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Slgrirultnrf, 3t-lmnifa[turrj, Kt 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.