. . . , iiii . • - . ill I - . ....... . . . .. _ _ • ~.- _ . . . . . . .. . . . ~. „.. . . . ,A . . . . . . . : .4 .......: • • . ~ .... .- , : 1. i • - .7 1 !- - -; . . .- , : -.:;::. ..; ~ 1 . ... le : , -- .. ...1 , if ' 1 1 11 . , . . . • SAMUEL WEIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. 'VOLUME XXXIV, NUMBER 7.3 :PUBLISHED EVERY SITURDIY MORNING. '496Ece in Carpet Rat, North-westcorner of. Vront and Locust streets. Terms of Subscription. Oar Copy peranr um,if paidi n advance, .64 46 . • if loot paid witliinthree monthafromeommeneemensaftlie year, 200 az. 0023-3 r. No; übscripiloo received fora less time than six Mouths; and no paper vvi ll be diicontinued until all A rrearagessrepaid,uslessat the optiooof the pub. isher. izr.llone ynayti e•-e mittedb sub epublish cer s risk. . . Rates of Advertising. guar t[6. ines]one week. *OOB •' three weeks. 75 eaek4ubsequentinsertion, 10 • (1 tines joneweek. 50 three weeks. 1 00 - - encli4ubsequentinsertion. 25 ,e,..r.gertdvertisementH n proportion &liberal liscounivvilibe made to tinorterly.half etotvot 'early tit vertisersmao are stricti3confined otheir nu.inero. grtlEttiOnO. Out of Sight, Out of Mind. One serene, starlight evening in Jane a *Dui on which earth had borne the name of Albert de Couroelles was slowly ascending from the earth, where it had lingered long and lovingly, up into the heights above where the stars were shining in the blue heavens. Those who on earth were gazing upwards, as they beheld the luminous track of the spirtual essence of what had been a a human being, thought that they gazed on distant meteors, or on some brilliantshooting star. Still the soul ascended, and, losing sight of the earth, attained that luminous and glorious region which none but disembod ied spirits have ever entered. Here, at the very gate of Paradise, the fluttering soul grew still, and, even within sight of Heaven, looked with longing, lingering affection and regret down on those it hod loved and left on earth. And this is what it beheld: In the old family mansion of the Rue de Lond res were assembled all that had been dear to the soul in the body. His sister, in the deepest mourning garments, knelt with streaming eyes and _uplifted hauds before his portrait. Ills aunt, who had been a second mother to him, sat in her accostom ed place, alt in black, murmuring, as she wept, prayers for the repose of his soul.— His brother, who had grown pale and thin, was listening abstractedly to the old family lawyer; while pale, with her eyes closed, from which the tears still streamed, loaned by one of the windows the soul's beloved, his affianced wife, exhausted, overpowered by grief, and in widow's weeds. By her side, holding one of her hands, was Gustave do Merle, the soul's most intimate friend.— He, too, was in mourning, traces of grief were visible on his features. In the ante room, Germain, his old faithful valet, sat, the servants grouped around him, telling stories of his master's kindness and good ness, and wiping away his tears at every pause. At the same time, at the Palais de Justice, the Procureur General was making a most brilliant and touching speech to the successor of the soul—for during his lifetime the soul bad occupied the distinguished po sition of Judge d'instruction. And the soul paused at the very gates of Paradise and gazed wistfully once more-into the old familliar home. His picture was now railed with crape; wreaths of white im mortals were hung, by all who loved him, round it, and all seemed to grow calmer.— Still the few few words that were spoken were of him. "My brother!" said Charles—"more than brother; so generous, so talented." "Dearest Albert," said the soul's sister, Augustine, "I must mourn eternally, for me you died." "I am his widow evermore, though fate denied me the hapiness of being his wife," said Isabelle. Your grief will kill you, Isabelle," said Gustave, the soul's friend. "Think of those for whom you have still to lire." "Alas!" said the aunt, "to think that be should die before me, so young, so good, so handsome," "My poor, dear master!" said Germain; "poor Monsieur Albert! I shall never get over this." And, as be spoke, Albert's favorite grey hound, looking up at him earnestly, gave a long, znelancholy.howl. "flow they grieve for mel" murmured the soul to itself; and, poised in ether, it con tinued to gaze down on earth. Albert de Coercelles was, or had been, the eldest soon of a magistrate who had attained the highest distinction in his office. lie had in early life, made a very rich marriage, of which Albert was the fruit, inheriting from his mother, who died in giving him birth, all her immense property. Ills father, in due course of time, married again. and Char les and Augustine were the children of the second marriage—by no means as rich as the first. At his death, feeling that his elder son was rich, old M.de Courcellesl4d left si codicil.to his will, especially recom mending his younger children to Albert.— The laws of France forbade his making an unequal division of his property. Still be felt that the small fortune he left would have been far better divided into two parts than into three, as the laws commanded. Albert, however, who was at age when this death tenured, fully understood his fa ther's codicil, and, renouncing legally and formally, his paternal inheritance, bestowed his share 6n Charles'and Augustine. ; Following *felines career; he soon ra calved the appointment of Judge d'instruc tion, and his abilities and exemplary con duct insured him a brilliant future either on the bench or in political life. Possessed of a private income of over one hundred thousand frances, Albert chose to consider himself the head of the family, and placing his aunt at the head of the estab lishment, gage his brother and sister a lux urious and splendid home, while the sum left them by their father was allowed to ac cumulate till their majority. Of a sentimental turn of mind, Albert had resolved to make none but a love match; al most further than he could remember, his love for Isabelle, the friend and companion of his sister, had sprung up in Isis heart. Albert was too good a match for there to be any obstacles to this love. Isn'oelle's re lations gladly gave their consent, and the blushing Isabelle, when all was arrnged, laid her bead upon Albert's shoulder and confessed her love to him. $1 30 All, therefore, was as he had wished; not one of his prOjects in life had ever failed. Albert was indeed a happy man. The wed ding day was fixed, the apartments of the newly married pair all new furnished in the old mansion of the Rue de Londres, the set tlements were all drawn up, the trousseau was complete, the family jewels were all re set, when behold comes a letter from an old French lawyer in Rio Janeiro, that for the first time interferes with a plan Albert had laid out. This letter was no less than the copy of a will of a sister of M. de Courcelles' second wife, settled in Brazil, in which will she had left the whole of her property to her niece, Augustine, Albert's sister. The shrewd French lawyer concluded by saying that the affairs were in such confusion and the debt ors so numerous and so dishonest, that un less a clever agent was sent with full powers from the legatee, the inheritance, from one million and a half of francs, its nominal value, might dwindle into nothing. Augustine, ambitious and vain, with all a woman's ignorance, saw none of the difficul ties and fancied herself all at once an heir ess, but her aunt, who had the experience of a long life before her, calmed her enthu siasm. "My dear Augustine," said site, "do not reckon on one single franc of this inheri tance; the laws of Brazil are not like ours, nor are the courts incorruptible. You see the lawyer in Rio says it requires a clever and devoted agent to settle the estate Where do you think such a one is to be found?" "Why, my dear aunt," said Albert, "don't you think I am a clever and devoted agent?" "You, Albert!" exclaimed Augustine. "Do you think I, who have assumed the responsibility of the head of the family. would allow Augustine to lose this inheri tance when a sacrifice on my part could save it?" "But Isabelle" "Isabelle is too noble hearted not to un derstand me. We shall be all the happier for this sacrifice. We are both young and have a long life before us. I shall go by the next steamer to Rio Janeiro." So by the very next steamer, the Satre, Albert, followed by the blessings and vows of his whole family, and the assurances of eternal love and devotion, took his departure from [lucre. After a prosperous voyage he reached Rio just in time to find that a more recent will had bean discovered, and that, consequently, the one making Augustine an heiress was null and void: As there was nothing more to be done, Albert immediate ly re•embarked on board the Saffo, and thinking of Isabelle and all be loved, pro ceeded on his voyage homeward. But a rock was destined to be fatal to Suffo the AWN as in ancient classic days it had been to Saab the woman; the ship, broken to pieces, was lost at sea, and all the passen gers and crew, including Albert de Cour celles, lost. It is useless to relate the consternation and grief caused by this news. When the soul looked down on earth and saw the grief of all who had loved him, he had been dead a whole year, and all had just returned from the celebration at the Madelaine of a grand mass, at which all the opera singers had suug, for the repose of his soul. Probably owing to this, and also to a very pure record, the soul had been freed after a year's probation, not given to mortal eye to penetrate, and was now ascending to eternal bliss, when regrets for the earth and its af fections had arrested him. As he contined to gaze into the drawing room of the Rue de Londros, he saw the lawyer take out a paper which he knew to be his will, made just before going to Rio. "Now," said the lawyer, "the year has expired. I read this will to you on the re ceipt of the news of the death of M. de Cournnes; but you had still hope, and from a feeling of a delicacy I fully appreciate, re fused tbat the will should go into effect bu t now." 'Wow," said Gustave, "it would be die. respectful to the deceased not to conform to his last wishes." "Then," said the lawyer— "ln mercy," exclaimed Augustine, "do not real the will again; it breaks my heart to hear it; we all know it." "Well, then, you know that Mlle Angue tine is put in possession of three hundred thousand francs. M. Gustave has a small estate in Brien given to him. Your aunt ten thousand francs as a memorial of esteem. Mlle Isabella the house and grounds at Montmorency.. "NO ENTERTAINMENT SO CIIEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 13, 1862. "Where we were to have passed the first days of our union," exclaimed Isabelle, bursting into tears, and taking the smelling bottle Gustave held towards her. "The servants have all legacies, and Ger main an annuity of two thousand francs a year. All these being paid, M. Charles is residuary legatee, and becomes possessed of an immense fortune." "I would give all, and beg my bread, to have my dear brother back," said Charles. "And I," said Augustine. "And I," said the aunt. "And I," said Isabelle, would be content to die if I could but behold him once more, if but for a moment." As fur Germain, he shook his head nt the mention of his annuity, and protested that he should not enjoy it long, fur grief would kill him. As he beheld all this, the soul which had shaken off love love which indeed is of hea ven, longed to console so much griuf, to re ward so much affection. St. Peter, who held the keys, understood at once the state of the soul ho was pre pared to admit. "Still clinging to the earth," said St. Pete; "verily thou didst die too young." "Behold how they weep," said the soul. "Wilt thou return to earth?" "But for a year, even a day." "Return to earth," said St. Peter, "thy life was one of good example; go not for a year; for another life, until thou shalt say— 'would that I were dead.' Then shalt thou die, and I will await thee here. Go." St. Peter extended his hand, and by a rapid descent the soul returned to earth. As it touched the stones of Paris, it instantly re sumed its corporeal form, and the next min ute M. Albert Coureelles, in his likeness as he lived, handsome, in good health, and just twenty-nine, knocked at the gate of the family mansion of the Rue do Londres. The gate opened, and before the porter could speak, the greyhound, dashing along the court-yard, with joyous whines and barks, leaped upon his master. On rushed Albert; who can describe the meeting. Augustine laughed and cried. Charles seized his brother's hand and press ed it to his lips. Gu , tave gazed with love and wander at his friend. Augustine went elf into hysterics. Isabelle fainted in Al bert's arms. The aunt sent forth a prayer of thanksgiving; while the greyhound kept up a joyous gambol over everything and everybody, and the lawyer put the will back into his pocket. As for Germain, he stood in the doorway, humbly thanking heaven, and imploring its blessings on his master. As for Albert, he bent over Isabelle with ecstasy that he believed Heaven itself could not have given him. In mourning, too, widow's weeds; how she had regretted him. This violent state of excitement could not of course la-t. Life resumed its usual rou tine, yet it was astonishing, though absent but one year, how difficult Albert found it to make a place for himself in the world, that had gone on thinking him dead and gone forever. In the first place, the Procureur Imperial was excessively puzzled; Ito bad given Al bert's .position to another. What was he to do? Albert on going to Rio had asked fur leave of absence; the nomination of his successor dated from before that leave bad expired. What was to be done? Aftet mature reflection the count restored Albert to his position as judge, giving an appoint ment in one of the provinces to his succes sor. This successor loved Paris, and hav ing a liasun in which his heart was deeply engaged, the appointment was an exile to him. He wished Albert, not in paradise where Le had been near going, but in another place which Albert had luckily es caped. Although Albert had been dead but one year, the world, and even his family, had kept moving. Although Augustine had refused to receive her brother's legacy, it was very well known that he had left her a rich dowry. A marriage had been arranged, and the termination of the year of mourn ing had been fixed as the period at which the wedding was to take place. One day Augustine sought her brother. "Albert," said she, "I have decided to en ter the Covent des Oiseaux; my poor, little fortune will suffice me there; here, in my position, it only makes me a brilliant beg gar." 'My darling sister, what does this mean?" "It means," said the aunt, "that Augus tine wee betrothed when you returned, and that"— "That what? illby hesitate?" "That circumstances being altered, the family have broken off the match." "Circumstances( what circumstances?" ".Augustine was rich by your will"— "And shall be," said Albert. compre hending all, "I will give her what the fam ily thought she possessed." "Ohl Albert," said Augustine, falling in his arms. "Albeit," said Charles one day to his brother, "I am come to bid you farewell." "Farewell:" where are you going?" "To Algiers, as a settler." "I thought you were to enter into part nership with N. Tonfrede, and be at the head of his iron works." •'So I was, and to have married hie daughter, but circumstances are altered." "Indeed! what circumstances?" "Why, dear Albert,, thinking you were dead, (Eltaseu be ,t4Uked you Are :iota) I promised to put in a capital of three hun dred thousand francs." "Wherefore, I will pay the three hundred thousand francs." "Oh, Alberti" said Charles, and Albert returned the pressure of bis hand, but could not help thinking that his return had caused very great confusion. Scarcely was Charles gone before Ger main entered, bringing with him a bag of five franc rieces. "Ilene, Monsieur Albert, is the annuity; they paid me the first year; I suppose I must not keep it now." "Keep it, Germain; these two thousand francs will atone fur my being alive." "Oh, Monsieur Albert how can you say that? Still, you know it is a blow to an old mon like me, who thought he could live in rest and idleness, to find that he has noth ing to look forward to." Albert sighed, but his aunt came in at that minute. "When are you going to be married, Al bert?" said she. "0, immediately; as soon as Isabelle fixes the day; she seems quite overcome by the surprise and joy of my return." "It did surprise us, I must say. 'Wasn't it lucky, Albert, I hadn't received my leg acy? I intended to build with it a small chapel in the park of may country place; I could nut have returned it." "Nay, aunt, I don't want it; keep it, and have prayers said for me." "Oh! Albert," raid the aunt. "Now," said Albert, "tell me why does not Gustave come hero any more?" "I cannot say; in the time of our grief ho never left us." A few days after this they were at Mont morency. Isabelle, no longer in mourning robes, but still pale and drooping, sat alone with Albert beneath the shady trees. "Isabelle," said Abert, "before asking you to be my wife, I must tell you that I am not so rich as I was-" "I know, I know all—your generosity; I am glad you are no longer rich." "Dearest Isabelle." "Fur then none can suspect my motives fur marrying you." "Ali! Isabelle, your love makes me so happy." "Oh! Albert," exclaimed Isabelle, "I will not, I cannot deceive you. I did love you, Albert; the news of your death nearly killed me; but I thought you dead, and oh! forgive me, Albert, my future life shall atone for all; my duty, my esteem, my devotion shall ho yours—" "But your love—" "Is another's; but I will sacrifice it to you; I will keep my first vows, though it should cost me my lifo." Albert rose and turned away from her.— This was a bitter, heavy sorrow. Albert felt the vanity of the world and worldly af fections, and he wandered forth far on into the silent woods. It was moolight when be returned. As he neared the bower where ho had. left Isabelle, he beard her voice; he stopped and listened, foranother voice, a voice lie recognized, replied to hers; it was Gustave's. "And so you abandon me, Isabelle; you give yourself to another when your heart is mine. Think of the pangs it would be to me to know you ate in his arms; but oh! Isabelle, think, loving ire, what as his wife will you - endure?" "It will kill me," said Isabella; "oh! why did he return?" Here Isabelle fell into Gustnve's arms and wept. Albert, leaning against a tree, look ed up into the clear, stary heavens. "Would that I were _dead," said he, and as he spoke he fell dead across the path both Isabelle and his friend must tread to gain the house. They found him lying dead in the moon light. Isabelle sunk by his side murmuring words of love and repentance. Ile was borne to his home. The doutore declared he had died of disease of the heart. Ile was had in his coffin, and the priests watched beside it. As for the family, they returned to Paris, and looked out their mourning. Ile was buried privately, fur the heirs and family thought all grand cere monies would seem ridiculous after all that had been done fur him before. So na ono watched by his grave but the poor grey hound. that refused all comfort and died on the grave, while Isabelle and Gustavo ar ranged all fur their wedding. Albert could not expect to be twioe mourned in his life. Meantime the soul winged its way rapid ly to Heaven. St. Peter recognized it. "So soon," said St. Peter. "AEC said the soul,'• out of eight, out of mina." And St. Peter, opening the gates of Par adise, let the soul into eternal bliss, and into-oblivion of the earth, its false joys, and its hollow affections. Spontaneous Combustion. Instances of deaths said to have been caused by spontaneous combustion are so nu merous that the most skeptical are some times tempted to believe in the possibility of the phenomena. The earliest case re corded, is that of a woman of Copenhagen, in 1692, who, for three years, had used spirituous liquors to excess. flaying sat down one evening in a straw chair to sleep, she was consumed in the night time, so that next morning no part of her was found but the skull and the extreme joints of her fin gers; all the rest of her body being reduced to : nsbes.. - The transactions of the Royal Society of London, likewise furnish an instance of hu man combustion, equally extraordinary, in the case of Grace Pitt, an intemperate per son, who was found on the night of the 9th of April, 1754, partially consumed; the limbs and a portion of the body being, in a measure, incinerated, "resembling heaps of coal covered with white ashes." The wo man's daughter on beholding this spectacle, ran in great haste, and poured over her mother's body some water, in order to ex- - dovish the fire; while the fetid odor end smoke which exhaled from the body almost suffocated some of the neighbors who had hastened to her assistance. Thore bad been no fire in the grate, and near the consumed body a paper screen and the clothes of a child were found uninjured. Eighty years ago, Morille, a surgeon at Caen published the following account: "Being requested by the king's officers to draw up a report of the state in which I found Mademoiselle Thuars, who is said to have been burned, I made the following observations: The body lay with the crown of the head resting against one of the andi rons, at the distance of eighteen inches from the fire; the remainder of the body was placed obliquely before the chimney, nearly all being nothing but a mass of ashes. Even the most solid bones had lost their form and consistence. The right foot was found en tire, and scorched at its upper junction: the left was more burned. The day was cold, but there was nothing io the grate, except ing two or three bits of wood about an inch in diameter, burnt in the middle. None of the furniture in theapartment was damaged. The chair in which Mademoiselle Thuars had been sitting was found at the distance of a foot from her, and absolutely untouched. I must here observe that this lady was ex ceedingly corpulent, that she was above sixty years of age, and much addicted to spirituous liquors; that on the day of her death she bad drunk three bottles of wine, and a bottle of brandy; and that the con sumption of the body took place in less than seven hours, though, according to appear ance, nothing round the body was burned but tho clothes." A few years before the death of Made moiselle Thuars, a woman named Mary Jauffret, wife of a shoemaker at Aix, in Provence, was reported to have died from spontaneous combustion, and a full account of the case, written by the surgeon Marian, was put in the "Journal de Medicine." Le Cat, in his pamphlet on Spontaneous Combustion, mentions several remarkable instances, among the most remarkable of which is the following: "M. Bemoan, cure of Piarquier, near Dot, wrote to me the following letter, dated Feb ruary 22, 1749:—A110w me to communicate to you a fact which took place a fortnight ago. Madame de Boiseon, eighty years of age, exceedingly meagre, who bad drunk nothing but spirits for several years, was sitting in her elbow chair before the fire, while her waiting maid went out of the room for a few moments. On her return seeing bar mistress on fire, she immediately gave an alarm, and some people having come to her assistance, one of them endea vored to extinguish the blaze with his hands, but in vain, the flames having the appear ance of brandy or oil on fire. Water was brought and thrown on the lady in abun dance yet the fire appeared more violent, and was not extinguished until she was consumed. liar skeleton, exceedingly black, remained entire in the chair, which was only a little scorched; one log only and the two bands detached themselves from the rest of the bones. The lady was in the same place in which she sat every day, and there was no extraordinary fire in the grate. What makes me suppose that the use of spirits might have produced this effect is, that I have been assured that, nt the gate of Dinan, an accident of the like kind happened to another woman under similar circum stances." The Countess Cornelia Sandi, a native of Cesena, Italy, had reached the age of 62 without any kind of infirmity. Ono night her attendants observed that, contrary to her usual habits, she appeared rather heavy and sleepy immediately after supper; but she nevertheless sat up three hours talking with her maid, and then said her prayers, and went to bed. The next morning her maid, alarmed at not being summoned by the Countess, long after the ordinary hour, en tered her chamber and called to her. Hear ing no answer, and fearing something had happened, she opened the shutters, and was horror-stricken at seeing the body of her mistress in the state we are about to de scribe:—Not more than a yard from the bed was a heap of ashes in which lay two legs—entire from the foot to the knee—and yrs arms. Ta 3 hail was between the legs t All the rest of the body had been coo varied into ashes, which wherr-touched left. a greasy and fetid humidity on the fingers. On the floor was a small lamp without oil, and on the table stood two candlesticks, the candles of which had lost all their tallow, but the wicks remained unburnt. The bed was uninjured, the clothes lying . as they usually do when a person his risen; all the hangings of the bed were covered with a grayish soot, which had even penetrated into some drawers and coiled the linen they con tained. This soot had - also found its way into an adjoining kitchen, end covered the walls, furniture and utensils. The bread in the Nat's was also covered with it, And when offered toaaveral dogs they would sot touch $1,50 PER YEAR, 'at ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN,ADVA it. In the chamber over the Countess' room the lower part of the windows were soiled with a fatty, yellow fluid. The whole at mosphere around was impregnated with an indescribable and sickening smell, and the floor of the chamber teas coated with a thick, clammy, and extremely adhesive moisture. The Countess had apparently been con sumed by an internal fire. Dr. Bianchi, a physician of the town, who has published a pamphlet on the case, thinks that the fire began in the lungs, and was developed dur ing sleep; that the Countess being awaken ed by the dreadful pain, had no doubt risen to get air, perhaps intending to open the window, but had only been able to leave her bed when she sank under the fire that was devouring her. This last mentioned case °enured many yoare ago, and the reco. d lies before me in an old magazine, though it has lately been going the rounds of the press as a recent event. The countess Bandi was not known to have been intemperate, but she bad been accustomed to bathe her body freely with camphorated spirit of wine. It is a noticeable fact that all the cases of spontaneous human combustion on record, are of persons either of intemperate habits or accustomed to use alcoholic washes freely, and nearly all of these women. Fur the truth of the above accounts, I respectfully refer to the original chronicles, as I am not by any means prepared to vouch for them myself. It is true that Dickens, in one of his novels, chooses this very convenient mode of ridding himself and his readers of a troub lesome character, but whether the incident be founded on fact or not I cannot say. It is a wonder that his esample has not been followed by some ofour modern novel writers of whose glowingly depicted heroes and heroines it would be a very appropriate mode of disposal. To tell truth, it would be no very great public calamity if the phenom- enon were to break out as an epidemic among the novels themselves. The Metamorphoses:of Matter Lady, a word with you. You are as great as great can be, and I, what am I? Nobody. Nobody! I smile; the Scytheman Nobody! Yes, I am a body, or I have a body, put the case as you will, Lady,calmly let us see what will become of your body, and what will become of my body. When you die, some fashionable under taker will solder your 150 pounds of bone and blood and flesh into a leaden coffin, and pack the leaden coffin away into another 'eoffin, decking the second out with velvet and gewgaws as beGts your superior sta tion. Then to the vault you shall ho borne earth must riot hold you. The cloistered charnel is your resting place, there to defy all elemental change:—braving dissolution. Alas, my lady, if you could but see, as I by the light of chemistry can see, that fes tering wreck of poisonous corruption seeth ing within that leaden box of yours in twelve short months or less! Your flesh, instead of dissolving harmlessly into thin air, or crumbling little by little to mother earth, thence passing into trees and flowers, a port of their very being, the elements of your body will have fretted to poisonous compounds, the veriest breath of which bursting free, as some day it must, will speed about pestilence-breeding. There's no avoiding the common lot, my lady, none. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust: thus it is writ ten and thus it shall be! Material elements know their destiny, and must fo.low it. To move on, combining and recombining, idle never, that in their destiny: and—typical enough of what we ace in life—if their en ergies be restrained, if honest fields of en ergy be barred, they take to mischief. Your 150 pounds (more or less) of bodily material are only lent, my lady, hold on the frailest of tenures. They are not freehold, or oven leasehold. The holding is notyear ly, monthly, weekly—not even daily. .A.sleep or awake, D.tme Nature puts her physical forces into possession, and takes your very substance in kind every moment of your ex istence, and when the God of nature de spatches death to garner in the fraits of dis solution, think you to escape the" common lot? Oh, no, my lady. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust: thus it is written and thus it must be. Fair one, this much of you, and now of me. When I die, a plain elm coffin awaits me, and that for decency's sake. Nobody drill deem it worth the while to solder me up in lead or pewter. Living humanity will have had enough of me: my elements will be Tree to pass on. And the spirit—if spirit it be that thinks within me now— would never trouble any one who helped the dissolution, liberating the elements by some process .'more rapid than decay. It matters not, save for the sentiment of it— but sentiment may be the spirit-life within, for aught we know—it matters not, but I fancythine would be an 'unhappy gliost, could it but look down—or up, as the case might be—and contemplate the noxious forms that matter can assume whilst striv ing to be useful 'according to its destiny. This even when no repressive agency is at work, the grave willing, ay ready, to resign its burden, nature caressingly luring the pure elements struggling from corruption to join in her life-long revelry of change and travel, dance and rout,—a life-long masquerade. The nitrogen of soy sub stance,— nature wants it: she will make ammonia of it, and, as smelling salts, would not a ghost,' looking pa, be gratified to see the pungent !i3le, in =114'14 bottled, {WHOLE NUMBER 1,673. led in the soft recess of a lady's bosom, or wartning.her delicate nose? Ay, and think of my carbon too: what destinies await Diffusing! sweet odours, perhaps, from the petals of a rose. Tended gently by fair bands, helping to make up a floral love-to ken: why not? In some form of life and action my carbon must be passing on. Many years must :art by, and many an accident of flood and field must happen, ere that element would be likely to find a resting place awhile in pit-coal, limestone, marble, charcoal, or the diamond: as one who, tired of dancing or the chase, has gone to Bleep awhile, waiting for the dawn. And yet perchance it might happen sooner than ae• sumed. The charcoal-burner might lop off some wooden stein in which the carbon of my dissolution was busy at life work. Char coal, next to its fair allotropic sister the diamond, is perhaps the most indestructible thing in creation, nature's slow agencies alone regarded. Century after century wa ter can flow over it, without effecting one touch of disslution. Whether free in the air or buried in the earth, charcoal never decays. Touched by fire, charcoal wakes out of its resting sleep, indeed assumes an invisible form, and fleets about ready for other duties. More lasting is the diamond, though far from meriting the designation, adamas which formerly it won. Beat them enough, and diamonds burn, vanishing into , thin air. Can my disembodied spirit ever hope to see the carbon elements, of that bodily frame which yielded her up in death, glittering, consolidated, transformed in the most beautiful of all gems?—Temple Bar. O.IIO.IdiGIIINEOUS ISIARRWIES.—The dan ger of consanguineous marriages, and their influence in multiplying deaf and dumb, cases among children is the subject of- s j paper presented to the Academy of Science at Paris by Mr. lioudin. It supplies matter, fur grave consideration. Taking the whole • number of marriages in France, the eonsan- , guineous represent 2 per cent., while the, proportion of deaf and dumb births is, at Ly ons, at least 25 per cent; at Paris 28 per. cent; at Bordeaux, 30 per cent. The nearer. the consanguinity of parents, the more does this proportion increase; and if we repre sent by 1. the danger of begetting a deaf and dumb child from an ordinary marriage, it would have to be represented by 18 in, marriages between cousins•german; by 37 in marriages between uncles and nieces; and by 70 in marriages between nephews and aunts. It will surprise soma readers to hear the subject is one in which the re ligious element is:involved: Protestantism is. more favorable to consanguineous'marriages than Roman Catholicism is; and it appears by a return from Berlin, that the propos , : tion of deaf and dumb children in 10,000' Catholics in that city was 31; in 10,000 of . other Christian sects, mostly Protestant, - it' was 6; and among Jews, 27 in 10,000. A similar result comes out in other„circum-: stances. By a census taken in the territory of lowa in 1840, there were found 23 deaf and dumb in 10,000 whites; 212 deaf and dumb in 10,000 blacks (slaves), or 91 times more than among the whites. In this ease; the habits of the blacks were favoroble to the increased result. It is found that where intermarriages id in some sort a neetiaity," from geographical position, there is an im mense increase in the proportion of deaf and dumb births. For the whole of France, thts proportion is 6 in 10,000; in iCorsica, it rises to 14 in 10,000, in the High Alpe, to 23; in th« Canton of Berne, to 28. In Teel I land it is 11. The whole number of the deaf and dumb in Europe is estimated at 250,000; and when we consider that infir mities of a very serious character, including idiocy, are distinctly traceable to consan guineous marriages, we are led to inquire. what are the means by which relatives may be persuaded not to marry one another? Is it not a question which Social Scienc'e As sociations, might take up and discuss with advantage? STORM—The Muore hold storks in or treme veneration. because, aecordiog to one of their legends, a troop of Arabs, %vim need to plunder the pilgrims to Mecca, 'were metamorphosed into these birds at the pray er of Mohammed. In Africa, there is a gigantic species •of stork, called the marabou, which is of a do; mestic turn, and easily tamed. Smeathman gives an account of one of these birds, who used to walk into the house at dinner time and take his meal with the family; bat be was rather apt to help himself in "deficiseel of the ordinary rules of politeness, and one day he stuck his bill into a whole boiled fowl; and bolted it before it could be rescued from his devouring beak. Oa another occasion, he behaved still worse, for in a fit of vorac ity, he was so barbarous as to swallow 'thei cat, treating that feline pet even worse than Care is proverbially said to do. Storks areof immense service to mankind, especially in warm countries, from cheques.; Sty of reptiles and vermin of all-kinds which the destroy; field mice snakes, lizards, worms frogs, and even toads—nothing seems to come amiss to them. The Tbessalians were so highly impressed with their. utility, that according to Pliny, they made it a capital 'of fence to kill a stork.. Some tribes in Africa do not seem to have so much veneration for the stork; at least, there is shewn at Baal, a stuffed stork with an African arrow right through his body. This little incocivinfieseii had by no mesas prevented 'the birdtrost migrating as usual, only that ,beillawAwk, ward!) , (we can well belipzo •it). and ; st peered to be balancing himself - ea a pile. like an wrist Biondi°. A Serbia ersolutkiltOt him out of eiriosity, wishiaglito.aseettaist what the stork was oartying under hispiap.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers