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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