Newspaper Page Text
us to contemplate their tears. At break
fast, Clara received a note fromo lady in
the neighbot hood, a stranger to her, who
required a governess for her children, and
requested an interview with Miss Cape). |
T'.velVc was the hour appointed, and the,
writer’s* residence was two miles distant
from the vicuiagej with many a good wish
ami many a salutary caution from Mrs.
Middleton, who failed not to remind her,
agaiir and again, that she had promised not
to conclude an engagement without previous
consultation, Clara set fort!) on her soli
tary wiplk. As she went, she thought
anxiously about George; he was trying for
a situation as mathematical tutor in a
scholastic Njtahlishment, which had just
been founded “ under somewhat peculiar
circumstances. The founder was a man
of large foitune, anil eccentric habits ; be
had reserved to himself alone, the selection
and appointment of the various professors, j
and it was .-aid that he tried the patience
of the applicants not a little, in the course
ui.ios ruvindication of their claims, moral,
intellectual, and theological. George's
college honors had been much in his favor,
and Clara's hopes hail been high till a few
days before, when he received a letter
which appeared to annoy him, and which
he did not show her. lie was a long while
composing his reply, and after he had des
patched it, he scented more than usually
low-spirited, an 1 evaded all discussion of
the subject with his anxious and vigilant
sister. It was not possible to her nature
to seek the confidence even of those she
most loved, when they withheld it, so she
wondered and grieved in silence; and
many a fear, and many a prayer, passed
through her heart, in the hours when her
aching head rested on a pillow now un
familiar with sleep. Thus, more than
commonly anxious, and with the bitter
memory of former birthdays stirring within
her, she knocked at Mrs. Bouverie's door,
and was admitted into that lady’s pres
ence.
Clara felt too sorrowful to be shy, other
rise the exceeding coldness of her rccep
on might have daunted her a little. Mrs.
ouverie, a tall, lean, hard-featured woman,
-f fifty-six, with keen eyes, thin lips, and
general dryness of expression perfectly
describable, slightly bowed, and, without
sing, motioned her visitor to a seat. She
’tered two civil sentences, which she had
‘earned by rote, about its being a fine day,
and a long walk; and then proceeded at
once to business. She was one of those
people who are as chary of small talk as
though they were cauable of conversation,
and as niggard of courtesies as though they
were ready with secret kindnesses. Now
it is all very well to he reset ved when you
have got something to hide, but it is really
too provoking to see people so careful to
lock up empty caskets, and seal blank en
velopes. It is an imposition upon society,
and ought not to he tolerated.
We will not weary the reader with the
oft repeated scene of hiring a governess.—
Suffice it to say, that Mrs. Bouverie hav
ing inquired into Clara's qualifications, and
examined her testimonials with apparent
satisfaction, proceeded to sum up her own
requisitions in the following manner:—
‘You will have six pupils, Miss Capel,
between the ages of seven and fourteen ;
you will have the exclusive charge of their
education in English and French, and the
two elder girls will learn German. The
music-master attends once a week, and
you will be present at the lessons, and will
very carefully watch —1 am particular
about this—the practising of each of your
pupils daily. Drawing and fancy-work
you will of course teach yourself. You
will breakfast and dine early with your
pupils, and walk with them for two hours
a day ; and at eight o’clock, when the
younger girls go to lied, I shall expect the
pleasure of your company at ray tea-table.
I always like music in the evening, and
shall hope to hear you play and sing with
your pupils. You will have perfect free
dom, and I hope you will be very comfort
able. My housekeeper will settle the pe
cuniary arrangements with you.’*
Miserable as Clara was, she yet shrank
from the future indicated by these words,
‘he remembered at a little fishing village
m the sea-coast to have seen a mule ent
.doyed tit cartying sand and sea-weed; the
mimal had a kind of wooden saddle fitted
1 pon its back, and was ment to and fro be
. ween the carts wailing to be loaded and
tie water's edge, a distance of some eight
.titntlred yards. To and fro, across this
measured melancholy space, it trudged
doggedly and patiently, pausing at the one
end of its journey to receive its burthen,
and at the other end to he relieved of it,
and pausing tor nothing else. Clara
thought of the mule when Mrs. Bouverie
icscnhe l her governess’ day, and felt glad
hat she had pledged herself not to decide,
kc replied quietly and courteously that
ite would send a definitive answer in the
•ening, as she was bound to consult a
end ere she finally determined. Mrs.
vetie drew herself up, and Cluia be
:e aware that it was possible for her
::ters to assume un additional coldness ;
act u liiclt tlte strongest imagination could
•.areely have conceived before experience
g it. However, Mrs. Bouverie piqued
etself upon being always considerate, so
.-,ie said with grim civility, ‘\ou will do
what you think best, Miss Capel; aud
now 1 netd detain you no longer.’
When Clara lecntered the drawing-room
. the vicarage, she found George alone.
His face was flushed, and his manner per
turbed; he started up, as she came in.
with a nervous eagerness very unusual in
him. Not a question did he ask as to the
result of her expedition; he began at once
upon a totally dilferent topic. 1 My r dearest
Clara, I am so glad you are returned. This
is a matter of the greatest importance.—
l; ad this letter; you will soon learn how
’ ‘i bis trait is from life.
| much depends upon you : and I am happy,
, indeed, that it is upon yurt that it depends.’
He placed an open letter in her hands as he
. spoke, and C üba refd ns follows:
flr.iinpton, April 17. ■
! Dear Sir—l am most anxious, in cir
cumstances which it must be allowed are
somewhat difficult, to act with all the con
sideration towards yourself w hich is com
patible with justice, and with a siticl ad
herence to that determination with which
I have already acquainted you. Common
fairness requires that you should he the
first person to learn the steps I may resolve
upon taking. I have therefore, to iufirm
you, that, not considering your explanation
of the very painlttl reports alluded to in
my last, perfectly satisfactory, I have writ
ten to Mr. Middleton, (who, besides being
the clergyman of your parish, is an old
and highly respected acquaintance of my
own,) to say that if he is ready to vouch
for your freedom from this pernicious habit,
I am ready on my part to appoint you to
the vacant professorship. 1 have the hon
or to remain, yours sincerely,
Richard Brookes.
Clara looked up wontleringly and full of
inquiry. Her brother had scarcely pa
tience to wait till she had finished the let
ter. 1 Now, Clara,’ exclaimed he, ‘it
all depends upon you. Mr. Middleton’s
conscience, it seems, is very squeamish in
these matters; he heartily wishes to serve
me, T do beliex'c, but it seems he had made
a rule of never becoming responsible for
any man on his own assertion merely. But
if you will assure him that during the time
you kept house for me, you ha I no reason
to believe—in short, I suppose you guc's
what these confounded reports are. Old
Brookes has been told that I drank, and it
seems he has a vow not to give one of his
professorships to any man oil whom such
an imputation rests. You have only to
free me from it, and lam seenre. These
miserable reports refer to the time that we
were together; and Mr. Middleton says
that he w ill pledge himself for me if you
will give him your assurance that he may
do so. He is in his study. Go to him di
rectly, there’s a good girl, for it only wants
an hour of post time.’
The words were poured forth breathless
ly ; hut Clara stood immovable, clasping
her hands together with a look of misery.
Then she ran to George's chair, and fold
ing her arms about his neck covered his
face with tears and kisses, as if to attone
for the pain she was about to inflict, lie
half pushed her away, saying impatiently,
44 Coine, what does this mean ?”
‘ I cannot do it,’ murmured the sobbing
girl; ‘you know I cannot. Oh, my dear
est brother, what will become of me !’
George was furious: he affected incred
ulity, he tried entreaties, protestations,
menaces, ridicule. She could not be in
VV ou\i\ Uc ru.\n \ter own t>ro\Yi
er, because some once or twice she had
seen him when he had been a little impru
dent ? And when he sa'd this he positive
ly balieved that it was but once or twice,
and that her scruples were as absurd as
they were unkind. Clara wept to agony,
but never wavered. It was, indeed, a
martyrdom which had more than the bit
terness of death. And this idolized bioth
er parted from her at last with words
which burned indelible traces upon her
heart—she did not love him
enemy—she had ruined his prospects for
ever. She felt that she had alienated from
her the only heart which she had believed
to he entirely her own. She sat down in
a kind of desperation, and wrote to Mrs,
Bouverie, accepting the situation, and of
fering to come to her immediately. She
did not like to send a servant with the
note; she feared to be prevented from
sending it at all if she delayed, and yet she
felt that it was the only thing to he done,
Inaction seemed impossible, and she hurri
ed out with it herself. How she walked
those two miles she did not know', ller
head ached to distraction, and her thoughts
were all bewildered; but she left the note,
sealed her own fate, anil then set forth
again to the vicarage. ‘I shall be very
unhappy, always, all my life,’ said she to
herself; ‘ but George will not care! George
will not care !’ and the words seemed to
strike heavily against her brain, and ring
dizzily in her ears. She held her fore
head with her hand, and stood still, wonder
ing it any woe could go beyond what she
then felt, and feeling certain that if there
were any such sorrow she should be called
upon to endure it. She longed for death,
sot imbecility, for madness: for anything
that should obliterate consciousness and
destroy the capacity for suffering.
‘ May I speak to you, dear Miss Cap
el ?’ said a gentle voice at her side; ‘ 1 have
so long wished ts see you. Surely so old
a friend as myself has some privilege.’—
And Mr. Archer took her trembling hand
in his, and then drew it within his arm,
looking earnestly into her face, and add
ing, ‘You are ill—is anything fresh amiss I
Can I serve you I Pray tell me.’
Clara hurst into an agony of weeping:
and, as soon as she could speak, tried to
put aside his questions, but he was not so
to he baffled. He persevered till he had
drawn from her the history of what hail
occurred, which she gave with the less re
luctance that she knew him to be already
aware of George's misconduct. Indeed, it
was a hint received from Mr. Archer
which had induced Mr. Capel to send Clara
to his son. Incoherent and interrupted
were her words, hut her listener speedily
apprehended their meaning. He soothed
her with the utmost tenderness, and once
more put hope into her desolate heart. He
knew Mr. Brookes well, ami had, mdeeiE
recommended George to him ; he would
speak to George, and if he found him pro
perly disposed, (of which he felt no doubt,)
he would himself see Mr. Brookes, and
endeavor to induce him to accept his (Mr.
Archer’s) surety for George’s future steadi
ness and good conduct. Ho entertained no
:> y y j .a 0 u y 3 ©aaßSfßfSo
fears. Above all, never let Claia for one
moment regret that she had done light in
circumstances so paintnl. She had proba
bly saved her brother, for this lesson would
be 0119 that he never could forget. Clara
could senreely express her gratitude. They
walked together for sometime in silence,
her tears (lowing quietly and relieving tier
overstrained nerves. At last he spoke
again : 4 Do you remember a conversation
we ha 1. some years ago, about Tennyson's
Love and Duty V
She looked up in surprise. Yes, she
had not forgotten it.
4 You said then,’ he pursued, ‘that no
woman could feel sure that she was belov
ed till she was actually told it; and that it
was selfishness in a man to keep silence,
because, in order to avoid the possible
humiliation rs a refusal, or the pain of a
scene of parting if separation were neces
sary, he might he depriving her (mark I
only say might) of a certainty which—
w hich—she might wish to possess. Clara
. . . . ! all this while I have loved
you!’
There was again a silence, Clara's face
hidden in her hands. And so, not abso
lutely discouraged, Mr. Archer told his
history. He had loved her all this while
—for her charms, for her faults, for her
noble .struggle against those faults, for her
self-conquest, for herself. He believed it
impossible that she would love him ; lie
had never meant to speak of it. But those
words of hers had remained unforgotten ;
and. at last, he was doing what, perhaps,
he might ever afterwards repent. Did he
repent it ? lie spoke of his defect, he ac
cused himself of presumption, he was
ashamed, afraid of what he had done.—
Header, did he repent it ?
Oh, how often did Clara Archer, the •
happy, idolized wife, recur to those days
of self-deception when, out of the bitter- j
ness of her mortification, in believing that j
he did not like her, she persuaded herself I
that she disliked him I How did she <le- !
light to trace the marks of her seceret, un- J
suspected, unacknowledged love, in her ir
ritability towards him, her shyness in :is
presence, her unsatisfied and morbid crav
ings after aflection, which were in truth, so
many witnesses to that inner sense which
was awake indeed, but unconscious and
ungrateful! How did she, who had so
gloried in her self-dependence, glory now,
in owing all to him I Yes. all I Her hap
piness, the comfort of her family, (for 1
need scarcely say that he was the anony
mous benefactor,) the complete reformation
of George, who distinguished himself to her
heart's content, ;ts mathematical professor;
and the improvement in her own character,
which she verily’ believed to have been
caused, though unconsciously’ at the time,
by her contemplation of his. Fll Iter hap
piness as in her hitter grief, in her weak
ness as in her strength, in her faults as in
Uev mAAi* quaViVies p\\p rrtnaimul. from 4\vA >
to last
A VERY WOMAN.
cL J&P IL3
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
FUNERAL ADDRESS,
Delivered at tlie interment of Miss Mary E. Lee.
BY S. GILMAN, D. D.
l’liil. 1,20. “ Christ shall bs magnified in tnv
bo ly, whether it be by life, or by death.”
If Christ is ever magnified by the fideli
ty of his followers—by the purity of their
lives—by their anxious and devoted search
after truth—by their persevering use of the
institutions of his Gospel—by the most as
siduous cultivation of the [rowers which
their Maker hath conferred on them—by
the spirit of patience, fortitu ie, and sub
mission with which they meet extraordi
nary trials—by a meek, and modest, and
lovely bearing, in their intercourse with
mankind—by experiencing a sure support
m his holy religion, when cold death comes
to take them by the hand, and to look
them sternly in the face—then may we
well understand, how the departed friend
whose premature decease has now sum
moned us to mourn, to meditate, and to
pray, might have truly joined the Apostle
in exclaiming : “ Christ shrill be magnified
m my body , whether it be by life, or by
death.
Miss Mary Elizabeth I.ee was born in
Charleston in the year 1813, and passed
almost the whole of her life in her native
city, which she adorned by her virtues,
honored by her talents, and even contribu
ted to render classic ground by the effu
sions of her beautiful genius. Allied to a
family, which in several instances has been
distinguished for commanding intellect,
she exhibited in very early youth and tin
controllable passion for the acquisition of
knowledge, which followed her almost to
the latest period, in spite of some interrup
tions from infirmity, pain, and disease.
Beside her rare and exquisite mastery over
tile resources of her native language, she
acquired an uncommonly accuiate knowl
edge of several modern tongues, and her
translations from the French, the Italian,
and the German have given her a place
in the highest literary circles in our coun
try. Her well-known [metical ellusions,
which had some time since become volum
inous, have secured her a lasting admira
tion, from the lovers of genuine poetry.
In many of her productions, she rivalled
the pensive and exalted strains of Eng
land's most celebrated female bard. Her
fertile and obliging pen was always ready
to contribute its aid to every public collec
tion, and long will her lyrical effusions be
remembered as models of animated and
patriotic sentiment. It is not, however, as
ultimate themes of admiration, that 1 allude
here, to her brilliant intellectual attain
ments and exercises. Hei hovering spirit
would rebuke the flattering profanation.
Nor would m v sorrow permit me to indulge
at this moment in any vein of literary crit
icism. But the depth and extent of her
moral and religious worth could not he es
timated except by a passing allusion to
, the achievements and powers of her intel
lect. Because, it was to religion and to
virtue that she devoted and consecrated
them till. She would h ive Been the first
Ito renounce and condemn their exercise,
i had they contributed in the least degree to
I impair the strength of her faith, or hail
they stood between her and the foot of the
cross. Amidst all the fascinations ol
! praise, and all the delights of literary cul
tivation, her spirit rushed straightforward
to her Savior and hcrGpd. Notwithstand-
I ing the height of her literary reputation,
yet all who knew her intimately, thought
of her as a religious, rather than an intel
lectual woman. When scarcely beyond
the days of her thoughtful childhood, she
devoted her being to the service of Jesus,
at whose table she sat with ever-growing
faith and piety. Her highest life, her
keenest enjoyments her most vivid inter
est, all the growth and developement of
her character, were directly connected with
the church of her God. Hence the sancti-!
ty of her manners—the benignity of her
disposition—the benevolence of her heart
—the serenity and uniformity of her life—
the largeness of her toleration—and the 1
strength of her unconqterable fortitude.
Never was a conscientiousness more sen
sitive than hers—never one, that probed
so tailhfully and jealously down to the
bottom of every motive. Among her dy
ing exercises, so long protracted, her most
anxious apprehension was, lest she had
been too fond of beng loved, ami human
approbation had beea too dear to her. For \
many years, pain and death were as fa- 1
miliar to Iter as friendship itself. Suffer
ing she would call her sister, and disease !
her near companion. And oh, were these
calamities ever horn mote bravely, or im
proved and sanctified more thoroughly?
Had it been her lot to descend gradually
and certainly to the grave, the calmness of
her preparation might not have surpassed
that id’ thousands who glide quietly and
happily from life. But to say nothing of
the aggravations caused by an overstrung
nervous temperament, she was calm amid
those wrenches of the soul, occasioned by
repeated alternations of recovery and re
lapse—of hope and despair—of death wel
comed and life forced, back upon her still
willing soul. For she loved to live—she
longed to do a little more good on earth—
the paradise of loving and admiring hearts
that surrounded her was almost too sweet
to leave even for heaven itself Her life
here indeed was but a beginning and an
ticipation of heaven. Here she felt the
presence of her Gol—saw with clear eye
the brightness of his glories —was assured
of his love—was established on his
promises—had renounced every cherished
tendency to die—and was baptised in the
spirit and shut up in the mediation of her
-AutteTing yel tj\or\fuu\ Savior In \ookinu
back on the last few years of her existence,
it is hard to say whether she were a deni
zen of earth or of heaven. But thanks be
to God, the event which now assembles us
here, fixes at length the certainty. It is
almost preposterous to mourn her depar
ture. Oh Father, we thank thee that she
live!, and that we have known her. \Vc
thank thee that the truth anil divinity of
thy religion have been demonstrated and
realized and rendered a living fact by her
eloquent presence. We would still, we
must still deem her near to us. Her de
parture has but blended heaven and earth
more closely together. Henceforward, our
earthly pilgrimage and our eternal, can be
but one. In fact, she has so lucidly cloth
| ed the whole truth and feeling on this mo
mentous subject in some of her own hap
piest lines, that 1 cannot forbear introduc
ing them on this place and occasion, as the
most appiopriate close to the reflections
that have been now awakened by the view
of her open grave :
“ The dead! the much hived dead
Who doth not j'earn to know
The secret of their dwelling place,
And to ivhat land thej go !
What heart but ask- with cea-eless tone,
For some sure knowledge of itsoien ?
We cannot blot them not
From memory's written page;
Wo cannot count Ih m -trangers —but,
As birds in prison cage,
We beat against tho iron bar
That keeps u- from tb>-e friends afar.
Oblivion may not bang
Its iu tain o’er their grave,
There is no water we can sip,
Like Lethe's lulling wave ;
But fond affection's m ailing wail
Bieaks from us like the autumn gale.
Grief cannot win them bn‘ k ;
Ami yet with frequent tear,
We question of their hidd n lot
And list with throbbing car,
For some low answer that may roll
Through the hush’d temple of the soul.
IIV love them —love them vet!
But is our love returned !
Is memory’s hearth now cold and dark
Win.re once the heart-fire burned I
Nor do the laborers now go e Lome,
Look lor the weary ones to . ume 1
We wrong them by the thought;
Affe tions cannot die;
Man is still man where'er he goes,
Ad oh I how strong the tie
\\ li ch hinds us, as with fetters fist
Into the future and the past!
Death would lie dark imlc and,
If, with this mortal shroud,
We threw off all tho sv mpathies
That in onr being crowd,
And entered On the spirit land.
A stranger, mid a stranger-band.
Far pleasanter to think
That each familiar face,
A'me gases on us as of old,
From its mysterious place,
With love, that ne.ther death nor chango
Hath power to sever or estrange.
Oh, who will dare to say,
“ To is is an idle dream 1”
Who that iiath given one captive dove
To soar by its own stream,
But fancies that its breathings low
Float round them wheresoe'er they go 1
Oh no! it cannot he,
Ye ! the long lost of years.
Mid all tlie changes of tUuii.fc,
It’ thousa <1 jo vs an ’ feir J ,
Wo love to think that round ye move
Making an atmosphere of love.
Ye are not dead to as;
Jiut as b i.irli! stars unseen,
We hold that yo arc ever near,
Th< ugh death intrudes between
Like some thin cloud that veils from sight
The countless spangles of the night.
Your influence still is felt
In many a varied hour ;
The dewy morn brings thoughts of you;
IV give the twilight power ;
And when th” Sabhath sunshine rests
On your white tombs, ye fill our breasts
No apathy has stnu k
Its ico-bo!t through our hearts;
Yours arc mno g our household names,
Your memory n ‘er departs,
And far. far sweetest aro the fiowors
Ye pi voted in our f ivor'd bowers.
S £ 11 IS ill If J ‘Jr il £ *
USEFUL HINTS.
To Remove Marks from a Table - —ls :v
whitish mark is left on a table, by careless
ly setting on a pitcher of boiling water, or
a hot dish, pour some lamp oil on the spot,
and rub il hard with a soft cloth. Then
pour on a little spirits of wine or Cologne
water, and rub it dry with another cloth.
The white mark will thus disappear, and
the table will look as well as ever.
Vinegar from licets. —lt is stated that the
juice ofone bushel of sugar beets will make
from live to six gallons of vinegar, by
washing, grating, expressing and exposing,
two weeks to the air in the barrel, with a
gauze-covered bung hole.
Dried Apples. —Some varieties being
much more tender in their texture Ann oth
ers, dissimilar kinds should be kept sepa
rate, to prevent one portion stewing too
much, while another remains bard.
Shrinking of Flannel.- -Enclose new
flannel in a bag : put it into a boiler with
cold water; heat and boll it. It will nev
er shrink after this operation, and should
then be made up into garments.
New Earthen 11 are. —lt is a good plan
to put new earthen’ ware into cold water,
and then let il heat gradually until it boils,
—then cool. Brown earthen ware in par
ticular may be treated in this way.
Batter is improved by working the sec
ond time after the lapse of twenty-four
hours, when the salt is dissolved, and the
watery particles can be entirely removed.
Charcoal ground to powder is one of the
i best things ever discovered to clean knives.
—This is a late and valuable discovery.
To Set Colors. —An ox’sgall willsetany
color—silk, cotton, or woolen. I have
seen the colors of calico, which faded at
one washing, fixed by it.
Cement for Pipe Joints.—2>lix. equal
’ parts ot white and red lead with as much
linseed oil as will make it into a paste.
GEOLOGY OF CHARLESTON.
That ihe citv of Charleston, South Car
i olina, is built on geological formations iden
| ticai in age, and in other respects similar to
; those upon which the great cities of Lon
; don and Paris, are located is a curious fact
but lately ascertained. The basin, shaped
1 depression of its underlying calcareous and
j other beds, as determined in the last survey
! made by Professor Tuomey, occupiesacon
| siderable extent between the Savannah and
Pedee Rivers, and rests upon an oldergroup
of rocks known to geologists as the Creta
ceous formation. The sides of this base
! are estimated to be of sufficient inclination
to produce those artificial fountains, which
are procured by boring, and known as ‘Ar
[ tesian Wells,’ through which, by hydro
| static pressure, the water is forced up to, if
not above the surface. This basin is des
tined to become famous in the eyes of the
scientific world as that of Paris, from the
number of new and interesting fossil re
mains with which it abounds, while those
of them exhumed claim for it a
rank above that of the London basin. The
explorations already ma te have brought to
light portions of the bones and grinders of
the Mastadon and numerous testacea. De
scending below thePostplio-cene formation
where these are found, is the Eoceno or
! lower Tertiary, the first stratum being an
i olive colored pea'y substance, resting upon
another of sand that separates it from the
| great marl bed below. This stratum con-!
I tains a quantity of water, which, in the bo- j
1 ring of the Artesian well, rose in the tube \
j to within 6 feet of the surface, and greatly I
| obstructed the progress of the auger by fil- j
ling it with quicksand.
; Imbedded in the peaty substance before j
, mentioned are numbers of rolled and water j
I worn rocks of all sizes, from a few inches j
i to a foot in diameter, in which are found
i the same form of fossil as are seen in the j
j great marl bed below—whereof, doubtless, j
these arc fragments, broken olf by the ac
tion of the sea and rolled into boulder like j
like masses, their nature changed by chem- 1
ical process, whereby nearly all the lime
has been extracted, and the cast of the
shells are left preserved in a silicious rock
emitting \<*hcn broken a ftrtid odor. The
strata—the cause of whose separation anil
separate deposite yet remains to be deter
j mined —including the first ten feet of the
underlying marl, may be properly called
t ‘Zeuglodols,’ or ‘Basilosaurus’ bed of the
Charleston basin, which Prof. Agassiz has
pronounced the ‘richest cementery of ani
mal remains that he has ever seen.’
New Wat to Make Red Hot Shot.
—The Glasgow Chronicle (Scotch paper)
mentions a peculiar and apparently most
j valuable mode of obtaining red-hot shot for
| large guns, recently invented in that city
by a Mr. Scouller. The invention consists
in filling the hollow shot with a highly
combustible powder. Two or three fuse
holes are made in the shot, so that, when
fired from the piece, ignition takes place,
and the shot is made red-hot before it ar
rives at its destination. In that witnessed
by the editor, the shot, which was about
two inch* and a half in diameter, was sim
l ply laid on the ground, and the composition
ignited by a light applied to the fuse-hole,
j Violent combustion immediately ensued,
liquid fire appeared to stream from its three
fuse-hols, and the metal became quite red
hot in a few seconds. The composition
will burn under water, and is said to be ea
sily made.
Freaks of a French Chemist.—M.
Boutigny, the author of the experiment of
making ice in a red-hot crucible, divides or
cuts with his hand a jet of melted metal, or
plunges his hand into a pot tilled with in
candescent metal. No precautions are ne
cessary to preserve it from the disorgani
zing action of the incandescent; only have
no fear, especially if the skin be humid,
and pass the hand rapidly, but not too rap
idly, through the metal in full fusion.
There is no contact between the hand and
the melal ; the hand becomes insulated ;
the humidity which covers it passes into
the spheroidal state, reflects the radiating
caloric, and does not become heated enough
to boil. M. Boutigny has often repeated
the apparently dangerous experiment in
lead, bronze, etc., and always with suc
cess.
New Mode of Telegraph Writing.
—Mr. Johnson, of Oswego, is exhibiting at
the Merchants’ Exchange, New York, a
new apparatus for communicating bv tele
graph. The Tribune says:
“It uses shot, or the dropping of shot,
to make marks, indentations or signs, on a
white sheet of paper. Mr. Johnson uses
the common motive power of electricity to
drop his shot, hut when the shot are drop
ped, another very simple arrangement
makes with them the mark on paper.
These shot return in a revolving wheel,
and thirty of them make all the signs ne
cessary. The machine is patented.”
A new invention at Philadelphia is
that of “ Hyalotype, or the art of taking
portraits on glass.” From one any num
ber of pictures may he tffken, and at less
expense and time than Daguerreotyping.
i? ©llf
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
NIGHT—A FRAGMENT.
Night's sahlc curtain now is slowly veiling,
Earth's beauteous face from gaze of mortal eye;
The last faint glow upon the h 11s is failing,
And fade Day’s foot-prints on the western sky.
The birds are still—their vesper-anthem bushing.
Each hides his head beneath hi- glossy wing,
Forgetting notes which late, in gladness gushing,
Burst forth like water from the mountain spring.
All. all beneath yon azure doom corns sleeping,
Wrapp and in the vestments of ol 1 vious night,
While r.r iihm-r, trie ?Mcnt star 3 arc!: ‘Oping
Their everlasting watch in halls of light.
Each world its own unchanging coarse isholding;
Earth’s tired s ok the h ills of slcip,
To rest in peace, until, lie gate- unf- l ling,
Aurora comes from o’er the eastern and ep.
Jacques Joi rnot.
Athens , Ga.
T U IL! U ill £li li l£j ‘i* o
HYDROPATHY.
Take a linen sheet,
The higher *tis, the better, —
Wrup yourself up w 11,
Aid plunge into the water.
Any water’ll do,
Grot ui, s a, or cistern ;
Kach should make a choice
Which suits best his turn.
Wh n you’re fairly soaked,
if you don't feel better,
Take a generous sliow r bath
An l got a little wetter.
Touch no wine nor gin,
Hut gallons of coid water, —
You’ll bo bt tter soon,
If you ain’t you o'rt to.
DEGREES OF COMPARISON.
General Taylor is a “great” man, hut
a piece of perforated tin with which you rub
nutmegs on is a “grater.”
The late President was “Polk,” but a
fire-iron is a “ poker.”
The U. S. Treasury has a “column”
front but the General Post Office has a
“ Collamer.”
Villers was a “ Beau,” but a male pig
is a “ hoar.”
len thousand dollars is a large “ sum”
hut we have spent a “ summer,”
Two pints make a “quart,” but two
bits make a quarter.”
The Czar of Rusia is “Nicholas,” but
the Devil is -Nick, alas! sir.”
A useful appendage to a vessel is a
j “ mast,” but her commander is a “ mas
ter.”
New York is a “ port,” but an officer in
the Rilles is “ A. Porter.”
A United States Paymaster is “Kirby,”
ala ly with her dog has a “cur-by-her.”
Queen Elizabeth was a good “ Bet,” but
play “monte,” and you're a “better.”
Twelve o’clock, p. m. is “night,” but
saltpetre is “ nitre.”
1 wenty-six letters in English make an
“Alphabet,” but two it) Greek are “Al
: pha Beta.”
Dr. Bragg’s universal specific is “one
general pill,” but there is “ one General
| Pillow.”
A tale of fiction is “a story,” a town
on the Columbia is “Astoria.”
The Maelstrom is a great “ suck,” but
an Illinoian is undoubtedly a “sucker.”
An industrious insect is the “bee,” Phil,
adelphia ale is “ beer.”
A serpent is a “ subtle ” reptile, but
John L. is a “ sutler.”
A conspicuous object on a steamboat is
a “ bell,” the Queen of Spain “ Is-a-beU
la.”
A Camanche is a wild “ Indian,” the
East bank of the Wabash is “Indiana.”
The Emperor of Russia's a “ Czar,” but
the great desert is “ Zahara.”
Mr. P. is a “Georgian.” the lovely Miss
A.’s a “ Georgiana.”
I like a potato that's “ mealy,” but pre*
fer a girl that's “Amelia.”
“ If juu sail in a vessel “ aft,”
The constables sometimes get “ aftor”;
But if born to be drowned on a “ raft,”
\oil'll never bo hung on a “rafter.”
N. Y. Spirit of the Timet.
One of Swift’s Jokf.s. —Dean Swift*
was going, one dark evening, to drive with
some great man, and was accompanied by
three other clergymen, to whom he gave
their cue. They were all in their canoni
eals (robes.) When they arrive at the
house, the coachman opens the door and
lets down the steps. Down steps the
Dean, very reverend in his black robes;
after him comes another person equally
black and dignified; then another; then a
fourth. The coachman who recollects
taking up no greater number, is about to
put up the steps, when another clergyman
descends. After giving way to this other,
he proceeds, with great confidence to toss
up the steps, when lo! another comes.
Well, there cannot, he thinks, be more
than six. He is mistaken. Down comes
a seventh, then an eighth, then an ninth—
all at decent intervals; the coach in the
meantime, rocking as if it were giving
birth to so many demons. The coachman
can conclude no less. He cries out, “The
divil! the tlivil!” and is preparing to run
away, when they all burst into laughter.
They ha 1 gone round as they descended,
and got in at the other door.
A Man Without a Hope.— The late-
Joseph C. Neal, in his limning of “Tribu
lation Trepid, a man w ithout a hope,” thus
admirably hits oil that class of people, who
are never so happy as when they are mis
erable :
“How are you, Trepid? How do you
feel to-day, Mr. Trepid !”
“A great deal worse than I was. thank
'ee; most deal, 1 am obliged to you; 1 am
always worse than 1 was, and I don't think
1 was ever any better. I'm very sure, any
how, I’m not going to be any better; and
tor the future you may nlway o ltno>T I’m
worse, without asking any questions, for
the questions make me worse, if nothing,
else does.”
“Why, Trepid, what’s the watter with
you ?”
“Nothing, I tell you, in particular; but
a great deal is the matter with me, in gen
eral; and that's the danger, because we
don't know what it is; that's what's kill*
ing me. My great grandfather died of it,
and so will I. The doctors don't know,
they can't tell; they say lam well enough,.
when I am had enough, so there’s no help.
I'm going off, some of these days, right af.
ter my grandfather, dying of nothing in
particular, but of everything in general*
That's what finishes our folks.”
Curiosities.—-A tooth extracted from
the mouth of Fall Creek.
The latch of a snail’s gait.
A fence made of the railing of a scolding
wife.
The chair in which the sun sets.
A garment for the naked eye.
Brass nails from an elephant’s trunk.
The hammer which broke up the meet
ing.
The buckle to fasten a laughing stock.
The animal that drew the inference.
Eggs from a nest of thieves.
A fair lady to whom the poet Santeuil
owed a sum of money, tnet him one day
and a-ked him why he did not visit her as
formerly.
“Is it,” said she, “ because you are in
my debt ?”
“ No, madam, that is not what prevents
me ; hut you yourself are the cause that
you are not paid 1”
“ How so 1” said the lady,
“It is,” continued the poet, “because
when 1 see you 1 forget everything else.”’
&a3'"lla! —ha!—ho!—ho! —’Twas night
—darkness had covered the streets of Wil
mington, Delaware! —a pale, ghostly 1 ant
ing figure was seen!—He was threading
his way through one of tire public tho
roughfares!—Ha!—what strange form is
that! —whence comes he I—lndeed, do not
my eyes deceive me ?—ho ! —ho ! —ho! —
‘Tis him! —he’s on his way to the hall to
deliver a lecture ! — 'tis George Lippard!
An Original Will.—The following is
a copy of a will left by a man who chose
to he his own lawyer;
This is the last will and testament of me,
John Thomas.
I give all my things to my relations, to.
be divided among them the best way they
j can.
N. B.—ls anybody kicks up any row,
I or makes any fuss about it, he isn't to have
; any thing.
(Signed by me, John Thomas.
♦ -40- *■ ——
Ji'ST So.—The Illinois Register has a
poet in its employ, who thus embodies a
| common sentiment in untying verse:
“ I’d ruthcr be a bachelor,
And have a good time, may be,
Than have a buxom, healthy wife,
I And not one little baby.”