Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

AUGUSTA WASHINGTONIAN. VOL. ll.] Che EEasftCncjtonCnn WILL BE PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY HORNING, BY JAMBS MeLAFFERTY, At the low price of one dollar per annum, for a single subscriber, r ve dollars for a club of »i», or TEN dollars for a club of twelve sub scribers—payment, in advance. Advertisements will b ■ inserted at the follow ing reduced rates : —For one square, not ex ceeding twelve lines. 50 cents for the first 1 insertion, and twenty-five cents for each con tinuince, if published weekly; if semi-monthly 37}; and if monthly 43} cen'.s, for each con tinuance. Yearly aJvertisess 10 per qt. discount. . i i • Loams’, Subsoil Plowing.—We have had several inquiries as to subsoil plows, the method of using them, and the advantages resulting from their employment, and we propose to throw into one article, the an swer of these several topics. There are few things in the march of agricultural improvement, that have with in the last few years excited more atten tion than that method of ameliorating the soil called subsoil plowing. It is well known to the farmer, that in ordinary cases the soil, or that part of the earth from which the vegetable derives its nourishment, does not extend in depth beyond the point penetrated by the plow, and this, being but a few inches, does not afford sufficient range for the roots, and is soon exhausted of its fertilizing proper ties. Where it is thus shallow, the soil, and consequently the plants, are more liable to suffer from drouth, or from ex cess of surface water, than where the roots have more room to penetrate, or where greater facilities are afforded for the discharge of water. It is to give a betler seed bed, provide a moie extensive range for the roots of the cultivated plants, and guard against excessive drouth or moisture, that subsoil plowing has been introduced. As it is requisite the subsoil plow should penetrate to a much greater depth than the common plow, and into earth that had not before been stirred, it is evi dent a powerful implement and a strgng team would be required. This would be the more necessary, if it was intended to bring this subsoil earth to the surface, by reversing the order of position, as is done when the surface is turned over bv the common plow. Rut it is not intended or desired to bring this newly stirred earth to the surface ; the subsoil plow is used only to break up this dense compact earth, and lender it porous and permea hie, while its comparative position re inaius unchanged. Still the subsoil plow must be heavy, strong, and of the best materials and workmanship, or they will fail under the hard trials to which they must be exposed. The first English sub. soil plows were, however, much heavier, and consequently more clumsy and un wieldy than experience has proved to be necessary; and though those at present used there, are lighter and better than formerly, those imported have been found heavier than was required for the gener ality of our soils, and thoso that have been manufactured in this country, have been of a still lighter and more portable cast. At first not less than six horses were deemed necessary to work the sub uoil plow, and frequently eight were used; now four are considered sufficient for all ordinary soils, and three good I horses will subsoil to the depth of 18 inches any soil of the less dense and ton acious kind. The worst soils, or those that require the most force, are clays in which pebbles are imbedded, or the com mon hardpan of farmers; and next to this is pure clay, which is always difficult to move. In using the subsoil plow, experience has shown that the best method, the one which is the easiest for the team, and! which moves and breaks up the soil the ! deepest and most effectually, is to pre- i cede it with a common plow, which will | invert the sod or surface to the depth off six or seven inches. In the furrow made by this plow, and following it, the subsoil ; plow passes, penetrating the earth to the ; depth of from twelve to fourteen inches, j! and breaking up or crumbling the earth to that depth. A new furrow slice is by ' the common plow turned on the work ' done by the subsoil one, and this process ' is followed until the field is finished. It I is always better to use a team sufficiently i' strong to do this work easily, than from ( the want of power, to compel the animals i used to a constant severe exertion of t their strength. t On the first introduction of the subsoil a plow, it was supposed that it would pre- r & jFumftH© spajfflxnr: SWmdW to ©rmjpmm©?, 3®tewtUsiMWM j vent the necessity for draining soils; J but experience showed that in many ca-! ses, and particularly on retentive clay I ones, lying level, and having hut an im perfect natural drainage, the subsoil plow aggravated the evil it was in part intended to remove. It was found that on such soils, the water falling upon the , surface did not flow off as readily as be fore; the broken up earth retained it in j greater quantities, and to greater depths, and the further operations of plowing and tilling converted it into a quagmire or rather mortar bed of the worst kind. On all retentive soils, it has therefore come to bo considered a settled point in husbandry, that draining should precede subsoil plowing, if it is expected to derive : the greatest advantages from its use. It is not necessary that the drains should be as numerous as where this mode of plowing is not adopted, but should be so arranged as to accommodate the natural flow of the water, and of a depth suffi cient to preserve their coverings from the j action of the plow. With drains thus ar- i ranged, the water which sinks into the soil broken up by the subsoil plow, is not retained, but passes off readily, giving a dry, and consequently warm and friable soil to the depth penetrated by the imple ment. It is well known that the value of a soil can usually be determined by its depth. Subsoil plowing by rendering it accessible to the ameliorating influences of the air, and by permitting the descent :of surface manures for incorporating with the before sterile earth, secures the j depth so desirable for the perfect cultiva- J tion of plants. Many years ago, before j the subsoil plow was invented, Judge | Powell of Pensylvania, said that by in | creasing the depth to which the plow pen | ctrated, at each course of rotation in culture he had brought some lands natur ally shallow, to have a depth of excellent soil of fourteen inches. Wheat rarely or never freezes out of soils so well drained, and so friable as to allow the roots to pen etrate freely to this depth, and the drain and the deep plowing combined, have much lessened this to the English as well as American wheat grower, the worst dif ficulty they have to encounter. In almost every instance where we have known subsoil plowing tried in this! country, it has been highly successful, j and where it has partially failed, it may, we think, bo mostly attributed to the cause we have mentioned-—not attending to a proper drainage of the ground. In the country generally, we can hardly ex pect farmers to adopt methods of farm ing which will add materially to the cost ot production: distance from market and cheapness of land combine to pre vent this ; but in the neighborhood of ci ties. or the vicinity of good markois, where it is desireable to give the soil its greatest degree of productiveness, with out regard to the expense, the subsoil plow will be found an important auxili ary. That its use will continue to spread as its me. its become known, is scarcely to be questioned, and on the best culti vated farms of the interior, the subsoil plow is now frequently met with. Subsoil plows of excellent workman ship, and constructed on the most ap-1 proved principles, are made in great numbers by the firms of Rugglcs, Nourso & Co., Worcester, Mass., and Prouty & Mears, Boston. They are to be found f at most of the Agricultural implement I and seed stores of the country, and de* serve the attention of farmers generally. Soap Suds for Manure. —There is no better manure than dirty soap suds ; and there is not a farm house in the coun try, but what produces enough of it in the course of a year, to manure a garden, two or three times over. Dirty suds, af ter washing, aro almost universally thrown into the nearest gutter, to bt washed away and wasted. Would it no: be an improvement, and show a laudable economy in the good woman of the farm house, to have it conveyed to the garden to enrich the ground, and make vegeta bles grow more luxuriantly ? The pot ash, the grease, and the dirt, all of which are component parts of soap suds, are first rate manures, and should always be applied to make plants grow, and es pecially when hard times are loudly com plained of, and sound economy is the order of the day.— Farmer's Cabinet. The Cut Worm. —The Germantown i Telegraph states that Mr. Isaac Newton of Delaware county, Pa., has discovered i what is considered a certain remedy for the ravages of the cut worm. He has I tried it several seasons, and in all cases t with entire success. It is simply by i mixing fino salt ■with plaster, in the pro- a AUGUSTA, GY. SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1843. portion of one quart of salt to four quarts of plaster, and applying it to the corn after it has coine up. Care must be ta. ken not to sprinkle the plant itself with the mixture. To DESTROY SLUGS ETON WHEAT.— jCollect a number of lean ducks; keep them all day without food, and turn them into the fields towards evening; each duck would devour the slugs much fast er than a man could collect them, and then get tat for market.— Nashville Ag. It has been remarked beforo the A me. rican Institute, that “ the revival of Agri culture commenced in Flanders, about seven hundred years ago. There the soil was little better than white barren sand ; now its increase is said to be twice as , great as that in England. The grand maxim on which the flemish farmer nets, is, without manure, no corn—without cattle, no manure—and without root crops, no cattle.”— lb. THINGS TO RE REMEMBERED. Horses should never be put to severe work on a full stomach. More horses j are hurt by hard driving after a full feed, ! than by a full feed after hard driving. If the farmer wishes to have his pork : ! barrel and meal chest hold out, let him ' | look well to his kitchen garden. Plenty l of vegetables conduce not more to health ! than to profit. In laying in a stock of winter fodder ' for animals, let it not be forgotten that a : little too much is just enough. Starving j animals at any time is miserable policy. As you treat your land so it will treat ! you. Feed it with manures liberally, and it will yield you bread bountifully. Avoid debt as you would the leprosy. If you are ever tempted to purchase on 'credit, put it off for three days. You ; need time for reflection. Never beg fruit, or anything else you can produce by the expenditure of a little time or labor. It is as reasonable to cx- I pect a man to give away the products of his wheat field, as of his orchard oy fruit j garden. | If you keep your sheep and cattle in | your meadows until June, don’t complain j next w’inter because you are compelled 1 to purchase hay for your stock. The man nvho uses good seed, has a ■: good soil, and works it in good season 1 rarely fails of having a good crop to re : ward his toil Never forfeit your word. The saying 1 j in truth, of any farmer, “his word is as ; good as his bond,” is worth more to him than the interest of 810 000 annually. ' —■ I dVJiISvQIEILLAIMItEtOim®, The following is the graphic account j which Mr. Fay gives, and we fear, alas, j it is too true a picture of an I American Duel. —“ You had better remain here, my good fellows,” said Frank, to the boatmen; “lio quiet, some of us shall want you in half an hour.” “Ay, ay,sir.” ; But those men were rather to much ! interested in the progress of the little | drama, to obey. Hastily mooring their ■ boat to a large stone, with eager feet they I stole noiselessly up after the rest of the ! party, who were too much occupied with other thoughts to pay them any attention, and planted themselves close to the scene iof action, where they could, with an un disturbed luxury, be spectators of this— in the nineteenth century !—fashionable, honorable, oft-repeated, oft-yet-to-be-re peated scene. We may all have an op. portunity of tasting like them, the ex citement which used to give Commodus and Nero an appetite for breakfast. ‘•Now Lennox.” said Randolph, in a low voico, his flippant manner entirely changed, “I understand you to assure me of your intention to fire to the best of jyour skill.” j “Certainly,” said Frank. “I have ■ not come here to play.” The parties now approached each oth er, and calm and courteous greetings were interchanged. The rifles were im mediately loaded, and the distance mea sured with deliberate and careful precis ion. The principals were ordered to their places and the pieces were handed to them. “ Any thing more, my boy ?” whisper ed Randolph. “Nothing,” replied Frank, with a smile. ] “ When I say three, gentlemen !” said the business-like voice of Randolph, as all < receded and left tho opponents planted upon the groen level lawn erect, silont and alone. i t There was one moment’s pause.— Randolph advanced to give the signal. “ One—Two—Three!” Each pieco was discharged as he spoke. Frank sprang into the air, and fell heavily to the ground, like an eagle which a skillful sportsman has brought from the clouds, while tho blue smoke rolled slowly off, curling away upon the dim morning light, and up through the green branches. All present rushed to the spot. The unfortunate young man lay extended at full length, writhing in great pain, and absolutely weltering in gore, which gushed from his breast and mouth. His eyes were turned inward in the convulsion of nature’s last appalling struggle. Glendinning, from whose faCo horror had drained every trace of color, stagger ed forward, and threw himself upon his knees, with clasped hands, gaping for breath. “Frank! Frank!” ho rather shrieked than said. But on catching a full view of tho face he stopped petrified and dumb. It was death he was looking at. The counten ance was undergoing a frightful change. A stream of blood, apparently exhaust less, continued to flow from the wound Wilson cut away the clothing in awful silence. Drops of sweat had burst out on the forehead of the dying man, who, with lustreless and broken eyes, sunken checks, the nose sharpened with the strain of great agony, was obviously un dergoing a last crisis. “Frank! Frank!” gasped Glenden ning, his hair rising with terror, “speak to me.” “ I. I, for”—but he could not proceed. “Doctor! save him! It’s nothing,” saidGlendenning. “He’sfainting. See, see! Doctor, quick! Why don’t you save him?” “The lung!” said Wilson in a low voice. “It has perforated the lung.” “My mother!” gasped Frank. “Tell her that—” He fell back. “ Now then, cried Whito, “ I hope Col. onel Nicholson will be satisfied.” “Poor devil J” muttered tho boatmen, “his jig’s up.” “Farewell, noble heart,” cried Ran dolph, dashing tho quick coming tears from his eyes. “Poor young fellow,” said White, look ing at his watch. “ Now, Glendenning we must be off.” “ Dead!” echoed Glendenning.aghast dripping with cold sweat, and staring at the outstretched strippling body and rigid countenanco, which had already assumed a marble fixedness. “Frank 1 Frank!” There wa3 no answer. There was no motion ; and he stood gazing on the dead face of his friend. Martha Washington— By Mrs. Si • gourney. —lt was in tho spring of 1759, that two gentlemen, attended by a ser vant, was seen riding through the luxu riant scenery with which tho county of New-Kent. in Virginia, abounds. Tho most striking figure of the group was a ■ tall graceful man, and apparently about twenty five or twenty-six years of age. He would have been a model for a statu ary when Romo was in her best days. ; His companion was an elderly man, in a plain garb, who, by the familiarity with which he pointed out surrounding ob. jects would seem to bo taking his daily rounds upon his own estate. As they approached tho avenuo to un antique mansion, ho placed his hand on the rein of his companion. “Nay, Col. Washington, let it never be said that you passed the house of your father’s friend without dismounting. I must insist on tho honor of detaining you as my guest.” “Thanks to you, my dear sir, but I ride in haste, the bearer of dispatches to our Governor in Williamsburg, which 1 may not brook delay.” “Is this tho noble steed which was given you by Braddock on the fatal field of Monongahela? and this the servant j which he bequeathed to you at the same j time ? Washington answered in the affirma tive. “Then, my dear Colonel, thus mount ed and attended, you may well dine with me, and by borrowing somewhat of this fine moonlight, reach Williamsburg ere his Excellency shall have shaken off his morning slumbers. “ Do I understand that I may be ex cused immediately after dinner?” “Certainly.” “ Then, sir, I accept your hospitality;” and gracefully throwing hirnsqjf from his chargor, he resigned the rein to his Eng lish servant, giving at the same time, strict orders as to the time when he must be ready with tho horse to pursue their journey. “I am rejoiced, Col. Washington,* said the hospitable old gentleman, “ for tunately to have met you on my morning ride; and the more so, ns I have some guests, who may make tho repast pass pleasantly, and will not fail to appreciate our young and valiant soldier.” Washington bowed his thanks and was introduced to the company. Vir ginia's far-famed hospitality was well set forth in that spacious baronial hall. Pre cise to his household regulations, tho social feast had closed at the time tho host had predicted. Tho servant also was punctual. He knew the habits of his master. At the appointed moment, ho stood with the horses caparisoned at tho gate; and much did he marvel, as listen ing to every footstep that paced down tho avenue, he saw the sun sink in the west, and yet no master appeared. At length order came that the horses should be put up for the night. Wonder upon wonder! When his business with the Governor was so urgent! The 6un was high in the heavens the next day, cro Washing ton mounted for his journey. No expla nation was given. But it was rumored that among the guests was a beautiful and youthful widow, to whose charms hist heart had responded. This was further confirmed bv his tarrying but a brief space at Williamsburg, retracing his route with an unusual celerity, and be coming a frequent visitor at the house of the late Col. Custis, in the vicinity, where, the following year, his nuptials were cel ebrated. Henceforth, tho lifo of the lady of Mount Vernon is a part of the history of her country. In that hallowed retreat she was found entering into the plans of Washington, sharing his confidence, and making his household happy. There, her only daughter, Martha Custis, died in the bloom of youth; a few years after, when tho troubles of the country drew her husband to the post of commander in-chief of her armies, she accompanied him to Boston, and witnessed its siege and evacuation. For eight years he re turned no more to enjoy his beloved residence on the banks of the Potomac. During his absence she made the most strenuous efforts to discharge the added weight of care, and to endure with change less trust in Heaven, continued anxietv for one 90 inexpressibly dear. At tho close of each campaign, she repaired in compliance to his wishes, to head-quar ters, where the iadies'of the general offi cers joined her in forming such society as diffused a cheering influence over even the gloom of tho winter of Valley.fbrgo and Morristown. The opening of every campaign was the signal of the return of Lady Washington, (as she was called in the army,) to her domestic cares at Mount Vernon. “ I heard,” said she, “ the first and the last cannon of the revolutionary war.” The rejoicing which attended tho surrender cf Cornwallis, in the autumn of 1791, marked for her a season of the deepest sorrow. Her only remaining child, Col. John Custis, the aid-de-camp of Washington, became during his ardu ous duties of the siege of Yorktown, the victim of an epidemic fever, and died at the age of twenty-seven. He was but a boy of five at the time of her second mar riage, and had drawn forth strongly the affections and regard of her illustrious husband, who shared her affliction for his lo6s, and by the tendercst sympathy strove to alleviate it. After the close of tho war, a few year 3 were devoted to the enjoyment and em bellishment of their favorite Mount Ver non. The peace and returning prosperity of the country gavo pure and bright in gredients to their cup of happiness.— Their mansion was thronged with guests of distinction, all of whom remarked with admiration, tho energy of Mrs. Washing ton, in the complicated duties of a Vir | ginia housewife, and the eleganco and 'grace with which she presided at her j nobla board. Tho Voice of a free nation, conferring on Gen. Washington the highest offico in its power to bestow, was not obeyed without a sacrifice of feeling. It was in the spring of 1789, that with his lady, he bade adieu to his tranquil abode, to an swer the responsibility of the first Presi dency. In forming his domestic arrange ment, ho mingled tho simplicity ol it republic with that dignity which "he felt was necessary to secure the respect of oidergovernments. The furniture ofhis houMv, the livsry cf his servants, th« [No. 3.