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About The Southern field and fireside. (Augusta, Ga.) 1859-1864 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 20, 1859)
98 [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE POET THAT CAITT SING. TO MISS I am not a poet; I never have rung A strain from my lyre that would make me a name. But I've thoughts, I am sure, In my brain, that if sung Would win me a niche In the temple of fame. I list to the warbllngs of praise that the birds In gratitude raise to their Maker above, But I cannot translate them: too feeble arc words To express such a measure of honor and love. How soothing the sounds of the rustling breeze— Or the pattering soft of warm summer showers! How mournful autumn winds sigh through the trees, Bewailing the death of the beautiful flowers! The brooklet that dashes and foams on its waj, Makes wild babbling music that all must admire . The deep flowing stream breathes a tenderer lay— All Nature, to me, seems a musical choir. The soothing, the mournful, the gay and the wild In Nature’s sweet harmonies, all are combined; The lull of the stream, and the laugh of a child Touch chords that must vibrate in bosoms refined. There is poetry breathing from beautiful flowers. Exhaling from bright sparkling dew on the lawn. Ascending to Heaven in praise at all hours, From dawn until darkness, from darkness till dawn. Oh, were I a poet, most gladly I’d wreathe My thoughts into verse to meet thy request; But, vain the attempt! for iny rude harp can breathe But feebly the feelings that strive in my breast. Kanawha County, Virginia. • G. P. T. JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN. BY WM. W. TURNER. CHAPTER IX. “How is Mr. Warlock?” I asked of my father, one day. “His wound is entirely healed,” was the re ply, “and he is able to ride all ovor the country; but I am convinced he has some horrid secret preying upon his mind. Never have I seen a more haggard countenance than his. Indeed I believe he is partially demented, and that he will never entirely regain his health.” “You are sure that his wound has nothing to do with it, father ?” “Entirely sure except in so far as its bringing him so near to death awakened his remorse for his past misdeeds." “Do you think Jake and Joe have any idea of the existence of the will in your possession ?” “I suspect that they have.” “Then are you not still in danger at their hands?” “Hardly. Suppose they should kill me: that would not destroy the will. If the person to whom their father has bequeathed the property is known to them, he is in danger.” “So far as you are concerned,” said I, “they know very well that the whole community are apprized of their feelings towards you, and if violence is committed on your person, they could not hope to escape suspicion and punish ment." “Very true, Jack. Well, I think they are effectually cowed, any way. They would never have attacked me when they did but for the old man, and since he has undergone such a change, they themselves are not nearly so rampant as they were formerly.” “There is one tiling, though, I do not under stand, father.” “What is that?” “Mr. Warlock, it seems, executed that w ill | after he was shot down on that unlucky day.” I “Yes.” ' “And after he had become reconciled to you. and professed to have great confidence in your goodness and integrity.” “True.” “Why then did he did not have you present as a witness, at the time the w r ill was written?” “I did not understand it, at first, myself, and I am not sure that Ido now; but I ventured one day to ask the old man. He replied that at the time, he expected to leave the paper in the hands of the lawyer who wrote it, as ho did not wish to trouble me with the matter, but af terwards he concluded that I was the most pro per person of all his acquaintances to attend to the business —that this idea came across his brain while Ilartridge was WTiting, and he had my name inserted as executor.” “So H'artridge was the lawyer?” I asked. “Yes; luckily for the old man, an honest and close one.” My mother rapidly grew stronger and was soon enjoying her former health. Everything was going on smoothly, and I left homo for the University of Virginia. I had now neglected my books for a good while, and this abstinence had whetted my appetite for the food on which I naturally loved to feed; so I went into College thirsting after knowledge, and determined to do all that in me lay to gratify tho fond wishes and expectations of my beloved and indulgent father. Most of my time I devoted to the schools of Ancient Languages, Modern Languages, and Moral Philosophy. I was exceedingly fond of Belles Lettrcs and logic, and general literature. It was for the sake of these, that I attended the three schools mentioned. I also paid considera ble attention to physical science. Mathematics, I was exceedingly fond of, especially as connect ed with Logic, but the three schools just spoken of were those most constantly attended by me. I took particular pains, though, to exercise ray body, as well as my mind; to educate myself physically, as well as mentally. The idea of becoming a mere pale, attenuated book-worm was peculiarly distasteful to me, especially since I had heard my lather so often express his aver sion to the character. “My son,” he said to me, on parting, “if you do not wish to go to College, say so. If you wish to go, in order that you may enter on a course of idleness, and neglect of study, let me know. It is best to do this elsewhere than within the walls of a University.” “I have been candid with you, father,” was my reply. “You gratified my whim for a wes tern tour. You have ever been indulgent to me, and I shall now endeavor to please you by pursuing my studies with industry and avidity.” “I also tuought, Jack, that in this you would gratify your own tastes and inclinations.” “Your opinion is correct,” said I. “Books, for the next three or four years, shall be my de light.” “I would have you, though, take care of your health. Exercise your body. It is the worst folly imaginable—it is sinful —for a human being to destroy his physical health, the gift of his Creator, for the sake of a little extra book learn ing.” My father’s advice accorded so well with my own inclinations and .opinions that I deserved little praise for adhering to it. I have already mentioned the pains taken with my early educa tion. What I had been taught, I had learned thoroughly, and I had an excellent foundation on which to build my university superstructure. "BSCS BOWWBMM mO MM3 3fl®3iSl©3i e For my physical training. I was regular in my attendance on the school of gymnastics. At the time of my arrival, I had not a single acquaintance in the University, nor was I anx ious to form a great many; but lam sociable j by nature, and knew I must have some com panions, or pass a dreary time. Among the five hundred students assembled. I thought it would go hard if I could not find congenial spirits, with j whom to spend my hours of leisure, since these j were representatives from every section of the Union; from that where they “side-line the geese on Sundays,” to the one in which bowie knives and Colt s repeaters are as common as tooth-picks and jack-knives. For a few days, I tried at everj- opportunity, to form some idea of the character of my neigh bors, at recitation and lectures, by studying their physiognomy. One day at the gymnasium, I saw a young man with whose appearance I was most forcibly struck. When I first perceived him, he was leaning carelessly against a pillar, sometimes watching with a steady gaze the exercises going on, and sometimes looking abstractedly around the room. He was slightly above the average height, but not enough so to bq,called very tall, and his frame was one of the most symmetrical I ever beheld. His feet were small: rather too much so—his waist slender—his chest, over which his coat was buttoned, broad and power ful ; his hands delicate and white as those of a woman. No one, to look at those small, lily-wliite hands, would have supposed for a moment that they were capable of the vice-like grip which I afterwards learned they possessed. This young man’s hair was of a raven blackness, and, worn much longer than ordinary, it fell in natural ringlets. His face was of an almost preternatu ral pallor, but was exceedingly handsome. Each feature —the nose, mouth, chin —all were as though chiseled by the hands of a skillful sculp tor. So white was (I may almost say beautiful) his countenance, that by some it would have been pronounced effeminate; but around the mouth and in the coal-black eye, was an expres sion of sternness which convinced the careful observer that an indomitable will was there. It was difficult for me to decide whether fas-, tidiousness, cold self-possession, melancholy, or sternness was the predominant characteristic of the remarkable-looking person before me. In spite of the delicacy of his features, it was easy to perceive that lie was older than most of the students in the room, and long, drooping mous taches aided to form this conclusion. There was nothing of the youth in his appearance or man ner. The self-poised, confident and easy man ners of the matured man were his, to an extent I have seldom, if ever, seen surpassed. For a long time he stood, watching what was going on, or lost in abstraction, apparently per fectly unconscious that he was attracting obser vation from me, and I had an opportunity of studying his physiognomy well. At length he roused himself to take a part in the exercises, and when he divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, I was struck with still greater admi ration of his symmetrical figure; and when at one time lie bared his arm. I saw it .was a perfect model of strength and beauty. It is hardly necessary to state that he went through the gymnastics with the utmost ease and grace. So little effort did they cost him— even the most difficult —that it seemed they afforded no strengthening exercise to his mus cles. Everj' one stopped to see his performance, and general admiration was evident, but no one spoke to him. Finally he drew on liis coat and left the hall. “Who is that?” I asked of a student with whom I had formed a slight acquaintance. “Fitzwarren,” was the answer. “What Fitzwarren?” “Warren Fitzwarren.” “And who is lie?” “Havn’t I told you?” “Excuse me, Hunter,” I continued, “but that young man has excited my curiosity, and I wish to know him, and something of his history.” “Well, nobody here knows much of that. I don’t think he has an' intimate friend in the University.” “You at least know where he comes from ?” “I think he came here from T county.” “He is a Virginian, then?” “I don’t know, but I suppose he is. I have been here already two j-ears, but I understand Fitzwarren is a student of four years standing, and I have heard it said that he intends to reside here several years longer. I’ve told you, though, that he has no intimate. He rooms alone, and is not dissipated. He stands high with the professors, and must be a hard student. The only relaxation or amusement he allows himself in company with others, consists in gymnastics. In his rooms, though, he has masters in boxing, fencing, painting, and music.” “I should think, then,” said I, “he lias his hands full.” “Oh, he seems to learn every thing by intui tion. You saw evidence of his activity. He is said also to possess incredible strength, and to bo the best pistol-shot now extant.” “How old is he?” “I don’t knoto that, either, but I think about twenty-three.” “You say you know nothing of his history previous to his entering the Universitj’?” “Nothing.” “I would like to have an introduction to him.” “Then I will give you one, at the first oppor tunity. And by the way his rooms are not far from j-ours, but if you succeed in getting much acquainted with him, you will have accomplished more than any one else lias yet done.” “But what is his idea for remaining here ?” “I suppose he considers this a pleasant resi dence. He attends only two schools, now. — i Medicine seems to be occupying most of his at tention at this time.” “I should suppose, then, that he is studying with a view to practice.” "I think not,” said Hunter. “From what I can gather, he is too wealthy to need any thing of that sort. Tho fact is, lie always appears to me listless and indifferent, and, —1 tell you in confidence—remorsefid. I am not sure about it though, and I have no evidence except liis manner.” “You think, then,” I again asked, “that either a thirst after knowledge, or a desire to kill time, or both, constitute his motive for remaining here ?” “You have hit it exactly.” I saw that Hunter was a free-and-easy sort of fellow, with whom a stranger might venture to be a little familiar, so I asked: “And how the mischief did you find out all this, Hunter, if Fitzwarren tells nothing, and nobody knows anything about him ?” “Darn it!” was'the nettlesome reply, “I did not say I knew nothing about him, but that I knew but a little.’’ “I meant no offence,” I replied, laughing. “Oh, I am not offended, but, as the clown says: ‘you’re most too familiar on a short acquaint ance.’ ” “Well,” was my soothing answer, “I hope this familiarity will pave the way to enduring friend- ship. But really, and seriously, lam anxious to know how you picked up this information. It is not mere idle curiositj' which prompted the question, for although I never saw Fitzwarren till to-day, I think I have heard of him before. “I got mj' information, then.” said Hunter, “in the same way your are now getting yours— by dint of bare-faced questioning. ■‘The truth is,” he continued, “when I first saw Fitzwarren, two j'ears ago, I was about as much struck with his appearance as you were to-day, although he was then younger, and liis phiz was hardly so remarkable as it is now. I can hardly tell j’ou how I picked up the informa tion I have given j’ou, though I am well satis fied of its correctness. I am less sure, about the wealth, than the rest, but he certainly is possessed of a competencjv’ _ “He wears an appearance of great fastidious ness,” I again said, “and perhaps he will not wish an introduction.” “Pshaw ! I don’t intend to ask him. The first time I see j’ou in liis company, I shall give you a I knocking down ’ to him.” “Well, Hunter, under ordinary circumstances I would not consent to this arrangement, but I am too anxious to form this acquaintance to stand on ceremony." “Ceremony he hanged!" was the reply. “And I tell j'ou, Hopeton, I believe j’ou can worm j-ourself into Fitzwarren’s good graces, because you’ve got some of that devilish rapt manlier of his. You can look powerful cat-like when you wish.” “I acknowledge your compliment, was my polite reply. “But recollect I can see through you. You like a burst occasionally, and we’ll have some good times together. 11l introduce j’ou to some good fellows.” Nor do I pretend to say that I lived the life of an anchorite, while in college. Boj's will be boys, and I was nothing else. But this I will say, the most of my time was devoted to study, and I generally led a quiet life. It was not long before I received the promised introduction to Fitzwarren. I found him very po lite, but, as I expected, exceedingly reserved and distant. This was nothing, however. I was de termined to know him, and I felt all the confi dence in the result, as I was conscious wo pos sessed some tastes in common. I sought every opportunity to converse with him and succeeded in drawing him out rather more than most of his acquaintances could do. One day I was in a book-store., when Fitz warren came in and asked for a piece of music. It was just such as I should have said he would fanej’, being composed in a wild, weird, almost unearthly stj’le. However, tho music was not to be had, and he turned to go, with a disap pointed look, muttering something about “pre tending to sell mnsic, and keeping nothing a man wants.” It happened that I had the piece, and I called to him as he was leaving, telling him of it. “You are a musician, tlien, Mr. Hopeton ?” was the surprised and rather pleased reply. “ I play a good deal for my own amusement,” said I. ‘ “I was not aware of it; least of all did I sup pose you would fancy II Itisperato." “Go with me to my room, and I will loan it to you.” Arrived at my lodgings, I produced the piece. “Do you not play it?" asked Fitzwarren. “After a manner.” “Then please let me hear you." “I have heard, Mr. Fitzwarren that you are a most accomplished musician,” “and if I were disposed to be bashful, that would be a sufficient excuse for me to refuse compliance with your request; but fortunately, or unfortunately, if if you like, I have plenty of brass, so here is my rendering.” At the first notes, my guest threw himself on a couch, and seemed to resign body and soul to the mystic influence of the strange and thrilling melody. Tho music was new, though I had been in possession of it long enough to be per fectly familiar with it. I had recognized it at first as a piece of singular style and wondrous power, hut that evening I was more than fully imbued with its spirit than ever before, and it seemed to speak a language before unheard. The sun had gone down behind a cloud, and the room was growing rapidly dark—so much so that objects are becoming indistinct. Fitzwar ren laj’ on the couch, liis pallid features seen dimly, by the faint light straggling in at a west ern window, his cold mouth shaded by his raven moustachios, and his brilliant eye glistening and abstracted, from the influence of the wild con ceptions of the composer. I was gazing on him, as he appeared tho very embodiment of the •pirit shadowed forth in the piece 1 was playing, which seemed to inspire me as I had never been before. Wildly and more wildly I played, and more and more strange grew the expression on the face of Fitzwarren. When the last notes had died away, he still lay for some moments, as one entranced. Gradually, however, his calm, self possessed appearance came back. “This is the first time,” said he, “I have heard that piece, though I have frequently heard it spoken of, and have been told of its strange and singular character. As you played it, it fully comes up to my expectation." “ But let me hear you,” said I. “ Willingly. Wliat kind of music do you like?” “Never mind what I like. Play some of your favorites.” •‘ I like variety; but, however " He took the instrument, and with the first long drawn notes, I could perceive that he was a perfect master of it. First a slow plaintive melody stole over the strings; then it swelled into a loud, triumphant march; again it subsided into a low simple air, and anon it burst into a strain of the wild weird, style which IJ could perceive he most delighted in; or a dance of the most reckless, rollicking gayiety reveled over the strings. In short, Fitzwarren played a med ley, composed of the most varied and contending elements—full of gems, though, and displaying perfect skill and knowledge of music. Finally, he rose to go, and as he received the piece of music from my hands, “Come and see me to-morrow evening,” said he, “if it will not interfere with your plans of study, or pleasure. You and I have some tastes in common; as a fondness for music for instance; and I see on your shelves, some of my favorite authors—not very generally read by those of j-our age.” “I will be unengaged,” replied I, “at this time to-morrow evening, and will certainly call at your rooms. As you say, I believe we have some congenial tastes, and can enjoy each other’s company.” The reader can readily imagine that I very punctually fulfilled my engagement with Fitz warren. The day after that, we took a long walk together. He, like myself, made it a rule to take a great deal of physical exercise. When the weather was fine, we took long strolls, to gether ; at other times we practiced gymnastics or boxed and fenced. In all of these things he was far my superior, although I was unusually stout and active, for one of mj' age. Still, he was a matured man, and had tho advantage of long usage, while I had not yet attained my full amount of strength, and had not paid the same attention to these accomplishments that he had. As to that, however, there was not a student in the Universitj’ who could cope with him in manlv exercises of anj’ kind. I strove hard and, in the course of time, managed to attain at least sufficient skill to interest him in fencing, and some portion of every day we spent to gether. But still, lie remained a mystery. He would talk at times, freely, almost extravagantly, on any subject, except the one on which I felt most curiositj’—his past history. It seemed as if he had made a vow to say nothing concern ing his previous life. I thought, too, I could de tect evidence of remorse, but so slight, I was not sure of the correctness of my opiuion.— Perhaps I might not have formed such an idea, had not Hunter first suggested it. Indeed, when Warren Fitzwarren chose to be impene trable—which he almost always did—few could read what was passing in his mind. Time passed, with me, swiftly and quietlj’. _ I was interested in my studies, and pleased with the acquaintances I formed among the students, while my mysterious friend constantly excited my curiosity. The end of the term —that long term, for there is only one a j’ear at the Univer sity of Virginia—approached. A letter I re-. ccived from my mother, about this v time, will give the reader some idea of what was going on at home. I had. told my parents of my prairie acquaintance, Tom Harper, and his promised visit. “Not long since,” wrote my mother, “your friend, Mr. Harper, eame to see us. He is a no ble fellow, and I am pleased because j’ou know him. Never have I seen a gayer, more light hearted man; and lam glad he has an idea of settling in Georgia again. He has a small es tate in an adjoining countj’, which he has not seen in a great many years. There he intends to reside for a while, at least. It is verj’ strange, though, that he does not seem to consider any place as home. “Your father is as much pleased with him as I am. Mr. Harper spent several days at Ilope ton, and then set out for his ‘lodge,’ as ho calls it, promising, if he could so arrange it, to spend sometime with us, during your vacation. “Wo have engaged quite a pleasant party of ladies and gentlemen vo visit us at that time. I will mention their names: Col. Banks and his daughter, from Louisiana. You have heard of them, though j'ou never saw them. Miss Laura is a charming girl—at least she is a dashing belle, and will inherit a sugar estate, and all the appurtenances. Let me warn you, though, that she has the reputation of being a considerable flirt; so guard well j’our heart. “Mrs. Ilolmes you know, and Miss Morton. — They will be accompanied by Miss Morton’s brother. Mr. Edgar Morton, with whom you are also well acquainted. Os course your ‘Uncle Charley’ will be on hand, though he pretends he can hardly spare time for it. “But Jack, you have heard me speak of Kate Morgan—the modest, the wild, the mischievous, the dignified, the quiet, the spirited, the merry, the pensive, the fascinating Kate Morgan. I saw her in the woods around Tallulah, last sum mer, with sketch-book in hand, and was imme diately captivated by her beautiful face. I was in her company for several weeks afterward, and obtained a partial promise from her to visit me. A letter came the day before yesterday, inform ing me that she would be here very soon, if it was convenient to me. I immediately replied, and requested her to come at tho time appointed by the others. “Perhaps you maj- wish to bring a friend with you from College. If so, I will try to make his visit agreeable. “That unhappy old man, Mr. Warlock, is fail ing in health. Mr. Hopeton says Dr. Stubbs does not think ho can live many months. It must be, as your father says, owing to a troubled conscience; for j’ou know lie was remarkably robust, considering his age, and the physician is sure that his wound has nothing to do with his declining vigor.” The letter was a long one, hut the reader has all which can interest him. What my mother said about bringing a friend with me, decided my mind as to a point I had for some time had under consideration. I immediately resolved to invite Fitzwarren to spend part of his vocation with me. I had discovered this much —that he considered the University his home, and when he made short excursions from it, during vaca tions, it was to him as going/hm home. Although I had failed to learn any thing con cerning his previous history, I had satisfied mj’- self that he was, then, in spite of a great deal of unaccountable, mysterious eccentricity, a gen tleman of as good a heart as the most of man kind possess. Besides, in spite of his proud and disdainful reserve, I felt confident that some secret sorrow, if not remorse, was preying upon his mind. This, in addition to his lonely and isolated position, excited my compassion, and I felt anxious to do something toward relieving the gloomy monotony of his existence. Although he sometimes relaxed into affability abroad, and had numerous acquaintances among the students, the latter assured me that no one ever visited liis room but myself. Not a day passed that he and I did not exchange visits; and one evening I asked him to go home with me, at the close of the term. “You seem to care little for ladies’ society,” said I, “but if j’ou will go with me, I will show j’ou some of Georgia’s fair daughters, before whose charms all your reserve will melt away." “And why,” asked he, “do j’ou think I am insensible to the attractions of the fair sex ?” “I never hear you speak of them, though I do not lay much stress on that; but then I have several times urged you to go with me to call on ladies, and you invariably refused.” “That is true; but never were you more mis taken than in the conclusion you draw from this circumstance.” “I cannot see how this is so.” “Then,” said Fitzwarren, “it is precisely be cause I am too susceptible that I take care not to expose myself to love’s influence. With me ’loving is a painful thrill,’ to an extent of which you little dream; and therefore I avoid it” “And why painful?” I asked. “Because attended with the consciousness that I cannot hope to inspire love in return, and even if I could, circumstances of a peculiar nature forbid mo to indulge the tender passion.” “You cannot hope to inspire love!” said I, surprised. “It, seems strange to you, Hopeton. I look in the mirror, and see that my appearance is not very ungainly, though that is nothing, as Wilkes proved—but the consciousness is still within me. It may be morbid sensitiveness, but if so, it is none the less a part of my nature —of myself.” As to the last reason given by my companion, it was the nearest approach to an allusion con cerning his history I had ever known to fall from his lips, and I hoped he would go on to speak of it more fully, but ho disappointed me. “I would like well eno igh to go with you,” he again said, “but you spoke of ladies, and I suppose, from that, you are to have a party of gay friends at Hopeton. Now my gloomy and forbidding countenance would be like death’s head among them.” “No,” was my reply, “our guests will have sense enough to allow you to look as you please.” “To be sure," said Fitzwarren, “they would see but little of my phiz, for if I go, it must be on one condition: that lam left free to stay in my room, or wander in the woods, or in short, that I spend my time in my own way.” But that will not do,” ho continued. “He who goes into society renders himself amenable to its laws, and I have no right to ask for a suspen sion of those laws in my favor.” “But going to our house, Fitzwarren, is not going into society. At Hopeton, we understand true hospitality to consist in allowing each of our guests to amuse himself or herself in the way which seemeth best.” “It would be foolish in me to urge further ob jections, so you may expect to see me about the second week of the vacation.” “Can you not go with me ?” “No,” was the reply, and although, on watch ing his face narrowly, I could have sworn that not a muscle moved, nor did his color change, it seemed as though I could recognize the pres ence of some cruel and harrassing memory or spirit, with whom he struggled agonizingly, bnt silently and uncomplainingly, as if despis ing human aid or human sympathy. “No,” he continued, “I shall be engaged for the first ten days. It will be at least fourteen before I can go to Georgia." TO BE CONTINUED. C.ukats Fixe. —The term carat, or karat, orig inally designated an Abysiuian bean. Being very uniform in size, and undergoing scarcely any loss by drying, they came to be used as the standard of weight, in Africa, for gold, and in India for diamonds. Each carat was divided into four grains, of which seventy-four are nearly equal to seventy-two grains troy. This system of carats and grains is still used in the valuation - of diamonds. But in the case of gold, the term carat implies, not so much any actual weight, as a fractional weight, of which twenty-four go to make a unit. Twenty-tour carats tine expresses the unity of pure gold, and signifies, not the spe cific weight of any given mass, but only that, in the twenty-four imaginary parts into which it may be supposed to be divided, there is no alloy. The gold assayer takes his unit or integer six or twelve grains troy. This small quantity is most convenient for purposes of assay, and these particular numbers are used for convenience of the calculation. The six or twelve grains is called by English assayer, an assay pound, and is, by him, divided into twenty-four carats, and these carats again into quarters and sixteenths. The assayer of silver takes eighteen to thirty-six grains troy for his assay pound, and divides it into twelve ounces, each ounce into twenty pen nyweights, and those again into half penny weights—making, for the silver assay pound, four hundred and eighty divisions or reports, and for the gold assay pound, three hundred and eighty-four reports. On the continent of Europe, the division of the assay pound for gold is differ-, ent from the English. In the English mint, the term carat expresses no given weight, but merely degrees of fineness, of which twenty-four indicates purity. Thu carat is sub-divided into quarters, and these again into eiglitlis, making to each carat thirty-two parts, seven hundred and sixty-eight of which represent pure gold. These varying, complicated and arbitrary sys tems are the relict of an age which delighted in intricate and perplexing mysteries. They aio gradually yielding before the scientific demand for uniform and universal formula'. Instead of each trade having its own peculiar weights and measures, there must come to be one standard for all business, and ultimately one for all the leading nations of the earth. Instead of one measure for cloth, another for length, and a third for land; one measure for wine, another for beer, and another for grain; one weight for the apoth ecary, and another for the grocer; one standard for France,, a second for England, and a third for America, there will be one uniform standard for all, based upon the decimal system. mm *« i -il ' The Milky Way. —The milky way forms the grandest feature of the firmament. It com pletely encircles the whole fabric of the skies, and sends its light down upon ns, according to the best observations, from no less than 18,000,- 000 of suns. These are planted at various dis tances, too remote to be more than feebly un derstood ; but their light, the medium of mea surement, requires for its transit to our earth periods ranging from ten to a thousand years. Such is the sum of the great truths revealed to us by the two Herschels, who, with a zeal which no obstacle could daunt, have explored every part of the prodigious circle. Sir Wil liam Hersehel, after accomplishing his famous section, believed that he had gaged the milky way to its lowest depth, affirming that he could follow a cluster of stars with his telescope, con structed expressly for the investigation, as far back as would require 330,000 years for the transmission of its light. But, presumptuous as it may seem, wo -must be permitted to doubt this assertion, as the same telescope, in the same master hand, was not sufficiently powerful to resolve even the nebula: in Orion. Nor must we forget that light, our only clue to those un searchable regions, expands and decomposes in its progress, and coming from a point so remote, its radiant waves would bo dispersed in space. Thus the reflection is forced upon us, that new clusters and systems, whose beaming light will never reach our earth, still throng beyond; and that, though it is permitted to man to behold the immensity, he shall never see the bounds of creation. —Marvelt of Science. —■ t r i i- Discovery or the Tomb of Piiaraoii Amosis. A letter from Cairo, in the Constitutionnel, says that the general subject of conversation in that city is the discovery which has just been made by the well known archaeologist, M. Mariette.— He has found, at Thebes, after long and difficult researches, the tomb, still intact, of Pharaoh Amosis. The King is lying in a coffin, com pletely covered with gold leaf, ornamented with large wings painted on it. Thirty jewels of great value were found in the samo coffin by the side of the King, as was also a hatchet of gold orna mented with figures in lapis lazuli. Some years ago M. Mariette had a similar piece of good fortune, in finding in the tomb of Apis the jewels which now form the principal ornament of the Egyptian Museum of the Louvre. The jewels of Amosis are still more valuable, from their number and quality. This discovery of a royal tomb intact is the most important one that M. Mariette has yet made in Egypt. Boston Traveller , June 11. Virtue and happiness are true lovers, who, although parted for awhile, are sure to be united at last.
