. The other element that constantly gnaws at the foundations of
evolutionary theory is the controversy about the explanation (or nonexplana-
tion) of life’s complexity. The controversies are varied, battles are fought both
within the ranks of scientists that would not doubt for a second the validity of
the central tenets of Darwinism, and without, by an incredulous public and by
entrenched creationists.
Explaining how Darwinian evolution can account for the complexity of life
(biocomplexity) thus emerges as one of the last remaining major problems in
evolutionary biology.3 Whether or not complexity increases in evolution, and
if it did, what the mechanisms are that fuel this growth, is a thorny question
because complexity itself is historically a vague concept. If different scientists
understand complexity in different ways, it is no wonder that an agreement
over this issue has not been reached.
These two factors, which impede a full acceptance of evolutionary theory
as sufficient to explain all forms of life on Earth, are moreover related: If
experiments could be conducted in which complexity visibly evolves from

2. But occasionally, macroevolutionary changes can be observed to occur in the span of

decades; see, for example, chapter 4.
3. The other one, namely the emergence and maintenance of the sexual mode of reproduc-
tion, has stirred less interest in the general public, while it still is the source of intense research
among evolutionary biologists.
 preface xi

simplicity, the controversy would surely shift from “Does It?” to “How Does
It?” In this book I shall pull together two strands of research that meet head-on
the perceived vulnerabilities of evolution as a complete and satisfying theory
of organic origin, diversity, and complexity. The first strand is the field of
experimental evolution, a discipline that few could have imagined in Darwin’s
days, but that today has matured into a quantitative science with the power
of falsification (the hallmark of scientific theories) in the last twenty years.
The other is the theoretical development of a concept of complexity, rooted
in mathematics and the theory of information, but germane to biology. No
mathematical concept of complexity has hitherto satisfied both mathemati-
cians and biologists alike. Both scientists and nonscientists have an intuitive
notion of what constitutes complexity; we “know it when we see it.” The theo-
retical concept that I introduce in this book seems to satisfy our intuition every
time it is subjected to the test, which bodes well for its acceptance as a mea-
sure for biocomplexity. Moreover, it proves to be both practical and universal.
Practical, because it implies a recipe to attach a number to the complexity of
any class of organisms (allowing in principle a comparison between species),
and universal because it does not refer at all to nucleic acids or proteins, or
any other particular feature of this world and the forms of life that populate
it. Rather, it is based on the universal concepts of automata and information
theory, which are abstract.
A mathematical description of the mechanisms that are responsible for the
evolution and growth of complexity, and experimental evidence buttressing
such a description, should go a long way to eliminate those doubts that are
anchored around the startling complexity of life and the seeming inability of
scientific theory to account for it. I will try in this book to convince the reader
that it can be accounted for, both in abstract terms and mathematical formu-
lae, and that the mechanisms responsible for the growth of complexity can be
investigated experimentally and be tested and retested.
But information theory can do more for biology than just provide for a
measure of complexity. In hindsight, everything in biology uses information in
one form or another, be it for communication (between cells, or organisms)
or for prediction (via molecular as well as neural circuits). As a consequence,
we must think of information theory as the unifying framework that allows us
to understand complex adaptive systems far from equilibrium, with biological
life being the prime example.
From the preceding comments, it should be clear that this is not a conven-
tional book about evolution. It is not a “whodunnit” in which the complicated
relationship between adapted forms is revealed through elaborate genetic or
behavioral experiments and observation. Rather, it treats evolutionary theory
as an empirical science, in which abstract concepts, mathematical models, and
 xii preface

dedicated experiments play the role they have been playing in the physical
sciences in the last few hundred years. While I try to keep the mathemati-
cal sophistication to a minimum, a reader who wants to make the most of
this book should be prepared to follow basic algebra. Indeed, the concept of
genomic complexity—its acquisition and evolution—is so firmly rooted in
the theory of information that it would be impossible to bypass an exposition
of the framework due to Shannon (1948). Furthermore, molecular evolution
theory (due to Eigen 1971, Eigen and Schuster 1979), the theory of self-
replicating macromolecules under mutation and selection, is a kinetic theory
in which the time-dependence of concentrations of molecules are key. Thus,
basic notions from calculus will be required to follow those sections. Yet, I have
strived to explain the concepts that are introduced mathematically also in
intuitive language, so that the dynamics of evolution, and the circumstances
surrounding the evolution of complexity, should appear more clearly to every
serious reader interested in biocomplexity.
Another somewhat less conventional feature of this book is its exten-
sive use of the methods of computation. Virtually all the physical sciences
have branches nowadays that are almost entirely computational in nature:
the power of modern computers to take initial data and, armed with a set
of equations that model the system under investigation, grind through to
the consequences has revolutionized every facet of modern science. Even
within biology, the computer has taken major inroads, in particular in the
analysis of bioinformatics data, and the modeling of cellular processes and
development. Genetic algorithms, a method to search for rare bit patterns that
encode solutions to complex problems (usually in engineering) are inspired
by the Darwinian idea of inheritance with variation coupled with selection of
the fittest. But this is not, by far, the limit of how computers can aid in the study
of the evolutionary process. Computational evolutionary biology involves
building models of worlds in which the Darwinian principles are explored.
A particular branch of computational evolutionary biology involves not only
creating such an artificial world, but implanting in it not a simulation of evo-
lution, but the actual process itself. Because it is possible to create a form of life
that can inhabit and thrive in an artificial world (Ray 1992; Adami 1998), it
has become possible to conduct dedicated experiments that can explore fun-
damental aspects of evolution as they affect an alien form of life (sometimes
called “digital life”) (Harvey 1999; Zimmer 2001; Lenski 2001). Because such
experiments can only study those aspects of the evolutionary process that are
independent of the form of life it affects, we cannot, of course, hope to gain
insight from these experiments about phenomena that are intimately tied to
the type of chemistry used by the organism. But the beauty of digital life exper-
iments lies in their ability to make predictions about evolutionary mechanisms
 preface xiii

and phenomena affecting all forms of life anywhere in the universe. When design-
ing experiments to test evolutionary theory, then, we must judiciously choose
the experimental organism to use, weighing its advantages and idiosyncrasies
(there is, after all, no “universal” organism anywhere on this world and likely
others), from the gallery available to us: viruses, bacteria, yeast, or fruit flies
(to name but a few), or indeed digital ones.
The foundation laid by Darwin, and the edifice of modern evolutionary
theory constructed in the twentieth century, is not shaken by the experi-
mental, computational, and information-theoretic approach outlined here.
I imagine it strengthened in those quarters where the structure was perceived
to be weak or vulnerable, and its expanse increased, to an ever more dazzling,
towering achievement within humanity’s endeavor to understand the world
around us, and ourselves.
Another random document with
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accordingly went, was introduced into the minister’s study, and
commenced the conversation by saying, “I believe there is a small
dispute between you and me, sir, and I thought I would call this
morning and try to settle it.” “Ha!” said the clergyman, “what is it?”
“Why,” replied the wag, “you say that the wicked will go into
punishment, and I do not think that they will.” “Oh, if that is all,”
said the minister, “there is no dispute between you and me. If you
turn to Matt. xxv. 46, you will find that the dispute is between you
and the Lord Jesus Christ, and I advise you to go immediately and
settle it with him.”

A Countryman.—It has often been a matter of wonder, that the

principles and reasonings of infidels, though frequently accompanied
with great natural and acquired abilities, are seldom known to make
any impression upon thoughtful people. It is said of a deceased
gentleman, who was eminent in the literary world, that in early life
he drank deeply of the free-thinking scheme. He and one of his
companions, of the same turn of mind, often carried on their
conversations in the hearing of a religious but illiterate countryman.
This gentleman afterwards became a true Christian, and felt
concerned for the countryman, lest his faith in Christianity should
have been shaken. One day, therefore, he asked him, whether what
had so frequently been advanced in his hearing, had not produced
this effect upon him. “By no means,” answered the countryman; “it
never made the least impression upon me.” “No impression upon
you!” said the gentleman; “why, you must have known that we had
read and thought on these things much more than you had any
opportunity of doing.” “Oh, yes,” replied the man; “but I knew also
your manner of living; I knew that to maintain such a course of
conduct, you found it necessary to renounce Christianity.”

Rev. S. Wesley.—The Rev. Samuel Wesley, rector of Epworth, and

father of the celebrated John Wesley, once went into a coffee-house
in London for some refreshment. There were several gentlemen in a
box at the other end of the room, one of whom, an officer of the
guards, swore dreadfully. The rector saw that he could not speak to
him without much difficulty; he therefore desired the waiter to give
him a glass of water. When it was brought, he said aloud, “Carry it
to your gentleman in the red coat, and desire him to wash his mouth
after his oaths.” The officer rose up in a fury; but the gentlemen in
the box laid hold of him, one of them crying out, “Nay, colonel, you
gave the first offence; you see the gentleman is a clergyman; you
know it is an affront to swear in his presence.” The officer was thus
restrained, and Mr. Wesley departed.
Some years after, being again in London, and walking in St.
James’s Park, a gentleman joined him, who, after some
conversation, inquired if he recollected having seen him before. Mr.
Wesley replied in the negative. The gentleman then recalled to his
mind the scene in the coffee-house; and added, “Since that time, sir,
I thank God, I have feared an oath; and as I have a perfect
recollection of you, I rejoiced at seeing you, and could not refrain
from expressing my gratitude to God and to you.”

John Fox.—When Fox, the well known author of the “Book of

Martyrs,” was once leaving the palace of Aylmer, the Bishop of
London, a company of poor people begged him to relieve their wants
with great importunity. Fox, having no money, returned to the
bishop, and asked the loan of five pounds, which was readily
granted; he immediately distributed it among the poor, by whom he
was surrounded. Some months after, Aylmer asked Fox for the
money he had borrowed. “I have laid it out for you,” was the answer,
“and paid it where you owed it—to the poor people who lay at your
gate.” Far from being offended, Aylmer thanked Fox for thus being
his steward.

Intemperance.—A Temperate Man. A man of temperate habits was

once dining at the house of a free drinker. No sooner was the cloth
removed from the dinner table, than wine and spirits were produced,
and he was asked to take a glass of spirits and water. “No, thank
you,” said he, “I am not ill.” “Take a glass of wine then,” said his
host, “or a glass of ale.” “No, thank you,” said he, “I am not thirsty.”
These answers produced a loud burst of laughter.
Soon after this, the temperate man took a piece of bread from
the sideboard, and handed it to his host, who refused it, saying he
was not hungry. At this, the temperate man laughed in his turn.
“Surely,” said he, “I have as much reason to laugh at you for not
eating when you are not hungry, as you have to laugh at me for
declining medicine when not ill, and drink when I am not thirsty.”
 The Western Hemisphere.

Geography.
Geography is that science which describes the earth on which we
live; its lands and waters; its mountains and valleys; its hills and
plains; its towns, cities, countries, nations, and inhabitants.
The above picture is a representation of one half of the earth, or
what is called the Western Hemisphere. On this you see the
continent of America, the Atlantic Ocean, the Pacific ocean, the
Northern ocean, and the Southern ocean. About three fourths of the
surface of the Western hemisphere is covered with water.
The continent of America consists of North America and South
America. These are united by a narrow strip of land, called the
isthmus of Darien. In the narrowest part, this isthmus is but about
thirty-seven miles wide.
North America is separated from Asia at the north-west, by
Behring’s Straits, which are about thirty-nine miles wide. North
America is separated from Greenland, which is a great island, almost
always covered with snow and ice, near the north pole.
The continent of North America is about 9000 miles long, from
Cape Horn, to the Northern ocean. It has a vast range of mountains,
extending, in a bending line, nearly the whole length of it. This
range is the longest in the world. In South America, some of the
mountains are about five miles high, and are the loftiest in the
world, except the peaks of the Himmaleh mountains, in Asia. It is
supposed that there are two hundred volcanoes in America.
The largest river in the world is the Mississippi, which, including
the Missouri, properly one of its branches, is about 4000 miles long.
The river Amazon, in South America, though not quite as long,
spreads its branches wider than any other river in the world, and
carries more water to the sea than any other river.
The largest fresh water lake in the world, is that of Lake Superior,
in North America.
 The Eastern Hemisphere.
The above picture represents the Eastern Hemisphere. It includes
the Eastern Continent, which is divided into Europe, Asia, and Africa.
Africa is the south-western portion, Europe the north-western
portion, and Asia the north-eastern portion. The eastern continent
contains about twice as much land as the western continent.
Between Europe, Africa and Asia, is the Mediterranean sea, which
is about 2000 miles long, from east to west. The Atlantic ocean lies
west of Europe and Africa; the Indian ocean lies south of Asia, and
south-east of Africa; the Pacific ocean lies east of Asia.
Between the Indian ocean and Pacific ocean, are many large
islands. The largest is New Holland, which is about as extensive as
all Europe. This island belongs to the British nation, who have
settlements here, occupied by English, Scotch, and Irish people.
There are many curious things upon this island. The natives are a
kind of negro, who live in a manner almost as rude and savage as
wild bears. Among the animals, are the kangaroo, which goes forty
feet at a leap, and the platypus, with fur like a beaver and a bill like
a duck; swans which are black, and a kind of bird with a tail shaped
like a harp.
Asia is the most populous part of the globe, and has more
inhabitants than Europe, Africa, and America, all together. China
alone has about three hundred and sixty millions of people.
In America there are only a few great cities, such as New York,
Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New Orleans, in the United
States; Havana, in the West Indies; Mexico, in the United States of
Mexico; Lima, Buenos Ayres, Valparaiso, and Rio Janeiro, in South
America.
In Europe there are many great cities, among which London and
Paris are the largest; in Asia, Constantinople and Pekin are the
largest; in Africa, Grand Cairo and Alexandria are the largest.
Asia was the first part of the globe inhabited by human beings;
Africa was next inhabited, Europe next, and America last. America
was not discovered by the Europeans, till about three hundred and
fifty years ago.
 The Bob-o-link.
This is the familiar name of the Rice Bunting. He is about seven
inches and a half long, of a deep black color, with the feathers edged
with white and yellow. In Massachusetts, it is first seen in May,
among the fields and meadows, which at that period begin to ring
with its cheerful song. This is familiar to every school-boy, and is
composed of sounds which resemble the words Bob-o-lee, Bob-o-
linke. Mr. Nuttall, who has written several books about birds, says
that as the Bob-o-link rises and hovers on the wing, near his mate,
he seems to say—“Bob-o-link, Bob-o-link, Tom Denny, Tom Denny,
come, pay me the two and sixpence you’ve owed me more than a
year and a half ago! tshe, tshe, tsh, tsh, tshe!” He then dives down
into the grass, as if to avoid a reply.
This bird builds its nest on the ground; it is formed of loose
withered grass, and can scarcely be distinguished from the earth
around it. The eggs are five or six, of a light olive color, spotted with
brown. The male keeps up a continued song while his partner is
sitting, as if to cheer her in her confinement; but when the young
brood appear, this song is less frequent, and he joins his mate in the
task of feeding and rearing them.
In August, the whole brood, old and young, set off for the south,
where they spend the winter, gathering the wild rice of Delaware as
they proceed, and offering great sport to the gunner. They swarm in
the rice fields of Carolina and Georgia, and are much disliked by the
planters for their voracity. They are excellent eating, being so fat
when they reach the West Indies, as to be called Butter birds. Here
they spend the winter, but never fail to return in the spring to their
native meadows, where they feed on insects, worms, crickets,
beetles, and also on grass seeds.
Boys are very fond of catching the Bob-o-link, which they sell for
cages; but, although he is tolerably lively in captivity, yet no one
who has seen and heard him at liberty, can take any pleasure in his
deadened music and dulled plumage. In a state of nature all birds
moult, that is, change their plumage, and after a time generally
reappear in their former gay attire; but we have been told that the
Bob-o-link, in captivity, after moulting once, never resumes the dress
he wore in freedom; as if, absent from his mate, for whom alone he
sung and plumed himself, it were of no consequence what his
appearance might be. Let those of my little readers who have an
opportunity of observing, see if this story be true.
 The White or Polar Bear.
This formidable animal is generally found within the polar circle. It
is a land animal, yet it depends upon the sea for its subsistence. It
preys principally upon seals, young walruses and whales, and upon
those foxes and wolves which sometimes seek their food among the
ice. Its size varies, being from eight to twelve feet long, and
weighing from 900 to 1600 pounds. His fur is thick and very long,
and, like the feathers of water birds, cannot be wet by almost any
exposure to water. He swims at the rate of three miles an hour. He
cannot climb trees like other bears, nor does he need so to do, as
his habitation is among the icebergs. He is a very formidable and
powerful animal, and when attacked, makes desperate resistance.
 From the nature of their food, the flesh of the polar bear is rank
and fishy, though not unwholesome. The fat resembles tallow, and
melts into a transparent oil, which has no offensive smell. The skin is
very serviceable, as well as handsome, for a variety of domestic
purposes, and it is an article of considerable value to the people of
the cold northern regions. The Greenlanders pull it off whole, and
make a sack of it, into which they creep, and find a warm and
comfortable bed. The natives of Hudson’s Bay make very handsome
and pliable garments of these skins.
The Polar Bear may be considered as the most interesting of all
bears. Much is said of its great strength, and power of enduring
hunger and cold; of the peculiarity of its form and appearance; of
the perils and privations to which it must often be exposed; of its
great ferocity and daring when attacked, and of its strong
attachment to its young. Nothing but death can stop the attentions
of the female to her cubs. When they are wounded, she will fondle
them, turn them over, lick them, offer them food, and pay them
even more tender attentions than some human beings bestow upon
their offspring; and when she finds all her efforts unavailing, she
makes most piteous moans.
The White Bear is found in the polar regions of both continents.

The Boy and his Mittens.—I was going around the corner of Park
street church, in February, 1835. It was the morning of one of those
days when the thermometer was hovering about the chill point of
zero. I chanced to notice a small boy, standing with his back to the
basement wall of the church; his cheeks glistening in the keen wind,
the tears flowing down his face, and a kind of blubbering sound
issuing from his mouth. His little red hands were bare, but in one of
them he held a pair of mittens. He was the picture of distress and
imbecility. I went up to him, and asked him why he was crying. “My
fingers are cold,” said he. “But why don’t you put on your mittens?”
said I. “Oh, because my fingers are so cold!” said he. “But can’t you
put them on?” said I. “Oh yes, I can put them on,” said the boy, “but
it hurts.”
“The child is father of the man,” thought I. This boy, here, in a
matter of his fingers, is acting precisely as many men act in regard
to matters of the deepest importance. Rather than bear the slight
pain of putting on his mittens, he will run the risk of freezing his
fingers. And when I see a man spending his time in idleness, and
thus laying up a prospect of future poverty and distress, rather than
work and be industrious, I think of the boy and his mittens. When I
see a man indulging in a habit of tippling, or any other bad practice,
because it is hard to leave off, I think of the boy and his mittens.

Idleness.—If the intellect requires to be provided with perpetual

objects, what must it be with the affections? Depend upon it, the
most fatal idleness is that of the heart; and the man who feels weary
of life may be sure that he does not love his fellow-creatures as he
ought.
 The Unfaithful Servant.
A noble Duke of Scotland, in one of his walks, chanced one day to
see a very fine cow. Having ascertained to whom the animal
belonged, he went to the owner, and offered him a handsome price
for her. For a time the latter hesitated, but at length accepted it, and
promised to drive the cow the next morning.
Not finding it convenient to go himself, the farmer sent his boy to
drive the cow. On approaching the house, the animal appeared
frightened, and refused to proceed. At the time, the Duke happened
to be walking at a short distance, and the boy, not knowing who he
was, craved his assistance, in his Scotch brogue.
“Heh, mun, come here, an’ gie’s a han’ wi’ this beast.”
The Duke, perceiving the boy’s mistake, pursued his walk, without
appearing to understand it. In the mean time, the cow became still
more unmanageable, upon which the lad, with a tone of apparent
distress, cried out, “Come here, mun, and as sure’s anything, I’ll gie
ye the hauf o’ what I get.”
Pleased with the boy’s manner, and especially with his generosity,
the Duke now stepped forward as requested, and lent a helping
hand.
“And now,” said the Duke, as they drove the cow forward, “how
much do you think you will get for this job?”
“Oh, I dinna ken,” said the boy, “but I’m sure o’ something, for
the folk up bye at the house are guid to a’ bodies.”
As they approached the house, the Duke darted by the boy, and,
entering by a private way, called a servant, and putting a sovereign
into his hand, bid him give it to the boy that drove the cow.
The Duke now returned to the avenue, and was soon rejoined by
the boy.
 “Well, and how much did you get, my lad?” inquired the Duke.
“A shilling,” said the boy, “and there’s half o’t t’ ye.”
“A shilling!” rejoined the Duke, “only a shilling! you got more.”
“No I dinna,” said the boy with great earnestness, “as sure’s
death, that’s a’ I get, and d’ye no think it plenty?”
“I do not,” said the Duke; “there must be some mistake, and as I
am acquainted with the Duke, if you’ll return with me, I’ll get you
some more money.”
The boy consented, and back they went. The Duke rang the bell,
and ordered all the servants to be assembled.
“Now,” said the Duke to the boy, “point out to me the person that
gave you the shilling.”
“It was the chap there, wi’ the white apron,” said the boy,
pointing to the butler.
“You villain,” said the Duke.
The butler fell upon his knees, and confessed the wicked act.
“Give the boy the sovereign, and immediately leave my house,”
said the Duke.
The butler implored.
“No,” said the Duke, “you are no longer to be trusted. You have
been detected in an act of villany, which renders you unfit to serve
me. You have lost your shilling, your situation, and your character.
Go, and henceforth learn that ‘honesty is the best policy.’”
By this time, the boy discovered, to his amazement, his assistant,
in the person of the Duke; and the Duke was so delighted with the
sterling worth and honesty of the boy, that he ordered him to be
sent to school, and to be provided for at his own expense.
 Daniel Purcell, the punster, being desired to make a pun
extempore, asked, “Upon what subject?” “The king,” was the answer.
“O, sir,” replied Daniel, “the king is not a subject.”
 The Barber of Paris.
In the city of Paris, there is an ancient street known by the name
of Rue de la Harpe. In one part of this street there formerly stood
two dwelling-houses, in one of which a crime of a most horrible
nature was some years since perpetrated, and the discovery of
which was remarkably sudden and providential.
In one of these houses a barber had his shop; a part of the
adjoining house was occupied by a pastry-cook.
One day two gentlemen entered the shop of the barber for the
purpose of being shaved. These gentlemen belonged to a town
some distance from Paris. They were men of wealth, and had come
to the city for the purpose of transacting business. It is not
uncommon for persons in France, who are well able to ride, to travel
on foot. In this manner had these gentlemen come to the city. Their
only attendant was a faithful dog.
Before proceeding to execute their business, they called, as I
said, at the shop of the barber to get shaved. The barber being
employed in shaving another person, the strangers, in the interim,
incautiously entered into conversation with each other, during which
they alluded to a sum of money which they had about them. The
barber overheard them, but appeared to take no notice of the
conversation.
At length one of the strangers was called to the chair, and the
shaving operation was soon finished. This done, he turned to his
companion, and observed, “We have but a short time, you know, to
transact all our business; and now, while you are being shaved, I will
step down the street and attend to an errand which has been
entrusted to me.”
“Return soon,” said his friend.
 “Before you are ready to move,” replied he; and upon this he left
the shop, and hastened forward to perform the errand.
After a short absence only, he was again at the door of the
barber’s shop; on opening which, he was informed that his friend
was already gone.
“Gone!” said the other with some surprise. But as the dog, which
belonged to his friend, was still sitting without the door, he ceased to
wonder; and, as his friend would probably be back soon, he seated
himself, and chatted with the barber, till he should return.
A half hour had passed, and he began to be impatient. At length,
he went out, and walked up and down the street; but nothing could
he see or learn of his friend. Again he returned to the shop, and
again interrogated the barber. “Did my friend leave any message for
me?” “No,” said the barber, “all I know is, that when he was shaved
he went out.”
“It is strange,” said the man.
“It is singular,” said the barber. “I wish I could help you, my
friend. Pray command my services, as you please.”
But the stranger knew not what measures to adopt. At length, the
singular movements of the dog, still there, attracted his notice. He
appeared restless and watchful; and, at intervals, uttered a low and
piteous howl. This startled the stranger, and the suspicion of foul
play crossed his mind. He hinted his suspicion, delicately indeed, but
the barber took fire and ordered him to quit the shop.
The manner of the barber rather increased than allayed his
suspicion. And then the dog—his conduct was inexplicable. Nothing
would induce him to quit the place. The poor animal appeared kind
to the remaining stranger, but nothing would induce him to stir from
the spot.
The distress of the stranger now amounted to agony. At length he
ventured to make known his story to some passers-by. They stopped
and listened. Others came up and listened also. A crowd was soon
collected.
By some it was proposed to send for the officers of the police.
Others said, “No, let us search the house.” This latter course was at
length agreed upon. Accordingly, a competent number of men
entered, and as the people greatly increased without, they barred
the door, and began to examine. No discovery, however, was made,
and the search was relinquished.
All this time, however, the dog continued at his post. At length,
when the search was through, and nothing found, the barber
requested the people to leave his shop, which they did. Now, coming
to the door, he began to assure the people of his innocence. At this
moment the dog descried him. In an instant he sprang and caught
him by the throat. Persons flew to his assistance, and, at the hazard
of their lives, rescued him from the grasp of the dog, who seemed
urged on with indescribable madness and fury.
What could this mean? Was the dog really mad, or had the barber
secretly made way with his master? One opinion only prevailed.
There had in some way been foul play, and the dog was only acting
out the sagacity which the God of nature had given him. It was
agreed that the dog should have his liberty and be allowed to pursue
the course he pleased.
The crowd fell back, the doors were opened, and the dog let
loose. He sprang to the threshold, and entering the shop, smelled
his way down a pair of stairs into a dark cellar, which he filled with
his howlings.
The noise of the dog was heard without. Several persons entered
the shop—lights were procured, and on searching the cellar, a door
was found which communicated with the cellar of the adjoining
house. Information was immediately given to the people above.
They forthwith surrounded the house. That cellar was also searched,
and there was found the murdered remains of the unfortunate
stranger. On his trial, the barber confessed his guilt.
 The World within a Plant.
“The fragrance of a carnation,” says a fine writer, “led me to enjoy
it frequently and near.” While inhaling the powerful sweet, I heard an
extremely soft, but agreeable murmuring sound. It was easy to
know that some animal, within the covert, must be the musician,
and that the little noise must come from some little body suited to
produce it. I am furnished with apparatus of a thousand kinds for
close observation. I instantly distended the lower part of the flower,
and placing it in a full light, could discover troops of little insects,
frisking and capering with wild jollity among the narrow pedestals
that supported its leaves, and the little threads that occupied its
centre. I was not cruel enough to pull out any one of them, but
adapting a microscope to take in, at one view, the whole base of the
flower, I gave myself an opportunity of contemplating what they
were about, and this for many days together, without giving them
the least disturbance.
Under the microscope, the base of the flower extended itself to a
large plain; the slender stems of the leaves became trunks of so
many stately cedars; the threads in the middle seemed columns of
massy structure, supporting at the top their several ornaments; and
the narrow places between were enlarged into walks, parterres and
terraces.
On the polished bottom of these, brighter than Parian marble,
walked in pairs, alone or in large companies, the winged inhabitants;
these, from little dusky flies, for such only the naked eye would have
shown them, were raised to glorious glittering animals, stained with
living purple and with a glossy gold, that would have made all the
labors of the loom contemptible in the comparison.
I could, at leisure, as they walked together, admire their elegant
limbs, their velvet shoulders, and their silken wings; their backs
vying with the empyrean in its hue; and their eyes, each formed of a
thousand others, out-glittering the little planes on a brilliant. I could
observe them here singling out their favorite females, courting them
with the music of their buzzing wings, with little songs formed for
their little organs, leading them from walk to walk among the
perfumed shades, and pointing out to their taste the drop of liquid
nectar, just bursting from some vein within the living trunk. Here
were the perfumed groves, the more than myrtle shades, of the
poet’s fancy realized; here the happy lovers spent their days in joyful
dalliance; in the triumph of their little hearts, skipped after one
another from stem to stem among the painted trees; or winged their
short flight to the shadow of some broader leaf, to revel in the
heights of all felicity.
Nature, the God of nature, has proportioned the period of
existence of every creature to the means of its support. Duration,
perhaps, is as much a comparative quality as magnitude; and these
atoms of being as they appear to us, may have organs that lengthen
minutes, to their perception, into years. In a flower, destined to
remain but a few days, length of life, according to our ideas, could
not be given to its inhabitants; but it may be, according to theirs. I
saw, in the course of observation of this new world, several
succeeding generations of the creatures it was peopled with; they
passed under my eye, through the several successive states of the
egg and the reptile form, in a few hours. After these, they burst
forth, at an instant, into full growth and perfection in their wing
form. In this, they enjoyed their span of being as much as we do
years; feasted, sported, revelled in delights; fed on the living
fragrance that poured itself out at a thousand openings at once
before them; enjoyed their loves; laid the foundation for their
succeeding progeny, and, after a life thus happily filled up, sunk in
an easy dissolution. With what joy in their pleasures did I attend the
first and the succeeding broods through the full period of their joyful
lives! With what enthusiastic transport did I address to each of these
yet happy creatures, Anacreon’s gratulations to the cicada:
Blissful insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
 Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning’s sweetest wine,
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy fragrant cup does fill;
All the fields that thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with ripening juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough,
Farmer he, and landlord thou.
Thee the hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year;
To thee alone, of all the earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy creature! happy thou
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But when thou’st drank, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
Sated with the glorious feast,
Thou retir’st to endless rest.

While the pure contemplative mind thus almost envies what the
rude observer would treat unfeelingly, it naturally shrinks into itself,
on the thought that there may be, in the immense chain of beings,
many, though as invisible to us as we to the inhabitants of this little
flower whose organs are not made for comprehending objects larger
than a mite, or more distant than a straw’s breadth, to whom we
may appear as much below regard as these to us.
With what derision should we treat those little reasoners, could
we hear them arguing for the unlimited duration of the carnation,
destined for the extent of their knowledge, as well as their action.
And yet, among ourselves there are reasoners who argue, on no
better foundation, that the earth which we inhabit is eternal.
 The Kildeer Plover.
This bird is so called from its cry, resembling the word kildeer, and
is well known in all parts of the United States. It builds its nest in
level pastures which afford pools of water, or on sandy downs near
the sea. Its nest is a mere hollow, lined with straw or weeds; the
eggs are four, cream-colored, and spotted with black. The bird is
about ten inches long, is of an olive-gray color, and has long legs,
which enable it to wade in the water, of which it is very fond.
While rearing its young, the kildeer makes an incessant noise, and
if any one approaches its nest, it flies around and over him, calling
kildeer, kildeer, te dit, te dit, te dit, seeming to evince the utmost
anxiety. If this clamor does not frighten away the intruder, it will run
along the ground, with hanging wings, pretending to be lame, in
order to draw off attention from the nest. It seems to be a sleepless
bird, for it may be heard very late at night, in the spring and fall.
The kildeer feeds on grasshoppers and insects which it finds in
fields and in pools of water, wading in search of them. It is very
erect, runs with great swiftness, and flies very high in the air. Toward
autumn, large flocks descend to the seashore, where they are more
silent and circumspect.

Force of Truth.—Some years ago, a motion was made in the

house of commons, in England, for raising and embodying the
militia, and for the purpose of saving time, to exercise them on the
Sabbath. When the resolution was about to pass, an old gentleman
stood up and said, “Mr. Speaker, I have one objection to make to
this, which you will find in an old book called the Bible.” The
members looked at one another, and the motion was dropped.
 Early Impressions.
a story for parents.

for merry’s museum.

A gentleman and lady, the parents of an only daughter about three

years old, residing in one of our southern cities, proposed, a few
months since, a visit to the lady’s friends at the north. She was
particularly anxious once more to see an aged mother, who, during
her absence, had experienced a long and distressing sickness, and
whom, considering the distance which separated their residences,
she could not hope to see many times more. One day, she told
Augusta, her little daughter, of the journey, and inquired how she
should like it. Of course, the child was delighted with the project,
and from that time it occupied many of her thoughts and much of
her conversation. She should see her friends, of whom her mother
had made frequent mention, and especially her grandmother, who,
of all the rest, was of course an object of the greatest interest.
Augusta’s inquiries, about her in particular, were often repeated, and
almost daily the question was renewed when her father would be
ready to start.
After her usual round of inquiries about the journey and her
mother’s friends, Augusta, one day, concluded by saying, “My
grandmother will be glad to see me—don’t you think she will,
mother?” “Certainly,” replied the mother. “Don’t you think she will be
very glad to see me?” “Yes,” said the mother, “she will almost eat
you up.”
The reply was inconsiderate, but who has not heard it a hundred
times? Nothing more common—but it sunk deep into the heart of
the child, and from that time, though she continued daily to talk of
the contemplated journey, it was with diminished joy, and sometimes
with positive reluctance. The idea of being devoured, and by one
with whom she had associated so many ideas of tenderness and
love, preyed, as it was afterwards discovered, upon her imagination,
and nearly annihilated her hitherto happy anticipations. She
frequently spoke of her grandmother’s devouring her, and on one
occasion gave her father a pretty serious practical idea of the
manner in which she expected her aged relative would proceed. She
began by telling him what her mother had said—that her
grandmother loved her so well that she would eat her up. “When
she sees me, she will do so,” said Augusta—applying her sharp little
teeth to his cheek, which brought the blood to the surface, and at
the same time sent a pang to the extremities of his frame—“she will
do so!”
The time set for their departure at length arrived, and Augusta
and her parents, in a few weeks, reached the place of their
destination. From motives of convenience, the grandmother had,
some months before, left her own residence, and was at lodgings in
the village of W——. Consequently, the parents of Augusta sought
quarters at a friend’s in the immediate neighborhood.
After a few hours’ rest, a call upon the grandmother was
proposed, and Augusta was to accompany her parents. But she did
not wish to go. “Why, my daughter,” inquired the mother—“do you
not wish to see your dear grandmother?” Augusta was silent. “You
were delighted,” continued the mother, “with the idea before you left
home—what has changed your mind?” Augusta made no reply—but
she did not wish to go. Thinking that her reluctance was the
offspring of a childish whim, or at most the effect of timidity at
meeting one who, notwithstanding her relationship, was indeed a
stranger, but which would be removed in a single half hour’s
acquaintance, she insisted upon her going.
A walk of a few minutes brought them to the residence of this
object of love and tenderness to the mother, but of distrust and
terror to the daughter. They were ushered into her presence. The
meeting of the younger and of her more aged mother was tender
and mutually affecting. They embraced each other after the lapse of
years, and each imparted and each received a kiss of friendship and
affection. Tears flowed in copious streams, if not along the cheeks of
her aged mother, down those of her daughter.
Augusta, young as she was, was an intent and interested
spectator of the scene. She watched every look—marked every
action—weighed every word. Her own time of being welcomed soon
came, when the caresses of the grandmother were transferred from
the daughter to the grand-daughter. She shuddered in the embrace
—and her eyes, generally large and brilliant, rolled more widely and
wildly; but she escaped the anticipated mastication, and at length
breathed more at her ease!
Augusta was delighted, as she bounded forth from the gate into
the path that led back to her lodgings, and was as much inclined to
expedite her return, as she had been slow and reluctant in going.
Up to this time the intensity of her feelings was unknown, and
even the nature of them was scarcely if at all suspected. But the
secret was gradually developed, and at length the parents were able
to explain many a circumstance and many a declaration in regard to
Augusta’s change of feelings towards her grandmother, which,
perhaps, with more consideration, they might have explained before,
but which had been set down rather to the whim of the child than
the unguarded expression of the mother.
On reaching her quarters, a young lady, to whom the casual
mention had been made that Augusta expected her grandmother
would eat her up, said to her—
“Well, Miss Augusta, your grandmother, it seems, didn’t eat you
up.”
“No, she didn’t eat me,” said she, “but she tried to eat mother.”
Some circumstance at the moment intervening, the conversation
was interrupted, but on the following day, it was renewed by
Augusta herself, who, approaching her mother, said:
“Mother, what did grandma’ do to you yesterday?”