text: .. "■ ....—L- 1.U 1 *SS VOL. VII. j||k ■ ja . k LITCHFIELD, <CONN.) THURSDAY, NOVEMBER », 1832. = ■'■ - —a—aaafiui .ii'iitMHim — 1 ■'■■L.aFWWWBBW 1 > No. 25.—Whole No. 337. ftftclifirttr Cttquftrt t rOILIIHKD 1VIKT THCASDAT MOAN I AO, B* HENRY ADAMS. TERMS. •ad single mail, subscriber* 3 dollars per before (he expiration ofsix inoatb*. nies of any number over six, fl 50 per . —i a* above. To eodpMiea Ism than six, 75 per year, payable aa before. CT 25 emu will M deducted from each of iliese prices when payment is made in advance. These prices are exclusive of AMU or ttage charge for transportation. tfo papers will bo .discontinued until all arrearages •re paid, except at the discretion of the editor. Notice of a wish torfiscontinne mustbe given before the expirotion of the yean AiiTUTlHfS. Oue square three iaserlina*, f 1, •ad (he same proportion Tor two or more squares.— ftatf a square 75 cent% Conti anatice over fltreeweek* 20 percent per week. A liberal deduction made tor advertisements continued 6 or Adrainistrators’ and Executors* notices, ft 00 Osmmtsaionere" Notice*, f 25 All communicatioas mutt be pest-paid. m Advertisement! • To the Asthmatic and Consumptive. mHE most prevalent and fatal of alt the Diseases A incident to civilised society—the Consumption— j may generally be traced to tlte toast alarming of disor ders, a slight hut neglected cold. By estimation it ap pear* that 150,000 persons die annually of the Con sumption. Most ofthese dreadfttI results may be at tributed to eowmnu Colds, and a negligent treatment of the harassing Cough that generally ensues—which is usually fallowed by difficult breathing, pain in the aide, and at Wet Ulcerated Langs. Violent and re peated Asthmatic attacks also bring oa Consumptive , svittptom*. Otto or two dollar# expended iu the pur- ] +Tnm'l «*AtJ- pa%. pr#»*«V srsn * &—_• SfiSS*lwM* .. l»ao® S" ** Co*^"’ u« boj W {*42^ &****££ voi"°*« "ho "^®ars StMoSotSwteflaSj^s:); ritnetrt- . lePded to At*o®« rent utiV>tT’ \ Ani * with ®erllrJ thooo l^?rK\Vl*rtt*-A\ for %£j£in'*°* J- °* \ SSHm nt lUBfCRlBEftS BATS IM*m# A ral assortment or Books and Stationary, XMTHICH they are determined to sell as TT tow as can be purchased to Hartford or New-Haven. , Goodwin & Gaipin. P. S. Cash paid for SHEEP SKINS s«it> able for Book Binding. LiUkfitU, Jam. 5, I8M. tfoO JUST RECEIVED, A QUANTITY OP PURE LINSEED OIL. manufarinred XT in this County—LabarrStjuc'n Chloride of 8oda, with directions far its various uses; Chloride Dime, Hibbert’s London Brown Stout—-wi|h ©»n?othi?r wlidfi* *t lb* Drugs Medicine and Pamt Store of J. G. BECKWITH Lltckfidd, July 11. 1831. > At Apothecaries' HaU, * . i ■ a nstfR semt or MEDICINES, FAINTS, OIL, WINES, Ginger. Alum, Copal Vatafch. akVassmty of - TAKEN UP, s •*»* ' BY the on the Sth of Torriogton. Nor. It, *® HYMN FOR TipilNKSGIVWG, »t do- rr etch sou. As Israel's people, in despair, Redeemed her triumphant care, In gratitude rejoice, StsaSrisfc'sfiitr ■ With hallelujah's voice; Or, as by proud Euphrates' stream, They raised to Thee the heavenly throne Under, love, and praise; So we, for all thy bounteous care, The Providence, divinely la is, Our hallelujahs raise. How vast thy gifts, Almighty King, From thee, what matchless beauties spring. Our grateful songs shall tell; The raptures liberty bestows, The fervent joys thy gospel Shears, Our hailelujah swell! Say, should we search the globe around, Where can such happiness be found? Or who such comforts know? Here Plentiful, here. Freedom sheds. Her choicest blessings on our heads; Let hailelujah's swell! With cheerful hearts and flowing tongues. We’ll raise sound united Songs To God; who war reigns! Jehovah here hath filled his throne And this through every age we’ll own With hailelujah's strains. Thanking you. It is at once a beautiful and melancholy season, when at the close of the year we meet together, the long known and the well-loved, at the banquet and before the altar, at the social board, and in the temple of the Eternal, 'they whom interest or distance, or perhaps anything else, has estranged from the family board, meet together now, hand grasps hand, and heart expands to heart. I well remember with what eagerness I used to anticipate the return of this anniversary—when after the morning service, which to me never appeared so long as on this occasion, we met at the family board, from the hoary grandsire down to the noisy members of a third, and even-fourth generation. And when evening closed in upon the cheerful circle, there was an annual game of blind man’s buff, where the oldest were happy to become children again, and the wise and the aged, to lay aside wisdom and years, and return once more to the spirit of days that for them had long passed away. Then, when the youngest of the party had reluctantly retired, and the evening circle was enlarged by the addition of a few invited friends, the merry dance succeeded; when the light foot vied with the lighter heart, and many a laughing girl took her partner for a longer dance. And music too was there; and then might be seen the youth hanging over the fair and favorite performer of some favorite sir; its sweetest tones sweeter, that they were breathed from loved and lovely lips. That sent every note thrilling home to his heart. All were there—the watchful mother and the blooming maiden; youth with its high and generous feelings; manhood with its calm and thoughtful brow, and age living over again the past and the present. There too might be seen, amid the general blending of joy, the private feelings or policy of individuals, where esteem had ripened to admiration, and admiration had kindled into tortures, an timid doubting advances, or even more eloquent avoidance of its object, the silent watchfulness of the mother, the blushing consciousness of the maiden; the artful manner of verging friends and opposers, to unite or separate them, and there is always this pretty machinery, the keen glances of the lover, noticing everything, yet apparently observing nothing, and the affected unconsciousness of all; and on the contrary where private animosity existed, the marked coolness, easy address, and nice observance of the slightest etiquette—all was there. All are now gone. The ardor of that love is quenched in age or buried in death; the busy tongue has gone down to the house of silence; friends have forgotten their friendships, and foes have buried hatred under the green sod of the valley. Fell are gone—or if a few yet remain, they are as the solitary autumn leaf that the winds have spared; they have withstood the tempest indeed for a time, but now when the tree trembles they must fall. From the verge of the horizon of life, it is pleasant and well, to look back to its early days—to blot out the years we have lived, and to breathe once more within the shadows of our youth; loved friends, proud expectations desolated by past disappointments, and disappointed hopes. The feelings of youth will remain when youth has departed. and beautiful collections of distant days linger in the memory, like the setting sun beam on the far hill top. Yet there is something sad in the thought that our rejoicing is over the grave of the season. We know indeed that decay must follow change, and that death will tread on decay. Trees put forth their leaves, and they are scattered even by the breeze. The rose tree hangs out its roots to the sun, and the evergreen leaves, and the garden is strewed with their beautiful ruins. And the wild bird sports amid the summer branches, and he too has the wings of our hopes, and when the winter comes he dies upon the threshold of the spring, that the shock of the season will be felt. And it is mockery when he chooses that hour which is sacred apart for joys, when they wham we leave depart with the guiding at their desertion there, that we weep hopeless, and desolate, and alone; that fresh leaves shall return, and the flowers put forth again in the spring, and we turn into the loneliness of our own deserted hearts, and feel "They will with the flowers, but they shall not return." There are thoughts that come up amid the joy of the feast like the death's head at the banquet of the monarch of yore—and speak yet a deeper, and a sterner language for they tell us, not that we are mortal, but that the chill of mortality is breathed on the fair flowers that are rooted deepest in our hearts, and that death is written over the portals even of our life. True, the day of rejoicing arrives, but where the arrow is driven the poor heart will ache on. The truth of praise is indeed heard, but what can enter the secret sanctuary, who can number the tears that are not heard—who can measure the bitterness of despair that is buried in the silence of the broken heart. As the wounded deer seek the dark covert, a shelter from its companions and from man, the spirit buries in its own dark depth, the wound, on which it shrinks from communion with aught but its God. There are in every bosom feelings, that if roused, will not sleep again; a spark that if once kindled, will burn on, till it flames out in the volcano. It matters little what be the cause that excited them, whether it be ambition, or hatred, or revenge, or love. The tempest is abroad, and it matters little that we know whence comes the thunderbolt, that has simulating fair hopes with scathing and desolation, and matters little too, what may be the character on which they act; whether it be the feeble mind, that seeks relief in the bitterness of complaint, or the dark spirit that revels in hope of revenge, or the lofty deep-toned mind, whose own thoughts have become the minister of despair, yet, in the strength of silent endurance, stands calmly and proudly amid its ruined hopes, triumphing still even over its own desolation—there they are—mountains may shut in the volcano, the ocean may rid over the fires, that should have burst from the earthquake; but not mountains, nor oceans, can shut in the fullness of the heart, when the awakened spirit will be heard. There is, I am persuaded, at the bottom of every heart, this language of strong, perhaps romantic feeling. We may bury it deep from the observation of others; we may throw over it the veil of icy manners and cold pride—we may conceal the weakness of the heart, in the heart’s secret chambers, till it is hidden even from our eyes; but when unexpected circumstances have suddenly roused it into life, then his slumbers shall be shaken from the sleeping lion. The feelings we had vainly chained in the prison-house of hearts, will rush forth like the tempest. The barriers we had idly heaped before them, will be whirled away like the autumn leaves, and the strong feelings of nature will break forth, bearing destruction before them. But those are recollections and feelings that are fast passing away. "Time robs the diamond," and one by one sweeps away our heart’s idols and hopes till we feel that we are left alone in the world, hoping nothing, loving nothing, fearing nothing. "Without the tie, for which we loved to live or feared to die." We have stood perhaps like some gaudy tree, which has long retrograded its blossoms in the pride of its beauty—but had after bud in blighted, blossom after blossom is scattered—branch after branch has the storm rent away; but the hand of time has been bitterer at its heart, and its graceful ruins cumber the ground it was. Went to freshness with its shade. And yet so gradual the footsteps of change and decay, that we hardly notice their approach, till the recurrence of their anniversaries warns us, as it were, to for a moment from our course, and to look back for those who left the goal with us and but now were at our sides, and in our hearts, but their places have been blotted from the records of life, and if our memory has treasured their names, it has but added their to the sad catalogue of broken and forgotten friendships. Then the past rises from us, and feelings that have long slumbered in the grave of years, bound again into being. There is no voice like the voice of the dead, when from the “shoreless sea” it calls to us, who yet linger behind, and with our sails trimmed, wait but the breeze that is to speed us onward and homeward with them. So it must still be. Those who were many as the snow flakes around me, have melted like them away. The past is now but a pleasant dream, and the world of spirits, and the valley of stars are before me. And as my “feet” sounds the dark mountains, and I go forth alone on my homeward path, there is a stern consolation in the thought, that surging all, there are left no ties that I am heart to break. I would not that it were wise. Unmounted, unmounting, I depart. All as the chains that would have grappled my spirit in the earth are still waiting but the summons to mourn the death of a certain habitants of a parish hell into the steeple of another were averse to the undertaking— The plan, if a good one, were good for all. All were alike in interest, and in fact, the no interest but a fair participation in the common benefit, except a few men who expected to profit by making the best and firm the necessary accompaniments, and another equal number who believed that if the job were put off until another year, they should have the doing of it. At first the great mass of the inhabitants seemed to care but little about the matter. But by degrees they divided. In opinion, the more the discussion was, and the more effort each party used to convince the other, the wider they were separated. At length the whole parish came to be divided into “the Bell” and the “no-Bell” party. The arguments in the case lost their point as the partisans grew warm, and something more pungent became necessary. Resort was had to impeaching of motives, calling of names, etc., the two small interested clans all the while taking the lead, and blowing the flames with their might. At length the party in the affirmative determined they would at all hazards have the wheel, and passed a rope over by which to hoist it to its place. Then came the tug; for no sooner had the slack run down, than some of the “no-bell” party seized hold of it, and calling their companions, would have hauled it entirely over, but that the bell party also called aloud for help, and so the V parties were balanced. Expresses were immediately sent to all parts of the parish, and before night every man by means of hooks, poles, rope yards, and one contrivance or another, had brought his influence to bear. You would see a father hanging on one side, and exactly balanced by his son on the other. Such a scene of scolding, throwing dirt, and all sorts of abuse, was never witnessed, except on an election day—until in it great struggle the rope broke, and tumbled the whole parish into an indiscriminate mass of “raw heads, and bloody bones.” From the American Farmer. The Chinese Mulberry—Moms Multi caulis.—This newly introduced variety of mulberry for feeding silk worms is undoubtedly an important acquisition, and more particularly so to this country, where silk is on the eve of becoming a staple article of production. The editor of the American Farmer has had this variety of tuber culture for two years, and has made himself acquainted with its peculiarities both as to quality and the manner of cultivating it. Not having a sufficient quantity for a full trial of feeding silkworms with it, he has been obliged to confine his experiments to occasional feedings, at which times the worms promptly left the Italian white mulberry leaf and devoured the new Chinese with aridity. The leaves of the new mulberry frequently measure a foot in length and ten inches in width. Indeed, Mrs Parmentier, the lady of the late Andre Parmentier of the Brooklyn nursery and garden, who has 1600 of the trees folktale in a letter to the editor says, that some of the halves in that establishment measure 13 Inches in length, and the worms left all different kinds of mulberry to feed on them Although the number of leaves on the tree is not so great as that of those on the white we should judge that the weight of the leaf is much greater—it is so great in fact that young trees are bent off most to the ground by the weight of their foliage. This mulberry bears no fruit, or rather it is so minute and so small in Quantity that the propagation of it from seed is never practised. But like all other vegetables of difficult propagation by seed, it is remarkably easy of production by ether menus. By laying down-the young trees/ covering them With •earth, and leaving the end) of the branches out, every branch will* Who root and be come a young .tree in two or ttfrfii weeks— so that every tree one -vfear old will by proper managemen^produce from ten to twenty in onto sunnmr. We laid down a tree mi Friday, 28tb JjHy, and a part ol the stock near the root, containing.nc branches, was left out ofground. On the Friday following two buds were seen thodt ing front the naked stock, and earth wai then covered over the stock and arount the buds. The young trees from these buds now measure 2 feet 6 Inches high*— This fret will serve to illustrate the great facility of propagating the monu muliicau lit by layers. As ihis mulberry doe* not grow high, the leaves can always be gath ered by hand from the ground without the aid of ladders or the danger attending the climbing of large trees. They can be planted pretty close together,and-we should judge that an acre of ground would produce more foliage with this than with the white 3mulberry. The mores mult results being as yet quite scarce in this country, they sell fa; but every one wb* ^ tivsting silk should obtaii laying them down in July* , By this means ten tra * would, In five years, of tress, allowing each every year, which we era will certainly do; that », 1832 there would bo 100; in 1834, 10,000; in I 1836, 1,000,600—ond tbert «e have n< hesitation ha saying would preducn ««' times as much foliage as could be produe | ed with tbs Mine expense and labor in the same time, of the white mulberry or any ' other kind. We hope editors In th#coun try will give free circulation to these facts, (hat the cultivators of silk, and those who contemplate entering upon that business^ may avail themselves of the advantage of this mulberry in commencing their orchards. Wertfeopied some weeks ago, an amusing story of “The 'Wankee’s Visit to Sir Joseph Banks,” which our readers will probably remember. The book of the story, if we may credit a correspondent of the New York Gazette, is still living in the Western part of the State. His name is Shackford—he is father to Capt. Shackford, a well-known ship master out of the port of New-York, and is the only man who ever crossed the Atlantic alone. He built, or purchased, a small vessel, in which he embarked alone and navigated her to Great Britain. While he arrived in port, he was supposed to be a pirate—who had murdered the crew of the vessel—and was arrested. He produced his shipping paper, which contained one name only, and other documents to prove his proper character, and it was not till after some time persons in England were found who knew him in this country that he was set upon the jury. Diving for Lost Treasure.—There is a small cutter now lying in our (Yarmouth) roadstead, belonging to a man named Bell. Her crew consists of six men, several of whom are very expert in diving. She sat about, from place to place, to offer assistance to recover lost treasure, etc. She has arrived for the purpose (by permission of the Admiralty) of endeavoring to obtain a portion of the treasure lost in the Guernsey Lily transport, which got on the Cross Sand, deposited off, and afterwards foundered in the course of Yarmouth roads, in 43 feet of water, coming with stores, etc., from Holland, after the Duke of York’s expedition in 1799. The transport was laden with horses, ammunition, (in which they were 23 brass field pieces,) a stock of wine, etc. The method (heed divers use is curious: The better is placed immediately over the wreck; the diver then, habited in an indigo rubber-air-tight dress, having a tube attached at the back of the neck to receive the air (which is constantly kept pumping in,) descends from a rope ladder, and gives signals for certain things to be sent down by a small line, which is attended to by those on the deck of the cutter by this line, baskets and other utensils are sent down for the use of the diver, and sent up again with wine, etc., taken from the wreck. The diver’s head dress is curious; it is composed of copper, and is a complete covering made much after the manner of the ancient helmet, only that it is made larger than the head, and has in it a lower part. Part three glass windows. It weighs fifty pounds. He has two dresses on besides that above mentioned. He carries down with him one hundred and twenty pounds of lead in two bags, with all this weight he declares that when he reaches perfectly free from weight or incombustible of any sort; There has been already brought up a large quantity of wine, the bottles constantly tattooed with large and small oysters, which have been last-mentioned, and are excellent; some copper, iron handles of chests, pieces of gun-carriages, etc. They hope soon to be in the possession of the brass guns, valuable plate. and the dollars, which it is known the transport had on board the purpose of paying the troops employed in the above mentioned expedition. This Admiralty, we understand, has handsomely devised permission to make what use the vessels of the articles found, only condition that the brass guns (if recovered) shall be given up, for which they will return their value. Great numbers of persons from different parts of the country have been off to view this novel and singular undertaking. Boatmen are in constant attendance to take off, at moderate charge, those persons who wish to witness this effort of human ingenuity and enterprise. The diver, when under water, dashes his strength, increasing, that he can bend the ends together of the large icon crowbar (of 3 feet in length, and 2 1-2 inches in size) which he takes down with him to part the wreck. These divers go down after Saturday, and have been vamped every day since, which has proved a great trait to numbers of all classes, who have attended to observe this surprising—perhaps unparalleled exhibition. —Norwich (England) every year. Napoleon and the twelve Apostles.—Napoleon having entered one of the cities of Italy, the holy fathers recommended to him the religion of their church. “Sire, will you deign to take our Apostles wider?” “Of silver, silver.” “Of silver.” Solid silver! For people quickly. "Yes, I think so," said the Emperor, "and they should be able to fulfill their mission." The Emperor sent the following message to the Emperor: "I am glad that they have been able to fulfill their mission." 