A circumstance scarcely less remarkable happened to me only a few days

subsequently. I had wandered a few miles into the country, and at length

found myself upon a rising eminence, commanding a view of a picturesque

little village in the distance. Although I had at no period of my life

been in this part of the country, the scene was not novel to me. I had

seen it before. Every object was perfectly familiar. The mill, with its

revolving wheel—the neat cottages, with small gardens in front—and the

little stream of water that gently trickled past.

These matters gave a stronger impulse to my reading, and I devoured, with

the greatest voracity, all books appertaining to my favorite subjects.

Indeed, I became so engrossed in my employment, that I neglected my proper

studies, avoided all society, all exercise, and out-door occupation. For

weeks and weeks I shut my self up in my chamber, and refused to see

anybody. I would sit for hours of a night, gazing upon the stars, and

wondering if they exercised any control over the destinies of mankind. So

nervous did this constant study and seclusion render me, that if a door

were blown open by a sudden blast of wind, I trembled, and became as pale

as death; if a withered bough fell from a neighboring tree, I was

agitated, and unable for some seconds to speak; if a sudden footstep was

heard on the stairs, I anticipated that my chamber-door would be

immediately thrown open, and ere many seconds elapsed to be in the

presence of a visitor from the dark and invisible world of shadows. I

became pale and feverish, my appetite failed me, and I felt a strong

disinclination to perform the ordinary duties of life.

My friends observed, with anxiety and disquietude, my altered appearance;

and I was recommended to change my residence, and to withdraw myself

entirely from books. A favorable locality, combining the advantages of

pure air, magnificent scenery, and retirement, was accordingly chosen for

me, in which it was determined I should remain during the winter months.

It was now the latter end of September.

My future residence lay at the distance of about ten German miles from

Berlin. It was a fine autumnal day, that I proceeded, in the company of a

friend, to take possession of my new abode. Toward the close of the day we

found ourselves upon an elevated ground, commanding an extensive and

beautiful view of the country for miles around. From this spot we beheld

the house, or rather castle (for it had once assumed this character,

although it was now dismantled, and a portion only of the eastern wing was

inhabitable), that I was to occupy. It stood in an extensive valley,

through which a broad and deep stream held its devious course—now flowing

smoothly and placidly along, amid dark, overhanging trees—now dashing

rapidly and furiously over the rocks, foaming and roaring as it fell in

the most beautiful cascades. The building stood on the margin of the

stream, and in the midst of thick and almost impenetrable woods, that

rendered the situation in the highest degree romantic and captivating. The

scene presented itself to us under the most favorable aspect. The sun was

just setting behind the distant hills, and his rays were tinging with a

soft, mellow light, the foliage of the trees, of a thousand variegated

colors. Here and there, through the interstices of the trees, they fell

upon the surface of the water, thus relieving the dark and sombre

appearance of the stream. The road we now traversed led, by a circuitous

route, into the valley. As we journeyed on, I was more than ever struck

with the beauty of the scene. Dried leaves in many places lay scattered

upon the ground; but the trees were still well laden with foliage,

although I foresaw they would be entirely stripped in a short time. The

evening was soft and mild; but occasionally a gentle breeze would spring

up, and cause, for a moment, a slight rustling among the trees, and then

gradually die away. The sky above our heads was serene and placid,

presenting one vast expanse of blue, relieved, here and there, by a few

light fleecy clouds. As we got deeper into the valley, the road became bad

and uneven, and it was with much difficulty we prevented our horses from

stumbling. In one or two instances we had to dismount and lead them, the

road in many places being dangerous and precipitous. At length we gained

the bottom of the valley. A rude stone bridge was thrown over the stream

above described, over which we led our steeds. Arrived at the other side,

we entered a long avenue of trees, sufficient to admit of two horsemen

riding abreast. When we had gained the extremity of the avenue, the road

diverged to the left, and became tortuous and intricate in its windings.

It was in a bad state of repair, for the building had not been inhabited

by any body but an old woman for a great number of years. We at length

arrived in front of the entrance. As I gazed upon the dilapidated

structure, I did not for a moment dream of the suffering and misery I was

to undergo beneath its roof. We dismounted and gave our horses into the

charge of a man who worked about the grounds during the day-time. We were

no sooner admitted into this peculiar-looking place, than a circumstance

occurred which plunged me into the greatest distress of mind, and aroused

a host of the most painful and agonizing reminiscences. I conceived the

event to be ominous of disaster; and so it proved. I recognized, in the

woman who admitted us, that execrable being who had already so deeply

injured my family, and to whose infernal machinations I unhesitatingly

ascribed the idiocy and death of my dearly beloved sister. She gazed

earnestly upon me, and seemed to recognize me. This discovery caused me

the greatest uneasiness. I hated the sight of the woman; I loathed her; I

shuddered when I was in her presence; and a vague, undefinable feeling

took possession of me, which seemed to suggest that she was something more

than mortal. I know not what evils I anticipated from this discovery. I

predicted, however, nothing so awful, nothing so horrible, as what

actually befell me.

I took the earliest opportunity of speaking alone with this woman.

“My good woman,” I said to her, “I shall not suffer you to remain here at

night.”

“Why not, sir?” she asked.

“There are certain insuperable objections, the nature of which you may

probably surmise.”

“Indeed, I do not.”

“Then your memory is short.”

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“It is not of any consequence.”

After some further altercation, she consented to submit to the terms

dictated to her.

On the following day, my friend Hoffmeister returned to Berlin, where he

had some business to transact, on which depended much of his future

happiness. He promised to pay me another visit in the course of a week or

ten days.

I spent the first three or four days very comfortably, though I was still

very nervous, and in a weak state of health. On the morning of the fifth

day, the old woman (who had by some means discovered my profession) asked

me if I required a subject for the purpose of dissection. This was what I

had long been seeking for, but my efforts to obtain one had hitherto been

fruitless. I asked the sex, and she informed me it was a male. I was

delighted with the offer, and at once acquiesced in the terms. Toward

nightfall it was arranged that the corpse should be conveyed to the

castle.

I know not from what cause, but, during the whole of the day, I was in a

very abstracted and desponding state of mind, and began to regret that I

had agreed to take the body through the mediation of the old woman, whom I

almost conceived to be in league with Beelzebub himself.

The day had been exceedingly sultry, and toward evening the sky became

overcast with huge masses of dark clouds. The wind, at intervals, moaned

fitfully, and as it swept through the long corridors of the building,

strongly resembled the mournful and pitiful tones of a human being in

distress. The trees that stood in front of the house ever and anon yielded

to the intermitting gusts of wind, and bowed their heads as though in

submission to a superior power. There was no human being to be seen out of

doors, and the cattle, shortly before grazing upon some distant hills, had

already been removed. The river flowed sluggishly past, its brawling

breaking occasionally upon the ear when the wind was inaudible. Suddenly

the wind ceased, and large drops of rain began to fall; presently

afterward, it came down in torrents. It was a fearful night. Frequent

peals of thunder smote upon the ear; now it seemed to be at a distance,

now immediately overhead. Vivid flashes of lightning were at intervals

seen in the distant horizon, illumining for a moment, with supernatural

brilliancy, the most minute and insignificant objects. In the midst of the

tempest, I fancied I heard a rumbling noise at a distance. It grew more

distinct; the cause of it was rapidly approaching. I looked earnestly out

of the window, and I thought I could discern a moving object between the

interstices of the trees. I was not mistaken. It was the vehicle conveying

the dead body. It came along at a rapid pace. It was just in the act of

turning an angle of the road, when a tree, of gigantic proportions, was

struck by the electric fluid to the ground. The horse shied, and the car

narrowly escaped being crushed beneath its ponderous weight. The men drove

up to the entrance, and speedily took the box containing the body from the

car, and placed it in a room which I showed them into. I directed them to

take the body out of the box, and place it upon a deal board, which I had

laid horizontally upon a couple of trestles. The corpse was accordingly

taken out. It was that of a finely-grown young man. I laid my hand upon

it; it was still warm, and I fancied I felt a slight pulsation about the

region of the heart. Anxious to dismiss the men as soon as possible, and

fearing that the old woman might be imposing upon me, I asked the price.

“_Siebzig Thaler, mein Herr_,” said the man.

“_Danke, danke—tausendmal_,” said he, as I counted the money into his

hand.

At this instant a vivid flash of lightning illumined, for a second or two,

the livid and ghastly corpse of the man, rendering the object horrible to

gaze upon.

“_Gott im Himmel! was für ein schrecklicker Stürm!_” exclaimed the man to

whom I had paid the money.

In a few minutes the men departed, and I stood at the window watching

them, as they drove furiously away. At length they disappeared altogether

from my view.

I was now alone in the house. The storm was as furious as ever. I had

never before felt so wretched. I was restless and uneasy, and a thousand

dark thoughts flitted across my distracted brain as I wandered from room

to room. It was already quite dark, and I was at least a couple of miles

distant from any living soul. The frequent flashes of lightning, the loud

peals of thunder, the dead body of the man, and my own nervous and

superstitious temperament, constituted a multitude of anxieties, fears,

and apprehensions, that might have caused the stoutest heart to quail

beneath their influence. I seated myself in the sitting-room that had been

provided for me, and took up my _meerschaum_, and endeavored to compose

myself. It was, however, in vain. I was exceedingly restless, and I know

not what vague and indefinable apprehensions entered my imagination.

Whenever I have felt a presentiment of evil, it has invariably been

followed by some danger or difficulty. It was so in the present instance.

I drew the curtains in front of the windows, for I could not bear to look

upon the storm that was raging with unabated vehemence out of doors, and I

drew my chair closer to the fire, and sat for a considerable time. At

length, between ten and eleven o’clock, I took from a small cabinet a

bottle containing some excellent French brandy. I poured a portion of it

into a tumbler, and diluted it with warm water. I took two or three

copious draughts, which I thought imparted new life to my frame.

I was in this way occupied, when a sudden noise in a corner of the room

caused a feeling of horror to thrill through my whole system. I sprang

upon my legs in a moment; my eyes stared wildly, and every limb in my body

shook as though with convulsions. For a moment, I stood still, steadfastly

fixing my eyes upon the place from whence the noise proceeded. All was

quiet. I heard nothing save the beating of the rain against the windows,

and low peals of distant thunder. I walked across the room, and I

discovered that a riding-whip had fallen from the nail from which it had

been suspended. Satisfied that there was no occasion for alarm, I resumed

my seat, and indulged in fresh draughts of brandy-and-water. A few minutes

elapsed, and a noise similar to the last filled me with new apprehensions.

I sprang again from my seat. The pulses of my heart beat quickly. I gazed

wildly about me. I could see nothing—hear nothing. I walked a few paces,

and found an empty powder-flask upon the floor; it had fallen from a shelf

upon which I had placed it in the morning. I was much alarmed; I reeled

like a drunken man, and my mind was filled with the most horrible

forebodings. I drank the diluted spirit more freely than usual, and stood

awaiting the issue. Another article in a few minutes fell from the wall. I

now knew what to expect. I had frequently read of this species of

disturbance before. It was what, is called in Germany the _Poltergeist_.

In a few minutes, the greatest uproar manifested itself. The pictures fell

from the walls, the ornaments from the shelves; the jugs, glasses, and

bottles leaped from the table; the chairs, &c., by some unseen and

infernal agency, were overturned. I ran about like one beside himself; I

tore my hair with agony; I groaned with mental affliction; and my heart

cursed the devil incarnate that had brought all this misery to pass. It

was the woman; I was convinced of it. She, she alone, could conceive and

hatch such monstrous and nefarious stratagems. I knew not what to

do—whither to fly. The uproar continued. In my distraction, I ran from

place to place. I entered the room where the corpse lay. Merciful God! I

discovered, by the glimmering light from the other chamber, that it had

changed its position. I had laid it upon its back. Its face was now turned

downward! My cup was full—my misery complete. I returned to the room I had

just quitted. The disturbance had in some measure abated. I was thankful

that it was so, and I proceeded to place the tables, chairs, &c., in their

usual position. While I was thus engaged, the tumult commenced afresh. No

sooner had I placed a chair in an upright direction, than it was

immediately overturned; no sooner had I suspended a picture from the wall,

than it was again upon the floor. What was I to do? How was I to escape

the horrible spells with which the archfiend had encompassed me? I could

not leave the place on account of the storm; and even if I had done so, it

was not possible that I could gain admittance into any habitation at that

late hour of the night. Wretch that I was! What crime had I committed,

wherein had I erred, that I should be visited with so unaccountable and

terrible a calamity? My presence seemed to arouse the malignity of the

_Poltergeist_, and I deemed it expedient to leave the room. I was afraid

to enter that in which the dead (?) man lay, lest I should be exposed to

further causes for alarm. There was certainly a room in the higher part of

the building in which I had been accustomed to sleep; but I dared not

venture there in my present state of mind. I entered an adjourning

corridor, and paced up and down for a few minutes, but the air was chilly,

and I was in total darkness. The disturbance ceased as soon as I had

quitted the room. I could not remain where I was, so I re-entered it, but

my return was only the signal for fresh disasters. The uproar was resumed

with tenfold energy. However much my heart might revolt from it, there was

no other course open than to go into the room where the dead body lay. In

the condition of one who is driven to the last stage of desperation, I

walked, with as much fortitude as I could command, into that chamber. God

of Heaven! I had no sooner reached the threshold than I started back with

affright. I will not dwell upon that horrible scene; I will not minutely

detail the agony I endured. The corpse sat upright! I drew the

chamber-door quickly after me and staggered into the next apartment.

Powerless and overcome, I fell to the ground.

When I recovered, it was day. The light was streaming into the chamber,

and the storm had subsided. Fresh marvels were to be revealed. I was no

longer in the room in which I had been on the preceding night. I was in

bed, in the chamber where I had hitherto slept! How came I hither? I knew

not. I pressed my hand to my brow, and strove to collect my scattered

senses. I was bewildered and confused, and could only account for the

marvelous transition to which I had been exposed, by some remarkable

agency, altogether intangible to my senses, and utterly beyond the power

of my understanding to comprehend.

I descended, as soon as I was dressed, to breakfast, of which I sparingly

partook. I was pale and agitated. My sitting-room was in its usual state

of order. I did not venture into the other apartment, neither did I speak

to the woman touching the spectacles I had witnessed.

Hoffmeister returned in the evening, some days sooner than he expected. He

observed my altered appearance, and said—

“_Was fehlt dir? Du bist krank, nicht wahr?_”

“_Nein; ich bin recht wohl, Gott sei dank_.”

I could not, however, convince Hoffmeister that nothing had happened. I

was not disposed to reveal to him what I had witnessed, for I knew he

would treat the matter with unbecoming levity. His opinions were very

different from mine upon these subjects.

Hoffmeister appeared much depressed in spirits himself. I inquired the

cause, but he evaded the question. I concluded that his journey to Berlin

had not been attended with satisfactory results, for I could conjecture no

other cause for his unhappiness. We retired to rest early, for Hoffmeister

appeared fatigued. I proposed that we should sleep together, which my

friend gladly assented to.

I was much surprised, when I awoke on the following morning, to find

myself alone. What had become of Hoffmeister? Had he, too, been under the

domination of some evil power? I knew he was not an early riser, and his

absence, therefore, astonished and agitated me. I dressed myself hastily,

and immediately went in search of him. I wandered about the adjacent

grounds, but he was not there. I could not rest till I had found him. I

had known him for many years, and had always loved and esteemed him. He

was, till lately, my constant companion—my bosom-friend—in a word, my

_alter ego_.

I resolved to extend my search. I swiftly passed through the avenue of

trees, crossed the bridge, and it was not long before I had gained the

summit of the road that led into the valley. I stood for a while gazing

around me. I gazed earnestly at the dilapidated and time-worn walls of the

old castle, in which I had witnessed so many marvelous and horrible

sights. I shuddered when I reflected upon them. I resumed my journey, and

at length reached a village a few miles distant from my former abode. I

walked quickly forward, and on my way met several persons who saluted me,

whom I did not remember to have seen before. What could they mean by

taking such unwarrantable liberties with me? They did not appear to be

drunk, nor to have any intention of insulting me. It was

odd—unaccountable. I hurried on. My head began to swim; my eyes were

burning hot, and ready to start from their sockets. I was wild—frantic.

I reached the shop of an apothecary, and stepped in to ask for water, to

quench my thirst. The man smirked, and asked me how I was. I told him, I

did not know him; but he persisted in saying he had been in my company

only a night or two before. I was confounded. I seized the glass of water

he held in his hand, and took a hearty draught, and precipitately

departed. I traveled on. I was bewildered—in a maze, from which I found it

impossible to extricate myself. I made inquiries about my friend, but the

people stared and laughed, as though there was something extraordinary

about me. I wandered about till nightfall, and at last found shelter in a

cottage by the road-side, which was inhabited by an infirm old woman.

The next day I returned to the village. I called upon a gentleman with

whom I was intimately acquainted. I thought he might be able to give me

some tidings of my friend. When I was ushered into his presence he did not

know me. I was incredulous. Was I no longer myself? Had I changed my

identity? Whence this mystery? I was unable to fathom it. I handed my card

to him; he looked at it, and returned it, saying he did not know Mr.

Hoffmeister. The card was that of my friend. How it had come into my

possession I knew not. I apologized for the error, and informed him that

my name was not Hoffmeister, but Heinrich Gottlieb Langström. My surprise

may be conceived, when he informed me Langström—in fact, that I myself was

dead, and that my body had been found in the stream that flowed past the

village the day previously! I was ready to sink through the floor, and

could not find language to reply to the monstrous falsehood. I rushed from

his presence, feeling assured that some conspiracy was afoot to drive me

mad. I must have become so, or I never would have been exposed to the

extraordinary delusion to which I afterward became a victim.

I entered a house of public entertainment, and determined to solve this

dreadful enigma. I was, unfortunately, acquainted with the doctrines of

Pythagoras, and, at the time to which I refer, no doubt insane.

I requested to be shown into a room, where I could arrange my dress. I was

conducted into a chamber, in which all things necessary for that purpose

were provided. My object, however, was of greater consequence than this. I

wished to unravel the strange mystery that surrounded me—to discover, in a

word, whether I were really myself, or some other person. There was no way

of freeing myself from this horrible suspense and uncertainty than by

examining my features in the looking-glass. There was one placed upon a

dressing-table, but I shrank from it as though it had been a demon. I

dreaded to approach it; I feared to look into it, lest it should confirm

all the vague and monstrous misgivings that agitated my mind. I regarded

it as the arbiter of my destiny. It possessed the power either to

transport me with happiness, or to plunge me into utter, irretrievable

misery. In that brief moment I endured an age of agony and suspense. With

a faltering step, with a whirling brain, I advanced toward the glass. I

stood opposite to it; I looked into it. Distraction! horror of horrors! It

was not my own face I beheld! I swooned—fell backward.

When I recovered, I found myself in the arms of a man, who bathed my

temples with water. I quickly made my escape from the house. I was pale

and haggard, like one stricken with some sudden and grievous calamity. I

fancied, as I passed along, that the passengers whom I met stared at me,

laughed in my face, and seemed to consider my misfortune a fit subject for

their mirth and ridicule. Every hubbub in the street, every screeching

voice that assailed my ear, I conceived to be attributable to my horrible

transformation. I was afraid to look around; I dared not arrest my

progress for a moment, lest any of the mocking fiends should make sport of

my unhappy situation, and drive me to some act of desperation. On, on, I

hurried. I gained the fields. Thank Heaven! the village lay at a distance

behind me. The haunts of men were no place for me. I was something more

than mortal. I had undergone a change, of which I had never conceived

myself susceptible. I sped forward; naught could impede my course. My only

relief was in action. Any thing to dissipate the thoughts that flitted

across my distracted brain. Bodily pain might be endured—fatigue, hunger,

any corporeal suffering; but to think, was death—destruction. Oh! could I

have evaded thought for one moment, what joy, what transport! I fled

onward; there was no time to pause—to consider. The sun had already sunk

behind the hills, and night was about to spread her mantle o’er the earth,

when I threw myself down, exhausted and overpowered. Slumber sealed my

eyes, and I lay upon the ground, an outcast of men, an isolated and

wretched being, to whom the common lot of humanity had been denied.

I will hurry this painful narrative to a close. I have but a vague idea of

the events that occurred during the next few weeks. I remember being told,

as I lay in bed, by a young woman who attended me, that I had been found

by some workpeople, on the night above referred to, in the vicinity of my

former residence, and conveyed thither, and that I had been attacked by

the brain fever, and that my life had been despaired of by my medical

attendant.

The body which had been found in the stream, and which was supposed to be

mine, was that of my dear friend, Hoffmeister. In his agitation,

previously to his committing the dreadful act of suicide, he had

inadvertently mistaken my garments for his own.

When I became convalescent, I determined upon leaving, as soon as

possible, the scene of my recent suffering. Before doing so, I proceeded

to the village which I had previously visited. I called upon the gentleman

who had not recognized me on a former occasion; but, strange to say, he

now remembered me perfectly, and received me very kindly indeed. I

referred to the circumstance of our late interview, but he had no

recollection of it. While we were thus conversing, a third person entered

the room, the very image of my friend, and who, it appeared was his

brother. An explanation at once ensued.

These matters I have thought it necessary to explain. There are, however,

occurrences in the narrative, of which I can give no solution, though I

may premise, that my conviction is, that those which took place in the

village, arose from natural causes, with which I am nevertheless

unacquainted. The body of the man, who, I have reason to believe, was not

quite dead when he was brought to me, I conveyed with me to Berlin. The

old woman I never again beheld.

THE SUN. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.)

Of all the links in the stupendous chain of the cosmos, the sun, next to

our own planet, is that which we are most concerned in knowing well, while

it is precisely that which we know the least. This glorious orb has always

been involved in the deepest mystery. All that had been revealed to us

concerning it, till very recently, was derived from the observations and

deductions of the elder Herschel. His discovery of a double luminous

envelopment, at times partially withdrawn from various portions of the

sun’s surface, afforded, on the whole, a satisfactory explanation of the

numerous spots that are always seen on his disk. This glimpse merely of

the external changes which happen on his surface made up the sum of our

knowledge of that great luminary on which the animation of our planetary

system depends! One main cause of this utter ignorance on the subject,

besides its own intrinsic difficulty, lay in the comparatively slight

attention it had always received from astronomers generally. No individual

observer ever thought of devoting himself to the solar phenomena alone,

while the public observatories confined themselves to merely observing the

sun’s culmination at noon, or to ascertaining the exact duration of its

eclipses.

We knew, from the observations of Cassini and Herschel, that the spots on

the sun’s disk are not alike numerous every year; and Kunowsky

particularly drew the attention of astronomers to the fact, that while in

the years 1818 and 1819 very large and numerous ones appeared, some

visible even to the naked eye, very few, on the contrary, and those of but

trifling size, were seen in the years 1822-1824. But it was reserved for

the indefatigable Schwabe of Dessau, who has devoted himself for a long

series of years to this one single object, to establish the fact of these

spots observing a certain periodicity. Among the results of his labors—for

as yet we have only his brief announcements to the scientific world in the

“Astronomical Notices”—are the following: 1. That the recurrence of the

solar spots has a period of about ten years; 2. That the number of the

single groups of one year varies at the minimum time from twenty-five to

thirty, while in the maximum years they sometimes rise to above three

hundred; 3. That with their greater abundance is combined also a greater

local extension and blackness of the spots; 4. That at the maximum time,

the sun, for some years together, is never seen without very considerable

spots. The last maximum appears to have been of a peculiarly rich

character, as, from February, 1837, till December, 1840, solar spots were

visible on every day of observation; while the number of groups in the

former of those years amounted to 333.

But if a single individual, by observations continued unbroken for entire

decenniums, has thus revealed to us the most important fact hitherto known

relating to the sun, there are other questions not less important which

can only find their solution in the careful observation of a

rarely-occurring interval of perhaps one or two minutes. The splendor of

the sun is so amazingly great, as to preclude us entirely from perceiving

any object in his immediate proximity unless projected before his disk as

a darkening object. At ten, or fifteen degrees even from the sun, when

this luminary is above the horizon, all the fixed stars vanish from the

most powerful telescopes. We are therefore in utter ignorance whether the

space between him and Mercury is occupied or not by some other denizen of

the planetary system. To enable us to explore the sun’s immediate

proximity, we require a body that shall exclude his rays from our

atmosphere, and yet leave the space round the sun open to our view. Such

an object can of course be neither a cloud nor any terrestrial object,

natural or artificial, since parts of the atmosphere will exist behind it

which will be impinged on by the sun’s rays. Only during a total eclipse

can these conditions be fulfilled, and even then but for a very brief

interval, which may still be lost to the observer through unfavorable

weather or from too low a position of the sun.

Notwithstanding that this rare and precarious opportunity is the only

possible one we possess of becoming better acquainted with the physical

nature of the great luminary of day, astronomers never availed themselves

of it for any other purpose than the admeasurement of the earth, which

might have been done as well, if not better, during any planetary eclipse.

This error or indifference, whichever it may have been, can not, however,

be laid to the charge of our living astronomers. The 8th of July, 1842—the

day on which the last total eclipse of the sun took place—witnessed the

most distinguished of these assembled for the purpose of making, for the

first time, observations calculated to afford us some insight into this

greatest mystery of the celestial world. This eclipse was total on a zone

which traversed the north of Spain, the south of France, the region of the

Alps and Styria, and a portion of Austria, Central Russia and Siberia,

terminating in China; so that the observatories of Marseilles, Milan,

Venice, Padua, Vienna, and Ofen, all supplied with excellent telescopes,

and in full activity, came within its range; while many astronomers, at

whose observatories the eclipse was not visible, set out for places

situated within the zone just described. Thus Arago and two of his

colleagues repaired to Perpignan, Airy to Turin, Schumacker to Vienna,

Struve and Sehidloffsky to Lipezk, and Stubendorff to Koerakow. Most of

them were favored by the weather. Let us now see what the combined

endeavors of these practiced and well-furnished observers have made us

acquainted with.

First, as regards the obscurity, it was so great, that five, seven, and in

some cases as many as ten stars were visible to the naked eye. A reddish

light was seen to proceed from the horizon—that is, from those regions

where the darkness was not total—and by this light print of a moderate

size could, with a little difficulty, be read. Such plants as usually

close their petals at night were seen in most places to close them also

during the eclipse. The thermometer fell from 2 to 3 degrees of Reaumur,

and in the fields about Perpignan a heavy dew fell. A change in the color

of the light, and consequently of the enlightened objects, was noticed by

many, although they were not agreed in their description of it. But this

diversity may have been caused by the nature of the air at different

places being probably different, and the degree of obscurity very unequal.

At Lipezk, where the eclipse lasted the longest, being 3 minutes and 3

seconds, a darkness similar to that of night set in, and there the eclipse

began exactly at noon.

The effect of the eclipse on the animal creation was similar to what had

been observed before in the like circumstances: they ceased eating;

draught animals suddenly stood still; domestic birds fled to the stables,

or sought other places of shelter; owls and bats flew abroad, as if night

had come on. Of three lively linnets, kept in a cage, one dropped down

dead. The insect world too was greatly affected; ants stopped in the midst

of their labors, and only resumed their course after the reappearance of

the sun; and bees retreated suddenly to their hives. A general

restlessness pervaded the animal world; and only those places which were

situated more on the boundary of the zone, and where the obscurity was

consequently less complete, formed an exception.

During the total eclipse, the dark moon which covered the sun’s disk

appeared surrounded with a brilliant crown of light or halo. This halo

consisted of two concentric belts, of which the inner one was the

lightest, and the external less brilliant, and gradually fading. In the

direction of the line which connected the point of the commencement of the

total eclipse with that of its termination, two parabolic pencils of

light—some observers say several—appeared on the halo. Within it also

light intervolved veins were observable. The breadth of the inner halo was

from 2 to 3 minutes; that of the external one from 10 to 15 minutes; the

pencils of light, on the other hand, extended as far as from 1 to 1½

degree; by some they were traced even to 3 degrees. The color of the halo

was of a silvery white, and exhibited a violent undulating or trembling

motion, its general appearance varying in the briefest space. The light of

the halo was intensest near the covered solar rim. Its brilliance at

Lipezk was so great, that the naked eye could hardly look on it, and some

of the observers almost doubted whether the sun had really altogether

disappeared. At Vienna, Milan, and Perpignan, on the contrary, the

observers found the light of the halo resembling that of the moon toward

its full. Bell, at Verona, who found time to estimate its intensity,

ascertained it to be one-seventh of that of the full moon. Its first

traces were noticed from 3 to 5 seconds before the entrance of the entire

eclipse; in like manner, its last vestiges disappeared only some seconds

after the eclipse was over. Vivid, however, as its light was, the halo

cast but an extremely faint shadow. Some, indeed, who particularly

directed their attention to it, could not detect any. But this might have

been owing to those places on which the shadows would have fallen being

faintly illumined by the reddish light of the horizon before mentioned. In

other respects, during the progress of the eclipse, before and after its

maximum, not the least change was observable in the uncovered part of the

sun’s disk. The cusps were as sharp and distinctly-marked as possible, the

lunar mountains were projected on the sun’s surface with the most

beautiful distinctness and precision, and the color and brilliance of his

disk, in the proximity of the moon’s rim, were in no way diminished or

altered. In short, nothing was seen which could be referred in the

smallest degree to a lunar atmosphere.

All these phenomena, striking as they were, were such as the assembled

observers were prepared for; for they were such as had already been

noticed during previous eclipses of the sun. But there was one of quite a

different character, as mysterious as it was novel to them. This was the

appearance of large reddish projections within the halo on the dark rim.

The different observers characterized it by the expressions—“red clouds,

volcanoes, flames, fire-sheaves,” &c.; terms intended of course merely to

indicate the phenomenon, and not in any way to explain it. The observers

differed in their reports both with respect to the number of these “red

clouds,” as well as to their apparent heights. Arago stated that he

observed two rose-colored projections which seemed to be unchangeable, and

a minute high. His two colleagues also saw them, but to them they seemed

somewhat larger. A fourth observer saw one of the projections some minutes

even after the eclipse was over, while others perceived it with the naked

eye. Petit, at Montpellier remarked _three_ protections, and even found

time to measure one of them. It was 1-3/4 minute high. Littrow, at Vienna,

considered them to be as high again as this; and stated “that the streaks

were visible before they became colored, and remained visible also after

their color had vanished.” The light of these projections was soft and

quiet, the projections themselves sharp, and their form unchanging till

the moment of their extinction. Schidloffsky, at Lipezk, thought he

perceived a rose-colored border on the moon in places where these red

clouds did not reach; but could not be certain of the fact, on account of

the shortness of the time.

These projections or red clouds, mysterious and unexpected as they were to

men who directed their attention for the first time to the purely physical

phenomena concerned, were in fact, after all, nothing altogether new. The

descriptions given by astronomers of earlier eclipses of the sun had been

forgotten or overlooked. Stannyan, for instance, in his relation of that

of the 20th May, 1706, says, “The egress of the sun from the moon’s disk

was preceded on its left rim, during an interval of six or seven seconds,

by the appearance of a bloodred streak;” and Nassenius, during a total

eclipse of the sun observed on the 13th of May, 1733, mentions having seen

“several red spots, three or four in number, without the periphery of the

moon’s disk, one of them being larger than the others, and consisting, as

it were, of three parallel parts inclining toward the moon’s disk.” It is

clear, therefore, that earlier observers had witnessed the same

phenomenon, although they were unable to offer any explanation of it. It

seems, however, no unreasonable conclusion to come to, that these

projections or red clouds, as well as the halo with its pencils of light

before spoken of, are something without the proper solar photosphere, but

not forming, as this does, one connected mass of light. What further can

be known concerning this _something_ must be left to future ages to

discover.

THE HOUSEHOLD JEWELS. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.)

A traveler, from journeying

In countries far away,

Repassed his threshold at the close

Of one calm Sabbath day;

A voice of love, a comely face,

A kiss of chaste delight,

Were the first things to welcome him

On that blessed Sabbath night.

He stretched his limbs upon the hearth,

Before its friendly blaze,

And conjured up mixed memories

Of gay and gloomy days;

And felt that none of gentle soul,

However far he roam,

Can e’er forego, can e’er forget,

The quiet joys of home.

“Bring me my children!” cried the sire,

With eager, earnest tone;

“I long to press them, and to mark

How lovely they have grown;

Twelve weary months have passed away

Since I went o’er the sea,

To feel how sad and lone I was

Without my babes and thee.”

“Refresh thee, as ’tis needful,” said

The fair and faithful wife,

The while her pensive features paled,

And stirred with inward strife;

“Refresh thee, husband of my heart,

I ask it as a boon;

Our children are reposing, love;

Thou shalt behold them soon.”

She spread the meal, she filled the cup,

She pressed him to partake;

He sat down blithely at the board,

And all for her sweet sake;

But when the frugal feast was done,

The thankful prayer preferred,

Again affection’s fountain flowed;

Again its voice was heard.

“Bring me my children, darling wife

I’m in an ardent mood;

My soul lacks purer aliment,

I long for other food;

Bring forth my children to my gaze,

Or ere I rage or weep,

I yearn to kiss their happy eyes

Before the hour of sleep.”

“I have a question yet to ask;

Be patient, husband dear.

A stranger, one auspicious morn,

Did send some jewels here;

Until to take them from my care,

But yesterday he came,

And I restored them with a sigh:

—Dost thou approve or blame?”

“I marvel much, sweet wife, that thou

Shouldst breathe such words to me;

Restore to man, resign to God,

Whate’er is lent to thee;

Restore it with a willing heart,

Be grateful for the trust;

Whate’er may tempt or try us, wife,

Let us be ever just.”

She took him by the passive hand.

And up the moonlit stair,

She led him to their bridal bed,

With mute and mournful air;

She turned the cover down, and there,

In grave-like garments dressed,

Lay the twin children of their love,

In death’s serenest rest.

“These were the jewels lent to me,

Which God has deigned to own;

The precious caskets still remain,

But, ah, the _gems_ are flown;

But thou didst teach me to resign

What God alone can claim;

He giveth and he takes away,

Blest be His holy name!”

The father gazed upon his babes,

The mother drooped apart,

While all the woman’s sorrow gushed

From her o’erburdened heart;

And with the striving of her grief,

Which wrung the tears she shed.

Were mingled low and loving words

To the unconscious dead.

When the sad sire had looked his fill,

He vailed each breathless face,

And down in self-abasement bowed,

For comfort and for grace;

With the deep eloquence of woe,

Poured forth his secret soul,

Rose up, and stood erect and calm,

In spirit healed and whole.

“Restrain thy tears, poor wife,” he said,

“I learn this lesson still,

God gives, and God can take away,

Blest be His holy will!

Blest are my children, for they _live_

From sin and sorrow free,

And I am not all joyless, wife,

With faith, hope, love, and thee.”

THE TEA-PLANT. (FROM HOGG’S INSTRUCTOR.)

Hid behind the monster wall that screens in the land of the Celestials

from the prying eye of the “barbarian,” the Tea-plant, in common with many

things peculiar to those regions, remained long unknown to Europeans, and

the snatches of information brought home by early travelers concerning it,

were, in too many cases, of that questionable and contradictory kind, so

characteristic, even in the present day, of the writings of those who

travel in Eastern lands. Tea has now become a general article of domestic

consumption in every household of our country having any pretension to

social comfort, as well as in that of every other civilized nation, and,

indeed, the _tea-table_ has no mean influence in refining the manners and

promoting the social intercourse of a people. Important, however, as this

universal beverage has become as an essential requisite to the social and

physical comfort of all classes and conditions of civilized society, yet

our knowledge of the plant from which it is produced is still very

imperfect; and this, notwithstanding the fact that we have had tea-plants

growing in our hothouses since the year 1768. Speaking of the introduction

of the plant to this country, Hooker says—“It was not till after tea had

been used as a beverage for upwards of a century in England, that the

shrub which produces it was brought alive to this country. More than one

botanist had embarked for the voyage to China—till lately a protracted and

formidable undertaking—mainly in the hope of introducing a growing

tea-tree to our greenhouses. No passage across the desert, no

Waghorn-facilities, no steam-ship assisted the traveler in those days. The

distance to and from China, with the necessary time spent in that country,

generally consumed nearly three years! Once had the tea-tree been procured

by Osbeck, a pupil of Linnæus, in spite of the jealous care with which the

Chinese forbade its exportation; and when near the coast of England, a

storm ensued, which destroyed the precious shrubs. Then the plan of

obtaining berries was adopted, and frustrated by the heat of the tropics,

which spoiled the oily seeds, and prevented their germination. The captain

of a Swedish vessel hit upon a good scheme: having secured fresh berries,

he sowed these on board ship, and often stinted himself of his daily

allowance of water for the sake of the young plants; but, just as the ship

entered the English Channel, an unlucky rat attacked his cherished charge

and devoured them all!” So much, then, for the early attempts to introduce

the tea-shrub to Europe: often, indeed, is the truth exemplified that

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft a-gee.”

The Chinese tea-plants are neat-growing shrubs, with bright glossy green

leaves, not unlike those of the bay; or a more exact similitude will be

found in the garden camellia, with the _leaves_ of which, however, many of

our readers may not have acquaintance, although the _flowers_ are well

known, being extensively used in decorating the female dress for the

ball-room in the winter season. The tea-plants are nearly allied to the

camellia, and belong to the same natural order: indeed, one species of the

latter—the _Camellia sasanqua_ of botanists—is cultivated in the

tea-grounds of China, on account of its beautiful flowers, which are said

to impart fragrance and flavor to other teas.

Comparatively few scientific naturalists have had sufficient opportunities

of studying the tea-producing plants in their native _habitats_, or even

in the cultivated grounds of China, and consequently a great difference of

opinion has all along existed, as to whether tea is obtained from one,

two, or more distinct species of _Thea_. This question is getting day by

day more involved as new facts come to light; and, indeed, cultivation

seems to have altered the original character of some forms of the plant so

much, that the subject bids fair to remain an open question among European

botanists for ages to come. The two tea-plants which have been long grown

in British gardens, and universally supposed, until within the last few

years, to be the only kinds in existence, are the _Thea bohea_ and the

_Thea viridis_. The former was, until recently, very generally believed to

produce the black tea of commerce, and the latter the green tea; but

recent travelers have clearly shown that both _black_ and _green_ tea may

be, and are, obtained from the same plant. The difference is caused by the

mode of preparation; but it will be afterward seen that very important

discrepancies occur between the accounts of this operation given by

different observers. Certain it is, that the extreme caution with which

the Chinese attempt to conceal a knowledge of their peculiar arts and

manufactures from European visitors—and in none is their anxiety to do so

more strikingly evinced than in the case of the culture and preparation of

tea—tends greatly to frustrate the endeavors of the scientific traveler to

acquire accurate information on this point.

In the present state of our knowledge, it is quite impossible to say how

many species or varieties of the tea-plant are grown in China. They are

now believed to be numerous, although the two kinds to which we have

referred are those most extensively cultivated. They have long been

allowed to rank as distinct species in botanical books, and grown as such

in our greenhouses; but some acute botanists have, at various times,

suggested that they might be merely varieties of one plant. Such was the

opinion of the editor of the “Botanical Magazine,” when he figured and

described the Bohea variety (t. 998). Professor Balfour (“Manual of

Botany,” § 793) enumerates three species—the two already mentioned, and

one called _Thea Assamica_, being the one chiefly cultivated at the

tea-grounds of Assam. Most of our readers may be aware that the

cultivation and manufacture of tea has been successfully introduced to

Northern India. A “Report on the Government Tea Plantations in Kumaon and

Gurwahl, by W. Jameson, Esq., the superintendent of the Botanical Gardens

in the North-Western Provinces,”(5) has just reached us. In that report—to

which we will have occasion afterward to refer—there are “two species, and

two well marked varieties” described. Some of these do not appear to have

been at all noticed by other writers, although, from specimens of the

plants, which we have examined, from the tea-grounds, they appear

sufficiently distinct to warrant their being ranked as separate species;

and there are, indeed, some botanists who would at once set them down as

such.

Having disposed of the question of _species_ in such manner as the

unsatisfactory state of botanical knowledge on this point will admit, we

shall now proceed to communicate some information respecting the culture

of the tea-plant, and the manner in which its leaves are made available

for the production of the beverage of which the female portion of the

community, and more particularly _old wives_ (of both sexes), are believed

to be so remarkably fond.

The tea-plants are grown in beds conveniently formed for the purpose of

irrigating in dry weather, and for plucking the leaves when required. The

Chinese sow the seed thus: “Several seeds are dropped into holes four or

five inches deep, and three or four feet apart, shortly after they ripen,

or in November and December; the plants rise up in a cluster when the

rains come on. They are seldom transplanted, but, sometimes, four to six

are put quite close, to form a fine bush.” In the government plantations

of Kumaon and Gurwahl, more care seems to be bestowed in the raising of

the plants, whereby the needless expenditure of seeds in the above method

is saved. The seeds ripen in September or October, and in elevated

districts, sometimes so late as November. In his report, Mr. Jameson

mentions that, when ripe, the seeds are sown in drills, eight to ten

inches apart from each other, the ground having been previously prepared

by trenching and manuring. If the plants germinate in November, they are

protected from the cold by a “_chupper_,” made of bamboo and grass—a small

kind of bamboo, called the ringal, being found in great abundance on the

hills, at an elevation of 6000 to 7000 feet, and well adapted for the

purpose; these _chuppers_ are removed throughout the day, and replaced at

night. In April and May, they are used for protecting the young plants

from the heat of the sun, until the rains commence. When the plants have

attained a sufficient size they are transplanted with great care, a ball

of earth being attached to their roots. They require frequent waterings,

if the weather be dry. During the rains grass springs up around them with

great rapidity, so as to render it impossible, with the usual number of

hands, to keep the grounds clean. The practice, therefore, is merely to

make a “_golah_” or clear space round each plant, these being connected

with small water channels, in order to render irrigation easy in times of

drought. The plants do not require to be pruned until the fifth year, the

plucking of leaves generally tending to make them assume the basket shape,

the form most to be desired to procure the greatest quantity of leaves.

Irrigation seems absolutely essential for the profitable cultivation of

the tea-plant, although, on the other hand, land liable to be flooded

during the rains, and upon which water lies for any length of time, is

quite unsuitable for its growth. The plant seems to thrive in a great

variety of soils, but requires the situation to be at a considerable

altitude above the sea level.

According to Mr. Jameson, the season for picking the leaves commences in

April and continues until October, the number of gatherings varying,

according to the nature of the season, from four to seven. So soon as the

new and young leaves have appeared in April, the first plucking takes

place. “A certain division of the plantation is marked off, and to each

man a small basket is given, with instructions to proceed to a certain

point, so that no plant may be passed over. On the small basket being

filled, the leaves are emptied into another large one, which is put in

some shady place, and in which, when filled, they are conveyed to the

manufactory. The leaves are generally plucked with the thumb and

forefinger. Sometimes the terminal part, of a branch having four or five

young leaves attached, is plucked off.” The old leaves, being too hard to

curl, are rejected as of no use; but all new and fresh leaves are

indiscriminately collected.

The _manufacture_ of the different varieties of tea has been the subject

of much difference of opinion. It has been supposed by some writers, as we

have already mentioned, that _green_ tea was solely obtained from the Thea

viridis, and _black_ tea from the Thea bohea, while others have asserted,

that the different kinds of the manufactured article are equally produced

by both plants. Facts seem now to be quite in favor of the latter opinion,

and, indeed, Mr. Fortune, while on his first botanical mission on account

of the Horticultural Society of London, ascertained, by visiting the

different parts of the coast of China, that the _Bohea_ plant was

converted into both black and green tea in the south of China, but that in

all the northern provinces he found only _Thea viridis_ grown, and equally

converted into both kinds of tea. Mr. Ball (the late inspector of teas to

the East India Company in China), in a work entitled “An Account of the

Cultivation and Manufacture of Tea in China,” fully confirms the fact that

both the green and black teas are prepared from the same plant, and that

the differences depend entirely on the processes of manufacture. It is, of

course, possible that particular varieties of the same plant, grown in

certain soils and situations, may be preferred by the Chinese

manufacturers for the preparation of the black and green teas, and the

various kinds of both known in commerce. It has been stated by some that

the _young leaves_ are taken for green tea, and the older ones for the

black varieties; this is the popular notion on the subject, but probably

it has no foundation.

Although it _now_ seems somewhat generally agreed that both green and

black teas are made from the leaves of the same plant, yet the various

writers on the subject are at considerable variance as to the mode in

which the difference of appearance is brought about. Some assert that the

_black_ being the natural colored tea, the beautiful green tinge is given

to the _green_ tea by means of substances used for the purpose of dyeing

it; while others hold that the green hue depends entirely on the method of

roasting.

Among the formers Mr. Fortune, whose account of the “Chinese Method of

Coloring Green Tea,” as observed by him, is published in a former number

of the INSTRUCTOR (NO. 240, page 91). From that account, it would appear

that the coloring substances used are gypsum, indigo, and Prussian blue,

and “for every hundred pounds of green tea which are consumed in England

or America, the consumer really eats more than half a pound” of these

substances. We hope now to present our tea-drinking readers with a more

pleasing picture than this; to show that indeed there is not “death in the

cup,” nor aught else to be feared. We therefore proceed to explain the

modes of manufacture, as detailed by Mr. Ball. And, firstly, the

_manufacture_ of _black_ tea. The leaves, on being gathered, are exposed

to the air, until they wither and “become soft and flaccid.” In this state

they soon begin to emit a slight degree of fragrance, when they are

sifted, and then tossed about with the hands in large trays. They are then

collected into a heap, and covered with a cloth, being now “watched with

the utmost care, until they become spotted and tinged with red, when they

also increase in fragrance, and must be instantly roasted, or the tea

would be injured.” In the first roasting, the fire, which is prepared with

dry wood, is kept exceedingly brisk; but “any heat may suffice which

produces the crackling of the leaves described by Kæmpfer.” The roasting

is continued till the leaves give out a fragrant smell, and become quite

flaccid, when they are in a fit state to be rolled. The roasting and

rolling are often a third, and sometimes even a fourth time repeated, and,

indeed, the process of rolling is continued until the juices can no longer

be freely expressed. The leaves are then finally dried in sieves placed in

drying-tubs, over a charcoal fire in a common chafing-dish. The heat

dissipates much of the moisture, and the leaves begin to assume their

black appearance. Smoke is prevented, and the heat moderated, by the ash

of charcoal or burnt “paddy-husk” being thrown on the fire. “The leaves

are then twisted, and again undergo the process of drying, twisting, and

turning as before; which is repeated once or twice more, until they become

quite black, well-twisted, and perfectly dry and crisp.”

According to Dr. Royle, there are only two gatherings of the leaves of

_green_ tea in the year; the first beginning about the 20th of April, and

the second at the summer solstice. “The green tea factors universally

agree that the sooner the leaves of green tea are roasted after gathering

the better; and that exposure to the air is unnecessary, and to the sun

injurious.” The iron vessel in which the green tea is roasted is called a

_kuo_. It is thin, about sixteen inches in diameter, and set horizontally

(that for Twankey obliquely) in a stove of brickwork, so as to have a

depth of about fifteen inches. The fire is prepared with dry wood, and

kept very brisk; the heat becomes intolerable, and the bottom of the kuo

even red-hot, though this is not essential. About half a pound of leaves

are put in at one time, a crackling noise is produced, much steam is

evolved from the leaves, which are quickly stirred about; at the end of

every turn they are raised about six inches above the surface of the

stove, and shaken on the palm of the hand, so as to separate them, or to

disperse the steam. They are then suddenly collected into a heap, and

passed to another man, who stands in readiness with a basket to receive

them. The process of rolling is much the same as that employed in the

rolling of black tea, the leaves taking the form of a ball. After the

balls are shaken to pieces, the leaves are also rolled between the palms

of the hands, so that they may be twisted regularly, and in the same

direction. They are then spread out in sieves, and placed on stands in a

cool room.

For the second roasting the fire is considerably diminished, and charcoal

used instead of wood, and the leaves constantly fanned by a boy who stands

near. When the leaves have lost so much of their aqueous and viscous

qualities as to produce no sensible steam, they no longer adhere together,

but, by the simple action of the fire, separate and curl of themselves.

When taken from the kuo, they appear of a dark olive color, almost black;

and after being sifted, they are placed on stands as before.

For the third roasting, which is in fact the final drying, the heat is not

greater than what the hand can bear for some seconds without much

inconvenience. “The fanning and the mode of roasting were the same as in

the final part of the second roasting. It was now curious to observe the

change of color which gradually took place in the leaves, for it was in

this roasting that they began to assume that bluish tint, resembling the

bloom on fruit, which distinguishes this tea, and renders its appearance

so agreeable.”

The foregoing being the general mode of manufacturing green or Hyson tea,

it is then separated into different varieties, as Hyson, Hyson-skin, young

Hyson, and gunpowder, by sifting, winnowing, and fanning, and some

varieties by further roasting.

This account of the preparation of green tea is directly opposed to that

given by Mr. Fortune, before referred to, wherein it is mentioned that the

coloring of green tea is effected by the admixture of indigo, gypsum, &c.

It would appear that both modes are practiced in China; and, with the

editor of the “Botanical Gazette,” we may ask, Is it not possible that

_genuine_ green tea is free from artificial coloring matter, and that the

Chinese, with their usual _imitative_ propensity (exercised, as travelers

tell us, in the manufacture of wooden hams, &c, for exportation), may

prepare an artificial green tea, since this fetches a higher price than

the black? If this be not the case, then we have a difficulty in

accounting for the _origin_ of the green teas; “there must have been green

teas for the foreigners to become acquainted with and acquire a preference

for, or there could not have been a demand for it.” We think Mr. Jameson

throws some additional light on the subject when he remarks, in the course

of his observations on the manufacture of green tea, “To make the bad or

light-colored leaves marketable, they undergo an artificial process of

coloring; but this I have prohibited, in compliance with the orders of the

Court of Directors, and therefore do not consider this tea at present fit

for the market.” In a foot-note he adds, “In China, this process,

according to the statement of the tea-manufacturers, is carried on to a

great extent.” Whether the process of coloring is confined solely to the

light-colored leaves of green tea, or extended to other inferior sorts, we

have no means of judging, amid such a variety of discordant statements.

After the tea is thoroughly dried, in the manner above detailed, it is

carefully hand-picked, all the old or badly curled, and also light-colored

leaves being removed, as well as any leaves of different varieties that

may have got intermixed with it. Being now quite dry, it is ready to be

packed, which is done in a very careful manner. The woods used for making

the boxes in Northern India (according to Mr. Jameson) are toon, walnut,

and saul (_Shorea robusta_), all coniferous (pine) woods being unfit for

the purpose, on account of their pitchy odor. The tea is firmly packed in

a leaden box, and soldered down, being covered with paper, to prevent the

action of air through any unobserved holes that might exist in the lead;

this leaden box is contained in the wooden one, which it is made exactly

to fit. The tea being now ready to go into the hands of the merchant, we

need carry our observations no farther, as every housewife will know

better than we can tell her how to manage her own tea-pot. We will,

therefore, conclude our remarks by submitting the following statistical

note of the imports of tea into the United Kingdom in the year 1846, with

the view of showing its commercial importance—

Black tea, about 43,000,000 lbs.

Green tea, about 13,000,000 lbs.

Total 56,000,000 lbs.

ANECDOTES OF DR. CHALMERS.

Some curious Anecdotes of Dr. Chalmers are given in the new volume of his

life, now on the point of publication. Immediately upon his translation to

Glasgow a most enthusiastic attachment sprung up between Chalmers, who was

then some thirty-five years of age, and Thomas Smith, the son of his

publisher, a young man still in his minority. It was more like a first

love than friendship. The friends met regularly by appointment, or in case

of absence, daily letters were interchanged. The young man died in the

course of a few months. A ring containing his hair was given to Chalmers;

and it is noted as a singular fact, showing the intense and lasting nature

of his attachment, that the ring, after having been long laid aside, was

resumed and worn by him a few months before his death, a period of more

than thirty years....

His keen practical talents did not altogether shield him from attempts at

imposition. “On one occasion,” he writes, “a porter half-drunk came up to

me, and stated that two men were wanting to see me. He carried me to a

tavern, where it turned out that there was a wager between these two men

whether this said porter was correct in his knowledge of me. I was so

revolted at his impertinency, that I made the ears of all who were in the

house ring with a reproof well said and strong; and so left them a little

astounded, I have no doubt.”.... On another occasion, while busily engaged

one forenoon in his study, he was interrupted by the entrance of a

visitor. The doctor began to look grave at the interruption; but was

propitiated by his visitor telling him that he called under great distress

of mind. “Sit down, sir; be good enough to be seated,” said the doctor,

looking up eagerly, and turning full of interest from his writing table.

The visitor explained to him that he was troubled with doubts about the

Divine origin of the Christian religion; and being kindly questioned as to

what these were, he gave among others what is said in the Bible about

Melchisedec being without father and without mother, &c. Patiently and

anxiously Dr. Chalmers sought to clear away each successive difficulty as

it was stated. Expressing himself as if greatly relieved in mind, and

imagining that he had gained his end—“Doctor,” said the visitor, “I am in

great want of a little money at present, and perhaps you could help me in

that way” At once the object of his visit was seen. A perfect tornado of

indignation burst upon the deceiver, driving him in very quick retreat

from the study to the street door, these words escaping among others—“Not

a penny, sir! not a penny! It’s too bad! it’s too bad! and to haul in your

hypocrisy upon the shoulders of Melchisedek!....” A discussion arose among

the superintendents of his Sabbath-schools whether punishment should ever

be resorted to. One of them related an instance of a boy whom he had found

so restless, idle, and mischievous, that he was on the point of expelling

him, when the thought occurred to him to give the boy an office. The

candles used in the school-room were accordingly put under care of the

boy; and from that hour he became a diligent scholar. Another

superintendent then related his experience. He had been requested to take

charge of a school that had become so unruly and unmanageable that it had

beaten off every teacher that had gone to it. “I went,” said the teacher,

“and told the boys, whom I found all assembled, that I had heard a very

bad account of them, that I had come out for the purpose of doing them

good, that I must have peace and attention, that I would submit to no

disturbance, and that, in the first place, we must begin with prayer. They

all stood up, and I commenced, and certainly did not forget the

injunction—Watch and pray. I had not proceeded two sentences, when one

little fellow gave his neighbor a tremendous _dig_ in the side; I

instantly stepped forward and gave _him_ a sound cuff on the side of his

head. I never spoke a word, but stepped back, concluded the prayer, taught

for a month, and never had a more orderly school.” Dr. Chalmers enjoyed

the discussion exceedingly; and decided that the question as to punishment

and non-punishment stood just where it was before, “inasmuch as it had

been found that the judicious appointment of candle-snuffer-general and a

good cuff on the _lug_ had been about equally efficacious.”.... Among the

most ardent admirers of the doctor’s eloquence, was Mr. Young, professor

of Greek. Upon one occasion, he was so electrified that he leaped up from

his seat upon the bench near the pulpit, and stood, breathless and

motionless, gazing at the preacher till the burst was over, the tears all

the while came rolling down his cheeks. Upon another occasion, forgetful

of time and place—fancying himself perhaps in the theatre—he rose and made

a loud clapping of his hands in an ecstasy of admiration and delight....

He was no exception to the saying that a prophet is not without honor save

among his own countrymen. When he preached in London his own brother James

never went to hear him. One day, at the coffee-house which he frequented,

the brother was asked by some one who was ignorant of the relationship, if

he had heard this wonderful countryman and namesake of his, “Yes,” said

James, somewhat drily, “I have heard him.” “And what did you think of

him?” “Very little indeed,” was the reply. “Dear me,” exclaimed the

inquirer, “When did you hear him?” “About half an hour after he was born,”

was the cool answer of the brother.... When he preached at his native

place, so strong was the feeling of his father against attending any but

his own parish church, or so feeble was his desire to hear his son, that,

although the churches of the two parishes of Eastern and Western

Anstruther stood but a few hundred yards apart, the old man would not

cross the separating _burn_ in order to hear him.

THE PLEASURES OF ILLNESS. (FROM THE PEOPLE’S JOURNAL.)

Every body knows the pleasures of health; but there are very few, if any,

who can appreciate those of illness. Doubtless many people will feel

inclined to laugh at the suggestion, but we beg that we may not be

prejudged. There is positive pleasure to be derived even from every

variety—and there is a choice—of sickness, if we would only put faith in

the idea, and then strive to realize it. You may smile, but we are very

serious, recollecting especially that the subject is rather a painful one,

for which reason it behoves us to begin by treating it philosophically.

The best thing that people can do when they are suffering pain, either

acute or otherwise, is—if they can not readily overcome it—to endeavor to

forget it; simply because the mere effort, earnestly made and persevered

in, will materially assist whatever more direct and efficient means may be

adopted to get rid of it. Brooding over any bodily suffering only gives it

encouragement, inasmuch as the mind is then actively assisting the ailment

of the body; but let us make the most of a temporary cessation from the

infliction, and there is a probability of its being dispelled altogether.

Now the pleasure of getting rid of pain is undeniable, and, having

achieved that, the best thing we can do to render the cessation permanent

is to enjoy a sound sleep, which, though a very simple and ordinary

gratification at other times, then becomes an extreme luxury, such,

indeed, as we never should have known except through the instrumentality

of the suffering that preceded it. The same may be said of many of the

remedies that are used for the alleviation of pain: a hot bath, local

applications of an exceedingly cold nature, or a delicious draught for

cooling fever and quenching thirst—a draught like that of hock and

soda-water—a draught “worthy of Xerxes, the great king,” and not to be

equaled by sherbet “sublimed with snow;” but then you must (oh, what a

pleasure for a king!) “get very drunk,” says Byron, in order thoroughly to

enjoy it. You see our author so highly appreciated the pleasures of

illness that he actually advises us to make ourselves ill; and that, too,

in a most vulgar and degrading manner, in order that we may unreservedly

revel in them. But, perhaps, the poet only meant to satirize the excessive

proneness of all human beings—and kings have been noted for this quite as

much as any—to bring pain upon themselves by some wanton or provoked

indiscretion.

No pleasure can compensate for acute and long-endured suffering; but in

all eases of illness unattended by pain, the pleasure to be derived is

considerably greater than might be imagined. In fact, no one ever thinks

of being able to enjoy an illness, for which reason we shall endeavor to

show our readers not only the practicability of the idea, but how they are

to set about realizing it. Let us take the most common kind of malady

there is unattended by actual pain, a cold; a cold all over you, as

violent as you please—such, in fact, as is “not to be sneezed at,” one

that will confine you to your bed, compel you to take medicine, and

restrict you to broth and barley-water. There you are, then, ill; happy

fellow! very ill! you have not the least conception how much you are to be

envied. The mere fact of being in such a condition, renders you an object

of anxiety and interest. Every body in the house is ready to wait upon

you, and all you have to do is to lie still and enjoy your bed, while

other people are bustling about the house, or out of doors all day,

undergoing the fatigue and irksomeness of their ordinary avocations. You

are ill—you are to do nothing—not even to get up to breakfast, but to have

it brought to you in bed; a luxury which it is probable you may have often

been tempted to enjoy in the winter, though your philosophy enabled you to

overcome it. Now you are not only compelled to indulge in it, but are made

an object of sympathy on that account; it is so very lamentable to see you

propped up with pillows, and cosily encased in flannel around the throat

and shoulders. You are not to be hurried over your breakfast, there is no

office to go to; nothing to be thought of but the enjoyment of your tea

and toast, which you may sip and munch as leisurely as you please, while

reading a magazine or newspaper. At length breakfast is over, and you have

become tired of reading; down go the pillows to their usual position, and

after some gentle hand has smoothed and placed them comfortably, you sink

back upon them, overwhelmed by a most delightful sense of mental and

bodily indolence. What a blessing it is to have escaped the ordeal of

shaving, even for one morning! only think of that; and remember also how

the warmth of the bed will encourage the growth of your beard, compelling

you of course to send for the barber when you have got well enough to

leave your room again. Hark! there’s a knock at the door—somebody you

don’t want to see, probably; “Master’s very poorly, and obliged to keep

his bed.” Ha! ha! Keep his bed, eh?—no such thing; it’s the bed that keeps

him—snug and warm, and in a blessed state of exemption from all

annoyances, and you must not be subjected to any such infliction; no, you

are very ill. You abandon yourself to the idea, nestle your head

luxuriously in the pillow, pull the bed clothes over your chin, and fall

into a delightful dose. You awake feverish, perhaps, and thirsty. Well,

there is some barley-water at your bedside, delicately flavored with a

little lemon juice and sugar; a sort of primitive punch, pleasant to the

palate, and not at all likely to prove provocative of headache. You raise

a tumblerful to your lips, and drink with intense _gusto_. What a pleasure

it is! well worth coming into the world to enjoy, if one was to die the

next minute; but you are not going to die yet, don’t suppose it—you are

only being favored with an opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of

illness. But you are so feverish, you say; so much the better. Now, just

endeavor to recall to mind the wildest fiction, either in prose or poetry

that you have ever read, something very pleasing and highly imaginative—a

fairy tale will be as good as any. Go to sleep thinking of it, and you

will dream—dream, said we? we were wrong, for the fiction will become a

glorious reality; and so it does! but, alas! you awake, once more return

to the vulgar commonplaces of mundane existence. A sharp rap at the

bedroom door makes you farther conscious that you have only been reveling

in what is termed a delusion; but never mind, here comes some one to

console you—another corporeality like yourself, intent on feeding you with

chicken-broth, and batter-pudding; much more substantial fare than the

fairies would have given you, and extremely enjoyable now that you are

ill, though at any other time you would have turned up your nose at it.

Oh, it’s a fine thing is illness for teaching people not to let the palate

become irritated by luxurious living! “Very nice,” eh, “but you would have

liked a basin of mulligatawny better, and some wine-sauce with the

pudding?” Shocking depravity! the pleasures of illness are simple, and you

must learn to enjoy _them_ as well as those of health; it’s all habit.

Many medicines would be found extremely palatable if we were not

prejudiced against them. Now, black draughts, you “can’t bear them;” and

yet they are much nicer than castor-oil. Why, what’s the matter? you’ve

upset all the broth over that beautifully white counterpane! Delicate

stomach, yours, very. Come, try the pudding; and don’t let your

imagination combine any medicinal sauce with it. You have eaten it all;

that’s right. Now, allow us to suggest that a little very ripe fruit will

not hurt you—an orange, or some strawberries if in season. But you must

not lie there and allow your mind to get either into a wearisome state of

vacuity or unpleasant reflection. Send for a book from the library—some

novel that you have never read; and if it is too much trouble to read it

yourself, get some one to read it to you. It is a capital plan always to

endeavor to forget an illness by means of some quiet and absorbing

enjoyment. You are fond of music, for instance; and if you hear any good

band strike up in the street we recommend you by all means to detain them.

You will get up, perhaps, in the evening, and prepare yourself for a

refreshing night’s rest by having your bed made; should a friend drop in

who can give you a game of chess or cribbage be sure to avail yourself of

the opportunity, if you feel inclined for such recreation. Do not sit up

late, or get into any exciting conversation; but go calmly and quietly to

bed, take your basin of gruel, swallow your pills, lay your head on the

pillow, and go to sleep. To-morrow it is most probable that you will be

well, or only sufficiently indisposed to render it prudent that you should

stop at home, when you will indulge in a stronger and more relishing diet;

pass the day in a dreamy state of inactivity, or enjoy yourself

vivaciously in any reasonable manner you may think proper.

Perhaps, gentle reader, you may have endured prolonged and severe attacks

of bodily suffering—perhaps you will tell us that we have not been

depicting illness at all, but merely indisposition. You would have had us

pick out from the pages of the “Lancet” a thrilling account of torture

under the knife, and then made us rack our ingenuity to discover, if

possible, some pleasure contingent upon that. You might as well expect us

to write an article on the pleasure of being hanged. We will, however, say

this much as regards every degree of illness: that there is scarcely any

that does not admit of some mitigating gratification. The mere

circumstance of being watched and most carefully tended by those we love,

the kindness with which they bear our peevishness, and the desire they

display to do every thing they can either to alleviate our pain or to

conduce to our convalescence, are pleasures such as illness alone can

afford, and must ever merit the highest appreciation, not only because we

either are or ought to be duly impressed with them at the time, but for

the farther and more substantial reason that they become delightful

reminiscences and bonds of affection forever after. It is an excellent

thing, morally and socially, is illness, and only requires that we

endeavor to make the best instead of the worst of it; and therein lies the

whole serious purport of this paper, which we have thought fit to write in

as light a style as possible, knowing that the subject, though interesting

to all, is very far from being generally palatable.

OBSTRUCTIONS TO THE USE OF THE TELESCOPE.

It has been long known, both from theory and in practice, that the

imperfect transparency of the earth’s atmosphere, and the unequal

refraction which arises from differences of temperature, combine to set a

limit to the use of high magnifying powers in our telescopes. Hitherto,

however, the application of such high powers was checked by the

imperfections of the instruments themselves; and it is only since the

construction of Lord Rosse’s telescope that astronomers have found that,

in our damp and variable climate, it is only during a few days of the year

that telescopes of such magnitude can use successfully the high magnifying

powers which they are capable of bearing. Even in a cloudless sky, when

the stars are sparkling in the firmament, the astronomer is baffled by

influences which are invisible, and while new planets and new satellites

are being discovered by instruments comparatively small, the gigantic

Polyphemus lies slumbering in his cave, blinded by thermal currents, more

irresistible than the firebrand of Ulysses. As the astronomer, however,

can not command a tempest to clear his atmosphere, nor a thunder storm to

purify it, his only alternative is to remove his telescope to some

southern climate, where no clouds disturb the serenity of the firmament,

and no changes of temperature distract the emanations of the stars. A fact

has been recently mentioned, which entitles us to anticipate great results

from such a measure. The Marquis of Ormonde is said to have seen from

Mount Etna, with his naked eye, the satellites of Jupiter. If this be

true, what discoveries may we not expect, even in Europe, from a large

reflector working above the grosser strata of our atmosphere. This noble

experiment of sending a large reflector to a southern climate has been but

once made in the history of science. Sir John Herschel transported his

telescopes and his family to the south of Africa, and during a voluntary

exile of four years’ duration he enriched astronomy with many splendid

discoveries.—_Sir David Brewster_.

MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.

The Political Incidents of the past month have been interesting and

important. Congress, after spending eight or nine months in most animated

discussion of the principles, results, and relations of various subjects

growing out of Slavery in the Southern States, has enacted several

provisions of very great importance to the whole country. The debates upon

these topics, especially in the Senate, have been exceedingly able, and

have engrossed public attention to an unusual degree. The excitement which

animated the members of Congress gradually extended to those whom they

represented, and a state of feeling had arisen which was regarded, by many

judicious and experienced men, as full of danger to the harmony and

well-being, if not to the permanent existence, of the American Union. The

action of Congress during the month just closed, concludes the controversy

upon these questions, and for the time, at least, prevents vigorous and

effective agitation of the principles which they involved. What that

action has been we shall state with as much detail and precision as our

readers will desire.

In the last number of the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, we chronicled the action

of the Senate upon several of the bills now referred to. They were sent of

course to the House of Representatives, and that body first took up the

bill establishing the boundary of Texas, and giving her ten millions of

dollars in payment of her claim to the portion of New Mexico which the

bill requires her to relinquish. Mr. BOYD, of Kentucky, moved as an

amendment, to attach to it the bills for the government of Utah and New

Mexico, substantially as they had passed the Senate, both being without

any anti-slavery proviso. He subsequently withdrew that portion of the

amendment relating to Utah; and an effort was made by Mr. ASHMUN to cut

off the remainder of the amendment by the previous question, but the House

refused by a vote of 74 ayes to 107 nays. The subject was discussed with a

good deal of animation for several days. On the 4th of September, a motion

to lay the bill on the table was defeated—ayes 30, nays 169. A motion to

refer the bill to the Committee of the Whole, which was considered

equivalent to its rejection, was then carried—ayes 109, nays 99;—but a

motion to reconsider that vote was immediately passed—ayes 104, nays

98;—and the House then refused to refer the bill to the Committee of the

Whole by a vote of 101 ayes and 103 nays. Mr. CLINGMAN, of North Carolina,

moved an amendment to divide California, and erect the southern part of it

into the territory of Colorado;—but this was rejected—ayes 69, nays 130.

The question was then taken on the amendment, organizing a territorial

government for New Mexico, and was lost—ayes 98, nays 106. The question

then came up on ordering the Texas Boundary bill to a third reading, and

the House refused to do so by a vote of 80 ayes and 126 nays. Mr. BOYD

immediately moved to reconsider that vote, and on the 5th that motion

passed—ayes 131, nays 75. Mr. GRINELL, of Massachusetts then moved to

reconsider the vote by which Mr. BOYD’S amendment had been rejected, and

this was carried by a vote of 106 to 99. An amendment, offered by Mr.

FEATHERSTON, of Virginia, to strike out all after the enacting clause, and

to make the Rio Grande, from its mouth to its source, the boundary of

Texas, was rejected by a vote of 71 in favor to 128 against it. The

amendment of Mr. BOYD was then passed by a vote of 106 ayes and 99 noes;

and the question was then taken on ordering the bill, as amended, to a

third reading. It was lost by a vote of 99 ayes to 107 noes. Mr. HOWARD,

of Texas, who had voted against the bill, immediately moved a

reconsideration of the vote. The Speaker decided that the motion was not

in order, inasmuch as a reconsideration had once been had. Mr. HOWARD

appealed from the decision, and contended that the former vote was simply

to reconsider the vote on the original bill, whereas this was to

reconsider the vote on the bill as amended by Mr. BOYD.—On the fifth, the

House reversed the Speaker’s decision, 123 to 83,—thus bringing up again

the proposition to order the bill to a third reading. Mr. HOWARD moved the

previous question, and his motion was sustained, 103 to 91;—and the bill

was then ordered to a third reading by a vote of 108 to 98. The bill was

then read a third time, and finally passed by a vote of 108 ayes to 98

nays.—As this bill is one of marked importance, we add, as a matter of

record, the following analysis of the vote upon it:—the names of Democrats

are in Roman letter, Whigs in italics, and members of the Free Soil party

in small capitals:—

AYES.—INDIANA, Albertson, W.J. Brown, Dunham, Fitch, Gorman, McDonald,

Robinson.—ALABAMA, _Alston_, W.R.W. Cobb, _Hilliard_.—TENNESSEE,

_Anderson_, Ewing, _Gentry_, I.G. Harris, A. Johnson, Jones, Savage, F.P.

Stanton, Thomas, _Watkins, Williams_.—NEW YORK, _Anrews, Bokee, Briggs,

Brooks, Duer, McKissock, Nelson, Phænix, Rose, Schermerhorn, Thurman,

Underhill, White_—IOWA, Leffler.—RHODE-ISLAND, _Geo. G. King_.—MISSOURI,

Bay, Bowlin, Green, Hall.—VIRGINIA, Bayly, Beale, Edmunson, _Haymond_,

McDowell, McMullen, _Martin_, Parker.—KENTUCKY, Boyd, _Breck_, G.A.

Caldwell, _J.L. Johnson, Marshall_, Mason, _McLean, Morehead_, R.H.

Stanton, _John B. Thompson_.—MARYLAND, _Bowie_, Hammond, _Kerr_,

McLane.—MICHIGAN, Buel.—FLORIDA, _E.C. Cabell_.—DELAWARE, _J.W.

Houston_.—PENNSYLVANIA, _Chester Butler, Casey, Chandler_, Dimmick,

Gilmore, _Levin_, Job Mann, McLanahan, _Pitman_, Robbins, Ross, Strong,

James Thompson.—NORTH CAROLINA, _R.C. Caldwell_, _Deherry_, _Outlaw_,

_Shepperd_, _Stanly_.—Ohio, Disney, Hoagland, Potter, _Taylor_,

Whittlesey.—MASSACHUSETTS, _Duncan_, _Eliot_, _Grinnell_.—MAINE, Fuller,

Gerry, Littlefield.—ILLINOIS, Thomas L. Harris, McClernand, Richardson,

Young.—NEW-HAMPSHIRE, Hibbard, Peaslee, _Wilson_.—TEXAS, Howard,

Kaufman.—GEORGIA, _Owen_, _Toombs_, Welborn.—NEW JERSEY, Wildrick.

NAYS.—NEW YORK, _Alexander_, _Bennett_, _Burrows_, _Clark_, _Conger_,

_Gott_, _Holloway_, _W.T. Jackson_, _John A. King_, PRESTON KING,

_Matteson_, _Putnam_, _Reynolds_, _Ramsey_, _Sackett_, _Schoolcraft_,

_Silvester_.—MASSACHUSETTS, ALLEN, _Fowler_, _Horace Mann_,

_Rockwell_.—NORTH CAROLINA, _Clingman_, Daniel, Venable.—VIRGINIA,

Averett, Holiday, Mead, Millson, Powell, Seddon.—ILLINOIS, _Baker_,

Wentworth.—MICHIGAN, Bingham, SPRAGUE.—ALABAMA, Bowdon, S.W. Harris,

Hubbard, Inge.—MISSISSIPPI, A.G. Brown, Featherston, McWillie, Jacob

Thompson.—SOUTH CAROLINA, Burt, Colcock, Holmes, Orr, Wallace, Woodward,

McQueen.—CONNECTICUT, _Thomas B. Butler_, Waldo, BOOTH.—OHIO, Cable,

_Campbell_, Cartter, _Corwin_, _Crowell_, _Nathan Evans_, GIDDINGS,

_Hunter_, Morris, Olds, ROOT, _Schenck_, Sweetzer, _Vinton_.—PENNSYLVANIA,

_Calvin_, _Dickey_, HOWE, _Moore_, _Ogle_, _Reed_, _Thaddeus

Stevens_.—WISCONSIN, _Cole_, Doty, DURKEE.—RHODE ISLAND, _Dìxon_.—GEORGIA,

Haralson, Jos. W. Jackson.—INDIANA, Harlan, JULIAN, _McGaughey_.—VERMONT,

_Hebard_, _Henry_, _Meacham_, Peck.—ARKANSAS, Robert W. Johnson.—NEW

JERSEY, _James G. King_, _Newell_, _Van Dyke_.—LOUISIANA, La Sere,

Morse.—MAINE, _Otis_, Sawtelle, Stetson.—MISSOURI, Phelps.—NEW HAMPSHIRE,

TUCK.

This analysis shows that there voted

For The Bill:

Northern Whigs: 24

Southern Whigs: 25-49

Northern Democrats: 32

Southern Democrats: 27-59

Total: 108.

Against The Bill:

Northern Whigs: 44

Southern Whigs: 1-45

Northern Democrats: 13

Southern Democrats: 30-43

Total: 98.

The bill thus passed in the House was sent to the Senate; and on the 9th

that body, by a vote of 31 to 10, concurred in the amendment which the

House had made to it; and it became, by the signature of the President,

the law of the land.

On Saturday the 7th, the House took up the bill from the Senate admitting

California into the Union. Mr. THOMPSON, of Mississippi, moved an

amendment, making the parallel of 36° 30’ the southern boundary of

California, which was rejected—yeas 71, nays 134. The main question was

then taken, and the bill, admitting California, passed—yeas 150, nays

56.—On the same day the bill from the Senate organizing a territorial

government for Utah was taken up, and Mr. WENTWORTH, of Illinois, moved to

amend it by inserting a clause prohibiting the existence of slavery within

the territory. This was lost—ayes 69, nays 78. Mr. FITCH, of Indiana,

moved an amendment, declaring that the Mexican law prohibiting slavery,

should remain in full force in the territory: after some discussion this

was rejected—ayes 51, nays 85. Several other amendments were introduced

and lost, and the bill finally passed by a vote of 97 ayes and 85 nays.

The bill to facilitate the recovery of Fugitive slaves was taken up in the

Senate on the 20th of August. Mr. DAYTON submitted an amendment providing

for a trial by jury of the question, whether the person who may be

claimed, is or is not a fugitive slave. After some debate, the amendment

was rejected by a vote of ayes 11, nays 27, as follows:

AYES—Messrs. Chase, Davis of Massachusetts, Dayton, Dodge of Wisconsin,

Greene, Hamlin, Phelps, Smith, Upham, Walker, Winthrop—11.

NAYS.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Benton, Berrien, Butler, Cass,

Davis of Mississippi, Dawson, Dodge of Iowa, Downs, Houston, Jones, King,

Mangum, Mason, Morton, Pratt, Rusk, Sebastian, Soulé, Sturgeon, Turney,

Underwood, Wales, and Yulee—27.

On the 22d, Mr. PRATT, of Maryland, submitted an amendment, the effect of

which would have been to make the United States responsible in damages for

fugitive slaves that might not be recovered. This was rejected by a vote

of 10 to 27. Mr. DAVIS, of Massachusetts, offered an amendment extending

the right of _habeas corpus_ to free colored citizens arriving in vessels

at Southern ports, who may be imprisoned there without any alleged offense

against the law. This amendment, after debate, was rejected—ayes 13, nays

25. The original bill was then ordered to a third reading by a vote of 27

ayes to 12 nays, as follows:

AYES.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Bell, Berrien, Butler, Davis of

Mississippi, Dawson, Dodge of Iowa, Downs, Foote, Houston, Hunter, Jones,

King, Mangum, Mason, Pearce, Rusk, Sebastian, Soulé, Spruance, Sturgeon,

Turney, Underwood, Wales, and Yulee—27.

NAYS.—Messrs. Baldwin, Bradbury, Chase, Cooper, Davis of Massachusetts,

Dayton, Dodge of Wisconsin, Greene, Smith, Upham, Walker, and Winthrop—12.

On the 26th the bill had its third reading and was finally passed. On the

12th of September the House of Representatives took up the bill, and after

some slight debate, passed it, under the operation of the previous

question, by a vote of 109 ayes to 75 nays.

On the 3d of September the Senate proceeded to the consideration of the

bill abolishing the Slave-trade in the District of Columbia. Mr FOOTE of

Mississippi offered a substitute placing the control of the whole matter

in the hands of the Corporate Authorities of Washington and Georgetown. To

this Mr. PEARCE of Maryland, in committee of the whole, moved an amendment

punishing by fine and imprisonment any person who shall induce or attempt

to induce slaves to run away, and giving the corporate authorities power

to remove free negroes from the District. The first portion of the

amendment was passed, ayes 26, nays 15, and the second ayes 24, nays 18.

Mr. FOOTE then withdrew his substitute.—On the 10th the consideration of

the bill was resumed. Mr. SEWARD moved to substitute a bill abolishing

Slavery in the District of Columbia and appropriating $200,000 to

indemnify the owners of slaves who might thus be enfranchised—the claims

to be audited and adjusted by the Secretary of the Interior: and

submitting the law to the people of the District. The amendment gave rise

to a warm debate and on the 12th was rejected, ayes 5, nays 46. The

amendments offered by Mr. PEARCE, and passed in committee of the whole,

were non-concurred in by the Senate on the 14th, and the bill on the same

day was ordered to be engrossed for a third reading, by a vote of 32 to

19. On the 16th it was read a third time and finally passed, ayes 33, nays

19, as follows:

AYES.—Messrs. Baldwin, Benton, Bright, Cass, Chase, Clarke, Clay, Cooper,

Davis of Mass., Dayton, Dickinson, Dodge of Wisconsin, Dodge of Iowa,

Douglas, Ewing, Felch, Frémont, Greene, Gwin, Hale, Hamlin, Houston,

Jones, Norris, Seward, Shields, Spruance, Sturgeon, Underwood, Wales,

Walker, Whitcomb, and Winthrop—33.

NAYS.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Bell, Berrien, Butler, Davis of

Mississippi, Dawson, Downs, Hunter, King, Mangum, Mason, Morton, Pratt,

Sebastian, Soulé, Turney, and Yulee—19.

It was taken up in the House of Representatives on the 15th and passed by

a vote of 124 to 47.