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Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, May 01, 1850, Image 1

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I YTTFI TON WADDELL > „7 77, -7 ‘ CONSTANS ET LENIS, UT RES EXPOSTULET, ESTO. [Published 9" A—**
vX.. i LLL {Editors «fc Proprietors.
JOS, A. >' AUOhLL, ) ____ __—- - ■ --"1,■ -r:-,t= ——— ■■ ■ ■-.t::.!”1." r " --—
Toh. XXVIT1" = ^ STAUNTON, YA~ WEDNESDAY, MAY 1, 1850.__ _ Nft XX1V'
ST A UNTON SPECTATOB.
TERMS.
OO The «'SPECTATOR” is published oncea week, at
Two Dollars a year, if paid in advance, or Two Dollars
and Fifty Cents if delayed beyond the expiration ofthe year.
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inserted three limes for one dollar, and twenty-five cents for
each subsequent continuance l.arycr advertisements in the
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iks ijear.
POETRY*
rOU THE SPECTATOR
"In tho green «*hadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.”
Ask why I’m sad ? Ask why at ere
The bird flies to its nest;
Ask why the weary wanderer
Turns to his home for rest.
•'As oft on desert plains tho doer
I’auts for remembered springs’*—
.So thinks my fainting spirit here,
So to tho past it clings:
Tho past—with all its cherished scenes,
Its days of careless mirth;
Tho past—which gave me all that love
Can give to brighten earth.
The past—in dreams it comes to me t
Each kind, familiar tone
Wakes in my soul strange melody,
And yet I aiu ALONE.
Mono, alone—how shrinks tho heart
From the cold stranger’s gaze.
Which longs for one familiar face,
A smile of other days.
Alone ? Ah, no! The birds which sing
Their roatiu song to me—
Each token of returning spring—
The budding flower and tree :
l'hcse, those are friends that speak in tones
Of kindliuess aud love—
l nvy iv11 me m v.««vv.
Of brighter lauds above.
Too much is mine—I’m not alone,
The sifts of Goo are here;
Tho* friends, whoso faithful love I own,
Are now no loader near.
While these, with gentle, sweet control,
My heart with gladness fill,
Tho* none speak comfort to my soul,
I can be happy still. C.
MISCELLANY.
.ULTUK AND 11 I S lUl'QIITKHI.
[In Sharpe’s London Magazine, for 1349, there appear
ed a <pnint, yet beautiful fiction, purporting to bo “ Tho
Diary of Mary I’oivell,” the first wife of the poet Milton.
In the last number of that periodical wc notice a short
sketch, in the samo style, called “Deborah’s Diary.” De
hnnli was ono of tho poet’s daughters,and her journal treats
of the old age and blindness of Milton, as tho “Diary of
Mary Powell” had treated of his youth. Wo quote a por
tion of this last sketch, that all who admire delicacy of
thought, and pictures of homo scenes sweetly drawn, may
have an opj>oriuriity of doing it here-} — JS'eat'a Gnztlte.
HvNHir.r. Fields, Feb. IS, 1GG5.
* • • * • Something goniall and soothing beyond
ordinnrie in ye warmth and fitfullo lighte of ye firo, made
us tlelayo, I know not hutv long, to trim tho evening lamp,
and silt in bemused tdlettesse about the hearth ; Mary re
volving her thumbs and staring at ye embers ; Anno quite
in the shadow, with her arms behind her head agaynst ye
wall; father in his Util arm chair, quite uprights, as his
fashion is when vory thoughtfulle; I on the cushion at his
feet, with mine head on’s knee and mine eyes on his shad
owe on the wall, which, ns it happened, shewed in colossal
proportions, while our* were like pigmies. Alle at onco he
exclaims, “We all seem very comfortable—I think we
shciiIde reward ourselves with some egg flip.”
And then offered us pence for our thoughts. Anno would
not tell her*; Mary owned she had been trying to account
for yo dcfieiencie of a groat in her housekeeping purse, and
I con Test to susli a medley, that father sayd I deserved An
ne’s penny in addition to mine own, for my strength of
mind in submitting such a farrago of nonsense to yo ridi
cule of my friends.
S» then I bade for his thoughts, and he sayd ho had
beene questioning the cricket on tho hoar*h, upon tho ex
tinction of the fairies; and I askt. Did anie bolieve in ’em
now ? ntul ho made answer, Oh. yes, he had known a sorv
nig wench in Oxon. depono sho had been uippedand halt'd
by Vm ; and, of crickets, ho sayd lie had manio timesseenc
an old wife in lluekitighamshiro, who was soo pestered by
..... ,t.n, r.rin.1 ‘*1 rvm'f hi'Mrn nivsell talk ! I’d as liel
hearo nought as lieavo ther;” soe poured a kettle ot boiling
water into vc cranny wherein tho harmless croaturo lay
and scalded it to death ; and, the next day, became as deal
aa a 3111110, and remained soo over after, a monument oi
(Jod’s displeasure, at hor destroying one of the most inno
cent of his creatures.
After this, ho wottlde tell us of this and that wornout su
perstition, as o’ the f'iar’s lantern, and of Loblie-by-the
fire, until! Mary, who affects not yo unreal!, went oil U
make tho flip. Anne presentlic oxolaymed, “Fathor! when
you sayd —
“The shepherds on the lawa
Or o’er the point ol"dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row,
Full little thought they then
That the mighty Pun
tVns kindly conic to live with them below,’’
whom meant you by Pan ? Sure, you would not call oui
l ord hy the name of a heathen diet)' 1”
“Well, child,” returns father, “you know he calls Him
.elf a Shepherd, and was in truth what Pan wasonliosup
posrM to lie, the Hod of Shepherds; albeit, Lcvatetus, it
Ins treatise l)e Lemuribus, doth indeed tell us, that by Pat
pome undrrstuode noeother than the Salhanas, whose king
dom lieing overturned at Christ’s coming, his inferior
demons expelled and his otach-s silenced, he in sonu
port was himself over thrown. And the story goes, tha
about the time of our Lord’s passion, ccrtayn persons sail
mg front Italy to Cyprus, and passing by cert ay n islands
did iico.-p a voice calling aloud, Thamua, Thamu3, whicl
was the name of the ship's pUol, who, making answer l
ye unseen*' appellant, was bidden, wilefi he carae to Pale
das, to tell tiiat the great god Pan was dead; which h
doubling to doe, yet for that when lie came to Paloda;
there suddainlie was such a calm of wind that tho shi
stood still in ye sea, ho was const ray ned to cry aloud th,
l’an was dead ; wherewithal!, there were heard snch pit*
tuts shrieks and cries of invisible beings, echoing hauntc
spring and dale, as no’er smote human cars beforo norsinn
nymphs and wood-gods, or they that had passed for sue!
breaking up house and retreating to their own place,
warraut you, there was trouble among tho Sylvau poop
(hat day—Sjntyis hirsute and eluyen footed Fauns.
'*.Many a time and oft havo Charles Diodati
and I diecnst fond legends, such as this, over our winter
hearth ; with our cheanuts blackening and crackling on tho
1 hob, and uur o’wr-ripo pears sputtering In the fire, while
tho wind roared without among tho creaking elms. . .
Father still hammering on old times, and his owne young
| days, I beganno to frame unto myself an imago of what he
I might have thon heeno; piecing it out by holp of his ptc
| ture on the wall, but coulde get no clearo apprehension of
my mother, she dying soo untimelie. Askt him, was she
| beautifullo? Ho saylh, Oh, yes, and clouded over o’ tho
; suddain ; then went over her hoight, size, and colour, etc.,
j dwelt on ye genorals of personal beauty, how it shadowed
fortlie tho mind, was desirable or dangerous, etc.
On dispersing for tho night, ho notico’d, somewhat hurt,
Anne’s abrupt departure without kissing his hand, nod sayJ,
•is sho sulky, or unwell ?”
In our chamber, toun 1 her alrcndie half undrc3t a reading
of her Bible, sayd, “Father tooko your briefe good-nighto
arnisso.” She made answer shortlio, “Well, what noede
to marvel! ? ho cannot put his arm about me without being
reminded how mis-shapen I am.”
Foot Nan ! wo had been speaking of fairo proportions,
and had thoughtlessly cut her to the quick; yet father know
till, though ho canuot see, that her faco is as that of an an
gol. —
About one o’ tho clock, was roused (though Anne con
tinued sleeping soundly) by hearing father givo his tliroo
signal taps agaynst tho wall. Half drest, and with
hare foot thrust into slippors, I hastily ran in to him; he
cried, “Deb, for tho love of heaven get pen and paper
to sett something down.” I replied, “Lord, father,
you gave ino quite a turn; I thought you wero ill,” and
sett to my task, marvellous ill-conditioned, expecting some
crotchet had taken him concerning his will.
’Stead of which, out comes n volley of poetry he had lain
a brewing till his brain was like to burst, and soo I in my
thin night cotes must needs jot it all down for fearo it sd
ooze away before morning. Sure, 1 thought ho never would
got to the end, and really feared at firsts lie wn9 crazing a
little, but itideedo all poets doe when ye vein is on ’em.—
At length, with a sigh of relief, ho says, “That will doc—
good night, little maid.” I coulde not help saying, “ ’Tvvas
a lucky thing for you father, that step mother was from
home;” ho laught, drew me to him, kissed me, and sayd,
“Why, your faco is quite cold—are your feet unslippcred ?”
“Unstoekinged,” I replycd.
“I inn quite concerned 1 know it not sooner,” ho rejoyn
ed, in an accent of such kindnesso, that all my vexation
melted away, and I e on protested 1 did not mind it a bit.
“Since it is soe,” quoth he, “I shall yo less mind hav
ing recourse to you agayn ; onlio I must insist on your tak
ing caro to wrap yourself up more warmly, sinco you need
not fearo my being ill.”
I bit my lip, and onlio saying good-night, stole off to my
warm bed. —
Returning from morning prayers with Anne this fore
noon, I found Mary mending a pen with tho utmost© im
perturbabilitie, and father with a heat-spot on his cheek,
which botraied sumo inquiotatiun. Being prosontlio alone
with him, “Mary is irretrievably heavy,” sighs he, “she
would let tho finest thought escape one while site is blow
ing her noso or brushing up tho cinders. 1 am confident
she Has becno writing nonsense oven now—Do run through
it for mo, Dob, and lett me hoare what itjis.”
I went on, enough to his satisfaction, till coming to
••Bring to their sweetness noc sobriety.”
“Sobriety ?” interrupted lie, “satiety, satiety! the block
head ! and that i should live to call a woman soe; sobriety
indeed©! poor Mary, her wits must havo been wool-gath
ering. ‘Bring to their sweetness noe sobriety!’ What
meaning could she possibly affix to such folly ?”
“Sure, father,” sayd I, “here’s enough that sho couldo
affix no meaning to, nor I neither, without your condescend
ing to oxplayn it—cycle, empi cycle, nocturnal rhomb.”
“Well, well,” returned ho, beginning to smile, “’twns
unlikely, she should© be with such discourse delighted.—
Not capable, alas, poor Mary’s ear, of what is high. And
yet, thy mother, child, wouldo have stretched up towards
truths, though beyond her reach, yet to the inquiring mind
offering rich repast. Aud now writo satiety for sobriety,
if you love me.”
While orasiog the obnoxious word, I cried, “Dear father,
pray enswor mo one quostion—what is a rhomb?”
“A rhomb, child?” repeated he,laughing,“why,a par
allelogram or quadrangular figure,consisting of parallel hues,
with two acute and two obtuse angles, and formed by two
equal and right© coaos, joyued together at their base!—
There, are you anie wiser uow ? No, little maid, ’tis best
for such as you
Net with perplexing thought*
To interrupt the sweet of life, from which
God hath bid dwell far olf all anxious care*
Aud not molest us, unless wo ourselves
Seek them, with perplexing thoughts and notions vuiu.”
Had a Valentine this morning, though onlie from Ned
Phillips, whom mother is angry with, for filling my head
betimes with such nonsense. Huwbeit, I am cluse on six
teen.
Mary was out of pationce with father yesterday, who,
I after keeping her a full hour nt Thucydides, sayd, “Well,
! now we will refresh otirsolvcs with a canto of Ariosto,”
which was as much a sealed book to her as (other. How
j belt, this morning ho sayd,“Child, I have noted your wear
ini'sse in reading me dead language to me ; woum iu viuu «
. needed not to bo boholdon to any, whether bound to ino by
.1 blood and affection or not, for the food that is as needlullo
to tno as my daily broad. Nuvortliolooo. that 1 he nut tur
j ther wearisome unto theo, I liave engaged a young (Quaker,
: named El wood, to relieve thee of this portion of thy task,
goo that thou niayest have tho more icisuro to enjoy the
j glad sunshine and fair sights 1 never more shall see.”
Mary turned red, and drop! a ijuiot tear; but, alas, he
know it not.
“One patt of my children’s burthen, indeed,” he contin
ued, “I cannot, Dr obvious reasons, relieve them of—they
must still bo my secretaries, tor in them alone can 1 confide.
Sue now to your healthfullo exercises and fitting recreations,
dear maids, and heaven’s blessing go with yon.”
We kissed his hand and went, but otu walk was not
merry. _
Wool Growing jn our country.—In Secretary Me
: redith’s report is embodied a statement of Dr. E. 11. Rob
i; bins of Boston, of considerable interest in relation to the vnl
i uo of this great staple to the whole nation :
. | “The consumption of wool in the United States is esti
J mated at ninety millions of pounds each year. The num
. ber of sheep in the United States may be reckoned to ht
t from twenty-five to thirty millions. The capital investee
- in sheep husbandry is supposed to be $330,000,000 whicl
is frreater by eighteen millions than was invested in 183(
, in lands for the cotton culture. The annual aggregate pro
3 duct of sheep husbandry is estimated at oS.GOd.OUO.
New England Industry.—The Bangor Whig state!
S that in the valley of the Blackstone river from Pawtucke
’ to Milbury, a distance of 30 miles, there are 115 Cottur
^ I and Woollen factories, besides six largo Machine Shops
! two large Axe factories, and three extensive Scythe works
j giving a 126 manufactories, Many oftheso ari
very extensive, the largest Woollen Cottuu Mill in tin
\ United States being among tho number.
11 To Remove Wauts.—Wash them with a strong su
t> j lution of Pear lash and let it dry on tho warts. If this i
i done two or three tunes, the warts will disappear
v*
OLD ROTHSCHILD.
It was not an unvaried sunshino with this gentleman.
There wero periods when his gigantic capital seemed
likely to bo scattered to the four quarters of the globe. Ho
had also other sources of apprehension. Threats of murder
wero not unfrequenl. On one occasion he was waited on
by a stranger, who informed him that a plot had been form
ed to take his life ; that the loans which had made Austria,
and his connexion with Governments adverso to tho liberties
of Europe, had marked him for assassination, and that the
mode by which ho was to loso his life was arranged. Hut
though Rothschild smiled outwardly at this and similar
threats, they said who knew him best, that his mind was
often troubled by these remembrances, and that they haunt
ed him at moments when ho would willingly have forgot
ten ,thein.
Occasionally Itis fears took a 1 tdicrous form. Twot... .
moustachioed men wero once shown into his counting- house.
Mr. Rothschild bowed ; the visitors bowed ; and their hands
j wandered first into one pocket and then into another, io
tho anxious eye of tho millionaire, they assumod tho form
of persons searching fur deadly weapons. No time seem
ed allowed fur thought; a ledger, without a moment’s
warning, was hurled at the intruders; and in a paroxysm
of fear, he called for assistance to drive out two customers,
who were only fueling in their pockets for letters ot intro
duction. There is no duubt that lie dreaded assassination
greatly.
“You must be a happy man, Mr. Rothschild,” saida
gentleman who was sharing tho hospitality of his splendid
home, as he glanced at the .superb appointments of the
mansion.
“Happy—mo happy!” was the reply. “What! happy;
when, just as you are going to dine,you have a lottgr placed,
in your hand, saying, ‘If you do not send me <£500, I will
blow your brains out?’ Happy !—me happy !” And the
fact that lie frequently slept with loaded pistols by his side
is an indirect evidence of a constant excitement on the sub
ject.— Characters of the Stuck Exchangeo_
Henry Ci.ay.—On Friday last IIkniiy Clay was 73
years old, having been born on the 12th April, 1777. The
New York Tribune, referring to tho fact, says :—
Ho entered tho National service as a Senator, more than
forty-three years ago, and, after many mutations and vicis
situdes, is a momber of that body on his 73d birth-day.
No other Statesman holding a prominent position lias been
nearly so long beforo the public, and the men who filled
the world’s eyo when be came upon the Political 6tage have
nunrtv niiiio all nasaed to their Ion? homo. Napoleon—
! then in the zenith of his power and fame, the most power
ful ruler that the world has seen for a thousand years—died
a powerless prisoner and exile nearly thirty years ago—
Alexander of Russia, then a young man recently crowned
Emperor, died on a remote frontier of his empire more than
twenty years ago—George III and all his Buns have been
dead ten to twenty years—the Adamses, father and son,
havo passed away, with the Virginia line of Presidents,
also Burr, Jackson, Livingston, Marshall, Pickering, Ru
fus King, John Randolph, and all tho men with whom Mr.
Clay counseled or struggled during tho early portion of his
career. It rnay with general accuracy be said that, of the
men who in the forum, tho council, or the field were ac
tors bolero tho close of the last century, tho only survivors
known to fame are Mottornioh, Wellington, Louis Phil-1
lippe and Henry Clay! And, as tho three former, reared
in the atmosphere of Aristocracy and Rank, evince the
tendencies and views which that atmosphere naturally gen
erates, so Henry Clay still cherishes tho sentiments ami
sympathies which, thirty yonrs ago, won for him from ad
miring thousands the designation of I he Great Com
moner. _
Free Land in Arkansas.—A writer in tho Fort Smith
Herald says: “It may not bo known to the people of the
different States, that tho Slate of Aarkansas, by an act of
her Legislature, donates, to actual settlers, tho right ot tho
State to certain forfeited lands; and, that any person wish
ing to emigrate to tho State is entitled to 100 acres of
land for each member of tho family, by making application
to tho Auditor of Public Accounts of the State, who will
execute under his hand and official seal a deed, convening
all tho right, title, and interest of the Stale therein, on con
dition that the person to whom such donation 9hall be made
will regularly and annually pny, or causo to ho paid, the
State and couuty taxes afterward accruing upon snch lands;
and that if the taxes should not be paid, tho lands and im*
proTomont^jthereon shall revert to the State. It is also
conditionentn the said dood, that the party receiving such
donation shall reside upon, improve and cultivate, at least
three acres of such quarter section or tract of land, or In
stead of residing thereon, shall within eighteen months
after the date of tho Auditor’s deed, causo to be cleared,
fenced, improved, and placed in readiness for cultivation,
at lea3t five ncrosofthe tract of land thus donated. Attur
the impovement above mentioned is made, the person to
whom the land is deeded may sell or dispose of tho same
as his own property. The expenso of tho deed for such
quarter section is one dollar and twenty fivo cents—tho
Auditor’s fee for executing the same. The lands yet to ho
donated are rich and convenient to navigation. Many,
whoso circumstances prevent them from procuring n per
manent home for themselves and families in the older States,
can procure largo tracts of land in Arkansas for comparative
ly nothing.’’ _ _
Death by spontaneous combustion.— i ho following
extraordinary occurrence is related by the Gazette dcs Tri
buna ux :—
“A few dave .tiro, in a tavern near the Barriere do i’E
toilc, a journeyman painter, named Xavier G-, wen
known fur his intemperate habits, while drinking with some
comrades, laid a wager that he would eat a lighted candle.
His bet was taken, and scarcely had he introduced the lla
j ming candle into his mouth when he uttered n slight cry,
' and fell powerless to tho ground. A bluish flame was seen
: to flicker about his lips, and on an attempt being made to
j offer hitn assistance, tho bystanders were horror-struck to
1 find that ho was burning internally. At the end of Italian
; hour his head and the upper part of his chest wore reduced
to charcoal. Two medical men were called in, nnd recog
nized that Xavier had fallen a victim to spontaneous com
bustion. This conflagration of the human frame is fright
fully rapid in its progress; bones, skin and muscle,are all <.c
voured, consumed, and reduced to ashes A handful of dust
on tire spot where tho victim fell is nil that remains,
Mk. Calhoun.—Mr. Calhoun has left a wife now in
Charleston and a family of four sons and two daughters.—
His first son, Andrew, is a wealthy planter in Alabama ;
Patt^^he second 6on, is in the Army, and was an aid
of (j^Bfainos; the third son, who was with him when
he dUfts a physician ; the youngest son William, is now
, an under-graduato at College. One of his daughters, An
na Maria, is the wife of Mr. Clemsen, our charge d’af
faires at Belgium, and tho other has always remained at
borne, having long been afflicted with a spinal affection.
1 The family are left in affluent circumstances, his property
1 being estimated at $100,000. Ho married, in early life,
1 his now bereaved partner, a lady of fortune, a cousin—bear
• ing the same name which he has rendered illustrious.
GO" T> make good paste, dissolve an ounce of atom in u
!: (juart of warm water; when cold, add as much lluur as will
make it the consistence of croam; then strew into it as
much powdered rosin as will stand on a shilling, and two or
■ I three cloves; boil it to a consistence, stirring all the time.—
!' It will keep for twelve months, and when dry may be soft -
1 cned with water
{
mb«imtmi
PllETTY WOMEN—NO MORE BEAUTIES.
„ 1 have often wondered why there were no profes
sed beauties now a days, whilo every poet ago can
boast its Helens; our generations may number
many pretty faces, but is tho only one among the
thousands already counted, that produces no beauties
whose names shall descend imperishable? to the gen
erations yet to come.
We cannot open a page of history that does not re
cord the fame of some beauty ; the bible lias its Ra
chel—so lovely that twenty years of service was
deemed a light foe for her ailections; the world was
lost for Cleopatra ; the beautiful mistresses of the
French kings ruled the world through the hearts of
their imperial lovers; even down to the days of
George the Fourth, there has always been some lady
whose charms have been more powerful than mon
arch and prime ministers.
But 1 think the problem may be solved; it is the
dill'erencc of dress—costume does it all. Revive the
rubbings of by gone ages,and you will revive all the
beauty and the ugliness of those days; for there must
have been a good deal of ugliness, otherwise beauty
would not have been so forcibly appreciated. Had
there been more pretty girls in the days ol Troy,
Helen would have had few suitors, and Ilium might
have been standing yet. What I mean to say is this
—in those times people dressed souubecomingly,that
unless their features were perfect they were literally
nothing; all the mirror graces which set off a incdi
cre person now, were totally unnvailaole under that
system of costume.
For instance, Helen must have worn a loose robe,
a broad girdle, bare arms, sandals on her feet, and
her hair l?ouml back in those rich, magnificent braids,
termed to this day, ‘‘Grecian Pliats.”
But imagine for a moment all your acquaintances
dressed in this way! would not the majority be
frightful ? How few faces, how few complexions,
could stand that banding back of the thick hair! how
few forms would show well beneath the simple robe,
without stays or stiflpctticoats! how few feet would be
endurable in sandals! how few arms would bear the
noon-day sun, and the sharp winds would soon
reduce them to the pattern and form of a washerwo
man’s !
Perhaps the Jewish costumes of Rebecca and Ra
chel may have been a shade better; but here was the
same exposure of neck and arms, with the additional
disadvantage of a robe that showed a leg encased in
hideous boots and hose, and that refused to sweep
with Grecian amplitude, round the limbs of the fair
Cleopatra, who is represented ns being both dark
and stout, could wear only the robes of white or
purple, the heavy diadem, the string of pearls that
were allotted to the gard ofEgytian princes. How
dark and how uncomely must have been the major
ity of her countrywomen, may be judged from the
sensation she made.
The Roman ladies were famed for their stately
carriage and somewhat large but noble features; und
when to those charms are added those of regularity
and delicacy, and bcauiiful coloring, no doubt
their simple pcucoqucttc style of dress was especial
ly becoming to them, but without these latter quali
fications how gaunt and coarse they must have ap
peared.
What can be more lovely than the figure of Agrip
pina—bending that stately "head above the ashes of
Germanicus ?—the robe falls in long sweeping folds,
the bare arm, naked to the shoulder, supports the
urn ; the hair braided back, the smooth brow, the
magnificent eye, in its large and lofty chamber; not
u ribbon, nor the gloamings of a jewel, breuk the
calm outline, or disturb the severe unity. Perhaps
among the circle of our acquaintances there are two
or three women who would appear to advantage so
attired! but, oh! how well for the dumpy and the
scraggy “ncs rclrousc,” und the “ties snub” that they
fall upon better days.
As we decend the stream of time, tho number of
celebrated beauties decrease ; this we may attribute
to the increasing knowledge of the art of dress; in
different complexions, bad figures, irregular features,
began to have something like lair play shown them;
exigencies ol persons met with some assistance from
costumes, and in the same degree as the plain women
were made to appear less plain, were the beauties
less prominent, and the distance between the purtics
lessened.
Htill wo hear of some so strangely lovely, as to
he known to all the world by the fame of their eyes
only ; of those, we may name Edith, of the swan
neck; so called from the brilliant whiteness of a
skin capablo of resisting tho exposure to Bun and
wind,which tanned and freckled into frightfulness the
queen and lofty ladies of those rudo days; Rosa
mond tho Fair—so fair that it was said oilier,“none
but a jealous and exasperated woman could harm
her;” Beatrice Cenci whose beauty nmdo ono shud
der, so mysterious seems the light in those large un
troubled eyes, soon about to close beneath the pres
sure of so awful a late; Lucrczia Borgia, an ungel in
face, u demon in heart; Mary, of Scotland, whom
“no man ever beheld without love,” and some few
others, until we reach that famous trio recorded in
the letters of Henry Walpole, as the loveliest wo
man of their time, the Misses Gunning
One of these the Duchess of Hamilton, was so re
nowned for her charms, that her fame spread fur and
near; insomuch, that, when travelling once from the
• .1 . .1-- I. ’ .1 __ . ...» 1. _
norm lO lln MIC mvw iti mv 1'iavto one
rested at nights, assembled round the hotels, nor
would they depart until she had appeared oil the bal
conies to display to them her world famed lace.
And there is something strangely sad in the ac
count of the death b( amnuui ur .ac oimlio—uauy
Covantry, who perished of consumption while in the
highest pride of youth and beauty. She is recorded
as patiently awaiting her approach of death—her
looking glass her constant companion—as scarcely
ever removing her eyes from the reflection of her
own face, and as bewailing only the too eaily ex
tinction of a beauty worthy of immortality.
At a later time, when the name of some favorite
beauties arc again recorded, the costume, totally dif
ferent. was so hideous, that no one can wear it with
I impunity—hence the high reputation for beauty of
| Pauline Bonapart and Madame Recamicr. The for
mer is described as appearing at a party give by her
mighty brother, in a tunic of white muslin, reaching
a little below the knees, and commencing far below
the shoulders, the waist exceedingly short, and bound
with a narrow girdle; sandals clothed the small feet,
while a mantle of leopard skin hung round the form
uf Cunova’s fairest model.
And there arc many who can remember the ap
pearance of Madame Recamicr in the parks of Lon
don, clad in a robe as scanty and as simple—hei
dark hair wreathed around her head ; and fastened
with a bodkin to the summit, and a scarlet mantle
wrapped around her.
Now a days, the toilet of a lady is exactly con
ducted upon the principles most becoming to all
few figures look ill in the sweeping robes and length
I ened corsage—ample and stately without stiffness
ankles however thick, arc concealed by the lone
dresses, now the inode. Features, however coarse
can be softened or shaded into something like sym
metry^ by judicious arrangement of locks, permittee
i to be worn in bands or braids or ringlets, just as bes
1 suits the face they surround.
And while no arbitrary fashion forces the exposure
| of a frightful profile, a clumsy arm, a ponderous au
i kle, no rule exists to prevent the reverse of theta
j being shown Every lady is at liberty to bring ou
I her own “good points” as sho thinks best, and it i
j eusy to do so, as well as to conceal her weak ones
without departing from the fashions that prevail.—
True Delta.
SENSE AND SENSATIONt
The greyhound runs by eysight only, and this wt
observe as a fact. The carrier pigeon flies his twc
hundred and fifty miles homeward, by eyesight, viz
from point to point of object which he has marked
but this is only our conjecture. The fierce dragon
fly, with twelve thousand lenses in his eyes, darts
from angle to angle with the rapidity of a flash in#]
sword, and as rapidly darts back—not turning in the
air, but with a clash reversing the action of his foui
wings—the only known creature that possesses this
faculty. Ilis sight then} both forward and back
ward, must be proportionately rapid with his wings,
and instantaneously calculating the distance of ob
jects, or he would dush himself to peices. But in
what conformation of his eye does this consist? No
one can answer. A cloud of ten thousand gnats
dances up and down in the sun, the gnats begin so
close together that you can hardly see the minutest
interval between them, yet no otic knocks another
headlong upon the grass, breaks a leg or a wing, long
and delicate as they are. Suddenly amidst your
admiration of this matchless dance,a peculiarly high
shouldered vicious gnat,with long} pale, pendant nose,
darts out of the rising and falling cloud, and settling
on your cheek inserts a poisonous sting. What pos
sesses this little wretch to do this ? Did he smell
your blood in the mazy dauec ? No one knows.—
A four-horse coach comes suddenly upon a flock of
geese on a narrow road, and drives straight through
j the middle of them. A goose wns never yet fairly
run over, nor a duck. They are under the very
wheels and hoofs and yet, somehow, they contrive
to flap and wnddlc safely off. Habitually stupid,
heavy and indolent, they are,nevertheless,equal to a
ny emergency. Why does the lone woodpecker,
when he descends his tree and goes to drink, stops
several times on his way—listen and look round—
before he takes his draught? No one knows. How is
it that the species of ant, which taken in battle by
other ants to be made slaves, should he the black or
the negro ant? No one knows.— The Poor Artist.
Romantic Elopement.—An elopement of a very
extraordinary character, with a view to matrimonial
proceedings, took place in this city, on Monday night
last. The parties were a boy named Ward, aged 17,
and a woman aged 40, living in the family of one of
_i.1_«__! •_ ___• i_* :_ rii_
uut ciucu y ij rn wuwac itoiuuuvu 10 111 a vui
pic street. The young lad had never before enjoy
ed any female acquaintance out of his own family,and
when he became acquainted with the bewitching
creature of forty, to whom he is by this time joined
in wedlock, he was shot through the heart by one
of Cupid’s sharpest arrows. In short he was dying
of love, and the woman persuaded him to save his
peace of mind by a flight to New York, for the pur
pose of “mingling into one.”
" ’Ti» strange how in things molt remote
Love will some likeness find ;
As if an electric chain
Were fluug upon the mind,
Making each pulse in unison
Till they hut thrill and throb in one.1’
O Cupid ! Cupid ! Cu-pid !
[New Haven Palladium.
A Pri.vtf.ii in Love.—1 was lately called upon
by the “imp” of the Mirror, who,bye the bye is pro
digiously acquainted with the world. “Joe,” said he,
“i this morning did myself the honor to visit a young
lady, who lives in the upper part of the town. I
took her £!=* in mine and chatted‘pretty sentiments’
to her. 1 thank my •* that she drew my arm around
her beautiful waist and laid her golden haired head
upon my shoulder,listening to my burning eloqucuco.
i Joe, you may believe me, you cannot find a person
of the feminine kind, who is a || to my dear girl in
amiability of temper. She declared to me—why do
you lnugh ?—that she would rather have my heart
pierced through with a f than 1 should forsake her.
I have a big notion to marry her before long.”
Origin of the Phrase “Brother Jonathan”.—Gen
eral Washington placed great confidence in tho good sense
and patriotism ofof Jonathan Trumbull, who at an early pe
riod of the American revolution, was Governor of tho state
of Connecticut. In a certain emorgoncy, when a sneasuro
of great importance wras under discussion, Washington re
marked, “We must consult brother Jonathan on the sub
ject.” Tho result of that consultation w’as favorable, and
tho w'ords of the commander-in-chiof passed into a common
phrase, applied indiscriminately by officers and men in all
cases of difficulty which afterwards occurred during the
war. Thue, from the constant use of the expression "Wo
must consult brother Jonathan,” which soon passed from
the army to tho peoplo at large, tho Americans received
from the English that appellation which has stuck as close
ly as their "John Bull” to them.
Hospital for Cats and Dogs.—Kendall In one of his
late letters from Paris, says them is a largo house in the
city, fitted up for the reception of cats, dogs, birds, &.c.,
when attacked hy disease, and w here they are nursed and
physicked according to rule. They have a claas of practi
tioners who confine themselves exclusively to the cure of
these animals, and fortunes arc made in the way of business,
by members of the profession.
Invnn tvrr AP AmPRIT A —^ Mr Wohaler ihe
great American statesman, is to be tried in N. York,
on the 19th of March, for the murder of Judge Par
ker.”—London Paper Iry ihe JVluguiu..
Thia ia nutM tll.UI .tllllUUnCtllg tho “god-like”
Daniel, on his arrival in England, as the author of
thegi ci\t American Dictionary. Verily,the London
ers don’t know much- ut least about these United
States.
An Irish paper lately gave an uccount of a duel
and announced the result of the meeting in these
words: “The one party was wounded severely in
the chest, and the other fired in the air.” Query,
who wounded the suflerer ?
A short man became uttached to a very tall
woman, and somebody said that he had fallen in love
: with her. “Do you call that falling in love,” said
an old bachelor; “it is more like climbing up to it.r
“This is really the smallest horse I ever saw,’'
said a countryman, on viewing a Shetland pony.—
“Indade now,” replied his Irish companion, “but Pvt
seen one as small as two of him.”
Epigram, on the Marriage of Mrs. Rugg, a
Widow of 60, to Mr. Price, aged 22:
Mv marriage, sure, is very suug;
They joined us in n trice,
And now ’tis clear that one old Ruoo
lias fetched a handsome Price.
Whoever sincerely endeavors to do all the
good he can, will probably do much more than ht
imagines, or will ever know to the day of judgment
when the secrets of all hearts shall be made manifest
££» “What are you writing such a big hand foi
Pal ?” “Why, you see, my grandmother’s dafe, am
. Pm writing a loud lclthcr to her.”
An Irish Schoolmaster wrote the follow inf
1 copy for one of his pupils : “Idleness covcrcth a mai
with nakedness.”
The Ladies.—The only successful IJomicpathists
: They cure man’s greatest malady of the heart by i
t “lettic of the same sort?”
- •*.
* fca-rr"**' ^—
■ AGRICULTURAL—SCIENTIFIC
ON THE USE OF OXElf,
By E. Stabler, Montgomery Co., Maryland, in anm&er (<r
tnquiriet made by Dr. R. O. B., of Vo., through the
Plough, Loom and Anvil.
1 Like many others with slender resources, (and in
my case with impaired health, from a city life,) I
began farming with horses to do tny ploughing, andf
i indeed, the farm work generally. 1 had also a yoke
of oxen. With no experience in my new vocation,,
it was necessary to superintend considerable hauling
lor building, and it was here I was first made aware
' of the decided advantage of the ox over the horse,
j The horses were not nlwuys true at the pinch, when
every effort was required ; and on the oxen vre usu
! ally had to rely at last, to get out of our difficulties,
j There were other advantages in their use, evident at
this early stage of my agricultural education, if not
so important, yet quite as apparent. One was the
expense of harness, eight to one, at least, in favor of
the ox; and the time saved in gelling to work—we
could often yoke up, and get through with a short
job, before the liorses were harneseed and ready for
work.
For the first year, I had no other expectation than
to buy grain for my family and stock, expecting af
terwards, and being determined to use every effort to
raise at least enough for my own consumption; but
the experience of a year or two fully satisfied my
mind, that, without somo change for the better, f
could not get along at all. My horses not only con
sumed about all the grain they aided in raising, but
I was compelled to buy more for their especial use
and benefit. The farm was small, and withal very
poor, and what with their consumption, farming was
found to be a losing concern. But 1 bad to make
tny living, either off my farm or by my “wits,” for
my health forbade a return to the city. The idea ot
going in debt was ati alternative not to be entertain
ed for a moment; another alternative, and which ap
peared quite as uncongenial to my feelings, was, to
j remove to the far West, and relinquish every tie of
! kindred and friends. This I determined never to
do, unless to avoid actual want.
In 1822 or ’23, I resolved to give the plan a fair
trial; and with this view, worked the oxen, and took
hold of the plough-handles myself, and began in
“midsummer” to break up a fallow field for wheat.
For a day or two the oxen suffered greatly with the
heat, in the middle of tho day—but, by rising with
the dawn and resting two or three hours at noon,
and also feeding on dry food, I found nearly as much
was ploughed by the oxen as with the horses work
ed hv n lilrpil innn. nml nuite as well done. The
horses consuming about one bushel of grain per day,
and the oxen none. The horses walked faster, but
the oxen turned in less time, and the difference in
amount of work was not very material. The oxen,
though generally slower, will probably be found the
most sure, by those who arc placed under similar
circumstances.
This was a “successful experiment,” in every re
spect, and has been carried out to tho letter; sanc
tioned also by subsequent experience and practice,
for some twenty-five years. For many years there
was not a furrow ploughed on the farm except by
oxen, which enabled me to begin, and successfully
carry out, a systom of improving my nearly worn
out land. This Could not have been effected (at
least not by the best management 1 was capable of)
by the use of horses alone, in any thing like the
same time, or without more capital than was at my
disposal.
To determine the best mode of working oten to
the plough, I used both the tongue and the chain }
the latter was found preferable on all accounts. The
team turns in less space, and in less time; and by it,
the depth is also regulated with more facility, by
merely lengthening or shortening the chain. For
the use of oxen, the beam should be set rather low
er than for horses—14 to 15 inches is the proper
height for the former, and 17 to 18 inches for hof
ses—the line of draft being lower in the one than
the other.
Oxen, if properly broken, quite as readily, if not
more so, take to and keep the furrow, than horsee.
We do not think of having either a line or driver,
even with a double yoke, and in the plough, except
when “breaking in” young cattle—the word of the
ploughman, or the motion of the whip, being all
sufficient.
To judge of the capabilities of the ox, by the bad
ly used, houseless, over-tasked,and half-fed animals
wo sometimes see in the yoke, is doing him great in
justice. Treat the horse in the satno unfeeling man
ner, and where would be his high mettle and noble
spirit ? he would speedily arrive at a premature olfc
age, valueless to his owner, and a cast-off to feed the
earrion crows. That the ox can better stand this
harsh usage, is certainly no valid or sufficient reason
that he should be subjected to it. Use him with
equal core and humanity, and he will just as certain
ly. and with more profit, repay it to his owner.
I ain not aware, nor do I believe, from much ob
servation, that the “limestone land” referred to, is
any more difficult to plough than mine, which is a
stifT clay subsoil. Much that 1 have examined is
easier to till. In breaking up sward land for corn,
we generally work two yoke, and go to the depth
of from 7 to 9 inches. Oats usually follow corn, in
my rotation, and to render the summer ploughing
easier for the following crop of wheat, (it is also
better for the oat crop, and freer from weed,) the oat
_.....I I. nl y*lirrVv 0/1 11 Iv lltM 1...
^lUUIIU 1*3 I'" " ---- «liv UUI UIIUI X.-WIV
.Itm......w .1- -ftv. ,/i«-6i.;..6 ... ~n,crja| be the
season dry, or otherwise.
In hauling limestone with oxen, we readily moke
a trip of five or six miles and buck, in half to three
fourths of a day; and we have made the trip te Wash
i ington and back in 24 hours—distance 20 miles—
! and light loads both ways, resting in the heat of the
• day, m warm weather.
I usually keep two yoke of oxen to one pair of
! horses, the first cost being generally about the same,
| but here the parallel ends. It costs much less to
keep, and in good order too, the two yoke, than one
i pair of horses, and they will do more work. The
j expense, and wear and tear of harness is fully as 8 or
10 to 1 in favor of the oxen ; and for most farm pur
poses such as hauling rails, stone, fuel and manure,
i they are decidedly preferable. We use them exclu
sively for bauliug hay or grain into the barn. A
single yoke will readily go in with a ton to a ton and
a half of hay, and at an angle on the bridge of 5° to
6°. They understand the business perfectly—there
ts no need ol the whip—at a single word, every mus
cle is exerted, and, if necessary,strained to the utmost.
Add to the advantages above enumerated, the rel
ative value of each team, after some five or six years’
service, under humane and proper treatment, and we
find that the horse has depreciated some 33, if not
50 percent., the ox, with a season’s rest, and good
pasture, is worth at least his first cost in beef; and
will suppose, (but such has not been the case with
1 me,) that the horse has paid as liberally for his keep
ing in the mean time.
1 Cure for a Ring Worm.—The Editor of the
Plough, Loom and Anvil, furnishes the following re
r ceipt which he says is infallible for the cureof’Rmg
J Worm : “Heat a shovel to a bright red—cover it with
grains of tndian Corn, press them with a cold fiat iron.
They will burn to a coal and exude an oil on the sur
. lace of the fiat iron, with which rub the ring worm,
i; and after one or two applications it will be kill as
I dead as Julius Ciesar.”
j

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