Camden journal. [volume] (Camden, South-Carolina) 1852-1852, March 26, 1852, Image 1
THE CAMDEN JOURNAL
VOLUME 3. CAMDEN, SOUTH-CAROLINA, MARCH 26, 1852. NUMBER 25.
THE CAMDEN JOURNAL '
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^????E
HAPPINESS. 1
Know thou this truth, (enough for man to know)
"Virtue alone is happiness below." ^
The only point where human bliss stands still, j
And tastes the good without the fall to ill;
Where only merit constant pay receives, h
IS OlfSl in wuai 11 ias.cs, auu wuai n gi?ca ,
The joy unequall'd, if its end it gain, c
And ifit lose, attended with no pain : e
Without satiety, tho' e'er so blest, v
And but more relish'd as the more distress'd :
The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears,
Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears:
Good from each object, from each place acquir'd,
For e^er exercis'd, yet never tir'd; r
Never elated, while one man's oppress'd ; a
Never dejected, while another'6 blest; p
And where no wants no wishes can remain, o
Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain. r
[Pope's Essay on Man. a
1;
DEATH OF AN INFANT. s
Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow ^
And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose ,
On cheek and lip?he touched the veins with ice, P
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wistful tenderness?a doubt ^
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone can wear?with ruthful haste he bound a
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids ri
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound U
W.L 1 ' -V iL. 1.1 I J -1 :* il 1 f,
w un wuicn uie oaoe wuuiu unarm us muuier s can "
Charming her even to tears?the spoiler set a
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile s]
So fixed and holy from that marble brow, j1
Death gazed and left it there?he dared not steal (
The signet ring of Heaven. ^
* n
From MotherwelTs Poems. ^
WOMAN.
Perchance, far out at sea, thou may's have found w
Some lean, bald cliff?a lonely patch ofground, t<
Alien amidst the wafers?some poor isle p
Where summer blooms were never known to smile, tc
Or trees to yield their verdure?yet around
That barren spot the dimpling surges throng, M
Cheering it with their low and plaintive song, c;
And clasping the deserted cast away
In a most strict embrace?and all along
Its margin rendering freely its array
Of treasured shell and coral. Thus we may js
Note love in faithful woman : oft among n
The rudest shocks of life's wide sea she shares f<
Man's lot, and more than half the burden bears, n
Around whose path are flowers strewn by hei tl
tender cares. u
? d
THE BRIDAL EYE. tl
*Twa3 on one of those beautiful evenings in h
May, when all nature is clad in her richest M
, robes, and each blossom yields its odours to the ^
passing breeze, that I perceived the inhabitants "
of the little village of L. to be in a complete a
flutter: Beaux and belles were seen tripping p
along the streets, rigged out in all their finery; 'r
and the playful smile which illuminated the n
countenance of each passing nymph, told there
was somewhat of unusual occurrence about to
take place. Reader, be not surprised when I
tell you it was nothing more or less than a
wedding.
I had been a few days in the village, and had
formed an acquaintance with some of the chief
inhabitants, among whom was Mr. Bcvil, one
ot the principal dandies of the pla\;e, and who
at this moment came running up, and seizing
my hand and hitting me a hearty tap on the
shoulder, in the exuberance o( good friendship
exclaimed, " Mr. Warring you are going to the o
wedding of this beautiful creature? To which si
I replied in the negative, and inquired who it ti
was, for I had not yet heard; "who is it?" s<
replies he in evident surprise," why, none else, m
to be sure, than the lovely Miss Eliza Stanmore, a
for whom more men have run mad, than for any e
other since the Trojan War?But come, you ti
must go, the good old Mr. Stanmore will be "
proud of your company," and at the same time n
interlocking his arm in mine, hurried me along p
towards a stately mansion in the eastern part v
of the town. g
In our walk, I learned from him that Eliza n
had for a long time reigned pre-eminent as the 6
belle of the country as well as of the village, b
and had, as is usually the case, been solicited t
in marriage by many of the most respectable d
and eminent men of the place, yet, (strange to c
?1-?- \_n -c ...i 1 i i r
relate,/ iv on ui wiiuiu suu unu yiveu wic mwi
unqualified refusal. The fact of the case was v
this?in extreme youth, she had formed an at- t<
tachment for a young man against her father's b
will, from whom she was torn hy her unfeeling n
parent. Yet, although she was constrained to ii
drop the idea of marrying him (at least,) for o
1
he present, the primal attachment of her heart,
emained firm and unshaken. Young Edmund,
or that was the name of her lover, had joined
he army, hoping that he might signalize himsell
)y some act, or in some way become accepta)le
In the eyes of her avaricious father. So
ong as Eliza received any information con
jerning him his fortune was still precarious,
ret was not the ardor of his passion in the
east abated, or his hopes in ought extinguished,
therefore Eliza remained callous to the adIresses
of her man}* admirers, and deaf to the
sarnest entreaties of her father. But now three
rears had rolled round since she had received
my intelligence from him, and it was a curent
report through the neighborhood that he
lad fell at the battle of ; his own sister
>ersuaded Eliza such must have been his fate.
U lnet this unfortunate girl, overcome by the
iontinual solicitations of her friends, yielded at
ast, to satisfy the desires of her parent, and
vas now going to be married to a rich landlolder
of the first connexions, though at the
'ame time, she declared her heart was with her
infortunate Edmund.
This little interesting history made mesomevhat
anxious to see this beautiful, young and
infortunate lady?I therefore yielded to the
mpulse of the dandy's arm, and entered the
lomicile of Mr. Stanmore. A large company
lad convened in the expectation of the apiroaching
ceremony-the eyes of all resting
in the bride and bridegroom who were seated
in a sofa, in the audience hall. I was struck
vith the enchanting appearance of the unforunate
Eliza, as soon as I ca*t my eyes on her,
he impression I then felt, even at this late day
emains bright in my memory. She appeared
o be about in her sixteenth year, she was ar
ayed in the finest coBtume, but the natural j
egularity and symmetry of her countenance
nd the charming lustre of her snowy neck
iartially covered with floating ringlets ol hair
f the finest chesnut brown, were sufficient to
ender her " too charming," without the frail
ssistance of dress. All that is beautiful, love- y
and fascinating was there; indeed I may 1
ay it, without exaggeration, I never beheld, .
efore nor since, so interesting a being. From J
le dejected cast of her countenance, and Ianuid
eye, it was easily perceived that her feellgs
partook not of the gay festivities, mirth
nd glee that regaled the happy inmates of the
ouse. i
A few moments elapsed after I had gained
seat, when the priest announced that all was 1
;ady. A slight paleness flashed over the coun- j
>tiance of tho unfortunate Eliza and a cold (
epidation shook her gentle frame; yet with ,
r much composure as the case would admit of ! I
be approached the threshhold, where her des- <
ny was to be confirmed forever. Never can 1
forget the feelings that pervaded my breast
t that dread moment.?Worlds would I have '
tcrificed, could I have produced the unfortu- ,
ate Edmund. The ceremony was about com- J
tencing, when a considerable tumult was crea- (
>d at the door. Mr. Staumore called to know i
'hat was the matter?a waiter entered and
>ld him a stranger was contending with the |!
orter for admittance, swearing he would speak : j
i Hio nronf Isaniiin f\C tVta lutncn tk?if incfont
Let liim enter," observed .Mr. Stanmore. The ,
Miter retired, and in a few moments returned, |
onducting in a middle aged man of ordinary i
ze and appearance ; his garb was sufficient '
> tell he was a minstrel. " What is thy husi- 1
ess friend," observed Mr. Stanmore. '* that i '
ou are so importuna.e 1" " The I oon I ask j
i small," replied the stranger, with becoming
lodesty, " and Heaven itself, will bless thee j
)r granting if." " Name it," replies Mr. Stan- i
lore, somewhat impatiently.?" It is," replies <
ie stranger, " that I ma}* play an epithalami- 1
m previous to the solemnization of your
aughter's marriage; I pray you deny me not
lis small request," You shall, undoubtedly,
ave liberty," said Mr. Stanmore, ' and we ,
ill thank thee for thy performance, good sir," (
l tiumphant Jinile played upon the lips of the
linstrel ?he nodded a respectful obeisance,
nd rivetting his eye3 on the bride, sung (acompanying
his voice with his harp,) the follow- 1
lg pathetic verses, in the most plaintive maner:
1. "O know you not, my lady bright,
Who now the bridal wreaths are wearing,
An absent youth a gallant knight,
Of high renown and noble bearing.
2 " Where is that youth? Oh! lady fair,
For thee he breath'd his dying pray'r;
His achirig head was on my breast;
My blessings bear to her, he said,
Whisper'd thy name then sunk to rest,
Too true to tuee, thou laithless maid.
From the commencement of this song, I had
bserved a sudden paleness, as of death, to
eizc the unfortunate Eliza, and an immense
embling to agitate her whole frame; but
carce hud the minstrel concluded the last line,
/hen uttering a faint scream, she swooned,
nd would have fell, had not she been supportd
by ihe bridegroom. " What is the matter,
iy love ?" exclaimed he most affectionately ;
speak, I beseech you but she returned him
o answer. Her countenance assumed the asect
of a maniac, her eyes rolling in Irighful
/ildness?at last by a wonderful effort, she
athered a degree of composure, and in the !
lost plaintive manner, thus addressed the ruin- '
trel:?"No, good minstrel, 1 have not yet '
reathed the nuptial vow, nor will I?I am yet ]
rue and faithful to the object of my first pre- ]
ilection." Then turning to her father, she i
ries?" O my father, do not, you cannot force 1
a.. ?l.:u .u n
rom luy uuiuuuuaic uiiiu, an uam tu riuaven, '
yhich, though thy cruelty might force my lip
o utter, my heart never could sanction." The
ridegroom and her father raved in all the agoy
of despair, crying, " she is deranged, she
j a maniac." Fox a while sho sunk in a state ,
f stupidity?again her features recovered their
wonted animation and seeming to obtain a
momentary gleam of sensibility, again she
spoke.'*-" Be assured good minstrel," she cried,
"the vow I gave to my only beloved is yet unbroken
" and believe not/' she said, again
addressing her father, " that I am raving, for
you will fiud it true enough I have given my
last farewell to earth." Her cheeks, which
UnrJ fnn rt mrtmnnf Kaon eli fTnaorJ K\? n ....
uau iisi a iiiuiuciib isccu omiuotu ijj a iieiuc (U
bicundity, now became ashy pale?her eyes
grew dim, and it was easily seen that death
was fast approaching. One deep convulsion
rent her soul; she fell upon her father, and
casting one filial glance, sunk in the bosom of
rest. " 0 my God !" exclaims the unfortunate
father, my daughter dies?she is dead?one
look my dear child; yet awake, I will not claim
thy unwilling vow." But his heart became
lenient too late?she heard him not. The minstrel
cast a pitying glance upon the lifeless
corpse of Eliza, and finding it was true enough
she was dead, a supernatural smile glanced
across his countenance and exclaiming, ' by
Heavens, a noble soul," immediately disappeared
through the crowd. Itwas Edmund.
ONSLO.
Wonderful Catacombs.
One of the foreign correspondents of the National
Intelligencer, gives the following description
of the regions of the dead beneath a convent in
Palermo:
Chief amone- the wonders of Palermo are the
Catacombs of the Capuchin Convent, near the
Porta d'Ossuna. It is said to be a place of great
antiquity: many of the bodies have been preserved
in it for centuries, and still retain much of their
original freshness. I had heard ot these catacombs
in Paris, and my visit to Palermo was induced
chiefly by the extraordinary account given
of them. Entering the ancient and ruinous court
of the Convent, distant about a mile from the city,
we were conducted by a ghostly-looking monk
through some dark passages to the subterranean
apartments of the dead. It was not my first visit
to a place of this kind, but I must confess the sight
was rather startling. It was like a revel of the
dead?a horrible, grinning, ghastly exhibition of
skeleton forms, sightless eyes, and shining teeth,
jaws distended, and bony hands outstretched,
heads without bodies, and bodies without heads?
the young, the old, the brave, the once beautiful
and gay, all mingled in the ghastly throng. We
walked through long subterranean passages, lined
with the dead on both sides : with a stealthy and
measured tread we 6tepped, for they seemed to
stare at the intrusion, and their skeleton fingers
vibrated as if yearning to grasp the living in their
embrace. Long rows of upright niches are cut
into the walls on each side, in every niche a skeleton
form stands erect as in life, habited in a robe
of black; the face, hands, and feet naked, withered,
and ot an ashy hue, the grizzled beards still
hanging in tufts from the jaws, and in the recent
cases the hair still clinging to the skull, hut mattaA
o../1 dru Tfv eneh eornsn is attached a Inhel !
lCU ?J. # - "
upon which is written thp name and the date ot'
jecease, and a cross or the image of the Saviour.
Soon recovering from the shock of the first impression,
I was struck with the wonderful variety
ot atul marked expression ot character in the faces
and forms around me. There were progressive
dates of death, extending from remote centuries
up to the present period, the niches being
so arranged as to admit of a regular order of deposite.
Many of the bodies stood erect, as if just
lifted from the death-bed, the faces colorless, and
the horrible agonies of dissolution stamped upon
I he features; the lower jaws hanging upon the
Uieast; the teeth grinning and glistening between
the parched lips, and the black hue of sickness
about the mouth and around the sunken sockets
of the eyes; and in some the sightless orbs were
open and staring with a wild glare of affright, as
if peering into the awful mysteries of the unknown
bourn from whence none return; while others
wore a grotesque laugh of derision still more appalling,
with the muscles of the mouth drawn up,
the e\ebrows lifted, the head jilted know ingly on
cne si ! -. the hair matted in horny tufts, the "bare
spots on the skulls, like the piebald w ig of a harlequin;
the skeleton arms streched, and the bony
fingers spread as if to clutch the relentless destroys,
and w restle with him to the last. These
I fancied were lively fellows, who were carried
off suddenly after a midnight carouse. Isatdown
on a box containing a dead child, and looked up
at a row ofbodies opposite that attracted my notice
in a particular degtee. Jn the middle stood
a frolicking fel ow, about two years dead, whose
sunken eyes appeared still to burn with the fire of
life and humor. His hands were lifted in a deprecating
manner over a congregation of corpsps
sitting on a shelf below*. Some appeared to be
listening; some grinning at his humorous harangue
; others, with their heads together, seem to
question the propriety ot his anecdotes; old gen
tlemen, with knitted brows and lantern jaws;
ranges of bodies stood on each side of him as if
laughing, talking, praying, dying, suffering, listening,
rejoicing, and feasting at the banquet of
death.
One little man, in a dingy suit of black, sat :n a
corner; the end of his nose was eaten off by the
worms; his mouth was compressed, and had a
pinched expression ; his hands grasped eagerly
at something. I thought that little man was a
miser, whose death was caused by starvation.
Another figure, a large portly body, stood in a conspicuous
part of the vault; it was the corpse of a
fat old bishop, whose jaws were still rotund and
Btnooth with good living, and his sleek hair patted
down to his head as with the oil of by gone roast
beefs and macaroni soups, and jolly cast of countenance,
betokened a system liberally supplied
with the juices of life, and a conscience rendered
easy by attentio i to the creature comforts. That
man lived an easy life, and died of good feeding.
He was carefully labelled, and carried on his
?r? Lwl TKnrn ctnrwl iii anntlipr
>VIIdU> tt JCWPIICU CI UOC. AIJ1.1V uivvu ... MIIVVM ?
( art of the vault a fiery orator, with open mouth
ami distended arms. The head was thrown
back, the breast partially bare, a few tufts ol black
hair fell from his piebald skull; his round staring
ayes were stretched open, and his brows arched
high on his wrinkled forehead; he looked toward
heaven for inspiration. I fancied I could hear the
flaming torrent, as it blazed and crackled andscintilated
from his thin ashy lips. It was the glowing
eloquence of an ardent sottl that left its parting
impress upon the clay ; the lorm yet spoke, but
the sound was not there. Passing on from vault
to vault, we saw here and there a dead baby
ttirown upon a shelf? its little innocent faccsleeping
calmly among the mouldering skulls; a leg or
irrr, nr ai. nM oknll. from which the lower I
jaw had'fallen; now a lively corpse, jumping with (
a startling throe from its niche, or a grim skeleton
in its dark comer chuckling at the ravages of the
destroyer. Who was the prince here? Who
was the great math or the proud man, or the rich
man ? The fliusty, grinning, ghastly skeleton in
the corner seemed to chuckle at the ihought, and
say to himself, 'Was it you, thereon the right,
you ugly, noseless, sightless, disgusting thing ??
Was it you that rode in your fine carriage about
a year ago, and thought yourself so grpat whpn
you ordered your coachman to drive over the
beggar if he did not get out of the way? Don't
you see he is as handsome as you are now, and
as great a man; you can't cut him down now, old
fellow.
And you, there on the left. What a nice figure
you are with your fleshless shanks and your
tunrrrufiafon line I It nmo unil tViot hatrovo/l cmith
nuu.rv.11,.1 >in.o,uu,?a.vru,.j>uru.?
and beauty and innocence, and brought yourself
here at last to keep company with such fellows as
I am. Why, there is not a living thing now, save
the maggots, that would'nt turn away in disgust
from you. And you, sir, on the (opposite side,
how proud you were when I last saw you; an
officer of state, a great inan in power, who could
crush all below you, and make the happy wife a
widowed mourner, and bring her little babes to
starvation; it was you that had innocent men
seized and cast in prison. What can you do
now ? The meanest wretch that mocks you in
this vault of death is as good as you, as strong,
as great, as tall, as broad, as pretty a piece of
mortality, and a great deal nearer heaven. Oh,
you are a nice set of fellows, all mixing together
without ceremony! Where are your rules ol
etiquette; your fashionable ranks, and your plebeian
ranks; your thousands of admiring friends,
your throngs of jewelled visiters? Ha! ha! This
is a jolly place, alter all; we are all a jolly set of
republicans, and old Death is our President!'
Turning away from this strange exhibition of
death's doings, I followed the old monk into the
vaults allotted to the women. Here the spectacle
was still more shocking and impressive. The
bodies were not placed in an upright position
iike those of the men, but weie laid out at full
length in glass cases, the walls on both sides being
covered.
The young, the gay, the beautiful, were all
here, laid lowly in the relentless embrace of death.
aecKea cmu iu siiKeri nresses, i<i;ep, auu jeweiry,
as in mockery of the past. Each corpse had its
sad history. I saw a young bride who was stricken
down in a few brief months after her marriage.
She was dressed in her bridal costume; the bonnet
and veil still on, the white gloves drawn over
her skeleton fingers; a few withered flowers laid
upon her breast by the mourning one she had left
behind. Through the thin i*eil could be seen a
blanched, grinning, bony face; sunken sockets,
marked around with the dark lines of decay ; and
her long hair was drawn in luxuriant masses over
her withered bosom. Another held in her arms
a skeleton babe. Some were habited in walking
dresses; others in all the finery of ball-room costume,
with gay silks, slippers, silk stockings, and
tawdy lace. It was a ghastly sight to look under
the bonnets, and gaze upon the sunken ashy
features, decked around with artificial flowers,
and trace in those withered lineaments no lingering
line of beauty, no flickering ray of the immortal
spirit, but a dreary htstory of mortal agony,
decay, and corruption. Yet here the husband
comes to hold communion with the beloved soul
that once dwelt in that mouldering corpse; to look
upon those blanched features, that were once animate
with life and affection; to kiss tne cold litis,
and feel no returning warmth. And heie, too,
the father, brother, sister, and wife come to gaze
npon the dead; and here the mother comes to
weep over the withered corpse ofher babe. Once
a year, as I learnt from the old monk, the relatives
of the deceased come to pray for the salvation of
their souls, and deck their bodies with flowers.
"from uie conversation 01 tr.e monk, l learnt
that these catacombs are supported by contribu.
tions from the relatives of the deceased, who pay
annually a certain sum for the preservation of the
bodies. Each new comer is placed in a temporary
niche, and afterwards removed to a permanent
place, where he is permitted to remain as long as
the contributions continue; but when the customary
fees are not forthcoming, the corpses are
thrown aside on a shelf, where they lie ti I the relatives
think proper to have them set up again.?
Whole shelves are fi led with skulls and bodies
of the dead, put out of the way to make room for
others of a more profitable character.
"It might be supposed that the air of the catacombs
is in some degree affected by the fresh
bodies, but this is not the case. There is no offensive
odor; and the visitor would scarcely know,
if he did not see them, that he was surrounded
by the dead. I could perceive no difference in the
atmosphere of these vaults from that of any other
subterranean places, except a slight smell of mould
not altoeether disagreeable The fresh air is admitted
from the top, and it is to its extreme dryness
that the preservation of the bodies may be
alii iuuuiuic.
Use and Benefits of Lime in Scotland.
Falkner, thus speaks upon this subject:
"There is no country in Europe where calcined
lime is used to so great an extent, and
in such quantities, as in the more improved and
improving districts of Scotland. This may be
partly owing to the total itbsence of chalk,
which abounds in many parts of England, and
which renders calcined lime less necessary
there; but is principally to be attributed to the
great benefit which has been derived from its
use, which would hardly be credited were its
effects not too correctly stated to be disputed.
In bringing new or maiden soil into cultivation,
the use of lime is indeed found to be so essential,
that little good could be done without it. Its
first application in particular, gives a degree of
permanent fertility to soil which can be impar
oflmr innnnro \fnn1m enile in T .rim.
mermuir, of a tolerablo quality, will, with the
force of sheep's dung, produce a middling crop
of oats and rye; but the richest animal dung
does not enable them to bring any other grain
to maturity. Peas, barly, or whejji, -vrih set out
with every appearance of sucs^?s^but when the
peas are in bloom, and the other grains putting
forth <-he ear, the^ proceed no further, and
dwindle away itvfruitless abortion; while the
same soils, when sufficiently limed, will, in
good seasons, bring every species of grain to
maturity.
This fact proves that oats and rye requires
less calcareous matter than what is necessary
for other grains; that lime acts as an alterative,
as well as an active medicine; and that detects 1
! in the constitution of the soil are cured, even af!
ter the stimulant and fertilizing effects oftho
i lime have long ceased to operate. Lime is alI
so peculiarly beneficial in improving moorish
soils, for making them produce good herbage
where nothing but heath and impalatable gras!
ses grew formerly, of which instances, too nil!
merous to be repeated, must be in the recollecI
tion of e very experienced farmer. The expense
j of this article, and the distance to which it is
; carried, in some parts of k. * tland; is stated to
I be enormous: in Aberdeenshire, for instance;
very little of it is produced in this county; it is
carried inland to the distance of more than 30
miles, after being Imported from Suderland:yct
lime is there considered to be so absolutely ne?
cessary to to the land as to be cansidered the
foundation of all substantial improvement."
From the Alabamp Planter
Small Crop*;.
Messrs, Editors :?In this couhtry we have
a great variety of things that according to soil,
locality and circumstances, we may profitably
cultivate, and it is good economy to vary and
multiply them by such means. If one article
fails or is light, another may be good and in
some measure supply its place, and then there
is a variety for our stock, and it is probably as
grateful to the beasts as to man to change bis
diet once in a while, nor is it less grateful than
healthful to do so to either man or beast,
Potatoes.?This nutritious and healthy root
is so congenial 10 our cmnaie mat, it grows ou
almost any soil so well that few neglect to
raise a small crop. A fine sandy loam seems
their proper place, but as before said they
grow almost every where. Horses eat them
with avidity and are healthy and thrive well on
them; sheep and cattle likewise. To the former
they would be doubtless an excellent winter
food; to milch cows they would be very
superior either raw or boiled, but the latter
best. They will fatten hogs first-rate; as an
article for market they nre among the most
saleable. Planted near rivers, railroads, <fcc.,
they might be made the source of much profit,
but producing largely, they are of great value
to fatten pork and with no trouble in gathering.
Gouber or Pindar Peas?These, like the potatoes,
grow aimost every where, but best on
sandy lands. They require not much work,
and succeed well even on poor land. They
are very saleable and not heavy to take to market.
Plant them and if you have not time to
dig all, when you quit, turn the sows arid pigs
on them. They will dig at tl.em all winter,
and if there are enough they will keep fat too,
as the peas keep sound till spring. They are
equal to anything for either young o* old hogs.
They might be profitably raised either for the
market or for the hogs. Lately n very fine table
oil has aLo been obtained from tbem.
Turnips.?A well manured piece of ground,
~:?i? r 1. *
ciiuui uiu ui is preuj suiu IUI luiinpo,
especially ab in this climate we can sow a second
time it" we sow early and miss the first
time; they are very valuable as the food of
man or beast. They should be more cultivated,
as we neglect vegetable food too much in
this country. They can be cultivated profitably
for sheep, cattle and hog feeding ; for the
two latter they are best boiled, with meal mixed
with them according to the circumstances and
design of feeding. In cultivating new land,
naturally rich, thev sometimes do without manuring.
All land either new or old should bo
rich and finely pulverized.
Pkas.?Go under a variety of names, as
cornfield, blackeyed, tory, cow, black? &c.?
The tory, which rather a red pea, has some
good qualities. They do not rot soon and bear
well, though the yellow or common cow pea
isesteemed by some as good and by some a better
bearer, and generally a healthier and better
pea for stock; hence, though not keeping so
well as the tory from rot, it is yet preferred by
mun v. This crnn is attpndpd with enmn cnr?
J ' I VM.V,
but by no means as it should be. Some plan,
ters estimate it as worth half as much as the
corn and many one-fourth. It is usually raised
by planting between the corn hills at the
last plowing but one and generally hoed once
after the corn is laid by. No planter should
fail to raise peas. Stock of all kinds, horses,
cattle, hogs, and sheep are healthy and fatten
upon them. There are always too few gathered
to meet die demand for the market and planting.
Some kinds are good for man also.?
They may be raised with facility in wheat, rye,
or oats' stubble, especially the latter, or on a
fallow. Raised in this way the vines may be
cutoff or pulled up and thus produce a large
amount of fodder for stock. Ploughed under
when green, it is said by some that ihey are
equal to clover as a fertilizer. This is worthy
o! further trial, l he crop is worthy ot more
attention than is usually given to it by planters.
Bef.ts, Carrots and Parsnips.?These
crops are grown largely at the north and produce
from 500 to 1500 bushels to the acre,
according to kind, soil, &c. They make a
large part of the feed for horses, cattle, sheep,
and hogs. They are accounted among the
most profitable crops.?Might they not be
successfully raised here, and after supplying culinary
purposes make a valuable addition to our
food for stock ? By greater variety in our resources
might we not feed and raise and fatten
-i"' k ur hut-- - - f i i I \ ti'i.n
Talking about women voting, the Burlington
Sentinel says:
Cradles are the ballot boxes for women, in
which they should deposite, not votes, but Voters
That makes a Warwick nf nvorv mnthnr
of 'em.