famihj
EMMA.
Affectionately Dedicated to Mrs. BRAINERD
Can it be that her bright life is broken,
As breaketh the tide-drifted wave?
Could not eloquent years prove a pleader
More powerful to save?
In the flush of sweet womanhood perished—
Borne down as a leaf on the stream;-
0, it must be some mocking delusion,
Some grief-poisoned dream.
As the sunbeam that brightens the forest,
And flashes in gold o'er the lea,
Till the mistiness sparkle with jewels,
So came she to me,
And the spirit within me; forgetting,
Or spurning its thraldom of care,
Soared aloft, as the clouds float in summer,
On wings light as air.
As a meteor that flames in the heavens
Sweeps high in its radiant flight,
And the stars gather silent and shrinking
To watch ihe swift light;
So her beautiful life led us upward,
From paths trailing lbw in the dust,
Till beneath lay the baubles we cherished,
Corroded with rust. ..
But a shadow at noon-day bath hidden '
The sunbeam that crept to my hearf;.
And a whisper "with pain she is weary,
And restelh apart;':
But I know that the pale, lovely sleeper,
Hath sought a far holier rest,
With the darlings that went just before her
Again on her breast.
Who shall picture these lives reunited,
With infinite rapture and bliss,.
On that shore of eternal reunions,
Dissevered in Oils ?
Not our sorrowful eyes, dimmed with weeping,
May, compass their joy, their delight,
Clasped again where no death-throe shall, part them
In God's hiving sight.
Would it strike a swift 'pang to their triumph,
Or sadden their transport to know
How we miss, how we mourn them each morrow
That wakes us below ?
Do they tenderly speak of the loved ones,
Still longer to struggle and wait,
Ere the summons to join them, and enter
The Beautiful Gate?
—From the Scranton City Journal
SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF DEACON
GOODMAN.
[Wherein is shown the inconvenience of NOT having the
"Musical Ear." An old and popular story originally
published in the Illassachuetts Ploughman, and re
printed by request.l
Deacon Goodman was extensively known,
not merely in his own parish, but through
several miles, of the surrounding country,
for his amiable disposition, active benevo
lence, and unquestioned piety. So thor
oughly was the Deacon's Character estab- •
lished,t,hat when the people of the neigh
boring towns saw him passing by, they
would say—That man was rightly named, for
if there ever was a good man, he is one." And
from this there was no dissenting voice.
Nay; I am wrong in saying that; for there
are some who never hear anybody praised
without an interposing and qualifying
"but;" "He may be well enough on the
whole," they will say, " but" &c. ; and
then they will go on and make him out
" anything but a clever fellow."
The qualifying " but" must be interposed
even in the case of Deacon Goodman. He
had a fault : He would sing in meeting. " Call
you that a fault 7" saith the reader. Well
then, kind reader, call it a misfortune. "But
why a misfortune ?"
I will tell thee. Nature has so formed us,
that, some have the "musical ea,i," , ` and
others not.—Now this " musical ear," has
nothing to do with real character, moral or
intellectual ; but yet the persons who have
not the " musical ear" ought never to sing
in meeting. If they do, they will be sure
to annoy others, and make themselves ridi
culous. Deacon Goodman had not 'the
" musical ear." Whether it were the " Mes
siah," or the "Creation," or Jim Crow and
Zip Coon, it was alt the same to him, so far
as music was . concerned ; it was just so much
singing. Whether the artist were Sivori, or
Ole Bull, or poor old John Casco, it was just
so much fiddling. He had not the "musical
ear," and still less, if possible, the musical
voice ; but yet he would sing in meeting.
And the gentle and respectful remonstrances
of the choir leader were met with the un
varied reply, " Singing is praying ; you
might as well ask me not to pray; I shall
sing in meeting."
It is now proper for the Biographer to
hint at another trait in the good Deacon's
character. He was rather "set in his ways;"
or in other words, he was dreadfully obsti
nate in what he thought a good cause; and
he was generally, correct in appreciating
the merits of the cause.
`We all know that musical people are apt
to` be sensitive and sometimes a little capri
cious ; and. who has ever known a theatrical
Orchestra,•or even a village choir, that had
not a 'regular " blow up" at least once a
year Beyond all doubt, Deacon Goodman's
singing was a very serious grievance to the
choir, and no small annoyance to the con
gregation. Yet in consideration of his great
merits he was indulged; and his regular
Sunday performances, often drew forth the
remark, that if music murder was a sin,
Deacon Goodman would have much to an
swer for. But there is a point beyond which
forbearance is no longer a virtue. Great.
pains had been taken by the choir in getting
up a new Anthem, (selected from Mozart)
for Thanksgiving day, and the very gem of
the piece was a solo, which had been as
signed to the sweetest voice, and the pret
tiest little girl in the village. All who
attended the rehearsals were perfectly de
lighted with the solo as sung by " little
Mary." It was very difficult. It was marked
from beginning to end "Andantino," "Dolce,"
" Affetnoso," " Crescendo," "Piano," "Pia
nissimo," with changing keys, and flats and
sharps, springing out from unexpected
places; but she had conquered it all. Three
or four accomplished singers who had come
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1868.
from Boston, to pass Thanksgiving in the
country, and who attended the last rehear
sal, were in raptures with little Mary's sing
ing. They had heard Tedesco, and Bisca
ccianti, and yet they said, " for a country
girl she is a prodigy.'
In due time, Thanksgiving day arrived ;
and while the " second bell" was ringing,
news came to the village that a very serious
accident had happened to the Universalist
minister. His horse had thrown him, and
either his leg or his neck was broken; the
boy who had brought the news had forgot
gen which.—" I hope it is not his neck,"
said the rich and charitable old church
member. When Deacon Goodman heard
that remark, he held up his hands and ex
claimed, " I never!"
Now the Deacon dearly loved good preach
ing, and the meeting-house was, to him a
"house of &hating." But his' religion was
of a very practical kind, and although he
thought but very precious little of his good
works, he took care to do &good many of
them, and was far from believing with Ams
dorf, that "good works are . an ilppedim.ent
'
to s9lvation. ,_ So, said he to Mrs.oGroodmani
"do yon g o, to the hoOe of &fisting, and
get all the good you can, and I will go to the
house,of mourning, and do all I can." And
away he went to see, and if possible, to re
lieve the Universalist minister.
In the congreggiOn
bled, and the worship proceeded in the
usual way. At length came the Anthem.
It even went beyond expectation. A long
" rest" immediately preceded the solo. It
was no rest for poor " little Mary." It was
the most anxious minute she had ever pas
sed. She arose, blushing and trembling.
her agitation gave a tremor to her voice,
which added to the pathos of the - music. It
was beautiful.
Now, Deacon Goodman always made it a
a rule, when any accident had detained hiin
until after worship had commenced,to come
in very softly. How different from the
fashionable_ flourish I AR were intent on
the solo. None heard, and; but few saw
Deacon Goodman enter his pew, and take
np the sheet on which the words of the an
them were printed.
Unlike that" Of Manynihgetif, the articu
lation 0f.," little Mary" was perfect.:--The
Deacon soon found the place; and to the
astonishment of the congregation, indigna
tion of the choir, and the perfect 'horror. of
" little Mary," he " struck in," and accom
panied her through the wole solo. Ac
companied! I "Oft in the stilly night,"
accompanied by Capt. Bragg's battery, would
give some notion, of it. Poor little Mary
was sick a fortnight. "Why don't you cut
that' old fellow's tongue off?" said one of
the Boston singers. " What good would it
do ?"„said the choir leader, "he would howl
through his nose." They were all * very
cross. As for the Deacon he looked around
as innocent as a lamb, and thought he had
sung as Well as any.' of them. -
Immediately after meeting, the choir
leader called on the minister. a'Sir,"'said
he, "this ; must stop. If Deacon Goodman
sings again, I do not."
" Oh I know it," said the minister, " I
have long felt the, difficulty ; but what can
we do? Deacon Goodman is a:most excellent
man, and his only faults are that he is
rather set in his way and will sing in meeting."
" But 'Deacon GOodman is a reasonable
man," lipid the choir leader.
" On most occasions," replied the minister.
"Do go and see him, sir, for.my mind is
ma le up; if he sings in meeting, I do not."
"iDeacon Goodman," said the minister, " I
have come on a delicate errand ;,I have come
to present the — respectful riquist of the
Choir that you would,notsing in meeting."
The Deacon was thunderstruck ; but he
soon recovered. " Singing is praying," said
he. " They may just as well ask me not to
pray; I shall sing in meeting." And on the
next Sunday, sure enough he did; loader,
and if possible, more inharmonious that
ever. The men singers iooked daggers at
him ; 'the girls hid their smiles behind their'
music books. Little Mary was not there..,'
" This shall stop," said the choir leader.
" I will go and see him myself."
"Deacon Goodman, we all most highly re
spect you, as you must well know ; but you
have not the musical 'ear nor the musical
voice, and it is the earnest wish of the choir,
and many of the congregation, that you do
not again sing in meeting.
The Deacon was again thunderstruck,
but soon recovered, " Singing is praying,"
said he " and they might as well tell me not
to pray. I shall sing in meeting."
The good Deacon was dreadfully set in
his way, and so it went again on week after
week, in the same old way.
But an incident occurred, which contribu
ted much to bring this singular case to a
crisis. About two miles from the Deacon's
tdinfortable dwelling, there was' wretched
linvel, which imperfectly shatered the
wretched wife and children of a still more
wretched drunkard.
On one of the most inclement evenings
of a New England January, the Deacon
and his family were cheerfully and thank
fully enjoying a glorious hickory fire; Mrs.
Goodman was sewing for the family, and
her daughters for the Missionary Society.
H s son was reading the Massachusetts
Ploughman, and the good man himself wls
just finishing off a sermon by a distinguish
ed divine of his own denomination, when
bang went the front door, and in came his
good neighbor and own beloved and re
spected Minister. " Why 1 I never 1" said
Deacon Goodman, "what has brought yon
along in such a night as this?" Now, this
Minister had his peculiarities as well as the
Deacon. Among others, he was very close
mouthed about his own good deeds; He
merely answered, " I have been about my
duty, I hope." The fact was he bad been
to visit, and to talk, and pray, with' a poor
dying negro. " Seems to me you are rather
crusty," said the Deacon, " but I suppose
you are half frozen, and so sit down and
thaw yourself out." " I thank you," said
the Minister, "but I merely called to tell you
that I have just left a scene of misery; and
I want you to go there as early as you can
in the morning. On my way here and
home, I passed that wretched hovel which
we all knew so well. I felt it my duty to
stop and learn the terrible uproar within.
I found the wretch beating his wife; and
her screams, and his horrid oaths made my
blood run cold. I knocked the rascal down;
(" served him right," said the Deacon,) and
think he will be quiet until morning; but
do go as early as you can. " Od rabbit the
varmint," said Deacon Goodman, " and od
rabbit the etarnal blasted rum shop." That
was the nearest to swearing that the Deacon
was ever known to come.
"Pat old Mag in the wagon," said he to
his-son. " Deacon, don't go to night," said
Mrs. Goodman.. " Do wait till morning,"
said his daughters. "Let me - go," said his
son. "Mind your own business," said the
Deacon t 6 all of them, " I shall go to-night"
When it came to that; they knew there was
no more to be said . . He, was idreadfully
"set in his way." He took a bag and
basket, And.lwent: down cellar. , He filled
the bag with, potatoes. ,He took a piece of
pork from a barrel,, and a piece of beef from
another, and put them in the 'basket. He
went tothe closet, and took a brown loaf
and a white one. He went to the wood
pile, and took an armful of 'wood, and told
his Son to take` aneiber. All was put in
the wagon; he not forgetting six candles
and a paper of matches. Deacon Goodman
needed no secondary motive' to Christian
duty ; yet historical truth demands the con
cession, that the wife of the poor drunkard
was his first love. She jilted him, or flawe
Yankees say, "gave him the mitten," in
favor of the abject wretch who was now
become her tyrant., lA,ndthis was the way
he "fed fat the ancient. grudge" he owed
her 1 - The - truth'is, - Deacon Goodman knew
nothing about grudges ancient -or modern.
The old Adam would occasionally flare up,
but he always got him under before sun-down.
All was ready, and in five minutes the
Deacon was " exposed to the peltings of the
pitiless storm." But what did he care for
the storm? " I arilkroing on God's errand,"
said he to himaelf /‘I am going to 'visit
the worse than widbw and; atherless." The
next thing ' he said , was; " Oh, get out."
That he meant for ate _ promptings of his
own proud heart.. • 1 . ~ )
Misery, misery, indeed did he find in that
most miserable dwelling. The poor wretch
himself was dead drunk on the floor. The
.
poor pale woman asW sobbing her very
heart out. The children were clamorous ;
and but few were the words of their clamor.
" I am cold,"—" I am hungry,"—and that
was all. The Deacon brought in the wood,;
Made lip a fire : ; : lighted a . candle ; and
emptied the bag and basket.. The , ppor pale
woman weptand sobbed her thanks. " Oh,
You varmint," said the Deacon, as he looked
at the husband - and father. and broke off a
piece of bread for.eaof 'the children. The
O n. ii
04 .
fieral nOmpintiouied the poor wretch
from his drunken stfpor. He looked up
and recognized )bacon. ~
" Hallo, old music: said ' he, "'are you
here ? give _us .a staveiloid nightingale: Sing
as you do in meeting. Sing arid scare the rats
away." " Why, whatnn - earth does the crit
ter mean:?".'said. ftlid*Deficcin. , : - . ralte poor,
pale, grateful worcup smiled through her
tears. ,= She could not help it. She had been
a• singer . in , her. better days; she had also
heard the Deacon sing.
,I do not.record these incidents merely be
cause they, are l hono; hle to Deacon Good
man,F but becanse„,t ey ,are particularly
connected with My s a ory. In this errand
Of mercy the good .Deacon caught a very
serious cold; affeetedk.his, throat, and his
nose,:and , even' his : liMge • and gave to his
voice a tone not unlike , to ant of the lowest
note of a cracked bass-viol alternating with
the shriek of a clarionet powerfully but
unskillfully blown. On Saturday evening
he soaked hie feet in hot water ; drank
copiously of hothalm tea; went to bed and
said he felt comfortable. " Now Deacon,"
said Mrs., Goodman; ~-!' yen. are, dreadfully
hoarse ;%you', Won't sing ' to-morrow, will
ypn ?" " Singing is, praying—and—'he
dropped asleep. And sure. enough he did
"sing to-morrow," and it surpassed all that
had gone before. -"This' is the last of it,"
said the choir leader, "I have done." In
the afternoon, the choir was vacant, some
of the singers absent and others scattered
about in the pews. The Minister read three
verses of a psalm s ; and then observed, " the
choir being absent, singing must necessarily
be omitted." But Deacon Goodman saw
no such necessity. He arose, and sung the
three verses himself! He stopped six times
to sneeze ; and blewhis nose, between the
versos by way of. symphony ! The next
day he was sick abed. A parish meeting
was hastily called, and a. resolution unani
- ~
mously passed, that, " Whereas the solem
nity and decorum ofpublic worship depend
much on the character of the music : resol
ved that hereafter no person shall sing in
meeting, in this parish without the approba
tion of the choir!" Rather a stringent
measure; but whit 'could they do? The
Minister called on Deacon Goodman, and
handed him the resolution. He read it
over three times. He then calmly folded
up the paper; and handed it back to, the
Minister. " This is' a free country yet, I
hope. I shall sing inn meeting." He said
those very words ! He was dreadfully " set
in his way."
"Then Deacon," said the Minister, "I
have a most painful duty to perform-; I am
instructed to tell you, that your connection
with the society must cease." The Deacon
here started ' from his i seat. Had the full
moon split into fout
,p,teCes, and danced a
quadrille in the heavens,; Orion singing;
and the Northern Bear growling bass, he
could not have been4nore astounds& He
was silent. Eniotion after emotion rolled
over his heaving spirit. " At length tears
came to his relief," as they say in the
Novels. He spoke, but almost inarticulately.
" I know I am a poor unworthy creature,
but I hope they will take me in somewhere,"
The Minister wept himself. How could
he help it? The Deacon's cold was nearly
cured; and about an hour after the inter
view, he was seen mounted on old Mag,
heading due north. Four miles in that
direction lived the worthy Minister of
another parish. The Deacon found him in
his study, where also was his daughter
copying music. She was a proficient in the
art, and played the organ in her father's
church. She bad heard of the Deacon's
musical 'troubles, and had also heard him
sing. " Sir," said he to the Minister, " there
has been a little difficulty in our parish,
which makes me feel it my duty to with
draw; and I have come to ask the privi
lege of uniting with yours." (At this
moment the young lady vanished from the
room.)
" I much regret the difficulty in your
parish," said the Minister, "and hope it
will be amicably settled. But if yon finally
conclude to withdraw, we shall be most
happy to receive you'; and when it shall
please, the Lord, to take' good old, Deaedn
Grimes to himself, (and a very few days
must now giveldin• his dismission,) we shall
expect, you to sit:in his seat." After half an .
hour's pleasant nonversation, the Deacon
arose to take his departurs.,. At that ,mo:-
ment, a boy came in and handed a billet to
the Minister. He glanced at the billet, and
" Deacon, sit down 'one moment," said he.
He read the „billet, arid after son - e hesita
¶ion, said, " . I have received a singular com
munication, from a choir leader; he has
somehow or other heard of your intention
to join our society, and.has - heard of ,it,
with very great pleasure; but, he adds that
it is the earnest and unanimous wish of the
choir that you will not sing in meeting" The
Deacon was again electrified, but had got
used to the ,shock ; "Singing is praying ;
and 'I join no church where I cannot sing in
meetf,ng,—good day, sir." He was very " set
in his way."
Five miles TiVestof his own dwelling, lived
the good Pastor of another flock. The Dea
con found him shelling corn in his crib.
This Minister although eminently pious,
thought.itno harm to be a little waggish in
a good cause, and for a worthy object. He
also , had heard . of the Deacon's > musical
troubles, and shrewdly suspected the object
of his_visit. "Deacon Goodman, lam glad
to seeyou," said he, " this is not exactly min
isterial labor, is it ?" " I am of a different
opinion," said the Deacon, "any honest
and useful labor is ministerial labor; I hate
all Dandies ' —the Lord forgiveme, I don't
like them; and I like a dandy minister the
least of any "You'and I are agreed there,"
said the Minister; " come walk into the
house and see my wife; she says she is in
love with you for your honesty and your
oddities." " I never I" said the Deacon
" but I thank you, I am in something of a
hurry;, and have a little , business which we
can , just as wellsettic„here.,
" There has been a little, diffic by in our
parish, which makes me feel it my duty to
withdraw, and I have come to ask the privi
lege O - 1 joining yours." At this the Rever
end gentleman looked as if he was very
much surprised. "Is it possible," said he ;
""well, Deacon, though an ill wind for them,
it is a good one for us; for it has blown you
hither. We shall be most happy to receive
you, especially as our choir leader has fol. ,
lowed the multitude and gone West. We
have been looking about for a competent
man to take his place. Our singers are all
Young and diffident, and each one is loth to
take the lead. We hear that you sing the
most difficult music and -'
" Why, mercy upon you," said the Dea
con, " I don't know one note from another,
I-know that singing is praying; and I sing
in meeting as I pray in meeting."
"Excuse me, my friend," replied the min
isier, " it is your modesty that now speaks;
you do understand music, yon must under
stand music; or you could- never sing Mo
zart with proper expression; and did not
you sing that most beautiful solo, which is
worthy,of , an amgel's ear and voice?" Now
this was all Greek to the Deacon, and like
a sensible man as he 'was, he always said
nothing when he.had nothing to say. "Yon
say truly," continued the minister, "that
singing is praying. but to those who
know nothing of music, it is praying-in an
unknown tongue, and I am sure you are
not Papist enough to approve of that; music
is a language, and like other languages must
be learned before it can be spoken. When
the deaf and dumb attempt to speak our
common language they . make strange
noises, and still worse noises do we make
when without the musical ear or the musi
cal voice, we attempt to sing"
Thus sensibly did that good Minister
speak. The Deacon was a good deal "struck
up." Though set in Ms way, he was not a
fool; and only needed to be touched in the
right place. "It never appeared to me in
that light before," said the Deacon.
"And yet, my friend, it is the true light,"
said the minister. "And now, do let me
give you a word of advice : Go home, and
take your own seat on Sunday 5 and never
again attempt to sing in meeting.. For if
your heart is right, your ear is untuned, and
your voice, though kind, is anything but
musical." The Deaeon " said nothing but
thought the more." He mounted old Mag.
The Angel of reflection came down, and sat
upon her mane,llnd looked him full in the
face. Reader, does that seem incongruous?
Is the old mare's mane an improper seat for
an Angel ? lam afraid you are proud. Who
once rode on an ass ?
The Deacon passed a point in the road
where on one side was a sturdy oak that
had been blown over by a recent whirlwind,
and on the other, a flourishing willow,
gracefully bending before the passing
breeze. "Od rabbit it," said the Deacon to
himself; it was the first word he had spo
ken, "to think that I should be such an ob
stinate old fool."
He approached his own village.
reason for his errand abroad had been
strongly suspected, and they were all on the
look-out for his return. There stood the
choir leader. "Welcome home, Deacon,"
said he, " hope we have not lost you yet."
" Get out," said the Deacon, with a good
natured but rather sheepish look; and on
he went. There stood the minister, " Wel
come home, Deacon, I hope we have not
lost you yet." " et--;:' he was just
going to say get out, but habitual reverence
for the minister cut him short. He looked
at the minister, and the minister looked at
him, and both burst into a fit of laughter.
The choir leader came up and took 'be Dea
con's hand, and joined in the merriment.
"Od rabbit ye all," said he; and on, he
went. At the front door and windows of
his own house, were his wife and daughters,
and two or three of the singing girls, " all
of a titter." They bad seen and heard his
interview with the minister and knew that
all was well. "Od rabbit the whole bunch
of you:" said he, and went to put old Mag
'in the stable.
Deacon Goodman took his old seat on
Sunday, but since that, day's adventure,.hae
never sung in meeting. Once, and but once,
did he attempt to raise a psalm on his own
private account. He was in his barn put
ting some hay in his cow's manger. Noir,
the neighbors were always ready to do a
good turn for Deacon Goodman; and before
he had finished the first verse, two of them
rushed in and asked him if his cow was chok
ed! He never sung again.
gtisittitt.
EARTHQUAKES AND TIDAL WAVES.
Later and fuller details are every day in
creasing the interest with which scientific
observers regard the recent earthquakes and
tidal disturbances, and confirming our first
impression that these convulsions of nature
would prove to be among the most remark
able and extensive of which there is any
written record. They have been experien
ced at short intervals during the last three
months, and there is is no reason to suppose
that we have yet felt the last of them, the
latest having been reported only a week
ago. The shocks have followed no particu
lar direction, and been confined to no parti
cular quarter of the earth. .Beginning in
the middle of. the Pacific Ocean, they seem
to have affected all its easternshores and its
southern and western islands, and, skipping
the whole breadth of the North American
Continent. and the. Atlantic Ocean, to have
broken out in Ireland. We may yet learn
that the remoter countries of Asia have
likewise been shaken.. The first of this
great series of convulsions, so far as our
intelligence now extends, occurred, in
the Sandwich Islands, eleven days before
the terrible disaster in Peru. Violent shocks
were felt in different parts of the group
from the 2d to the 9th of August, accom
panied with heavy storms, of thunder and
lightning. The western coast of South
America was devastated by awful earth
quakes from the 13th to the 15th of Augdbt,
and at the same time the shocks were felt
again in the Sandwich Islands, though less
severely than before. On the 17th there
were shocks in New Zealand. About the
middle of Septem'ber shocks were felt by
vessels in the Eastern`Pacific. On or about
the' let 'of October 'they were experienced
again in the Sandwich Islands. In Califor
nia, they were felt from - the 21st to the 25th,
with' considerable severity, and were re
,peated,slightly up to the 6th of November.
On the 23d of October we hear of earth
quakes ih Ireland. On the r4th of Novem
ber there was one at Vancouver Island.
The tidal waves which, have accompanied
all, the moat serious of these convulsions are
peculiarily interesting pibjects of study. It
has been remarked, as an evidence of the
rapidity with which they travel, that they
reached the, California•coast as early as the
morning of the 14th of August, having
moved over a distance of 4,000 miles in a
little, more than 14 hours; but it now ap
pears that their speed is even greater than
this; for they were felt in the Sandwich Is
lands, nearly an equal distance, on the
evening of the 13th, only four hours after
the. eartqhuake,in Peru, lasting, through the
night, and obtaining' their greatest force
the next morning, almost simultaneously
with their appearance on the opposite Cali
fornia coast. This would give them a vel
ocity of about a thousand miles an hour.
They seem, however, not to have been dri
ven in more than one direction at a time.
The Sandwich Islands lie north-west of the
place of disturbance in Peru. Toward the
west and south-west, we have •no record of
tidal phenomena earlier Ulan the 15th of
August, when the waters of Japan and Aus
tralia were simultaneously agitated in the
same manner. These waves may have been
either propagated by fresh convulsions on
the South American. cOast, or revulsions
from the disturbances at ,the Sandwich Is
, lands. We have no sufficient data as yet
determining in what direction the waves
travelled, or what was their size or their
velocity. We trust that the attention of
competent observers may have been drawn
to these points; for by means of them it
would be possible to determine the depth of
the Pacific Ocean, the size and velocity of
waves bearing, as is well known, a fixed
ratio to the depth of the water.
A great tidal wave fell upon Hawaii, one
of the Sandwich Islands, on the 15th of Oc
tober, destroying a great many houses and
other property. Accepting the generally
received theory that these phenomena are
caused by earthquakes, we may expect in
telligence of another great calamity about
that date in some country bordering on the
Pacific from which we have yet received no
advices. But the disturbance may have
arisen in the bed of the ocean,
in which
case, unless a stray sailing vessel chanced to
be within' reach of it, no account of the
phenomenon may ever come to us.—N.
k Tribune N0v.17.