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NEW BRITAIN TIMES VOL. m . NEW BRITAIN, CONN., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1860. NO. 94. s s w B E s m t i i mmm: A OOKTIHUATION OF THE isroitTia: Sc S O X T X I I . L. M. GUERNSEY, Editor and Proprietor IK^etD Dritain, Conn. TBUU : —$1.50 per annvm, in Advance. In bundles of five or more to one addresn, $1.26. MMiban of NoimI School, anlMerlbisg In Kdvanre for t h e Teraa fttrntohed M Ut« annakl rat*. T«MI or ABTSBTItlMO: — For • Square, one incertioo, 76 r«nU •Mh additloDkl inMrtten.SS e u . For half a Square, one iMortloa.M eoBtt; «Mh additional inaertiou. IScts. o a a 9 q « a r a f « r a y o a r . » 1 0 . Half Square, t 6 . BUMBCBB Carda, eoataiuing kalf aqnare, per year, tS.OO. For the New Britain Ttnee. T W I L I G H T THOUGHTS. BT JBHKIE W. Sitdng in my quiet ehainber. In the witching twilight hour. While the nhodows slowly creeping, Fall <m rain, rook and tow«r. Thoughts of thee oome o'er my spirit. Stealing gently through my mind ; Idke the voioe of angel spirits. Borne upon the wandering wind. Thooghti of days when I have wandered. With your little hand in mine ; And " that stoiy oft repeated," Once again was made to rhyme- So oft when shadows round me &I), I nt me down to dream onoe more. Of pleasures passed with thee, iGid think thou'rt by my side once more. And as I watch tiie silent moon. Slowly careering through the sky, I dream thou'rt with me onoe again ; I dream thy angel form is n i ^ And if while dreaming here I knew, That thou wast giving me one thought. Then would my gU^ heart breathe a prayer Of thankfulness for what I've sought. 'Hot Fit For Bet.' On tihe first T o y a g e John Randolph o f Roanoke made from Englaiid he had with him a very large box of books, "containing enough to last him daring a yoyage round the world." A fellow-passenger, a highly intelligent gentleman of York, was fortanate enough to win his fiivoc. J A d ^ Admitted._|o indmate oompanioa- A l p . f One day, while this gentleman was examining that box of books for his amusement, he observed that some of the best editions were marked as presents to a young lady of Virginia, a great farorite of the eccentric statesman and orator. Taking up one of the books thus designated, a volume of old plays, he soon discovered that it was objectionable on the score of moral influence. ** Surely," said he to Randolph, ** you have not read these plays lately, or you would not present this book to Miss Randolph hastily ran his eye over the open page, took the book, and indorsed on the back of it, " Not J^ for liet." Then turning to his friend, he said, with warmth, " You have done me an infinite service, sir. I would not for worlds do aught to sully the purity of that girl's mind. I had forgotten those plays, sir, or they would not have found a place in my box. 1 abominate as much as you do that vile style of writing, which is intended to lessen our abhor-rence of vice and throw ridicule on virtuous conduct. You have given me the hint: come, assist me in looking over all these books, lest some other black sheep may have found its way into the flock." May there not be " black sheep" in other col-lections of books, especially "gift books," as they are called, and ^ould not every well dis-pose man look well to what he bays or what he oirculates T—American Messenger, THE MAYOR WANTS TO SEE THEE.—A young man, a nephew, had been sent to sea, and on bis returo, he was narrating to his uncle an adven-ture which he bad met on board ship. " I was one nig^t leaning over the tafl^il look-ing down into the mighty deep," said the neph-ew, whom we will call William, " when my gold watch fell from my fob and immediately sunk out of nght The vessel was going ten knots an how, but nothing daunted, I sprung over the rail, ^ w n , down, down, and after a long search, found it, came up close under the stern, and climbed back to the dedc, without any one knowing 1 had been absent." ** William," said bis uncle, elevating his broad brim and opening his eyes to their widest capaci-ty, ** how fast did thee say the vessel was going?" " Tea knots, uncle." " And thee dove down into the sea, and came np with the watch, and climbed up by the rudder c ^ i n s T " " Yes, unde." " And thee expects me to believe thy story ?" " Of course! You wouldn't dream of calling me a liar, would you, uncle ?" " William," replied the uncle gravely, " thee knows I never calls anybody names; but, Wil-liam, if the Mayor of the city were to come to me and say, * Josiah, I want you to find the big-gest liar in all Philadelphia,' I would come straight to thee, and put iny hand on thy shoul-der, aud say to thee, * William, the Mayor tcoMs Ui see thee He that keepeth anger long in his bosom, giveth place to the Devil; and why should we make room for him who will crowd in too &st of himself? Heat of pass:on makes our souls to crack, and the Devil creeps iu at the crannies." FATHER A9B 80V. A BKSrOB BT V. V. T. " Now, sir, go out of that door, and never, so long as you live, dare to cross over its threshold again." " Very well, sir, I will obey you to the last hour of my liffe." The first of these speakers was a man whose life had slid bejrond its fiftieth birthday! His hair was sifted with gray, and wrinkles had be-gun to gather on his forehead. He was tall, fine looking, and of commanding pretence,^ though the veins on his temples were swollen with pas-sion. As he spoke he rose up and brought down his denched hand on the table with a blow which sent a shiver through it. The last speaker was a youth, just on the threshold of his twentieth year. He had the strong, stern features of the elder man, and the same thin, compressed lips, but there was a softer light in the brown eyes, and something in the whole face which would have won you quicker than the old man's, though it was stern and livid as the dead. As he rose and walked to the li-brary door, and answered his father with those wor^ which sealed his dismissal from his home, and sent him out into the world helpless and alone, soft, eager words streamed like a silver flowing rivulet down the stairs, and caught the young man's ear, just as his hand was on the door-knob,— " Edward—Edward, I say, where are you go-ing?" And the next moment bounded to him a fair child, whose golden hair was the color of the dandelions, which were just opening in the spring meadows, while her azure eyes were full of smiles, deepened and confirmed by the sweet lips beneath them. " I am going, Mary—don't ask me." But as she lifted up her bright, wistful face, he sudden-ly placed bis hand over it, as though it was more than he could bear. " O, Edward, what is the matter ? Have you and papa been quarrelling again?" " Yes; and now I must leave you." His voice shook huskily along the syllables. " For how long ?" Forever, little sister! He has sent me away, and I shall never come again." " O, Edward, Edward!" and she lifted up her little soft, white arms, and closed them around his neck. " You don't mean it. You won't go away, and leave your little Mary? She can't live without you," and she pulled down his cheek ^ b e r face, and her tears dripped like rain upon " 0 , yes, she can, if she'll only make up her mind to." He was trying to speak in a cheerful voice now, and caressing the golden ringlets in which the May sunbeams were flutter-ing. " She'll be a brave, good girl, and put a bold face on the matter, and I won't forget her when I'm gone, and I shall write her a long let-ter one of these days. " " Don't Edward, don't. It'll break my heart. What shall I do without you to take me to ride, and to tell me funny stories, and help me to take care of my flower-^ds, and what will you do without Mary to love, and to tease you, to comb your hair and bring your slippers ? O, I caa't let you go!" and she clang to him, her sweet, face washed with tsars, and her small figui-e sha-king with sobs. He took her up in his arms, and pressed her tightly to his heart, and the sternness went for a moment out of the young man's face. " I can't help it, Mary, little sister, that I love better than anything on the face of the earth, and I want you to remember this, whether you ever see me again or not. But it won't do to give way now. Father has turned me out of his house once and forever." And here his face settled back into its old sternness once more. The little girl stood still, and shivered, " O, Edward." Then her sweet £ice suddenly flashed up through its tears to him. " I will go straight to papa, and bog him to take you back," and she would have sprung away from her brother, but he held her back forcibly. Never, Mary, never will I look upon his face again. It is useless to intercede now. He has turned me, like a dog, from his threshold, and J cross it now for the last time." That stern face, and the clenched hand, which-he brought down on the door-knob, froze the tears on the child's face. Then the young man turned toward her, and the fierce light went out of his eyes. " Mary, little sister, good-bye. Don't forget me, and to pray tor me every night." He broke down here, and kissing her forehead three or four times, he darted out of the house. glance fell upon the portrait of a Jady opposite, set in a richly carved frame. The face was still young, and tl» sweetneM of the azure eyes, and the fluttering s^ile about the lips, and the soft delicacy of the whole face, would have won your heart to it ali once. " Papa, I am glad now, that she died before I can'remember her." ' " My child, what do you meaa ?" with tones full of amazement. "Because, papa, it wouid have broken her heart." The old man set down his chil out of the library. His stern nor his iron will falter in its p a r p ^ , but there rose up before him a fair picture 'Cr that young face, above which the grass ha3^ biaen growing for eleven years, as it bent wiUl-proad mother-tenderness over a little brown cuify head, which she was lifting up for its father's kiss. And the baby stretched out its hands, and crowed tri-umphantly, as his fingers clutched die man's hair, and this baby was his first-bom child, and he had turned him forever from his doors. Mary bad spoken the truth. It was well that her mother was dead, for it would have broken her heart. c h i l ^ n d she went lipa||}d not quiver. William Reynolds, the banker, was a stern, resolute man, honorable in his palings with all men, but sympathetic, pitiful, M^none. He had married late in life, a woma'S much younger than himself, one who combined rare graces of heart and mind, and who had queued all the hid-den springs of tenderness in this cold, undemon-strative nature. Their son faild inherited the warm impulses of his mother, the inflexible will of his father, and after theideath of the for-mer a gradual estrangement d ^ l o p ^ itself be-tween the two, and the gentl4|ihealing element of the mother was not there (o reconcile those she loved. Matters grew worst and worse, until, after having graduated at collf^, the young man flatly refused to gratify his f a i r ' s darling ambi-tion of succeeding him in badness, he having chosen the law for his profession. A long and severe altercation ensued betwixt the fiither and son. Harsh, fierce words passed between them, for both were equally determined and angry, and the whole ended m the rich banker's turning his son forever from his thresh-old. " But papa, you haven't sent him away forev-er, and he will come back, sometime." And shev pressed up her soft, wet cheeks to the old man's, and her small fingers fluttered amongst his gray sprinkled hair, like a flock of newly fledged | birds. [ " Mary, you must never speak to me of him ^ again. Edward has offended me, past forgive-ness, and he is no longer a son of mine, or a brother of yours. I have disowned him. And now, remember, I must be obeyed." The old man held her, his fair young child, in his lap, as he uttered the cruel words, his face still rigid, and his brow knotted with blue veins,- but his hand rested tenderly on her bright hair,^ for Mary Reynolds was her father's idol. t There was no sound in the great library, but the broken sobs of the little girl. " Come, daughter, don't;" it was wonderful how those stern tones fell into a sweetness that was like a mother's. " Papa will be very kind to his little girl, and make her very happy, and she must not trouble him by grieving so." At last the child lifted her head, and her « No hope ?" <* None at all, my dear sir. I am compelled to tell you that your child will never behold the auQBet.',' The proud, stem ifaaii^tcme3 £way, hid his^ face in his hands, and groaned heavily. The sunshine fluttered and flitted like the sweet, tremulous dreams of youth, all about the lofty chamber in which that fair child lay dying, smitten suddenly by a fever, which had drunk the springs of her young life, and kindled her pulses with fires that death only could quench. " Papa, papa," the voice came up faint and eager from the parched, pallid lips, and the old man went to the bedside, and leaned tenderly over the white, ghastly fece, which wore that look which faces only wear over which the grass will grow in a little while. " What is it, my precious child ?" " Papa, I heard what the doctor said, and now I am going away from you so soon, you will let me see him just once more before I die ?" The banker's face grow white as the little frozen one beneath it, and he made a deprecatory motion with his hands. Mary raised herself painfully from her pillow, and clung to him. " O, papa, you won't r e f u s ^ o u r little Mary's last prayer. You will be so sorry if you do, when 1 am gone, and I shall see mamma in a little while, and I shall know her face in heaven, although I never did on ^ S ^ ; and when she asks me after her boy, how can I tell her that you would'nt let me see him ?" " Lie down, Mary. Your brother shall be sent for," answered the stricken n ^ . — • V Has he come, O, papa, has he come ?" and she gasped out the words from lips that were growing cold in death. " Yes, Mary, darling sister, I am here," and the young man sprung forward, and folded his arms about her, and his tears dropped on her head—for they had shaven away the long golden curls which crowded it—like rain. She smiled up in his face, and her little euld fingers clam-bered tremulously up his sidlUder, and rested with the old caress in his dark brown hair. Then her face grew troubled. ^ ^ " It is growing dark, I can*^ see you. Papa, Edward—take hold of my hands." And the old man and the young one took her small hands, and she clasped theirs together. Papa, you will take him back to your heart once more? I may tell manmia that you have forgiven him ?" I will take him back—have forgiven him," and the old man's voice was husky b ^ u s e of its sobs. A last smile went like the dying sunshine over the child's face; and Mary Reynold's soul went out like the day, without convulsion or struggle. And the father and the son fell into each other's arms and wept like Jacob and Joseph of old. "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall see God." A short time since a couple were married in Rochester. The bride was a very beautiful girl, and had quite as beautiful a sister who was also unmarried. After the two had been made one, the reverend unitor of hearts and souls kneeled down and praying fervently, entreated the rich-est blessings and mercies of Providence on the bride and groom, as well as upon " the mnnving sister /" Cateehism of Agricultural Chemistry and Geology* V.—OF TIRC RAOAQANIC FOOD OF PTANIA. Q. What are the purposes served by the inor-ganic part of the soil ? A The inorganic or earthy part of the soil serves two purposes: firsts it serves as a medium in which the roots can fix themselves, so as to keep the plant in an upright position ; and sec-ond, it supplies the plant with inorganic food. Q. The inorganic part of the soil consists chiefly of sand, clay and lime ; does it contain no other substances ? A. Yes, it o a o t a i a A s m a l l q i a n t i t i e t of eight or nine other substances. Q. Name these substances. A. Potash, soda, magnesia, oxyd of iron, oxyd of manganese, sulphuric acid, phosphoric acid, and chlorine. Q. Are not these the same substances which exist in the ash or inorganic part of plants ? A. Yes, the same substances exactly—only they form a much larger proportion of the soU than they generally do of plants. Q. Do you understand then where plants ob-tain all the inorganic matter they contain. A. Yes, they obtain them from the soil only. Q. Why can they not obtain them from the air? A. Because potash, soda, magnesia, etc., do not exift in the air. -^HQ. How does this earthy matter enter into ihrplant? A. It enters by the roots. Q. In what state ? A. In a state of solution. The rain and spring waters dissobat them and cany them into the roots. Q. Do all soils contain every one of the inor-ganic substances, potash, soda, lime, etc., which you have mentioned ? A. All fertile or productive soils do. Q. Why must a fertile soil contain them all ? A. Because plants require them all for their healthy growth. Q. Do plants require them all in equal pro-portion ? A. No. Plants must have a certain small quantity of each of them, but they require more of some substances than of others. QVANTITT AIN> COHPOSMON OF TBM ASH U R BT 1 , 0 0 0 I M . OF HAT FROM BTK OKASS. BID WHITK. hvcoim. Potash, 9 20 80 m Soda, 4 6 6 Lime, 7 2d 28i 48 Magnesia, 1 8 8 . H Oxyd of iron,, trace trace i i Silica, . 28 4 15 34 Salphoric acid, 8| 3i 4 Phosphoric acid, i 6i 5 18 Chloriae, trace H 2 8 58 lbs. 74| lbs. 89^ lbs. 94$ lbs. Q. Are those substances which are present in the plant in such minute quantities, really neces-sary to its growth ? A. They appear to be all equally necessary— just as the few ounces of nails or glue are as necessary to the joiner in making a box, as the many pounds of wood which the box contains. Q. Suppose a soil to be entirely destitute of one of'these substances, what would happen? A. Good crops would not grow upon it. Q. Suppose it to contain a large supply of all the others, but only a small supply of some one of these substances, what would happen ? A. Those plants would grow toell upon it which require only a small quantity of that one substance, but those which require a large quan-tity of it would be stunted and unhealthy. Q. Give me an example. A. If the land contained little lime, it might grow a good crop of rye grass, and yet not be able to grow a good crop of lucerne. Q. Suppose a soil to be destitute of a consid-erable number of these different inorganic sub-stances— what would happen 7 A. It would refuse to grow good crops of any kind whatever. It would be naturdUy barren. Q. Are any soils known to exist which are naturally barren or naturally fertile ? A. Yes ; some large tracts of country which have never been cultivated by man, are known to be naturally fertile, and others naturally bar-ren. Q. How is the natural difference between such soils explained? A. In the fertile soils all these inorganic sub-stances exist which our cultivated crops require ; in the barren soils some of these substances are wholly wanting. coMPOHTiox or sonj or DirriBBiiT dborms or wmmurr. FeitUe wiUioat FeMla with Organic matter. Silica (in the sand and clay,) Alumioa (in the clay,) Lime, Magnesia, Oxyd of iron, Oxyd of manganese. Potash, Salpburio acid. Phosphoric acid. Carbonic acid (combined with the lime and magnesia,) Loss, libunm. MMiure. Banen. 97 60 40 648 883 778 67 61 91 59 18 4 8 1 61 80 81 1 8 i 2 trace trace. ^ ; 2 2 1 4i 15 40 ^ 14 H 1000 1000 1000 [The soil, of which the composition is given in the first column, had produced crops for sixty years without manure, and stiU contained a sensille quantity of all the substances required hy plants. That in the second column produced g o ^ cropa when regularly manured—zV was in want of three or four substances only, which vaere given to it by the manure. The third was hopelesalf barren—it was in want of many substances which ordinary manuring could not supply.] Q. May a soil be barren though it contains all the substances which plants require? A. Yes, if it contain a very large proportion of sonjp one, such as oxyd of iron, w h i ^ in great quant^y is injurious to the soiL Q. How would you improve a of thla kind? A. I wo^d thorough-drain and subsoil it, that the rains might sink through it and wash out the injurious matter, and I would lime it if it required lime. Q. May a soil which is naturally fertile be rendered barren by continued cropping ? ^ A. Yes, if the same kind of cropping be car-ried on for a long time, the land will gradually become less and less productive. Q. Give me an example. A. If the same field be cropped year after year with wheat or com, it will at last become unable to grow either of these crops. Q. Why is this » A. Because these crops draw certain substan-ces from the soil in great abundance, and aft^r a number of years the soil can not furnish these substances in sufficient quantity. Q. What substances does grain especially draw from the soil ? A. The seed of our grain crops especially ex-hausts the soil of pho^horic oe^ and of mag-nesia. [The following table represents the composition of the ash of the several kinds of grain usually grown in this country—exclusive of the straw.] COMPOSITION OF THB ASH OF WHXAT, 0AT8, BARUNR, AND RYE. Potash aud Soda, Wheat. Ostii. Barlay. RY*. 87.72 19.12 20-70 87.21 Lime, 1.98 10.14 8.86 292 Magnesia, 9.60 9.98 10.06 10.18 Oxyd of iix)n. 1,36 6.08 1.98 0.82 Oxyd of manganese. > 1.25 i > Phoaphorie acid. 49.82 46.26 40.68 47.29 Sulphuric acid. 0.17 ... ... 0.26 1.46 Silica, 8.07 21.99 0.17 LOO. 9S.87 98.92 100. * From " Catechism of Agricultural Chemistry and Qeology," by J. F. W. Jcdinson, with an introdaction by J. P. Norton, A. M., and an appendix compiled by the Superintendent of Education in Nova Scotia. New York : C. M. Sazton, Barker & Go. Friet, 26 cento. Q. Ho'v would you remedy such special ex-haustion 7 A. By returning to the soil the particular sub-stances my crops had taken out. Q. How would you return the phosphoric acid, for instance ? A. I would apply bone dust, or guano, or some other manure in whieh phosphoric acid abounds. Q. But with any kind of cropping may not a fertile soil be at length made unproductive ? A. Yes, if the crops are carried off the land, and what they draw from the soil is not again restored to it. Q. How is this explained? A. Eve^ crop takes away from the soil a cer-tain quantity of those substances which all plants require. If you are always taking out of a purse it will at last become empty. Q. Then you liken exhausted land to an empty purse ? A. Yes, the fanner takes his money out of the land, and if he is always taking out and put-ting nothing in, it must at last become empty or exhausted. Q. But if he puts something into the soil now and then, may he continue to crop without ex- ^usting it? A. Yes; if he puts in the proper substances, in the proper quantities, and at the proper time, he may keep up the fertility of his land—^per-haps for ever. Q. How much of everything must the farmer put into his land to keep it in its present condi-tion? A. He must put in at least as much as he takes out. Q. To make his land better how much most he put in? A. He must put in more than he takes out. Q. But if he is to put into the land as much or more than he takes out, where is his profit to come from ? A. His profit consists in this, that he takes off the land what he can sell for much money, and he puts in what he can buy for comparatively little money. Q. How do you mean ? A. I mean that if I sell my oats and hay, I get a much higher price for them than I after-wards give when I buy them back again in th« form of horse-dung. Q. Then the farmer can really afford to pat a« much upon his land as he takes o ^ and yet have a profit ? A. He can. He puts in what is cheap, and takes off what b dear. [How beautifully and bountifully the earth and the plant are made to work into the hands of the practical farmer, by converting into valuable pro-duce what he lays on in the form of a worthless refuse—and how they always do most for the skillful, the prudent, and the industrious !J Q. What do you call the substances which the skillful farmer thus puts into his land ? A. They are called manures—and when pot* ting them in, the farmer is said to manure his o i l ] [TO BB CONTINUED.] r
|Title||New Britain times, 1860-02-25|
|Uniform Title||New Britain times (New Britain, Conn. : 1859)|
|Subject||New Britain (Conn.) -- Newspapers|
|Description||Frequency: Weekly; Publication dates: Vol. 3, no. 71 (Sept. 17, 1859) -|
|Contributors||Guernsey, Lucius M|
|Collection||Newspapers of Connecticut|
|Source - Location||Connecticut State Library microfilm, AN104.N5 N67|
|Relation||Preceding title: North and South, and New Britain journal|
|Rights||Digital Image © Connecticut State Library. All rights reserved. Images may be used for personal research or non-profit educational uses without prior permission. For permission to publish or exhibit, see Reproduction and Publication of State Library Collections, http://ctstatelibrary.org/reproduction-publication/|
|CONTENTdm file name||13325.cpd|
NEW BRITAIN TIMES
VOL. m . NEW BRITAIN, CONN., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1860. NO. 94.
s s w B E s m t i i mmm:
A OOKTIHUATION OF THE
isroitTia: Sc S O X T X I I .
L. M. GUERNSEY, Editor and Proprietor
IK^etD Dritain, Conn.
TBUU : —$1.50 per annvm, in Advance. In bundles
of five or more to one addresn, $1.26.
MMiban of NoimI School, anlMerlbisg In Kdvanre for t h e Teraa
fttrntohed M Ut« annakl rat*.
T«MI or ABTSBTItlMO: — For • Square, one incertioo, 76 r«nU
•Mh additloDkl inMrtten.SS e u . For half a Square, one
iMortloa.M eoBtt; «Mh additional inaertiou. IScts.
o a a 9 q « a r a f « r a y o a r . » 1 0 . Half Square, t 6 . BUMBCBB Carda,
eoataiuing kalf aqnare, per year, tS.OO.
For the New Britain Ttnee.
T W I L I G H T THOUGHTS.
BT JBHKIE W.
Sitdng in my quiet ehainber.
In the witching twilight hour.
While the nhodows slowly creeping,
|CONTENTdm file name||13321.pdfpage|