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poetry! From the Amulet. THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL. “And I heard a voice out of heaven sav ing, B 'hold the tabernacle of God is with men, and He shall dwell with them, and they shf.ll be his people, and God him self shall be with them, and be their God. Bev. xxi. 3. King of the dead! Bow long shall sweep Thv wrath?- how long thv outcasts weep! Two thousand agonizing years Has Israel steeped lier bread in tears} The vial on her head been poured— Flight, famine, shame, the scourge, the sword! ’Tis done! Has breathed thy trumpet blast , The Tribes at lemrthhave wept their last! On rolls the host! From land and wave The earth sends up the unransomed slave. There rides no glittering chivalry, No banner purples in the sky> The world within their hearts has died: Two ihonsand years have slain thcir-pnde; The look of pale remorse is there, The lip, involuntary prayer; The form still marked with many a stain Brand of the soil, the scourge, the chain; The serf of Alric’s fiery ground; The slave, by Indian suns embrowned; The weary drudges of thfe oar, By the swart Arab’s poisoned shore, The gatherings of earth’s wildest tract— On hursts the living cataract 1 What strength of man can check its speed? They come—the Nation of the Freed; Who lea 's their march ? Beneath His wheel Back rolls the sea, the mountains reel 1 Before their tread His trump is blown; Who speaks in thunder, and ’tis done! King of the dead! Oh! not in vain Was thy long pilgrimage of pain; Oh! not in vain arose thv prayer, When pressed the thorn thv temples bare! Oh, not in vain the voice that cried, To spare thv maddened homicide! Even for this hour thy heart’s blood stream ed! They come!—the Host of the Redeemed! What flames upon the distant sky? ’Tis not the comet’s sanguine dye, ’Tis not th? liglining’s quivering spire, ’Tis not the sun’s ascending tire And now, as neare- speeds their march, Exoands the rainbow’s mighty arch; Though there has hurst no thunder cloud, No flash of death the soil has ploughed, And still ascends before tlrir gaze, Arch upon arch, the lovely blaze; Still, as the gorgeous clouds unfold. Rise towers and domes, immortal mould. Scenes! that the patriarch’s visioned eye Beheld, and then rejoiced to die;— That, like the altar’s burning coal, Touched the pale prophet’s harp with soul; Thai the throned seraphs long to see, Now given, thou slave of slaves, to thee! Whose city thi c ? What potentate Sits there the King of Time and Fata? Whom glory covers like a robe, Whose sceptre shakes the solid globe, Whom shapes of lire and splendour guard? There sits the Man, “whose face was marr ed,’’ To whom archangels how the knee— The weeper in Gethsemane! Down in the dust, aye, Israel, kneel; For now thy withered heart can feell Aye, let thy wan cheek hum like flame, There sits thy glory and thy shame! MATTHEwTcHAP. Xn"."~22-50. rs, DjaA-ar XII. 22. dsazp-i D<ayo ck-st, af*© Drf O’G.B'S, (PO-G-O-Z; O^O-a-OZ Drf O’&.Iv® O’Wur Drf (PActy. 23. hs^z b© oh<»xiiAEy; ad qiuss- ny; a dor 5© o’jnp. 24. d^z rmxPL o’erso- ad qiuURy; AD 1C Dhdijye 4I»'1AS(*S, F.h J<S)SPot>A tsr-B-x Dh^ye o-exp o j E®crA. 25. IrUZ DSWxfc DeBOBcdE, AD BSrf5- 4ay; hs; d^p apr wp i»jb.& Dhw<»A*v«; Drf IiSi SSrfr Drf DTi.ia WP Ml* E >3>hEG.- o*a«w 26. TGT#7. UWh BWIi ^S4A®56», WP ^hCPBiJ *A >5>»P<»AB AIiEG-otJA-V* CPTP- AA ? 27. Drfz db far jpirx w.uar> Diuay- 0 ,5AIi>qA©,*)9, SA ATI* BIvaAQ- o5AT. Gdaywjyh ABWABAP. 28. Tcrieyhz db (p/i-qc-A O’Bo-a ea uhisys 4).ih'q \©o®s, u^Tniyii satvjt o°t- PAA TtrMtfB. 29. 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ADZ hC3U4c>P, h«l UPtfSf’O Dh- CJh-aE B© O’hZj’U GAGT T» Ji*J- ATiAaA. 3T. ®SW<SuI l-4e?-c, AAEZ Gc®SO-,Ca JSAAA K4c».J. 38. ii*v«z y® jgjtfPoiy Drf drxpb cp- Mcsf, 4h,«Ry; w*hUu»y, o»4?a<r» (ps- SP TCsV&'PR.l^. 39. (pac*z ad hsas4ay; a a gac* (PliAJIrP Drf DOBhAA 0 J ^af» (PhliPT; D- 4Z tp^ar» ic pi* \a ap4<»a, (PG.R(p^aT» Ke DArfp<»y om s s. 40. KO^Z KT T» Drf KT ^Z>5» DGA RX (PJtJtV’P* Go8R, Go®*y*jayji B© (PxWlr KT T» Drf KT RZ/?> SAA op©f> DoSRoCJ. 41. Dh»»c0 hh© GJXJir BElAO-TWh A A ®AoP Drf (PlidCSOCs EhPR TfTO-A.I P4- o0a; G<»y^z o 3 h (Ph^ao- (phoeso-es Ke DPI*AA-«)ET, EIi(T*V*Z DIi RAoP <PG^ »a- iV.ICT Ilo^SA" KO. • 42. (pe©cfA DM! jsee T?<peepA.i p- 4o«.I A A G.loP Drf (PIioCSO-CS EhPR T(T<V- aa p4«ia; Go®y^z e*vi<n saa jajo-4t (PT’AA4) *W*'h DSW61, EI»G?*y*Z Dh RA- <4 (pg sa*y»A(r Rw'sw’ 4tvrii. 43. SBoP DBO-A B©A SqAT, CPSIkTA RAPT (P.3AS*aotU>5 (PhPT, D4Z C c@&,A- o?AT. , 44. tv.^z ad ri$A5«>A; Ai*Aa AyqA- C: Crf !, h>®B. tM'* ©SMy DWSA (PBCu P4 Drf EZHC 5 Drf ASToCAT. . 45. W’Z TRAT ©Bc9h<»A qOBrf SM- A M y DhoiiyO (PG TGriiPUh-rf 3 RdtSxV' (PG.R, Gt,Z DIiBAt-T Drf DOALWAodAT, cfiliZ a^lJ 0 0 Dc*Sca (PG (PiiTGf" RwiStV 4 TE^/5. Gc*y- ctyti q<>e?oau a a (pbajitT’ gaox. 46. DBtV-’Z SSWIiAovE (PIiGA, EIiGFA'* OM* DOBO-GZ A/5P DRAG!, (POSPdlE EG." C5IiAA*. 47. y®z ad qrf!4ay; o, Gir tgbo-gz A4>P DIiAGD, PGCJliAA.S (peSPoP. 48. cpacsz ad qrf54a (pzAaA; sa r- Ir SAZ (CGBO-G? 49. ©S40-Z EG.otBG.AAA AD qjiSRy, EIiG'-V' R1p rfjGBO-GZ. 50. y® ^z hsi e<Kap65)A rab saw a RA O’SPdtE, Goiy iy(PG Drf i> r A Drf Rip. THE MECHANIC. If the dignity of things may be meas ured by their importance to mankind, there is nothing, perhaps, which can rank above the mechanic arts. In tact, they may be called the lever, the fulerum, and the power, which moves the world. They do not want the '•'■whereon to stand” of Archime des; they have a sufficient foundation in themselves. < What gives to civil nations their su periority over the savage? It is chief ly mechanic arts. By them the beau tiful and convenient mansion is substi tuted for the rude and uncomfortable hut; and “scarlet and fine twined lin en” supply the wardrobe, in place of the skins of wild animals. They are the foundation of nearly all the improve ments and comforts of life', and further, we may say, of the glory and the gran deur of the world. By them the ma riner ploughs the ocean; by them the monarch is adorned with his crown, and by them the peasant is clad in comfortable garments; by them the triumphal arch is raised to the hero, and by them the temple ascends to the Deity; by them the wealthy roll in chariots and loll on couches; by them the table is spread, the bed is decked, and tne parlor is furnished. To them the poet owes the perpetuation of his fame. Iiomer sings and Caesar tri umphs in all ages. Through them we are instructed by the wisdom of Pla to, and charmed by the eloquence of Cicero; through them we admire the justice of Aristides and the heroism of Leonidas. And much of this is owing to two single arts, that of printing, and the manufacture of paper. By the form er learning has been rescued from the gloom of the d*rk ages; but without the latter, the benefit of the printing would be circumscribed to very nar row bounds. It is by means of the press, chiefly, that so much of Chris tendom owes its escape from the thral dom of superstition. But in speaking of the dignity of the mechanic arts, we could not confine them to the mere hand that executes, without thinking of the head that plans*; for without the latter but little more credit would be due to the person who exercises these arts Chan to the auto maton Turk, \yho mechanically aston ishes the world at the game of chess. To produce the great effects, we have mentioned above, to do so much to en lighten, to beautify and improve the world, to labor for the glory and hap piness of others, and yet be ignorant of the springs by which the important movements are carried on, would ill comport with the dignity of the me chanic. He would be, (“if we may compare small things with great,”) warmth, and comfort to mankind, without itself being concious thereof. There is a philanthropy in the‘me chanic arts. The mechanic who brings to his occupation an inventive, enlightened, and enquiring mind, who is master cf his craft, in theory as well as in practice, has more of real philoso phy iu him than twenty of those mi nute philosophers who spend their lives in puzzling the world with empty met aphysical speculations, and of whom Cicero speaks with so much deserved contempt. The mechanic who per fectly understands his trade, as well in the principles as the practice of it, gets himself a degree of no inconside rable rank and honor, and that without the intervention of a college, or the formal vote of a learned corporation. To become an ingenious and enlighten ed mechanic, it is necessary that the youth who is desfined for a trade, should bring to his employment a mind inquisitive, studious^ busy and inclin-. ed to machanic pursuits. Such a mind, with ordinary! attention to its cultivation, can scai^ely fail of be coming in a very corkiderable degree enlightened. But lo the common sources of information, a good many mechanics add a very laudable atten tion to books, to the ieriodical publi cations of the day, ani to the associa tions for mutual impiiovcment. Me chanics’ and apprentices’ libraries are established, and mechanics’ socie ties are formed, which, by inducing studious habits, interchange of ideas, and collision of sentiments, must tend to improve the minds of the members in a high degree. There is, in fact, a very large sharge of information and solid practical knowledge among the mechanics of this country. The life of ihe mechanic, it is true, is a life of labor; and while he wipes the sweat from his brow, he may per haps murmur at his fate, and envy what'he considers the easy lot of oth er professions. But where is the bu siness which exempts a man from a life of labor? The life of a judge, and of the first officer under government is a life of labor. But can these “honorable men” build a ship, or raise a spire to heaven, or excise all or any of the arts which add so much to the comfort and grandeur of the w’orld? These the mechanic can do; and if he duly reflect on the importance of his labors, he can scarcely repine at his lot.—Berkshire American. ANOTHERINSTANCE of the power of imagination. Mr. D was a great deer hunt er. He had learned his dog to trail the game a few yards ahead of him slowly, till, within sight, he should be able to reach it with his rifle. A ve ry large buck had made his appear ance in the neighborhood, and excited great emulation among the rival hunt ers, who should kill him. One morn ing very early Mr. D. roused him from his lair, and his dog was placed on his trail. He had not got far before he got a shot at the noble animal, but it was not fatal. The deer fled. The dog was made to follow slowly again, until a second shot might be more suc cessful. They followed to a large creek which the deer had crossed— the dog refused to follow. The mas ter urged, but the dog still refused to take the water. The master became irritated and seized the dog to throw him in, when he bit his master on the arm. The master was unable to ac count for such a conduct in an animal who had heretofore required restraint rather than excitement in the dis charge of his duties. At last it flash ed across his mind, that the animal was going mad, and his fear of the water was a convincing proof of his imagination. Levelling his rifle he in stantly blew out the brains of poor Tray, and made all haste home with the terrible intelligence that his dog had gone mad and bit him. The fame of our old teacher soon carried the half distracted inan to his residence. He heard the tale, soothed the excited feelings of his patient, and assured him that there was no immediate danger. Not believing it a case of the bite of a rabid animal, he invented several plans to allay the present tears of Mr. D -, telling him, among other things, tli&t he need not fear the least danger, if be should pass the 27th day after the bite, and that the disease rarely manifested itself sooner. A- bout a week before this period had e- lapsed, Mr. D began lo be very un easy and restless. The nearer the day approached, symptons of great mental anxiety showed themselves more frequently, till on the 26th day, the man was in a state of infuriate madness. Mis eye glanced with man iacal quickness, from object to object, and his whole countenance expressed the passions of a demon. lie shud dered at the sight of water, gnashed his teeth and rolling his projecting eye balls, presented less the appearance of a human being than an accursed inhab itant escaped from the regions of To- phit. He had, however, short lucid intervals, when reason seemed to re sume her empire over him. He would then beg his friends to keep a- way from him, for he did not kuow what he might do. At these times he would swallow water in large quanti ties, to quench his thirst, but every swallow was accompanied with a con vulsive motion. His physician was sent for, but being from home, it was several hours before he visited him. When he arrived, there was a crowd round the house and in the door—all begged him not to’enter, as the patient was an infuriate mad-man. But he disregarded his personal safety and entered. The man was walking with a brisk step across his room back wards and forwards, rolling his eyes gnashing his teeth, and when the vio lence of the paroxism was a little a- bated, would coil up himself in the corner of the room like a dog, and lie still for a moment. He recognized his physician, whom lie begged not to come near him, as he could not answer for his conduct. In one of his lucid moments, the doctor pouring out, as he supposed, nearly an ounce of laud anum, persuaded Mr. D to swal low it, which he did convulsively. In an hour he was in a sound sleep, with stertorious breathing, from which he awoke the second day in his perfect mind, and killed many a fine, buck af terwards.—Augusta Cornier. From the New-England Farmer, MAKING GOOD BUTTER. The cows should be in good con dition, and well kept and regularly sal ted at least once a week. They should then bo regularly milked, and milked quite clean at every mess—the strip pings being the richest part of the milk. There should then be a srtict attention to neatness and regularity in every subsequent part of the process. The milk should be set in a room which can be constantly ventilated with pure air. A want of attention to this last particular, is the great de fect, in the construction and attention to our dairies and niilkrooms. The cream should be regularly gathered from the milk without being suffered to stand upon it. It does not in my opinion improve the butter to have the milk sour be fore the cream is gathered; but at this season of the year, it can hardly be prevented. It should, however never be suffered to stand until the milk curdles. Wh»n the cream is gathered, it should be set in an open vessel, where the air can have free access to its surface; and during the time the cream -is gathering for a churning of butter, it should have a stick or spoon kept in the vessel, where the cream is—by which the cream should be stirred at least a half a dozen times a day, enough to mix up w r ell and bring a new portion of it to the air—and it should stand before the window of the milk-room, or in some other, most airy position afforded by the room. When you have gathered a mess, for this sea son of the year, fill yoHr churn over night with cold water, and empty it in the morning. f*ut in your cream and churn it with a regular, steady, and not too rapid motion. It will general ly come, in from ten to twenty min utes—and w hen fetched it needs no coloaing matter. I know that women say flies will get in the cream ifleft uncovered; let them get in and pick them out rather than cover up the vessel containing the cream. The windows to milk rooms in ma ny houses, are not sufficiently large, with from four to eight small panes of glass. This affords too stinted a por tion of air. If your glass is small, you want a twenty four lighted window at least to the milk-room with -blinds to exclude the sun. If two such win dows, so situated as to afford a draft of air, the better. But stint your milk-room of air and keep the cream pot covered tight, to exclude the flies, and your butter will be white and bitter, besides a long while a coming. • A LOVER OF GOOD BUTTER.* Onondaga Co. N. Y. Juno G, 1828. Suicide Prevented—The following little anecdote of a person who had contemplated self-destruction, is very beautiful and touching. “I was wea ry of life, and, after a day, such as some have known, and none would wish ,to remember, was hurrying along the street to the river, when I felt a eud- den check. 1 turned and beheld a tie boy, who had caught hold of the skirt of my cloak in his anxiety to so. licit my notice. His look was irresis. table. Not less so was the lesson he had learnt: “There are six of us, and we are dying for the want of food.” •‘Why should I not;” said I to myself, “relieve this wretched family? j have the means and it will not delay me many minutes. But what if it does?” The scene of misery he con> ducted me to; I cannot describe. 1 threw them my purse; & their burst of gratitude overcame me. It filled mj eyes—it went as a cordial to my heart. “I will call to-morrow,” I cried. Fool that I was, to think, of leaving a w orld where such plea sure was to be had, and so cheap. Rogers, Italy. From a Paris paper of June 23. Tne incoii}bustible man yesterday made his first experiment at the Tivo li, and fulfilled his promises to the public. A considerable number of spectators, among whom we noticed Dr. .Marck and several other physi cians, assisted at this preliminary tri al which affords much interest. The experiments were divided into three parts. M. Martinez first enter ed an oven, constructed for the occa sion on one of the grass plats of the garden, in order to avoid all suspicion of quackery. The lowest tempera ture was, as near as could be ascer tained, 60 deg.; he came out at the expiration of 10 or 11 minutes, when the chicken which he held in his hand proved to be ready for the table, hav ing been cooked before a red hot fire mails at one side of the oven. The oven was then re-heated, aud the fire was taken out, when M. Mar tinez .went in again, and remained seven minutes. The greatest tem perature during this experiment was satisfactorily ascertained to be 110 deg.—[Reaumaur.) During these two experiments the oven remained open, and as it Was nearly three feet high, M. Martinez was able to sit up in it. At the third, he was placed on a board surrounded by candles, and in this manner put in the oven, -which was then closed up, where he remained five minutes. At the moment he came out, a thick and suffocating smoke escaped from the mouth of the oven; but the experimen- tor, although a little affected at first, quickly recovered after taking a cold bath prepared for the occasion. The following was the state sf his pulse before, and at the expiration of each trial:—First time going in, 92; coming out, 136; Second 136 and 176; Third, 160 and 200 per minute. M. Martinez covers himself for these experiments, first'with a light clothing of cotton, then with a garment of hatter’s wool,.thick, and lined w ith silk, and over the whole a sort of <jarrich of white wool, also lined with silk. lie wears on his head a species of monk’s hood, made of white wool, lined!! He is about 45 years of age, of small stature, and appears to enjoy good health. Moths.—The destruction to clothing and other articles of value, the use of which is usually suspended during the summer months, is not extremely vex atious, but often of serious loss. We are therefore pleased to have it in our power to state upon the authority *of a respectable medical friend, who has often attested its efficacy in this par ticular, that the Calamus or Sweet Flag Root which abound intmr vicin ity, cut into thin slices and scattered among woollens of any kind, will ef fectually cepel the assault of this de structive insect.—Norfolk Beacon. A gentleman sat dowm to write a Deed, and began with—“Know one woman by these presents.” “You are wrong,” says a by-stander, “it ought to be, Know' all men.” “Very well,” answerfed the other, “if one wo man knows it, all men will of course. ” J[hr. Ashum.—This distinguished ind excellent man—the founder of the. Colony of Liberia on the coast of Afri- :a, has arrived in this town in a very dnrming state of health. His consti- ution appears to have been undermin- :d by the severe labouro and privations vhich he has long encountered in a ropical climate; and his present in- lisposition is attributed, by himself, o very arduous labour and privation >f sleep in January la^, when an un common pressure existed upon him; ind there is too much reason to fear hat ho will not recover.—New Ifaven Journal.