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had glanced under hi? left arm. completely’
shearing away that part of his linen shirt,
and revealing the naked breast, so that
his enemy would now see exactly where
to strike.
But why doth theenraged assassin pause
—turn pale —tremble as if he perceived a]
ghost from eternity ! One more thrust, and]
he might consummate his sixth murder! —I
What delays him ? He seems changed to I
stone at the sight of that bare bosom! —I
What is there to dread ! Nothing is therel
but §pme pounds of flesh, and ounces oil
blood, which the knife’s point can easily!
enter. But yes, there is something morel
—a white velvet skin covers that flesh —
hides that blood—and upon that skin gleams
the strange mother’s mark—the impress of
three ripe cherries! illuminated just now
by a flood of fresh sunlight. He recog
nizes his unforgotten son!
And now he shouts in tones wild enough
to wake the dead around him : “ Forbear !
Henry, forbear! lam your father !”
Beaufort hears tile words—misunder
stands their import—deems they refer to
Hume's relationship to Alice. The thought
maddens his brain already on fire. How
dares the wretch—her life’s torture—name
himself her father! For that he shall die
a million deaths, were such a thing possi
ble ! He cocks his other pistol, presents
it, pulls the trigger, and the deafening re
port is answered by the despairing cry —
“Oh my son!”
Hume falls with a bullet-hole in his
breast; but he still cries—“My son —my
son !”
The old man makes a final effort —his
breath is thick and short—the death-rattle
has begun to ring its knell; but he still
whispers—“ Henry, you are my son; 1
know it by the sign on your left breast —
have you not a similar one on your right
arm near the elbow ‘? let me see 1”
“ Yes—yes,” cries Henry in a scream
like the voice of a wild beast; while with
mad impatience he tears away his shirt
sleeve, and displays to the eyes of the mur
dered. unequivocal proof that the murderer
is his own son !
“My son, I have wronged you—l did
not know you—forgive me !” imploresthe
dying father.
“ Down to deepest h 11, with all my
curses,” shouts the raving son. “ For if
you be my father, then is Alice my sister.
But she shall never know it—never feel
the agony that I do now!” He picks up
trom the ground his other pistol—fixes on
the tube a fresh cap, and turns the yawn
ing muzzle on his own brain !
* The father sees the motion—divines its
purpose —realizes its mistaken cause—and
again endeavors to exclaim—“ Forbear!”
He would say—“ Stop Henry—Alice is not
my daughter—not your sister—your babes
are not children of incest: live and be hap
py !” He would, but cannot —the ice-spear
of death is in his heart—and the stifled
breath only moansand gurgles in his wind
pipe.
There is a bright flash, and deafening
roar—a blue wreath of smoke ; and the un
fortunate son lies a corpse beside the corpse
of his father!
But no beam of the sun becomesdimmer;
not a dew-gem trembles the moie for them
on the grass; the sky remains brilliant and
blue as ever; and all the birds in all the
groves of the earth “sing on.” Nature
gives no sign that she mourns the loss of
her children. Only a troop of ill-boding
ravens rise up from the cypress swamps
behind the city, uttering savage croaks as
they scent from afar their prey ; and the
rats with gray whiskers, and eyes gleaming
like fire balltcreep from their holes among
the hollow tombs, attracted by the smell of
blood !
Enough ! How dark are all the pages
of the book of life and death, to the soul
receiving no light from regions above the
stars. Shut the volume and lock the clasps!
It cannot be read here by this pale ray of
human reason ! Will the author himself
read it, hereafter, by the blaze of his mil
lion suns ]
JOHN C. CALHOUN.
The New York Christian Messenger , af
ter expressing dissent from some of Mr.
Calhoun’s views, thus speaks of him :
“In many respects Mr. Calhoun was a
great man, and one whose example is
worthy of imitation.
“1. He was an industrious man. He
was never given to frolic, dissipation, or
idleness. He devoted his time to his du
ties, or to preparation for them. He had no
hours to waste: and by using them proper
ly, he obtained the great influence which
he had over men’s minds.
“2. He was a faithful man. Having
-sstfsfied himself what were his duties, he
performed them without inquiring whether
men would be pleased or notnorwastheir
half-performance enough for him. When
made a Secretary of Government, he found
the office papers and accounts in great con
fusion. Those who had preceded him did
not deem it necessary to keep the affairs of
their department in order, or were careless
about it. But Mr. Calhoun set to work
faithfully to put them right, and he suc
ceeded : keepihg them in order, and so
leaving them to his successor.
“3. He was a sincere man. People al
ways fell sure that when Mr. Calhoun said
any thing, he meant what he said : and he
would speak his mind, although by so do
ing he made himself unpopular with the
greater part of the country.
“4. He was a pure man. Public men
too frequently give themselves up lo vices
of various kinds. But Mr. Calhoun led a
life of great purity. Not a whisper of sus
picion was ever raised against him. He
never encouraged men to be immoral by his
example.
“5. He was an honest man. Though
he had control of large amounts of money
belonging, to government, he was never
(suspected ot fraud, or of applying it to his]
■own use ; nor would lie squander the pub
llic funds.
I “6. He was an independent man. When!
Ihe had made up his mind with reference tol
■any subject, he did what he though right,l
leven if he stood alone, and friends and par-1
■ties opposed him. I
I “7. He was a courteous man. While!
Ihe was stern in his purposes, and earnest!
Ini expressing his views, he was careful oil
I the feelings of others. His course in pub-|
[lie and private life was such that no man
bad fewer personal enemies.
“8. He was a temperate man. He was
never knowh to indulge to excess, either
in eating or drinking.
These are some of the respects in which
I would have Mr. Calhoun viewed as an
example to youth.”
© r U I LS¥ ‘S £ ili ~
BOSTON, April 15, 1850.
FEASTING vs. FASTING.
Last Friday, that relic of our forefathers,
still preserved with so much care, the Go
vernor’s Fast, was observed in Massachu
setts. But not, oh! recreant man, with
the stern solemnity of our ancestors, who,
on such occasions, used to collect in their
churches, and, with fasting and prayer.’
offer up true orisons to the Most High.—
To be sure, many attended religious ser
vices, but—forgive me if I am uncharita
ble—it seemed to me a sort of pro forma
worship; and yet I have no doubt many
hearts were moved by the most divine of
sentiments on that day. The fact is, seven
eights of our people are either wilfully
perverse, or do not understand the mean
ing of “Fast,” for from morning to night
this city was all alive with joviality and
good living. At an early hour, those an
tipodes of sanctity, the “b’hoys,” like
their examplars or prototypes, the gamins
de Paris, had some fine runs “ wid de ma
schines,” and then, afterwards, with “fast
nags,” visited Porter’s and other drinking
houses in the vicinity. Five Theatreswere
open day and evening, in which thert were
two and, in some, three performances, while
the Operas, Panoramas, Dissolving Views,
&c., all had their quantum of visitors.—
One exhibition 1 have not mentioned in the
preceding list, and one too, which, from its
novelty, drew together a large crowd of ad
miring spectators. A soi disant brother
of Sam Patch, who styles himself James
Patch, Jr., gave public notice that at a cer
tain hour he should take a fearful leap
from the mast of a vessel lying at one of
our wharfs. Two or three thousand per
sons assembled at the time appointed.—
After taking up a collection, the youth
ascended about a hundred feet, and throw
ing down a broken plate, with a pistol in
each hand, sprang from his lofty position
into the water below, discharging as he
did so, both pistols into the air. Soon he
re-appeared upon the surface, and with a
triumphant air, held up the plate as a tro
phy of his success. It being one of the
coldest days we have had this spring, the
fellow truly showed great courage in mak
ing such a leap.
FOURIER FESTIVAL.
Those believers in the coming of a true
order of society, based upon Unity in As
sociation, who reside in Boston and vicin
ity, commemorated the birth-day of Charles
Fourier, on last Tuesday evening, by a
Festival. About two hundred guests were
present. The hall, a very large one, was
tastefully decorated with emblems of their
belief, so arranged as to be understood by
the initiated with all the clearness of living
truth. At one end of the room, tables
were spread, upon which were many vari
eties of flowers and lruits, such as roses,
orange trees in pots, Camillas, &c. Busts
of many great men of the past and of the
present were placed round the room, and
from the ceiling hung banners inscribed
with the maxims, “The Series distribute
the Harmonies, “ Attractions are propor
tional to Destinies,” “Universal Analogy,’’
and “ Universal Unity.” While to the
wall was appended the representation of a
golden harp, with seven strings of differ
ent colours, a symbol of the harmony ol
collective humanity when our interests
shall become integral instead of individual.
There were many works of art, mottos
and decorations, which I cannot now re
call. The exercises opened with music,
which was interspersed throughout the eve-
ning. The performance of the chorusses,
quartetts, trios, &c., selected from Rossini,
Bellini, Beethoven, Mendelsohn, Mozart,
and others, called out great applause.—
Speeches, toasts and refreshments followed,
and dancing closed the evening.
NEW TRAVELS IN THE EAST.
A friend, now on the shores of Greece,
in a letter from Turkey, gives a glowing
(description of what he saw in the Ottoman
[Empire. After speaking of Smyrna, the
Inarrow streets, quantity of fruits, &c., he
■ relates his adventures while on a trip to
iNalique, the country seat of Mr. L ,
(formerly a resident of Boston. For a
rarity, the weather, which, until then, had
been very warm and delightful, suddenly
changed and became quite cool. As is
well known, the Turks have no chimneys
to their houses, and so they build charcoal
fires in large copper dishes, over which
they shiver till they get warm. Mr. L ,
a true Yankee, by some hook or crook,
found an old portable range, and liking the
civilized mode by which heat is eliminated
much better than the barbarian method, he
fastened it upon his donkey, with all the
appurtenances of kettles and pans, and
then upon all mounted himself. My friend,
whose donkey was loaded with edibles.
Isuch as Maccaroni, fruit and bread, had
Imade up his mind for a fall, and so was
■ not surprised when his animal became
Ifrightened at some Turks that quickly ap
■ peared round a corner, and, kicking up his
Iheels, threw him with the bags and pack
■ages upon the ground. But praised be
liiiaii© 0 ©tanll o
■ Allah! he soon picked himself up but
Islightly braised, and after putting things to
■ rights, started again. They travelled on,
I passing Carravan Bridge, where werethou-
Isands of camels resting upon the banks, in
■order to be examined by the Custom House
lofficer previous to entering the city, their
Ipicturesque looking drivers reclining upon
■ mats, smoking,and drib king coffee—a pretty
I place called Diana's Bath—and some beau-
Itiful ruins, supposed to be the remains of
juncient Smyrna. After a while they came
to a river, in fording which Mr. L- ’s
donkey disappeared, leaving him floating
upon the surface. By dint of great exer
tions, our travellers succeeded in pulling
the animal out by the tail, and then went
on their way, rejoicing that nothing worse
had happened. Darkness soon came on,
and to add to their misery, they were com
pelled to travel an unfrequented road, and
one on which many murders had been
committed. The night was very dismal,
the wind howling mournfully through the
olives and cypresses, and flits of rain now
and then drenching them to the skin. But
all went well till they came to a shady old
burial ground, where ghastly turbaned
head stones peered out from the shrubery,
when a live Turk, armed cap-a-pie with a
gun, a belt stuck full of pistols, and a
I Irawn sword, sprangforth andcried “halt.”
[Of course they obliged. He demanded that
1 1 hey should give him five piastres to escort
them home and protect them from robbers.
After parleying some time, the terms were
agreed to, and they started again. In time
the company reached Naligue, when the
guide was dismissed, but he wouldn’t go
unless they would give him more money.
This time, however, Mr. L——— refused
him even a para, muttering with his re
fusal something about the Grand Pasha.
&c. The fellow look the hint and started,
first, however, threatening to turn robber
and murder them on their next trip up.—
My friend writes that beautiful ruins are
met with every where—finely chiseled cor
nices and capitals form the stepping stones
to nearly every brook. Mr. L ’s
residence is a large stone building, very old
and castle-like, and is almost hidden by the
orange trees and myrtle hushes, the latter
of which were in lull flower, as were also
roses and violets in profusion.
MULTUM IN PAIIVO.
Dr. Turkman again. A believer in that
secret knocking at Rochester, came to me
some evenings since, and with great seri
ousness said that the spiritual knocking
had commenced here, as had been foretold
by Mrs. Freeman, the clairvoyant—that
ihe spirits, when interrogated about Dr.
Parkman’s murder, knocked up something
about Littlefield, who, when called, I be
lieve my informant said, fainted—that the
whole affair was in the hands oftheSweden
borgians, who are not yet prepared to di
vulge any thing. Such is the latest phase
in the mystery.
The Town and Country Club is dead or
dying, Its lease of Life and Building both
expire the first of May. 0! Emerson, Al
colt, Parker, Lowell, James, which of you
killed cock robin !
There is no Literary news ot note. Mr.
Giles, who used to promenade our streets
quite often with Grace Greenwood, lately
married an Eastern lady, and so silenced
all calumny. Au revoir.
BOSTON IEN.
SSJLIHIMBA : JTYo
From “The Caxton’s,” by Bulwer.
THE BROKEN FLOWER POT.
The story which lollows, illustrating so
beautifully the lessons of truth and self-sa
crifice, we extract from the “Caxtons.”
My father was seated on the lawn be
fore the house, his straw hat over hiseyes
(it was summer) and his book on his lap.
Suddenly a beautiful delf, blue, white and
china flower-pot, which had been set on
the window sill of an upper story fell to
the ground with a crash, and the fragments
spluttered up around my father’s legs.—
Sublime in his studies as Archimedes in the
siege, he continued to read, “ Impaqidum
feriunt ruina /”
“ Dear, dear!” cried my mother, who was
at work in the porch, “my flower-pot that
1 prized so much! Who could have done
this? Primmins, Primmins!”
Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of
the fatal window, nodded to the summons,
and came down in a trice, pale and breath
less.
“Oh!” said my r mother, mournfully, “1
would rather have lost all the plants in the
greenhouse in the blight last May—l would
rather the best tea set were broken! The
poor geranium I reared myself; then the
dear, dear flower-pot which Mr. Caxton
bought forme last birth-day! Thatnaughty
child must have done this!” |
Mrs. Primmins was dreadfully afraid oil
my father, why, I know not, except that
very talkative, social persons are usually
afraid of very silent, shy ones. :
She cast a hasty glance at her master,
who was beginning to evince signs of at-|
tention and eried promptly, “No ma’am,
it was not the dear boy, bless his flesh, it
was I!”
“ You ! how could you be so careless I
and you knew how I prized them both.
Oh Primmins?” i
Primmins began to sob. j
“ Don’t tell fibs, nursey,” said a small,
shrill voice, and master Sisty (coming out!
of the house as bold as brass) continued
rapidly, “ Don’t scold Primmins. mamma, itj
was I who pushed out the flower-pot.”
“ Hush !” said the nurse, more frightened
than ever, and looking aghast toward my
father, who had very deliberately taken off]
his hat, and was regarding the scene with
serious eyes, wide awake. j
“Hush! And if he did bread it ma’am,
it was quite an accident; he was standing
so, and he neve: meant it. Did you, master
Sisty ! Speak! [this in a whisper] or pa
will be so angry.”
“Well,” said my mother, “I suppose it
was an accident; take care in future, my
child. You are sorry, I see, to have grived
me. There’s a kiss; don’t fret.”
“No, mamma, you must not kiss me, I
don’t deserve it. I pushed out the flower
pot on purpose.”
“Ha! and why!” said my father, walk
ing up,
Mrs. Primmins trembled like a leaf.
“For fun!” said I, hanging my head:
“just to see how you’d look, papa; and
that’s the truth of it. Now beat me, do
beat me.”
My father threw his book fifty yards off,
stooped down, an I caught me to his breast.
“Boy,” he said, “you have done wrong,
you shall repair it by remembering all your
life that your father blessed God forgiving
him a son who spoke the truth in spite of
fear. Oh! Mrs. Primmins, the next fable
of th.s kind you try to teach him, and we
part forever!” ■>
From that time I first dale the hour when
1 felt that I loved my father, and knew 7
that he loved me; from that time, too, he
began to converse with me. He would no
longer, if he met me in the garden, pass
by, and smile and nod ; he would stop, put
his book in his pocket, and, though his
talk was often above my comprehension,
still, somehow, I felt happier and better,
and less of an infant, when I thoughtover
it, and tried to puzzle out the meaning; for
he had a way of suggesting and teaching,
putting things into my head, and then leav
ing them to work out their own problems.
I remember a special instance with respect
to that same flower-pot and geranium.—
Mr. Squills, who wfs a bachelor, and well
to do in the world, often made me presents.
Not long after theevent 1 have narrated, he
gave me one far exceeding in value those
usually bestowed on children—it was a
beautiful, large domino box, in cut ivory,
painted and gilded. This domino box was
my delight. I was never weary of playing
at dominos with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept
with the box under my pillow.
“Ah!” said my father one day. when
he found me ranging the ivory squares in
the parlor, “ah! you like that better than
all your playthings, eh !”
“ Oh, yes, Papa.”
“You would be very sorry ifyourmam
ma was to throw your box out of the win
dow, and break it for fun. I looked be
seechingly at my father, and made no an
swer.
“ But perhaps you would be very glad,”
he resumed, “if suddenly oneof those good
fairies you read of could change the domi
no box in a beautiful geranium in a beau
tiful blue and white flower-pot, and that
you could have the pleasure of putting it
on your mother’s Window-sill !”
“ Indeed, 1 would,” said I half crying.
“ My dear boy, I believe you ; but good
wishes don’t mend bad actions, good ac
tions mend bad actions.”
So saying, he shut the door and went
out. 1 cannot tell you how puzzled I was
to make out what my father meant by his
aphorism. But I know that I played at
dominoes no more that day. The ilex’
morning my father found me seated by my
self under a tree in the garden ; he paused,
and looked at me with his grave, bright
eyes, very steadily.
“ My boy,” said he, “I am going to walk
to , (a town about two miles off,) will
you come! and by-the-bye, bring your do
mino box. I should like to show it to a
person there.” I ran for the box, and, not
a little proud of walking with my father on
the high road, we set out.
“Papa,” said I, by the way, “there are
no fairies now.”
“What, then, my child !”
“Why, how, then, can my domino box
be changed into a geranium and a blue and
white flower-pot V’
“ My dear,” said my father, leaning his
hand on my shoulder, “everybody, who is
in earnest to be good, carries two fairies
about with him—one here,” and he touched
my heart, “and one here,” and he touched
my forehead.
“I don’t understand, papa.”
“I can wait till you do, Picistratus!—
What a name!”
My father stopped at a nursery garden
er's, and, after looking over the flowers,
paused before a large double geranium.
“Ah! this is liner than that which your
mother was so fond of. What is the cost,
sir ?” j
“ Only 7s. 6d.,” said the gardener. My
father buttoned up his pocket. “I can’t
afford it to-day,” said he, gently, and we
walked out.
On entering the town, we stopped again
at a China-warehouse. “Have you flower
pots like that I bought some months ago ?
Ah, here is one marked 3s. fid. Yes, that
is the price. Well, when your mamma's
birth-day comes again, yve must buy her
another. This is some months to wait.—
And we can wait, master Sisty. For truth,
that blooms all the year round, is better
than a poor geranium: and a word, that
is never broken, is better than a piece of
del f.”
My head, which had dropped before,rose
again; but the rush of joy at my heart al
most stifled me.
“ I have called to pay your little bill,”
said my father, entering the shop of one of
those fancy stationers common in country
towns, and who sell allkindsofnicknacks.
“And by the way,” he added, as the smil
ling shopman looked over his books for the
[entry. “I think my little boy here can show
[you a much handsomer specimen of French
[workmanship than that work-box which
[you enticed Mrs. Caxton into raffling for
[last winter. Show your domino-box, my
[dear.” *
I produced my treasure, and the shop-
Ikeeper was liberal in his commendations,
i “It is always well, my boy, to know
what a thing is worth in case one wishes
to part with it. If my young gentleman
gets tired of his plaything, what will you
give him for it ?”
“Why, sir,” said the shopman, “I fear
we could not afford to give more than
eighteen shillings for it, unless the young
gentleman took some of those pretty thing
in exchange.”
“Eighteen shillings,” said my father;
“you would give that. Well, my boy,
whenever you grow tired of your box, you
have my leave to sell it.”
My father paid his bill and went out. I
lingered behind a few moments, and joined
him at the end of the street.
“Papa, papa!” I cried, clapping my
hands, “we can buy the geranium—we can
buy the flower-pot.” And I pulled a hand
ful of silver from my pocket.
“Did I not say right!” said my father,
passing his handkerchief over his eyes—
“ You have found the two faires !”
Oh! how proud, how overjoyed was I
when, after placing vase and flower on the
window-sill, 1 plucked my mother by the
gown, and made her follow me to the spot.
“ It is his doing, and his money !” said
my father, “good actions have mended the
bad.”
“What!” cried my mother, when she had
learned all; “ and your poor domir.o box
that you were so fond of! We will go
back to-morrow and buy it back, if it costs
double,
“Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus !” ask
ed my father.
“Oh, no—no —no! It would spoil all,”
I cried, burying my face in my father’s
breast.
“My wife,” said my father, solemnly,
this is my first lesson to our child—the
sanctity and happiness of self sacrifice;
undo not what it should teach to bis dying
day
And this is the history of the broken
flower-pot.
BUstf” Our lively and vivacious cotempo
rary, the New York Spirit of the Times,
came out in anew dress last week. It is
filled with good things, and is deserving the
great success which it enjoys.
Itey-A country editor very piquantly
remarks:
We do not belong to our “patrons;”
Our paper is wholly our own,
Whoever may like it, can take it,
Who don’t—can just let it alone.
US?* The young should be spared from
sorrow as much as possible. Never dim
the sunshine of hope and joy, so as to
leave them without even the memory of its
glory.
fifesT” A man’s self is often his own rob
ber. He steals from his own bosom and
heart what God has there deposited, and he
hides it out of his way as dogs and foxes
do with bones.
B®* Willis saysof Emerson’s audiences
in Gotham, that “from the great miscellany
of New York, they come selectively out
like steel-filing out of a handful of sand to
a magnet.”
Blear It is often very difficult to “ raise
the wind ” —but quite easy to raise a winder
(window.)
So says the Boston Bee. On the same
principle we suppose it easy to eat a shad,
but a shader (shadow) would not be quite
so substantial. — Richards’ Gazette.
We can read a Gazette with much plea
sure, but who can read a Gazeteer !
[Er shine Miscellany.
PATHETIC —A GEM FROM THE POETS.
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play 1
Pleased to the last, his flowery food he crops,
And licks the hand that cuts him into chops.
Purchaser—“ Are those apples fit
for a hog to eat ?”
Seller—“ Don’t know. Try them and
see.”
fifty"” Poets seldom make good astrono
mers. They are so in love with women,
that they can’t see any other heavenly body
even if they wish to.
fifty” The doctor who operates for catar
act, is going up to Buffalo, tasee if he
can’t do something for Niagara.
fi@“‘ No money have I got,
And none can I borry;
And great is my grief,
And much is my sorry.
j B&* A man who had lived much in the
[world, said that his acquaintance would fill
la cathedral, but that a pulpit would hold
[his friends.
| says: “Men begin with
llove and end with ambition.” Women
[begin with love and end with love.
B®“ California is described by Senator
Seward as “the youthful queen of the Pa
cific, in the robes of Freedom, gorgeously
inlaid with gold.”
B®” Pa, what is punctuation V
‘ It is the art of putting the stops.’
‘Then I wish you would go down cellail
and punctuate the cock of the cider barrel,|
as the cider is running all over the floor.’ p
B®“ Why is an infant child like a good]
soldier ? Because he sticks to the hr east-\
work.
“I’ll let you off easy this time,” as!
the horse said when he threw his rider into]
the mud. j
fifty”- Most poor matters point to richl
lends. [
IfSHE g&l&ISIBjBj_
From the American Agriculturist.
WHAT FARMERS OUGHT TO
KNOW.
Let us see what farmers ought to know
and do, to raise themselves to the charac
ter of professional men ; and what almost
any of them might accomplish in the long
winter evenings, at atriflingcost for books,
and a little more expense of hard thought
and attention.
A farmer ought to understand the leading
principles of chemistry. The soil he plods
among at the plow tail, is not a mere inac
tive mass, sticking to tiis shoes when wet.
and choking him with dust when dry. It
is a vast laboratory, full of many and
strange materials, always in action, war
ring, combining,changing, perpetually; to
day receiving accessions from the heavens;
to-morrow, pouring them into the wide sea,
to be again supplied to other lands. The
earth is all but a living creature; and he
whose business has been slanderously said
to be but “of the earth, earthly,” should
surely understand the soil’s nature, its ele
ments, its likings, and its diseases.
The farmer should understand physiolo
gy. Under his care, he has the noblest
forms of creation—the ox, the horse, the
sheep. Can he spend a life among them,
and not know how the heart beats—how
the nerves thrill—where lie the muscles—
what are the principles of action —and tin
seats of disease—how the fat grows —and
how the bones are formed ! Can he be a
breeder, who has never studied the pecu
liarities of races ! Can he be anything but
an empiric, who undertakes to feed and fat
ten cattle, without knowing of what the
food is composed, and what parts of the
body require this or that element !
The farmer should have a knowledge of
medicine, and of the elements of surgery;]
for though, in this respect, when applied
to human ailments, it may prove that “a
little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” yet]
many a fine animal is allowed to become
dog’s meat, because its owner could not
distinguish between a fever and an inflam
mation, set a bone, nor bandage a wound.]
The farmer should be a botanist. The
primeval curse of mother earth was, that
she should bring forth thorns and thistles;
and many other noxious weeds besides,
have since been added to her progeny.—
How great the amount of toil expended
and how serious the loss of crops, from
such plants as Canada thistle, burdocks,
turkey weed, and a host of others, let those
tell who have been the sufferers. Many
books have been written on such things;
many plans have been given for eradica
ting them ; but unless the farmer can dis
tinguish them—unless he knows their char
acter, histories, and modes of growth, how
unaided does he go to his task ! Besides,
botany, in all its shapes, is the natural sci
ence of the countryman. How does the
seed germinate ! How does the tender leaf
unfold itself! How is the blossom im
pregnated and the fruit formed ! What
will injure, what improve each plant ! All
these are questions which every farmer
should have studied and ascertained. And
can any one be content to spend a life in
ignorance of the names and characters of
the trees and flowers that are so gorgeous,
ly spread around him, painting his fields
and woods with their thousand hues, and
rendering this outward world a mass of
beauty ?
The farmer should be—or shall we say,
should wish to be—a naturalist. No one
has so meny opportunities of observing and
noting the habits and peculiarities of ani
mals, birds, and insects. In some cases,
this knowledge may be of inestimable ser
vice. It must always be a pursuit of plea
sure, and cannot fail to refine and improve
the mind and sensibilities, both towards the
inferior creation, and towards man.
But time would fail to tell of what the
farmer ought to know and understand.—
There is no knowledge which would not
be serviceable to him. There is none
which will not elevate him in the scale of
intellectual beings; and, what, perhaps, is
more important to many, there is scarcely
a physical science which he will not find
putting money into his pocket constantly.
How many limes in a life would a barom
eter save a whole harvest; how many
blacksmiths’ and carpenters’ bills may be
escaped by the humble knowledge of the
use of tools. Now, if our farmers would
but become self-instructors, and, instead of
doing just as their grand-fathers did before
them, they would think and learn for them
selves. No profession would become more
honorable, carry more weight in society,
nor be more ardently sought after by the
active and intelligent of all classes. In
stead of our young men rushing from the
country to the city, the city youths would
yearn to be farmers; and instead of the
chief emulation being who should save
most, the strife would be who should ac
cumulate the most by the profoundest ex
periments, most successfully carried into
practice. By these means, farming would
cease to be the mere drudgery of “dirty
handed industry;” and every operation
Kvculd become scientific, based on great
principles, breeding new thoughts and new
results, and ending in valuable acquisitions.
Instead of the poet describing the farmer as
lone who
|“ Wundcred on. unknowing what he sought
[And whistled as he went, for want of thought ’*
jwe should have farmers themselves diti--
Iguished authors of valuable works ; scien-
Itific, at all events, if not poetic. Some
Isuch great minds we already have employ,
led in farming, but unfortunately, that i 8
Inot yet the character of the class.
Michigan, Jan. sth, 1850.
r***mm*r
IMPREGNATING WOOD TO MAKfJt
INCORRUPTIBLE.
Major Hagner of the army, who has been
Imaking observations abroad, under direc
tion of the Secretary of War, appends a
very interesting paper to his voluminous
report, which we think deserving of the
special attention of ship-builders, as well
as those engaged in the manufacture ofar
tides in wood, and the construction of rail-
Iroads, &c. It is a discovery of a mode of
impregnating wood, and as this is a sub
lime! which has elicited a number of scien
tific experiments unavailingly, we deem it
of sufficient importance to subjoin his re
port, with the single additional remark, that
the Navy Department has given its atten
tion to the matter, and will order (if it has
|not already done so,) a fair test to be given
to the discovery, in the hope that it may
prove useful in the preservation of vessels
afloat, as well as those laid up in repair.
Major Hagney says :
“ At the National Exhibition in Paris, I
had the pleasure of conversing with Dr
Boucherie, and of seeing specimens of wood
impregnated with a solution of sulphate
copper, by his method. He confines the
application of it to soft woods generally,
and exhibited, among other articles, a work
box and secretary, made of a tree within
three months after it was cut, which proves
the wood well seasoned. The color given
by the sulphate of copper is quite pretty
and peculiar,being in reddish brown streaks
unlike the effects of painting. After var
nishing, the appearance is rich, and he
says, will be permanent. He shows a
block, sawed in three sections, but notdis
connected, which had been buried six years
in a fungus pit. It is of pine, and imme
diately after being filled, the two side sec
tions were impregnated (by means of the
natural action of the sap vessels of the
woods,) the one with the deuto-chloride of
mercury, (corrosive sublimate, and recom
mended by Kyan) 800 grammes, ot l-sth
per cent, strength ; the other with 300
grammes of sulphate of copper, of l-sth per
cent. The centre section was left in its
natural state. The block now shows the
portions which were left in the natural
state, and that impregnated with the corro
sive sublimate, equally and completely rot
ten, the fibre destroyed, and the wood
crumbling into dust, while the section mark
ed as impregnated with the sulphate is per
fectly sound and good. The Doctor says
that he has placed traverses and sleepers
|upon several lines of railway, and posts
[upon one line of electric telegraph for the
government, and that all are still sound,
though some have been in use for six
years. He receives constantly orders for
such work. For railroad traverses, the
price is from ten to twelve francs per me
tre, (cube) containing about ten traverses,
two and six-tenths metres long.
The solution costs about eight sous the
traverse, and handling about the same.—
The process is conducted in the woods, the
logs laid side by side, (the large ends cut
square by the saw,) and arranged in the
boundary lines of a square, inclining from
butt to branches. A trough, communica
ting with the reservoir, is carrried all round
the square above the butts, and small tubes
run from this to each butt, and in long
trees to holes about the centre of the trees,
thus expediting the impregnation. The
junction of the tube with the tree is care
fully packed with a piece of cloth. The
liquid advances through the tree at the rate
of about one metre in twenty hours, the
railroad traverses requiring forty-eight
hours. The drip, after passing througthe
wood, is nearly colorless. A saw-cut round
the tree, to the depth of the sap-wood, with
a piece of cotton tied in it, carries off the
drip from any part above it. This is led
back to the reservoir, and pumped up in it,
to be used again with new materials.”
1 Newly Invented Steam Wagon. —The
iGulveston Journal of the 15th inst. says:
|The committee appointed to ex'amine the
[newly invented steam wagon of Captain
IWoods, of Houston, report its cost, with all
[appendages, at SIO,OOO. It will weigh
[about twenty tons, and carry one hundred
bales of cotton at the rate of twelve or fif
teen miles per hour; but any size engine
can be constructed on the same plan, with
an effect proprtionate to its dimensions. It
is also the opinion of the committee, that
this engine would so consolidate the roads
that the rains would have no effect on
them. The inventor proposes, if desired,
to attach to the engine a machine for ditch
ing and making roads, capable of making
two miles of good road per day.
LITHOGRAPHY;
THE ART OF PRINTING FROM STONE.
The process of Lithographing is based
upon the fact that Printing Ink,being large
ly composed of oil, will not adhere to any sur
face which is wet with water. Every one
knows how utterly impossible it is to mix
oil and water. To Lithograph, then, all
that is necessary, is to draw on the surface
of a dry slab or stone, with a greasy cray
on, whatever is desired to be printed. A
weak solution of nitrid acid is then rubbed
over the stone, which fastenes the drawing
so that it cannot be rubbed off. After this
a solution of gum arabic is passed over the
surface, and then the stone is ready for
printing. By means of a sponge, water i s
now rubbed on the stone, and while yet w et
Ithe inking roller is applied. The ink of