. . . . CIN6 ,, CV . -,..„. • . . _ . . . , .. -.. . 7..,. . •- I: ' ,t. .. : .... • . . • .... ..., , . . . . ....:„ . .4 , . :r. 7 0 1 • . • • .. . . . .... ....._. BY W. BLAIR. "VOLUME 24. c $ elect - TO 'A WAVE. 3Y COL. E. D. BAKER. Dost thou seek a star with thy swelling crest, X 2) wave, that leavest thy mother's breast? Post thou leap from the prison's depths be- jrt scorn of their calm and constant:flow? ,Or art thou seeking some distant land, To die in murmurs upon the strand? Fist thou tales to tell of the pearl-lit deep, Where the wave-whelmed mariner rocks in sleep? ,Canst thou speak of navies that sunk in pride. Ere the roll of their thunder in echo died? What trophies, what banners are floating In the shadowy depths of that silent sea? It were vain to •ask r as thou rollest afar, Of banner or mariner, ship or star; It were vain to seek in thy stormy face Some tale of the sorrowful past to trace ; _ Thou art swelling high ; thou art dashing free ; libtv vain - aYe - tlfe — questions we askartlffe: am a wave. on tlarst I WI) am av% uiiderrer, driven him thee ; I too am seeking a distant land, To be lost and gone ere I reach the strand ; For the land I seek is a waveless shore, And they who once reach it shallwander no Xliutllaurotth Is this all ? Oh !is this all ?" and the sputker lifted up her bowed head. The light of the candle reveals her face; and «•fiat a fair young face it was ! There was the white brow of intellect shaded by tresses of 'duct hair; the sweet mouth ; and the dear earnest eyes, so unutterably beautiful. Many times has Emil m Vale walked up and down her ro to-night; her white hands clasped over ler bosom, try ing in vain to reconcile herself to what must be on the morrow •, but the tears will gather in the large, dark eyes, and the sweet mouth trembled with grief:— And why ? Hers is a beautiful home, and she its only mistress. True, her mother sleeps in the silent grave ; but a proud and loving father is still left her. But it is not this the young girl is dreaming of now. Her soul is wandering back o ver the de4l years of the past ; and she is reading on their snowy scroll, joyous hopes an Aessed dreams, - written there in the o' days. i i Her memory hovering over the holiest happy part of her life. It was only two years ago, when she bad but reached her seventeenth slimmer, that she first met Charles Marcus. He was their pastor ; and l'aithfully he ministered to the peo ple of his charge. Seldom found in halls of mirth, he was often found in the halls of mourning. Was a soul passing from time into eternity, his deep voice, so pow. erful in its sublimity, and again so sooth ing in its low music, was heard in pray er, or cheering the dyhig pilgrim nearing the grave. Sabbath after Sabbath he stood in the pulpit, a radiant light resting upon his countenance, proclaiming the word Life; till he became very dear to his people.— But in his teachings of heaven, that,sum mer, he learned, with Emily Vale, a sweet earth lesson, which neither could forget.— Thrown in each other's society, with souls attuned in harmony, was it a wonder ,they loved ? She realized in him all that ,was great and good in man ; and he thought her the loveliest of women, And so the bright summer days, so fraught with bliss to them, wore away and brought at their close a parting ! For he was destined to go as a missionary to afar off , land ; she to await, in her young heart's love, his return. The parting was full of bitterness and pain to bath. "I must do my duty," said Charles.— "Have you nothing to give me, to keep in remembrance of you, while I am gone?' "I would offer you my 'Bible, Charles, but I know its holy truths are laid up in your heart, so ,I will give you this," she replied, and a curl of hair dropped into his hand. "Bless you darling ?" he whispered. "It pima be prized .by me as dearly as life." "Oh, (lades 1" she cried, !glow eau I give you up ?" Gazing through tears upon her, he an. swered, "I know not, Emily, but I may fall in the °ranks of death on that far-og short." "Then you will be lost to me," mur mured the wcepi,og girl. "If the soul was not immortal," he said . , "if there was no awakening from the sleep of death, no brigbt heaven beyond the stars, then, indeed, we might be lost to each other forever ?" Then folding her to his bosom, he pressed a last kiss on her pale cheek, and was gone. But strange to say, though absent so long, he had never written ; and now, for months, Em ily had thought him false. No wonder her voice rings out so mournfully to-night "Charles ! Charles ! How I love you ! How I trusted you, as I can never trust again—you, wbom I deemed so noble, good and true! How I dreamed of a glowing future, a peaceful pathway, oh ! so blest, which our feet wont , ' tread to gether, you c:uidinm me by your earnest spiritual life to a home in Heaven." And she burst in tears. Mu . . But the apparent treachery of Charles was not her only grief. A week before that her father said, "Emily, my child, Louis Vernon has asked of me your hand." And when she answered,"l will stay with you, father, while I live. I esteem .Lou is, but do not love him ;" he replied, "Emily, must I tell you all—must I tell you that I am a bankrupt, that I shall be ruined unless you marry him He is very wealthy, he will save me forever." Then Emily quickly started to her feet. "I will brave poverty," she cried, "even I'l I •g• • I I I • a. 1.6 • , ter tiis trial. My love is buried in a livirg tomb. Though Charles be false, I love him still !" A pallor, like that of death, spread over the old man's Tace. He did not tell her, that when he saw his ruin, he intercepted her letters. But he did say in a hoarse voice, "I shall be ruined, Emily ! my hon or, peace, all lost! And when you see your old father groping about in a prison cell, the snow of sixty years resting upon his head, remember, you could have spared him this bitter trial." Then Emily sprang towards him.; her arms were around his neck', and from her white lips there came a cry—what a cry! so full of tenderness, and yAt wailing with despair. __"Fatherl--father=!=L-love—you=!- Fo your_ sakei will -wed-him." All this now passes before the young gir], who 'wanders up and down her room to-mglit, To-morrow skis to be the wife of L Vernon. He IN a slight, delicate ms-n-a-n-d-swid--to-bc-consuinpti - ve, and Imp py might be the woman who could love nun and appreciate his dreamy, poetic na _ture_Emily_knew-his worth ; but ,she-Was- one that, loving once, could never forget. After tieasurinsr u in her hea,rtsuch beau- tiful dreams of the. future, such a holy love for truth, is it not natural, that in a voice of touching sadness, she . would say, "Is this all '1 Oh ! is this all ?" idniAt-when-shc-tarned m that man-to-seek - he,. coodi. What a night of torture to her! In her great love ibr her father, sometimes the sacri fice she was about to make appeared but naught; and she would Walk up and down, her soul wrapped in a feverish joy, that she was doing this for him. But it' as only for a moment; for into her heart would steal the bitter thought, "sold, sold to buy back lost wealth I" Then the scorn on that young face was pitiful to behold. The last words that lingered upon her lips that night, were "Charles ! Charles! how could you slight such love as mine? How could you so blight my peace ? Oh, Chas.?" It was the last time his name was on her lips for years. * Five years have passed. Near the city of Chester a beautiful home is situated.— How beautiful it rises there on the green knoll, in the last flush of the sunset ! The trees , surrounding it are snowy with blos somi l':4ifd the sweet perfume glides in at the operCihndows, where all bespeaks re finement aind.Juxurv. This is the house of Louis and , Emil; Vernon. Louis sits out on the portico, his chair leaning against the white post, while lit tle Willie- their child, plays at his feet.— If Louis Vernon did not realize what he expected in his married life, he knew be fore that he was not loved. If the soft hand of his wife had seldom wandered lov ingly through his hair, or rested on his broad white brow, it had never been rais ed in defiance to his will. If her sweet lips were pressed to his less often than he wish ed, they had never spoke one unkind word to him. I know not of sad presentiment if hov ering over his mind ; but he is dreaming of death. Consumption had made rapid strides in his delicate constitution. The earnest, beautiful light in his eye, and the quick flush proclaim that he was the vic tim of that fell disease. Yet he is not awed at the approach of death. He shrinks not appalled from the coffin and the shroud.— His eyes are turned from the beautiful landscape before him to the evening sky, so dazzling in the flush of the sunset. A smile, wherein is mingled much of peace and joy, flits over his countenance. Emily, who has been wandering in the garden, beholds this scene. Her Mier has been dead some two years, and if he had told her of his deception, and Char lies' constancy, the old love might have been blotted out. But Charles, she now knew, had been true to her ! This was the thought that followed her through all these years; yet still sho is attached to her hus band. It might have been a terrible fear that smote her heart, when she gazed on Louis' pale countenance, or perhaps it was the spiritual radiance resting there, that filled her soul with a sudden tenderness, for she went to him and pressed a kiss on his brow, saying, "Bear Louis ! if th e years I havespent with you have not been rife with tumultuous joy, I bless you that they have been full of peace. I have ever cherished in my heart a sacred tenderness for you, Louis ; and your sickness has rendered you dearer to me than you could have been in health." "I have been happy," he dreamily mur mured. A week from that evening he slept the .sleep of death ! and Emily and Willie •were - alone in the wide world. In one of the rooms of a large hotel in ; the city of Chester, Charlies Marcus sat, his head was bent over his hand, where ,lay a long black curl of hair, and tears were falling on it. "If the thought that she was false had not prevented me,"he murmured,"l would have been here long ago. How I dream ed of her on that famashore ! And some times I feared that it was sin ; fbr when I ,wrote my sermons I saw her'eyes! and when I knelt to pray, her form was before me! How the sweet voice. of the olden PM WV) 4414 vitiO ;71 1 14* , 125111>i71214 04 Di :,7 , 1# kai ;A:" i'DI4A 'No *. >I 7,1 olliatAvizfloif IL•A ROI :M rem earEaua lifilimadoitn lIVAILI 13111P-BiliaP-4 time whispered in my heart to-day ! I was so full of ho .e and_ . s sots! Idi is murmur ; but my soul will weep over the beautiful dream, shattered for ever." He brushed the tears from his dark spir itual eyes, and passed from the room. As he was entering the ladies'parlor he heard the murmur of a name that made his heart throb wildly: and pausing he listen ed - to - a - chuversation - between - twola - diesin• the parlor. "Poor Emily Vale! you remember her, Alice ?" "Yes," was the reply. "Well," said the other, "she married to . - • • / her-from-ruin,-when she loved a young minister, a misonary in a foreign land. Her husband has been dead a year, and by the negligence or fraud of her trustees, all the property has been lost ; and now she is in the depths of pov erty. Did you see that sweet child in here a moment ago? That was Emily's! and he was asking alms." Charles waited to hear no more. Turn ing the corner of one of the streets, he saw a little child, "Emily's!" he cried, and hurried on. "What is your name, little boy ?" he said, kindly. The child looked up, with a wondering, into that proud, noble face, and in his sweet voice answer ed, "Willie Vernon." He was folded to the minister's heart. "I should have _known=you-wereher-child T among a-thout -- and, by those lustrous eyes.—Won't you take me to your mother, darling ?" The child's voice quivered, "Mamma is very poor," he. said. "You won't like to go to our home. I stole away a while ago for I-thought-C4otl-would wake-somebody-give a little hoy, like me, something, and He did !" and the tiny hand opened and there lay--a-shilling,-given-him-by-the-lady-who had spoken of Emily in the parlor, "Take me to her, Willie! take_me_to her, and you shall never want any more while I live," said Charles. The little fellow obeyed, and soon, they reached his home. Emily, weary and :drsat_leaning-her-head-on-one-handr -a-dly d A eataing or *bat might have beeu and what was now. "Will there no bright morning ,ever come again ?" she thought "Will eternity alone brighten my sor rows ?" There was a step on the stairs; - the door opened, and a deep voice broke the stillness. "Come to one, my Emily !" it said, "come to the heart that has mourn ed you as lost." That voice, that lofty form, that smile of uncontrollable peace and joy were Charles'. A week later, that old room was deso late, and the home which had been Lou is Vernon's, became Charles Marcus'. Coming up through the green lane, one June evening, were a group of three. They paused beneath the shawdow of a lofty tree, "The night was very dark, husband," said the lady, "but a morning, brighter than I ever dreamed of has dawned upon me." A little curly head was lifted up and a sweet, childish voice murmured, "I knew God would be good to us before long mama." "No wonder," said the gentleman, with reverent tenderness, his dark eyes resting on he little boy, "no wonder, for hath not the Saviour said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them nut; for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." An Ungrateful_ Railroad. Jones had heard about a widow who saved a train of cars from destruction by warning the engineer, as the train tip preached, that a certain bridge had been washed away ; and who has been liberal ly rewarded, receiving a free pass for life on nearly all the railroads in the country and a present from the company of ten thousand dollars whose train she had saved; so Jones thought it a profitable business and concluded he'd try it. He lived near a railroad bridge, and he anxiously watched and waited for it to . wash away, feeling sure it must go some time. Every rainy night he'got up and paced the floor by spells, and then took his umbrella and went out to see if the bridge was beginning to go ; but it was no go. At last he concluded that if an acci dent would not happen of its own accord he would make one to order, so he got up a high bank at the side of the track one afternoon and rolled a large rock down on the rails. It was just a few minutes before the lightening express was due, and throw ing off his coat and hat so as to appear as excited as possible, he went forth to meet it. -He saw it coming in the dis tance, so he tied a red cotton handker cheif to a hoe handle, and waved it .a bove his head in a wild excited manner as a signal of danger. But he presented such a singular appearance that the en gineeer thought him a crazy man escaped from a neighboring lunatic asylum, and so paid no heed to him, and the train thundered on. There was a sadden whistle of "down brakes," a rapid reversion of the engine, then a terrible crash. The train was wrecked ; the engineer and fireman in stantly killed ; the conductor and all the brakemen dangerously, if not fatally wounded ; and about ten per cent. of the passengers horribly mangled. Jones didn't get a pass for life on the principal railroads of the country and a purse of ten thousand dollars, but he got ten years in the penitentiary for man slaughter, having been seen by a neigh. bor when in the act of rolling the big roek on the track which caused the ca lamity, And now he is learning to manufac ture shoes by the original process, and is of the opinion that railroads are a curse to the country. Jenks says that a paAbroker's office must be a. loan some place. Stiokin.g to the Point. —A-friend-of-minho-was-in-business T and in need of a clerk, advertised, but out of the whole number of those who presen ted themselves, only one shut . the door tight as he went out of the office. This one was immediately called back and em ployed. A little while afterwards, another friend, — msful 14 folk a successful lawyer, advertised as follows: WANTED.—A young man to • work in an attorney's office, and also to read law athis. leisure. :Apply to John Smith, 13 Dunlap street, B—. It is the conviction of my friend that what is most desiied in a lawyer is a cer tain cool judgment, which holds on to the main point in . a given case, and allows no side isssues to warp the mind from its an chored position. .1 have often heard him say : "In the end, the lawyer, who, hav ing hit the nail on the head keeps driving it in until it is countersunk in the con viction of both judge and jury, is the lea der who succeeds best at the bar of jus ' tire. I always select for my students such young . men as have this quality, and I al most invariably find it lodged in minds that are inclined to stick to the point." On the day following the publication of the above notice, Mr. Smith had in the afternoon a dozen applicants in person.— He bade them wait his pleasure ; when they were all seated aronncl_him,_he_ad, ressed them as follows-: "Before we proceeded to business, my young friends, I wish to tell you a story." e course - no - one — o ajeetea tot is. ": na il' it seemed a little odd in the lawyer, it was his way. "On Deacon White's barn," began Mr. S., there perchel one evening an owl.-- The Deacon was sli , htl • su a erstitions and not fancing the hooting of the lugubrious visitant, he took his gun, stole out softly, got within gun range, leveled his gun at the omnious intruder, and fired. Now the barn was old and full of chinks, and holes,• and it being a very dry time, the treacherous vaddin_ imtuediatel set fire y_inside r imd-in—an-instant-th • :•1 tire fabric was in flames. "Oh dear ! dear !" cried the decon, "how can I release all my cows, oxen, and year lings ; and my__sheep_and_horses,_in_ sea son to save them ?" for the wind was high, and, as it always happens, it incresing in freshness as the fire gained in fury. "Help! help !" he shouted. "Did the folks hear him in the house ? asked Alfred. (1 shall call the applicants by their christian name.) "Not directly said Mr. Smith. "The deacon lost no time in getting out the cattle. He found them frantic with ter ror, and unmanageable. While engaged in loosing a stout young, bull, he sudden ly turned his horns and pierced him. I'm gored! I'm gored! he exclaimed, in ago ny, iust as his terror stricken wife came to the rescue." "Did he die?" "He was injured seriously," resumed Mr. Smith. "Feeling faint, he was oblig ed to go and lie down, The woman ran f'or a doctor. When she returned, the piteous bellowing of the tortured and dy ing cattle fell on her ears. The thrilling thought quickly struck her, was her hus band possibly in the burning ruins? Had he ventured beyond his strength again, and fallen a helplez,s victim ?" "0, my husband ! my husband !" "Did he answer !" Inquired Charley, with axious face. "Was he in the fire?" "There was no reply," continued Mr. Smith, "save from the crackling timbers and moans of the doomed animals. Pres ently she head the cry of her only son among the flames. "Help ! help !" he cried. The mother's heart was ready to break. She hastened to rescue her darling boy. ' "Did she save him ?" asked Edwin. 0, I hope she didn't get burned herself' said Frank. ' "Please tell us, sir, whether they were burned to death," pleaded Grant.., "Well," resumed Mr. Smith, the poor deacon died of his wounds." "Too bad.; he was a brave man," said Henry. "And his son was badly burned." "0 awful!" exclaimed Isaac. "And the widow's clothes caught fire, but, luckily, one of the neighbors, (there were none living near) arrived at the scene of destruction just in season to ex tinguish the flames." "Good ! good !" exclaimed James. "He threw the buffalo in the wagon over her I suppose 2" "You are right," said Mr. Smith, "And he released one of the best horses." "Was he burned at all ?" asked Karl. "Only a little scorched," said Mr. Smith. And so the narrator went on until he had depicted the consequence in detail of the sad event. Then he paused. His audience was si lent—their sympathies had been deeply touched. Each one seemed silently pity ing the poor, afflicted family. But one boy sat unmoved through the whole sto ry, and said nothing. And now that the narrative was finished, and a pause had come, he deliberately looked into Mr. Smiths face in a straight forward man ner, and asked : "Did he hit the owl ?" This was the youth that stuck. to the point, and the one that the lawyer select ed from the twelve. The story ha,d sim ply been manulictured for the effbct. A man and wife in Detroit left their four-year-old son alone, the other even ing, though the child brgged them to take him with them, saying he was afraid of the wolves and bears. He screamed vio lently when they left the house, and, on their return, they found that he had been made insane by fright. It is feared that be will be an idiet for the remainder of 11;.' liner HE DUTY OF LIFE. Look not mournfully back to the Past, The present's the hour o duty, And Life, be it ever so dark, Has moments of sunshine and beauty Look up! for the sun is still shining, Although a black cloud may be there; emembertb.e-bi n 137 From under the cloud will appear. Sit not with thy hands) idly folded— Each one has a duty_ to do. . And if life has its struggles for others Why have only plea sures for you? Seek not to pluck only the roses, Faint not in the heat of the strife; But put on the armor of courage, To fight in the battle of Life Look 'round on the Highways, and gather, Not only the flowers so sweet, But take up the stones that are bruising Some weary worn traveler's feet ; Seek out some cool spring in the desert, And give to the lips that are dry 2— Speak a kind word of hope or of comfort To each sorrowing one who goes by. Pluck a thorn from some poor bleeding bosom, Make strong some faint heart for the strife; Rouse up the weak feet that have fallen— Ah„this_is_the mission:of_Life-; Ask - not - if - the - Ivorld - will applaud you— No matter since duty is done ; There's One who will better reward ou With the crown you have faithfully won An alarming large number of the sons of tae rich men of New York are at this • moment helpless drunkards. Within five years a well to do farmer drew - a - quarter - of a million dollars in a prize lottery. The whole country envied him his luck, but he has since died from a style of livikg induced by his good for tune, and his only son has turned out to -beirdrimk • Young men are they, many of them of education, of many good qualities, of gen erous natures, honorable and high mind ed ; but this demon of drink has taken such a possession of them that a father's breaking heart, a mother's tears and sis ter's agony avail not to draw them from their deep damnation. Elegant leisure was their ruin. The man who married the prettiest girl of a place is said to be a lucky fellow,and so of him who draws the highest prize in a lottery, or by some fortunate turn hull fairs, dears the gulf' between ant and wealth in an hour.. And yet the histories of all time tell us that with a terrible u niformity and certainly the men who le come suddenly possessed of unearned mil lions die in great misery. The man whose first bet on the race course, whose first deal at the card table, whose first risk at faro, whose maiden lot tery ticket brings money largely in his pocket, is a ruined man at the very instant the World pronounces him "lucky." Any man, especially any young man,who starts in life with the conviction that money can be better made than by earning it, is a lost man—lost already to society, lost to his family, lost to himself. The best way to save a childltom ruin is to bring him up to "help father." Make children feel that they must do something to support the family, to help along; then, too, feelings arise which are their salva— tion—those of furectiou and pride ; for we naturally love those whom we daily struggle to g ether with for a desired ob ject, and nothing so improves a child as to make him feel that he is of consequence, that he can do something, and that what he does is appreciated, In the city of Washington, where, a few years ago, colored women were bought and sold under sanction of law, a woman from African descent has been admitted to practice at the bar of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia. This Court having amended its rules by striking out from the qualifications for admission to the bar the word "male On Tuesday af ternoon Miss Charlotte L. Ray made her appearance in the Clerk's office, and, pre senting a diploma from the Law College of Howard University, requested a certi ficate which would entitle her to practice. Her papers having passed examination, she was duly sworn and furnished with the desired document. Miss Ray is a dusky mulatto, possessing quite an intel ligent countenance. She has the honor of being the first lady lawyer in Washing ton. SILENT Mrs.—Washington never made a speech. In the zenith of his fame he once attempted it, failed, and gave it up confused and abashed. In framing the Constitution of the United States, the la bor was wholly performed in Committee of the Whole, of'which George Washing ton was day after day Chairman, and he made but two speeches during the Con vention, of a very few words each. The Convention however, acknowledged the master spirit and historians affirm that had it not been, for his personal popular ity and the thirty words of his first speech pronouncing it the best that could be u nited upon, the Constitution would have been rejected by the people. Thomas Jefferson never made a speech. He couldnt do it. Napoleon, whose executive abili ty is almost without a parellel, said' that his greatest difficulty was in finding men of deeds rather than of words. When asked how he maintained his influence o ver his superiors in age and experience when comrnandel-in-chief of an army in Italy, he said by reserve. The greatness of a man is not measured by the length of his speeches and their number. Why should a sailor know there is a !thin in the moon. Because he has been tr-. uaLMo_tion. The Indianapolis late date, says : For years, decades, and centuries the mind of man has been exercised in the search for some principle that might be applied to machinery which should pro duce perpetual motion. Lifetimes and for tunes have been spent in thep_ursuit;_raen_ have gone insane and to prematuregraves, after wasted lives, in search id this power they believed to exist somewhere, but just beyond the - grasp - of mortals; - rewardsin= numerable have been offered fol. its dis covery, by States and nations , countless machines have been invented, tried and failed, until communities have learned to look upon the man as a lunatic who would speculate, much less experiment, upon the perplexing subject. There is on exhibition now, at No. 315 East Washington street, this city, a pon derous machine that seems to possess the long sought, long-hidden power of inher ent perpetual motion. We say seems to possess such power, because it is known to have been in motion now for some days, and, it is believed, has not been tampered with since its completion. This being true, a brief discription of it may be considered in place. The. machine is the invention of J. J. _.A.nderson,a-machinist-of-thicityrwhcr has ,been engaged in experimenting for the last fourteen years, but who has just succeeded in completing his initial_work. Tlid - inachinels twenty-two feet long,twelve feet high, and five wide, weighing with the platform upon which it rest,s about one thousand pounds, and costing for its con struction about $5OO. To give a clear idea upon paper- of-- this mass of machinery, would be next to impossible, of course.— A brief reference to the principle upon which it is constructed and acts, is all we vouchsafe. Eight pounds of ordinary gunshot are placed in the boxes of an overshot wheel six feat in diameter, which puts the wheel - 10 ii . • — nr,ase is a receiver or the shot after its specific gravity has ac ted upon the wheel. Running into this re receiver is an Archimedian screw, connec ted with the large wheel. - The shot are picked up by this screw, carried up the proper elevation and emptied into a hop per, from which it is conveyed back to the boxes of the overshot. This completes the circuit, and so long as the machine is in motion it will remain unbroken. Attached to the axle of the overshot is another large wheel, ten feet in diameter, resembling the paddle-wheel of a side wheel steamboat. This is provided with three series of ladles,attached with a hing, ranged obliquely across its width. These ladles are loaded with four-pound blocks, which with the wheel, as we understand it; is for the regulation and distribution of the motive power. Those wheels are connected by cogs, pinions, shafts, bars,