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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.”