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From the Dollar Newspaper.
AGRICULTURAL CHEMISTRY.
Natural bodies consist of three great classes, miner a s, veg
etables and animals. The two latter, vegetables and animals,
having certain instruments or organs adapted for the perform
ance of particular actions or functions, arc termed organic
bodies. The former, minerals, not having such ins ruments,
are termed inorganic. These organs consist, in part, of the
vegetable—of roots, leaves, flowers, fcc. In the animal of
nerves, bones, muscles.’ &0., by means of which they appropri
ate to themselves the food adapted for their growth and nutri
tion. Minerals oan only increase in size by the addition of
similar matter to their external surface. Organic bodies, on
the eontrarv, increase by the absorption of matter into their in
ternal structure. The organic differ further from inorganic
bodies, by having a parent or parents similar to. themselves,
from which they spring.
The distinguishing characteristics of vegetables and animals
are, that the food of the former is external to themselves, and
they absorb it through their cuticle or external covering. The
latter, on the contrary, are possessed of an internal cavity, in
to which the nutriment is received before it is absorbed. An
imals, too, are endowed with powers of locomotion and sensa
tion which vegetables have not.
Mineral substanoes afford food to vegetables, and they on
the other hand yield the means of subsistence to animals.
Mineralogy is the science which treats of minerals. Phy
tology, or botany, is that which treats of vegetables, and zoolo
gy treats of animals.
It is the object of chemistry to examine into the composi
tion of the numerous modifications of matter which occur in
the three kingdoms of nature, and to investigate the Jaws bv
which tho combination 9nd decomposition of their parts is ef
fected. Chemists have not been able to discover more than
fifty-live bodies which are elementary , or composed of only
one kind of matter, by the combination of which, in various
ways, all other substances are produced. In combining with
each other to form the various compound substances of which
in most cases, natural objects consist, the elementary bodies
are always found to unite in certain definite proportions by
weight, and the sensible qualities of the compound are in most
cases entirely changed. Thus substances, comparatively in rt,
may produce by their union compounds of highly active pro
perties ; and a compound of two bodies, which, in one propor
tion will, if taken internally, have but slight effect upon the
animal frame; if united in a different proportion, will prove
destructive to life. Highly active bodies of opposite proper
ties will also produce, by their combination, substances of mild
character, and they are said to neutralize each other.
The power which determines the union of one body with
another, is termed chemical affinity. One body lias not the
same affinity for all others with which it may be placed in con
tact, but will combino with one, in preference to another, anu
with the second in preference to a third; and there are some
bodies which will not combine with some others. From this
results what is termed chemical decomposition. Thus, if a body
is placed in contact with a compound of two ingredients, it will
unite with one of its constituents and leave the other at liberty.
If two compound bodies be brought together it will bo decom
posed, and two new compounds produced from a natural ex
change of ingredients.
Compound bodies are either primary or secondary. Pri
mary compound are those which are formed by the combina
tion of two or more elementary bodies with each other. Se
condary compounds are those which are formed by the union
of the primary compounds with each other. The primary
compounds consist, of three classes, viz: alkalies, and
neutrals. Formerly it was considered requisite that bodies in
order to belong to the class of acids, should have a sour taste,
should be soluble in water, and should have the property of
reddening vegetable blue colors ; and these properties belong
to the most common and powerful acids; but there are acids
which have no taste, which are not soluble in water, and
some which are incapable of altering the color of the mo3t de
licate vegetable blues. Ilcnoc the term acid, as at present
employed by chemists, is understood to denote a substance
which has the projierty of combining with, and neutralizing,
alkalies or bases. The distinguishing properties of alkalies
are, that their aqueous solutions turn vegetable blues green,
and vegetable yellows reddish brown. They also restore the
color of vegetable blues which have been reddened by acids.
The neutral primary compounds (with the exception of wa
ter) enter few combinations. They are water, alcohol, ether ,
oils, bitumen. <J-e.
The secondary compounds consist chiefly of substances
formed by the union of acids, and alkalies; they a?£jzsually
denominated salts , and constitute a very numerous cla w of
bodies. The term salt was originally confined to common
salt, but this body (being composed of two elementary sub
stances, viz: sodium anil chlorine) is now excluded from the
class of salts.
Substances have three forms, the solid, the liquid and the
gaseous, or aeriform. The greater number of solids may, by
an increase of temperature, be made to assume liquid, and, by
a still further increase, the gaseous form. When a substance
is mentioned as having either of these forms, it is to be under
stood that it is so at common temperatures and pressures of
the atmosphere. J. k.
Hickory Knoll, 1849.
GRAND BANQUET TO THE POTATO.
That highly respected vegetable, the Potato, being now, it
is hoped, thoroughly re-established in health, it was determin
ed by a few leading members of the Vegetable Kingdom to of
fer a banquet to the worthy and convalescent root on his hap
py recovery. TLe arrangements for the dinner were on a
scale of great liberality, and the guests included all the prin
cipal vegetables. The invitations had been carried out by an
efficient corps of Scarlet Runners, and the Onion occupied
the chair. He was supported on his right by the head of the
Asparagus family, while Salad occupied a bowl at the other
end of the table, and was dressed in his usual manner. The
Potato, though just out of his bed, was looking remarkably ‘
well, and wore his jacket, there being nothing to mark his re
cent illness, except perhaps a little apparent blackness round
one of his eyes. After the cloth had been removed,
The Onion got up to propose a toast, ‘ The Potato, their
much-respocted guest.” {lmmense cheering.) lie,the On
ion, had known the Potato from infancy, and, though they
had not always been associated in life, they had frequently met
at the same table. They had sometimes braved together the
same broils, and had found themselves often together in such
a stew {he alluded to the Irish stew ) as had brought thorn,
for the time being, into an alliance of the very closest kind.-
He, the Onion, was delighted to see the Potato once more
restored to his place in society, for he, the Onion, could say,
without flattery, that society had endeavored to supply the
place of the Potato in vain. {Hear, hear.) They had heard I
of Rice having been suggested to take the place of his honor- 1
able friend, but the suggestion was ridiculous. Kisum tenea
tis, amici, was all that he the Onion, had to say to that.—
{Loud laughter, in which all but the Melon joined.) lie,
the Onion, would conclude by proposing health, long life, and
prosperity to the Potato. ”
The toast was received with enthusiasm by all but the Cu
cumber, whose coolness seemed to excite much disgust among
his brother vegetables. The Onion had, in fact, affected ma
ny of those present to tears, and the Celery, who sat next to
the Horseradish, hung down his head in an agony of sensi
bility. When the cheering had partial 1 y subsided, the Pota
to rose, but that was only a signal for renewed enthusiasm ;
and it was some minutes before silence was restored. At
length the Potato proceeded nearly as follows:
“ Friends and fellow-vegetables : It is with difficulty I ex
press the feeling with which I have come here to-day. Hav
ing suffered for the last three or four years from a grievous
disease, which seemed to threaten me with total dissolution,
it is with intense satisfaction I find myself once more among
yon ii the rigor of health. (Cheers.) I should be indeed in
sensible to kindness were I to forget the anxious inquiries that
have been made as to the state of my health by those who
have held me in esteem, and sometimes in a steam. {A laugh ,
in which all but the Melon joined.) I cannot boast of a long
line of ancestors. I did not, like some of you, come in with
the Conqueror; but I came in the train of civilization, amidst
the memorable luggage of Sir Walter Raleigh, in compan)
with my right honorable friend, the Tobacco, who is not now
present, but who often helps the philosopher to take a bird s
eye view of some of the finest subjects for reflection. Im
mense cheering, and a nod of assent from the Turnip lop.)
Though I may be an American, I may justly say that I have
taken root in the soil, and, though I may not have the grace
of the Cucumber, who seems to have come here in no eniia
ble frame {loud cheering), I believe I have done as much good
as any living vegetable; for, though almost always at the rich
man's table, I am seldom absent from the poor man’s humble
board. ( Tremendous applause.) But,” continued the Po
tato, ‘dot me not get flowery, or mealy-mouthed, for there is
something objectionable in each extreme. 1 have undergone
many vicissitudes in the course of my existence. I have been
served up, ay, and served out {a smile) in all sorts of ways.—
I have been roasted by some; I have been basted by others ;
and i have had my jacket rudely torn off my back by many
who knew not the treatment I deserved. But this meeting, my
friends, repays me for all. Excuse me if my eyes are watery.
{Sensation.) lam not very thin-skinned ; but I feel deeply
penetrated by your kindness this day.”
The Potato resumed his scat amid the most tumultuous
cheering, which lasted for a considerable time.— London
Times.
(lV i'uuicifluTjjfr.
Useful Receipts.
Bologna Sausages.— Take ten pounds of beef and four
pounds of pork; two-thirds of the meat should be lean, and
only one-third fat. Chop it very fine, and mix it well togeth
er. Then season with six ounces of line salt, one ounce of
black pepper, half an ounce of cayenne, one table spoonful of
powdered cloves ; and one of garlic minced very fine.
Have ready some large skins nicely cleaned and prepared,
(they should be beef skins.) and wash them in salt and vine
gar. Fill them with the above mixture, and seeure the ends
by tying tht m with packthread or twine. Make a brine of salt
and water strong enough to bear up an egg. Put the sau
sages into it, and let them lie for three weeks, turning them
daily. Then fake them out, wipe them dry, hang them up
and smoke them. Before you put them away rub them all
ever with sweet oil. Keep them in ashes. That of vine-twigs
is best for them. You may fry them or not before you eat
them.
Common Sausage meat. —Having cleared it from the skin,
sinews, and grissle, take six pounds of the lean of young fresh
pork, and three pounds of the fat, and mince it all as fine as
possible. Take some dried sage, pick off the leaves, and rub
them to powder, allowing three tea-spoonfuls to each pound of
meat . Having mixed the fat and lean well together, and sea
soned it with six tea-spoonfuls of pepper, and the same quantity
of salt, strew on the powdered sage, and mix the whole very
well, with your hands. Put it away in a stone jar, packing it
down hard, and keep it closely covered. Set the jar in a cool
dry place.
When you wish to use the sausage meat, make it into flat
cakes about tho size of a dollar; dredge them with flour, and
fry them in butter or dripping, over rather a slow tire, till they
i are well browned on both sides, and thoroughly done. Sau
sages are seldom eaten except at breakfast.
To Preserve Meat for Voyages. —Much has been said
about preserved meats spoiling : I preserved sonic in the fol
lowing manner : —Have the meat cooked and packed in well
made tin boxes, and well soldered except a very small hole in
the centre of ihe top ; set them on a stove or some suitable
place, and w hen the steam is up take a bit of fusible metal and
a email sized cork to press the metal on to tho hole, when it
melts and stops the steam ; chill with cold water. The col
lapsing or concavity of the heads indicate if the work is well
done.
To open them for use, set them on a stove, and of course
they vent themselves. I opened some 28 degrees South lati
tude, and the last a few days ago, which were as good as when
put up. I don't know how others put it up.— Correspondent
of the Scientific American.
Liver Puddings. —Boil some pigs’ livers. Y.’lien cold,
mince them, and season them with pepper, salt, ami some sage
and sweet marjoram rubbed fine. You may add some pow
dered cloves. Have ready Borne large skins nicely cleansed,
and fill them with the mixture, tying up the ends securely.
Prick them with a fork to prevent their bursting; put them in
to hot water, and boil them slowly for about an hour. They
will require no farther cooking before you eat them. Keep
them in stone jars closely covered. They arc eaten cold at
breakfast or supper, cut into small slices an inch thick or more;
or they may be cut into large pieces, and broiled or fried.
DUPUYTREN*S RECEIPT FOR RESTORING TIIE
GROWTH OF THE HAIR.
To 1 drachm of powdered Spanish flics add one ounce spirits
wine, leave stand for two weeks, frequently shaking it during
tliat time. Then decant the liquid.
For ten parts of this tincture ninety parts of lard, and some
essential oil to scent it, as lemon, bergamot, almond, or what
ever pleases.
Rub into the hair,’ night and morning, this mixture, and
brush it in with a stiff brush till the scalp becomes reddened, it
will restore the hair almost invariably.
Preserving Beans. —lt is assc rted that by boiling common
beans, and packing them in air-tight vessels, they may be kept
for an indefinite period, as sweet and palatable as when “ ta
ken from the pot.” Asa corroboration of the truth, of this
“ theory,'’ we append the following : —“ Twelve tin packets
| of preserved French beans, in a wooden box, have been brought
up from the “ Royal George,” (England.) Neither vinegar
I nor pickle had been used ; they had been boiled and placed
in air-tight vessels, and were as fresh and fit for use as when
• first enclosed. They had been fifty-seven years under water.
Cure for Ringbone in Horses. —Having noticed in the
“ Dollar Newspaper” an inquiry how to cure ringbone in
horses, and as I think 1 know an effectual cure, 1 deem it my
duty to give the particulars which you may insert in your pa
per at pleasure.
10 gr. Sublimate of Mercury.
4 oz. Spirits of Wine.
2 dr. Tincture of Musk.
12 oz. Rose W ater.
Mix well togtlier and rub it on the disorded place, with a
brush, two or three times a day, and it will have the desired
effect. J. A. B.
llow to Get Rid of House Bugs. —Pull down all loose
paper, remove all loose plaster, take up all old carpeting, Ac.,
and consume them with fire. Fill up all cracks in the walls
j and ceiling with a mixture of corrosive sublimate and plaster
of Paris, or putty ; also, all crevices in the floors, as well as the
cracks in furniture, and the joints of besteads, with corrosive
sublimate and soft soap. By these means you will exterminate
the bugs, but not otherwise.— Foreign Paper.
Steaming Grain. —The fact ought ever to be borne in mind,
that grain of all kinds, when intended for feeding stock or fat
tening poultry, or domestic animals of all kinds, may be steam
ed to great advantage. One half the grain prepared in this
manner, or by the ordinary process of boiling, will accomplish
as much as the whole fed in an unprepared or raw state.
—c——arwn Uli
To Preserve Cabbages. —Dig trenches about two feet deep
and insert the cabbages upright—-then put a layer of straw
around them, and cover up, with a tube made of reed stuck
down to circulate air among the buried plants. They will
keep well all winter.
Wood is now hardened by anew process, so as to be used
for flooring, and to resemble marble.
tli §i©mhi (iitiixi.
Di'piiftiimit.
From the Schoolfellow.
A lidtcr from Hfrs. Jlasiuers.
It is now, my dear children, nearly a year since I first be
came interested in your welfare, and during that period I have
tried to benefit you by ‘rules’ and ‘hints’ and lectures on good
breeding. Although you may not be aware of it, lam per
sonally acquainted with many of you, and have often had oc
casion to observe how far you carried into practice the advice
I gave you. Whilst I have sometimes been much gratified
at observing the improvement which lias taken place in some
of you, I have also been pained to see in others an obstinate
carelessness, which gave little promise of polish or refinement
in maturer years.
You must not think that I would find fault without good
cause. And to prove this, I will name to you some things in
which it appears to me you are still very much deficient. You
appear to think that if you practice politeness in the presence
of company, or when visiting your friends, that is sufficient. —
That you may still be rude to your brothers and sisters, and
overbearing to the servants; that you may even be neglectful of
good manners in your conduct to your parents. Dear little
friends, how mistaken you are. You are placed in this world
to make other people happy, as well as to become fitted for an
other world. Those who are immediately about you, with
whom you associate every day, are, more or less, dependent on
you for happiness; and kind and loving words, considerate and
gentle services go a gryat ways towards constituting happi
ness. If your hearts are loving, you can hardly fail to be polite.
But if you cherish selfish, ungrateful, churlish feelings you will
find it a very difficult, in fact, almost an impossible thing to be
polite. Therefore, the ve ry first thing you are to do, is to look
into your hearts and see that all is right there; that the law
which governs your conduct is tKc golden rule—
“do to others as you would, that they should do to you.”
Let me suggest one or two instances in which the difference
is most manifest between a selfish and an unselfish and truly po
lite child. It is quite cold weather to-day, and lam writing by
a pleasant fire. Suppose two or three children are seated by
this fire also; I will call them James, Ellen, and Mary. James
is reading, Ellen has a lap full of strips of paper and is busy
making up lamp-lighters, Mary is kicking her feet against El
len's chair, and jogging her elbow, now and then, just as she is
starting a roll of paper, when it is desirable her hand should be
steady. Now Mary is a sweet name I think, a sweet scripture
name, and I always look for a good child when I hear one call
ed by it. \Y c shall see if Mary Reese deserves to bear that
name.
It is supper time and Mr. Reese and Robert, who is his el
dest son, and assists him in his store, have come home. James
siiently rises and takes a little stool by the table where he can
go on with liis book, and his father as he takes James’ chair bv
the warm fire, says—
“ Thank you my dear boy, shall you not be cold so far off
from the fire ?”
See what a pleasant and loving word James’ politeness won
for him from his father, who knew how to encourage children
in such unselfish acts!
“Oil no! fam very warm papa, and can see better here.”
Now this was quite true, but he could not feel the pleasant
glow of the fire at all, and he said this that his father might not
think he had deprived him of any comfort, which feeling would
takeaway from Ins satisfaction as he enjoyed the warm seat.
Mary had a good place next the fire, in the warmest corner,
and when she saw Robert looking so cold and uncomfortable,
his hands quite stiff’ and his nose red and looking altogether as
il the fire would be most agreeable to him, it was supposed
she would do for him as she would have wanted him to do for
her; that is, that she would have jumped up and said—
“ Take this seat, brother, it is a very warm one, and you look
quite frozen.”
No, selfish little Mary Reese did no such thing. She even
pretended not to see that Robert wanted to come near the fire,
nor would she draw her chair an inch nearer to the wall tliat lie
might put another in between Ellen and herself. Ellen acted
very differently; she looked up and encountered Robert's wist
ful eye, for ail this happened in much loss time than I can tell
it, and almost before Robert could speak she ha 1 gat hered up
in one mass the papers and lamplighters, regardless of crush
ing the latter in her haste, and said :
“Here, brother Robert, is a nice warm place, how cold you
are; you must have had a cold walk from the store to-night,
and the wind right in your face all the way. IV>r blue hands
how cold they are, let me rub them in my warm ones.”
Do you wonder “brother Robert” took the little girl on his
knee and kissed her, and called her “darling little Nell"—and
that when he took from his pocket two rosy cheeked apples, he
gave the largest and fairest to the good sister ! I did not—and
1 saw how very, very much happiness is created by a little for
getfulness of self and consideration for the comfort of those
around us. It is this which constitutes politeness.
I had several oth r things to Udl you, but I find I have writ
ten a whole sheet full, so I must reserve the rest for another
time. \\ Idle waiting for it, see if you cannot remember Ellen
Reese’s politeness, and profit by it for your own happiness and
that of those around you daring this cold weather.
TIIE LEVER.
“Thomas,” said Harry, “see lie-re is a very large log, but
think that you and I can carry it well enough.” They want*
ed it for fire-wood. So I Tarry took a pole about ten feet long?
and hung the log upon it by a piece of cord, which lie found
there, and then asked Thomas which end of the pole he chose
to carry. Thomas, who thought it would be most convenient
to have the weight near him, chose the end of the pole near
which the weight was suspended, and put it upon his shoul
der; while Harry took the other end.
But when Thomas attempted to walk, lie found tliat he
could hardly bear the pressure, but as he saw I tarry w alk
briskly off with his share of the weight, he determined not to
complain.
As they were walking along, in this manner, a gentleman
met them, and seeing poor Thomas “tugging away” so hard,
he inquired who hid loaded him in that way. “Jlarry,” said
he. “But do you know,” said the gentleman, “that he makes
you carry about three quarters of the weight of the whole
load ?”
lie replied that Thomas had chosen that end; and that he
should have told him of his mistake sooner, buthe wished to
take this very method to'teach him the nature of a lever. —
‘lhcn sliilting the ends of the pole, so as to support tliat part
which Uioinas had done before, he asked him if he could
walk any easier. “Indeed, lean,” said Thomas; “but Ido
not see why, since wo carry just the same weight which w T e
did before; and just in the same manner.” “Not just in the
same manner,” said the gentleman; “for if you observe, the
log is a great deal farther from your shoulder than from Ilar
ry's, by w hich means he now supports just as much as you
did before, and you on the contrary, as little as lie did when
I met you.”
“This is very extraordinary,” said Thomas; “I find there
are a great many things which I did not know, nor even my
mother, nor any of tho ladies that come to our house.”
“Well,” said the gentleman, “if you have acquired so much
useful knowledge already, what may you expect to do in a
few years more ?”
The gentleman now led Thomas into the house, and show
ed him a stick about four feet long, with a scale hung at each
end. “Now, ’ said he, “if you place this stick over the back
of a chair, so that it may rest exactly upon the middle, the
two scales, as you see, will j ust balance each other. So, also,
it you put a weight into one of the scales, and another of the
same size into the other, they will still remain balanced.”
‘lt is in this method,” lie “that we weigh every
thing that is bought, only for the sake of of convenience, the
beam of the scale, which is the same thing as this stick, is
generally hungup to something else, by its middle. But let
us now move the stick, and see what will be the consequen
ces.”
So he pushed the stick along in such a manner that when
it rested upon the bac-k of the chair, there were three feet of
it on one side, and only one on the other. That side which
was longest, instantly came to the ground, as heaviest. “You
see, said he, “that it we would now balance them, we must
put a greater weight on the shortest side.” So he kept ad
ding weights, till Thomas found that one pound on the long
est side would exactly balance three on the shortest; for by as
much as the longest side exceeded the shorter in length, by
just so much did the weight which was hung at tliat end,
need to be lighter tlian that on the longer side.
“This,” said the gentleman, “is what they eall a lever.—
You may thus learn the use of levers; for with their help, a
man may move a weight which luilf a dozen could not move
with nothing but their hands; and thus might a boy, like you,
do more than a strong man, who did not know these secrets.”
Boys’ Games. —ln the current number of Copperfield,
Dickens introduces a Mr. Micawbcr, who is described as al
ways being “on the lookout for a turn-up.” Did Micawber
live in these fast times, he would be prepared for an evil which
is daily increasing. We allude to the recently introduced
practice, which the boys have almost unanimously adopted, of
standing on the head in the centre of the sidewalk, and throw
ing the feet first against the house and then toward the curb.—
Pass along what street you may, boys will be seen employed
at this ugly game. Very recently, a child passing with her
mother a gang of these turn-ups, was struck and somewhat in
jured by one of them. Boys, this practice is injurious to your
health, and should be discontinued.
This paragraph, which we cut a week or two since from the
Baltimore Sun, reminds us of a curious fact in the natural his
tory of boys, often before observed; namely, the mysterious
distribution, in point of time, by which the sports and games
of boys appear to be regulated; for, just about the time when
the paragraph appeared in the Baltimore journal, we were dai
ly noticing that the same upturning experiment was popular
among the New York boys also, and we have no doubt that,
about the same time, it was in course of practice generally
throughout the Union. llow do the boys thus universally be
come advised that the proper time lias arrived for taking up, as
they annually do, a particular kind of diversion ! What hid
den agency communicates the warning, from village to village,
and city to city, that a particular sport, or feat, is “the order of
the day ?” Wo have often pondered upon this question.
For it is to be observed that there is a regular succession of
games throughout the year. There is a specified, or at least a de
terminate season, not only for skating and snow-balling, which
we may suppose to be governed by the state of the weather, but
for ball, marbles, kites, pitching coppers, “hypsy,” “mumUe
the-peg,” hoops, tops, and all the rest of boyish recreations;
you always see all the boys pitching coppers, or whipping tops
or whatever else may be the game of the day—not some boys
at one and some at another. At the season of kites the blue
vault above is thickly sprinkled with these paper highflyers, and
mothers and sisters all over the land are simultaneously pester
ed for twine and for rags wherewith to make tails; then kites
suddenly disappear, and every urchin is spinning a top, or
kicking up his heels at the sunny side of a fence or a brick wall;
anon the sidewalks swarm with knots of eager gamesters, in
tent upon the accurate aiming of “ehaney-alleys” and more
ignoble plain pellets; presently bows and arrows are the mode;
and so it goes on, year after year, in a regular and universal
succession. How is all this matter governed? By instinct;
or by wonderful boyish free-masonry. —Commercial Adv.
Arm entices. — Be faithful, boys. In a few years you will
be of and it will ffivo yon unspeakable satisfaction to hear
a good word spoken by your employers in your favor. If you
are negligent now, if you are eye servants and rejoice to be a
way from the presence of your employers, that you may give
vent to your propensities—what encouragement have you to
hope that you will become any thing but idle men and vaga
bonds ? A good, faithful apprentice will always make a wor
thy and industrious man. We have watched the progress of
many apprentices and we never knew a good boy to turn out a
bad man. If apprentices are really honest and faithful, there
can be no doubt but they will become good, wise and respecta
ble citizens.
Associate with no youths who are addicted to bad practices.
One bad boy may ruin a score. As soon as you discover in a
companion a disposition to be dishonest, profane or even vul
gar in his language, wc would beg of you to attempt his re
form, and if you cannot succeed, to quit his company at once.
Spend your leisure hours in some profitable pursuit. Do
not go to any place of amusement where the mind is not really
benefited. Don’t stand at the corners of the streets, or lounge
in shops of bad repute. Always have a useful book to take up
—a good newspaper, or a sheet of paper on which to pen your
thoughts. Read the lives of such men as Franklin, Tlalc,
Dodridge, Locke, Newton, Johnson, Adams, ‘Washington,
&e.—men who have been useful in life, and left behind them
characters which are worthy of all imitation.
Break not the Sabbath. Looking at this subject in a tem
poral point, it will be for your best good to keep the Sabbath.
Always attend church. Never let your scat be vacant, ex
cepting you are siek or out of town. When we see an appren
tice constant at church, and attentive to the exercises, we are
certain lie will never be found in the ranks of the ruffian and
infidel.
Be kind to your associates. Cultivate benevolent feelings.
If you see distress or sorrow, do all that in you lies to allevi
ate them. When a friend or companion is confined by sick
ness, make a point to eall upon him, and bestow all the little
favors upon him you can. If you cultivate kind feelings, you
will seldom quarrel with another. It is always better to suffer
wrong than to do wrong. We should never hear of mobs, or
public outbreaks, if men would cultivate the kind feelings of
the heart.
Finally, make the Bible your study. Live by its precepts.
In all your trials and disappointments, here you will find peace
and consolation. You will be sustained in life and supported
in death.— Olive Branch.
(TV H&nuorist.
‘ Lively and gossiping :
Stored with the treasures of a tattling world,
And with a spice of mirth, too.”
THE BEDOTT PAPERS.
From the Saturday Gazette.
Tin* Rev. Mrs. Sniffles
EXPRESSES HER SENTIMENTS IN REGARD TO THE PARSONAGE.
“ I say I’m disgusted with this old house ; ’taint fit for gin
teel folks to live in ; looks as if ’twas built in Noah's time,
with its consarned old gamble ruff and leetle bits o’ winders
a pokin out like bird cages all round. Painted yaller, too,
and such a bumbly yaller : for all the world jest the color o’
calomel and jollup ”
“ Rut you are aware, Mrs. Snifles—”
“ 1 say ’taint fit to live in. I'm ashamed on't. I feel aw
ful mortified about it whenever 1 look at Miss Mycrses and
Miss Lodcr's, and the rest o’ the hansome eittiwations in the
neighborhood, with their wings and their piazzers and foldin
doors, and all so dazzlin white. It’s ridicilous that we should
have to live in such distressid lookin old consarn, when we’re
every bit and grain as good as they be, if not rutlior bet
ter.”
“ Nevertheless, the house is very comfortable.”
“ Comfortoble! who cares for comfort when gintility’s con
sarned ! I dont. I say if you’re detarmined to stay in it,
you’d ought to make some alterations in’t. You'd ought to
higher the ruff up and put on some wings, and build a piaz
zer in front with four great pillars to't, and knock out that
are petition betwixt the square room and kitchen, and put
foldin doors instid on't, and then build a kitchen behind, and
have it all painted white, with green winder blinds. That,
would look something like, and I shouldn’t feel ashamed to
have gintccl company come to see me, as I dew now. Tother
day, when Curnel Billins and his wife called, I couldn’t help
noticin how contemptible she looked round at the house and
furnitur—l actilly was so mortified I felt as if I should sink
rigfit through the floor.”
“But you know, Mrs. Sniffles— ’’
“ I say we’d ought to have new furnitur—sofys and fash
ionable cheers, and curtains, and mantleiry ornaments, and
so fourth. That old settee looks like a sight. And them
cheers, tew, they must a come over in the ark. And then
ther aint a picter in the house, only jest that everlastin old
likeness o’ Bonyparte. I'll bet forty great apples it's five
hundred years old. I was raly ashamed on't when I see
Miss Curnel Billins look at it so scornful when they called
here. I spose she was a counterastin it with their beautiful
new picters they're jest bin gittin up from New York, all in
gilt frames. I seen one on cm totlier day in to Mr. Bungle’s
shop, when I went in with Sister Tibbins to look at her por
trait that lie’s a paintin. I seen one o’ Miss Billinses picters
there. Twas a splendid one, as big as the top o’ that are ta
ble, and represented an elegant lady a lyiu asleep by a river,
and ther was a little angel a hoverin in the air over her head,
jest a gwine to shoot at her with a bow and arrer. I axed
Mr. Bungle what ’twas sent to his shop for, and he said how
’t Miss Billins wa'nt quite satisfied with it on the
angel's legs bein bare, and she wanted to have him paint some
pantaletts on em, and he was a gwine to dew it as soon as he
got time. He thought ’twould be a very interestin pieter
when he’d got it fixed. I think so tew. I dew admire picters
when they aint all dirty and faded out like old Bony there.
Them Scripter pieces that Sister Myers lias got hangin in her
front parlor—them she painted afore she was married, strikes
me as wonderful interestin, especially the one that represents
Pharoh's daughter a findin Moses in the bulrushes. Her
parasol and the artificials in her bunnit is jest as natralas life.
And Moses, he looks so eunnin a Ivin there asleep with his
little coral necklace and bracelets on. O, it’s a sweet pieter.
And I like that other one, tew, that represents Pliaroh a
drivin lull tilt into the Red Sea after the Israelites. How na
tral his coat tails flies out. I think some Scripter pieces would
be very approbriate for a minister’s house. We might git Mr.
Bungle to paint some for the front parlor, and our portraits to
hang in the back parlor, as Miss Myers has theirn. Bat law
me ! what’s the use o’ iny talkin o’ haviu picters or any thing
else that's decent ? You don’t take no interest in it. You
seem to be perfectly satisfied with this flambergasted old Ignis;
and every thing in it.’’
“ My former consort never desired any thing superior to it.”
“ Your former consort! I’m sick and tired o’ hcarin
about her. Taint by no means agreeable to have dead folks
throwd in yer face from inornin to night. What if she was
satisfied with her sittiwation ? Taint no sign / should be. I
spose she hadn't never bin used to nothin better, but I hare.'’
“ But, Mrs. Sniffles, you must recollect that—”
1 say taint to be put up with. I want to have some com
pany—ben want in tew ever senco we was married ; but as
for invitin any ginteel people a visitin to such a distressid old
shell as this is, I won’t dew it—and so —Miss Billina and
Miss Lodcr and them would say I was a tryin to cut a swell,
and couldn't make it out. And I dont mean to accept no
more invitations amonkst them that lives in style, for it ag
gravates me, it docs, to thii & how different I’m sittiwated.
So you may make your pastoriul visits without me in future,
for I’ve made up my mind not to go out none as long as we
live in this ridicilous old house.”
“ But, recollect, Mrs. Sniffles, this house is a parsonage—
I occupy it rent-free.”
“ I don’t care if ’tis a parsonage. I say the congregation
might afford you a bettor one, and for my part, I’m disposed
to make a fuss about it.”
“ Mrs. Sniffles, you must be aware that I am not possessed
of inexhaustible means. I have never attempted to conceal
from you this fact. Therefore, you must also be aware that
there exists an entir j impossibility of my erect'ng anew resi
denee on the plan which you propose. Nor is it at all proba
ble that the congregation would be willing to make such al
terations in this as you suggest. Yet, I assure you, tliat I
have not the slightest objection to your employing your oicn
means in the construction of a more elegant edifice.”
“ My own means:”
“ Yes, Mrs. Sniffles. Your dissatisfaction with the par
sonage is so groat, that I have for some time past been ex
pccting you would propose building anew residence : and 1
repeat that such an appropriation of a portion of your funds
would meet my concurrence.”
My funds!”
“ Your funds, Mrs. Sniffles. It is a delicate subject, and
one on which I have hitherto hesitated to make inquiry, al
though possessing an undoubted right to do so, I have been
expecting ever since our union, that you would inform me
how and where your property is invested.”
“ My property!”
“ Your property, Mrs. Sniffles. In what does it consist, if
I may be permitted to inquire?”
“ Laud o* liberty ! you know as well as I dew.”
‘‘ What am I to infer from that observation ?”
“Jest what you’re a mind to. I aint woth money, and I
never said I was.”
“ Mrs. Sniffles, you are well aware that on your arrival in
this place, common report pronounced you to be an individu
al of abundant means, and 1 have always labored under this
impression—an impression which allow me to remind you,
you confirmed in a conversation which occurred between us in
the parsonage grove.”
“ You don’t mean to say’t I told you so, and you darsent
say’t I did.”
“ A-hem—l mean to say that you did not deny it when I
delicately alluded to the subject. On the contrary, you led
me to infer that such was the fact, and under that impression
I was induced to accede to your proposal.”
“My proposal! What do you mean to insinniwate ?”
“ I should have said your—your —evident inclination for a
—a—matrimonial engagement. 1 deeply regret, Mrs. Snif
fles, that you should have allowed yourself to practise upon
me what I cannot consider in any other light than that of a
heinous and unmitigated deception. I regard it as an act
quite imcompatible with your religious profession.”
“ You dew, hay ? well, you can’t say’t I ever told you out
and out that I was woth property ; and if you was a mind to
spose so from what I did say, I’m sure taiu’t my fault, nor 1
ain’t to blame for other folkes saying I was a rich widder.”
“ Mrs. Sniffles, 1 lament exceedingly that you should view
it in that light. You can but acknowledge that it was your
duty when I requested information on the subject, to have giv
en me a correct account of your property.”
“ I hadn’t no property to give yean account of.”
“ You should have told rne so, Mrs. Sniffles, and not have
suffered me to infer that you was in easy circumstances.”
“ I tell ye agin, 1 couldn’t help what you inferred , an l
spozen I coul l, which was the most to blame, me for lettin
you think I was rich, or you for marryin me because you
thought I was rich ? For my part, I think that was rath
er uncompatible with your professions. Ministers had ought
to have their affections sot above transiterry riches.”
“ Mrs. Sniffles, this is a—a —delicate subject, we w ill waive
it, if you please.”
“ But I think the congregation ought to fix up the house.”
“ I will lay it before the session next meeting.”
“ Well dew; for pity's sake. And if they agree to fix it.
I'll go a journey somewhar while it's a bein altered, and you
can board round, and Sal can stay at sister Magwire's.”
Extracts from Mrs. Sniffle's Diary.
Sabbath Day Evening. — O, what a precious season this
day has been to me ’. My pardner has hild forth with un
common unction. Q- may he long be a burnin and shinin
t light to the world 1 My feelins to-day lias been of the most
i desirable natur. O. that 1 could say so every night ! but,
I alas ! tlier is times when I feel as cold as a stun, when the
face o’ creation seems to frown, and my evidences is wonder
ful dull. And then, agin, I’m as bright ns a dollar, and have
such wonderful clear manifestations, and sucli a sense of intar
nal satisfaction, O, that I could always feel as I’d ought to
feel. Dearsuz! I’m often reminded o’ what my deceased
companion, the lamented deacon Bedott, used to remark,
“ We're all poor critters.”
To-day, we're liable to fall,
To-morrow up we climb,
For tain’t our natur to enjoy
Religion all the time.
Monday. —Have been very much exercised to-day on ac
count o’ Sally Blake, our help, ller depraved natur lias
showed out in a very tryin manner. But I feel to rejoice
that I've ben enabled to be faithful with her. llow I have
wrastlcd day and night for tliat distressid child ! O, that I
may have grace to bear with patience and resignation the
daily trials I have to undergo with her! I feed to be thank
ful that thus far I have been supported and liain't sunk under
it as many would a done. O, that I may be enabled to feel
and realize that such afflictions is sent for the trial of my faith.
Thursday. —O, what a responsible sittiwation is mine as Pre
sident of the “ F. tJ. D. G. E., and A. Society!” I've real
ized it in an ovcrwlielmin degree to-day. Attended the meet
in this afternoon; and some very onpleasant circumstances oc
curred. But I feel to be truly thankful that I had grace to
presarve my uniformity in the midst of the diffikilties. I wish
I could say as much for some o’ the rest o’ the members, es
pecially Sail Hugle. O, the vanity and pride o’ that critter!
it grieves me to the heart.
Saturday. — My beloved Shadraek has jist informed me
that the parsonage is to be repaired and made comfortable.
My dear pardner has requested it to be done intirely to please
me, and quite unknown to me. It's true it needs it bad
enough, but then I never should a thought o’ compainin
about it. I foci that I’m a pilgrim and a sojourneyer liore,
and hadn't ought to be partickler, and so I told the Eider
wlun he proposed havin the house repaired. But he insist
ed on't and I consented, more for his sake than my own. O,
that I may be truly thankful for the blessins I injoy, especial
ly for such a pardner!
Blest be the day of sacred mirth
That gave my dear companion birth ;
Let men rejoice while Silly sings
The bliss her precious Shadraek brings.
How Seth Hawkins stole the Old Lady's night
gown.—The Boston News gives the following as having oc
curred in one of the villages of the old Bay State, within the
.recollection of the writer. We do not know when we have
enjoyed so hearty a laugh, as on reading this incident in the
life of Seth llawkius.
Sunday night was the season which Seth chose to do his
weekly devours, as Mrs. Hornby would say, and his road to
neighbor Jones, whose daughter Sally was the object of his
particular hope, lay across three long miles of territory, stum
py as an old woman’s month, and as irreclaimable as a prodi
gal son gone away for the third time.
One all-sufficiently dark night, unheeding wind and weath
er. as gallant and spruce a lover as ever straddled a stump,
Seth, in best ”bib and tucker,” and dickey, and all tliat, star
ted upon his accustomed weekly pilgrimage to the shrine of
Sally Jones —a sweet girl by the way as strawberries and
cream are sweet.
Seth knew every land mark, if he could see it; but the
night was very dark, and in a little while he become confused
in his reckoning, and taking the light which gleamed from
fanner Jones’ cottage in the distance, for a guide, he pushed
boldly on, regardless of intermediate difficulties,surging occa
sionally to the right or left, as some obstruction rose in hi*
path, until he ran stem on, as sailors would say, to a huge
stump, and rolled incontinently over to the other side.
He gathered himself up as best he could, shook himself to
ascertain that no bones were broken, and then re-started on his
mission of love, his ardor somewhat dampened by feeling the
cold night wind playing fantastic gusts around his body, deno
ting that the concussion*had “ breached ” “oh
ables, ” and that the seven-and-sixpenny cassimeres were r*o*
more to be the particular delight of his eye, in conteniplatiMi
of their artistic excellence.
He knew not the extent of the damage sustained, but soofl
gained the house, llis first glcnce was over his ptr;, n
certain if decency would be violated bv an unwonted display ;
but seeing nothing and trusting to the voluminous proportions
of liis coat for concealment, he felt reassured, and took his
seat in a proffered chair by the fire.
Y\ hilst conversing with the farmer about the weather, and
with the dame upon the matter of cheese, he glanced at Sal
ly, and saw with painful surprise, that she was looking anxious
ly and somewhat strangely, towards a portion of his dress.
S She averted her eyes as she caught his glance; but again
catching her eye upon him, he was induced to turn his eye in
the same direction, and saw, good heavens! was it his shirt?
oozing out of a six inch aperture in the inside of one of his in
| express',files ! He instantly changed his position, and from
tli.it moment was on nettles. Was he making more revela
tions by the change ? He watched the first opportunity to
push the garment in a little. Could he succeed in hiding it,
it would relieve his embarassment. Again he watched his
chance, and again stowed away the linen. It seemed inter
minable, like the doctor's tape worm, and the more he work
ed at it, the more there seemed left.
In the meantime, his conversation took the hue of agonv,
and his answers bore as much relation to the questions asked
as the first line of the songs of Solomon docs to the melan
choly burthernof Old Mann IVting-ill.
At last, with one desperate thrust, the whole disappeared,
and he east a triumphant glance towards Sally. One look
sufficed to show that she had comprehended the whole, and
with the greatest effort was struggling to prevent a laugh.—
Meeting his glance, she could contain herself no longer, but
screaming with accumulated fun, site fled from the room ; aucT
poor Seth, unable to endure this last turn of his agony, seiz
ed his hat, and dashed madly from the house, clearing tho
stumps like a racer in tho dark, and reaching home, he hard
ly knew when or how.
As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Jones looked about for a
clean night-gown tluit she had out for service on the back of
the chair on which Seth had set. She was positive sue took
it out. but where upon earth it was she could not conceive.
“Sally 1 ” cried the old lady front the door, “ have you
seen my night-gown ? ”
“ Yes'm, ” echoed her voice, as if in the last stage of suf
focation—“yes’m, Seth Hawkins wore it home !”
It was unfortunately the case, and poor Seth had stored it
in the ereva. se of his pants ? It was returned the next day,
with an apology, and he subsequently married Sally ; but ma
ny years after, if any article of any description was missing,
of apparel or otherwise, the first suggestion was that Seth
Hawkins had stowed it away in histrowsers.
Seth Hawkins is now a prominent and influential merchant
in the c.ty of Boston, and often relate s the story himself for
the amusement of his young friends.
Copy of a lettc r of the late Jeremy Diddler to one of his
victims:
“My dear sir : I had the satisfaction of breaking the seal
of your animated epistle, a few days since. I should have re
plied to it immediately, but for the pressure of professional
engagements—sir:
M hi n infants give up kicking and screaming;
When young girls cease to be pert and volatile;
W hen boys are no longer full of Satan;
When young men prefer Wisdom to Wine, and Duty to
Pleasure;
W hen old men skip like Roebucks, and masticate their food
with the aid of Porcelain;
\\ hen rats and terriers live together in amity;
When musquitoes become posts, and Rattlesnakes agreea
ble companions;
W hen Empedocles returns from his visit to Etna;
When steaks are cooked in the sun on the summit of
Mount Blanc;
When the manufacturers of Cork Legs regret to see the
rain freezing as it falls;
When king Ilonolulec prefers the flesh of sheep to that of
man;
AV hen prize-fighters are trained on Macaroons and lady
fingers;
When Barlows Columbian ceases to act as a Soporific;
When the Tombigbee Navigation company declare a divi
dend;
When the Tobolsk anl Chilicothee Railroad, via lrkusk,
Bhering’s Straits and Astoria is complete;
When the “signing of the Declaration'’ is preferred by
artists to the transfiguration;
When a Malay fills Presidential Chair of the United S fates;
Finally—when the Milk nimn is in the full tide of success
ful experiment: then, my very dear sir. I trust that I shall find
| myself in a condition to liquidate the debt to which you so
1 pleasantly refer.
In the meantime allow me to renew the assurances of my
distinguished consideration.
JEREMIAH DIDDLER..
LANGUAGE OF TIIE FAN!
A most enlightening emv, on what can be
with this ladies’ plaything, in warm latitudes, appears in the
last number of the “ Re cue du Nouveau Monde , ” embod-.
ied in a sketch of Havana, by the Editor, M. deTrobriand. —
It is written with all that abandon , ala troubadour , which
gives an irresistible charm to the writings of the au
thor, and we have laid it aside for translation. V\ e can only
say of it now, that it describes a charming Ilavanaise, whom
our accompl shed traveller observed telegraphing a love-let
ter over her missal, and so legible was the pictorial alphabet,
that he (from behind the pillar of the cathedral ) read it all.—
By description which makes it quite comprehensible, he lyUs
how the little sinner-in-love said the following things to a
young man in another part of the church: —“Ilow do you do,
my dear! Take a kiss for coining!” “Now watch my fan
and pay attention to what it tells you !’’ “My papa is in the
country !” “Come to see me, precisely pt eleven !” ‘My
aunt does not observe you, you see, and that is all she will
know of it!” “Be very discreet, sir!” “Take this kiss,
for I love you!” “Ah, see how much Ido for you!” “Adieu,
we must go!” One is really made to wonder, by the mani
fest distinctness with which M. de Trobriand shows a fan to
be capable of language, whether words could not be entirely
set aside in love-making, and the attention of the lips concen
trated altogether upon their more immediate duties. (?)
The descriptions of the habits and graces of the ladies of
Havana, which form another portion of the same article, are
charmingly graphic and readable, and we wish we had time
to translate the whole for our present number. We look for
ward with no little interest to the coming portraitures of the
Creole society of New Orleans, having met with no sketch of
the impression it makes upon a highly cultivated Parisian.—
The Revue” is altogether a delightful addition to our New-
York periodical literature and we commend it to the tables of
those of our readers who are conversant with the French. —
Home Journal.
