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. - - . ' - ' " - .. ' . ' WILLIAM D. COOKE, A FAMILY NEW S PAPER NEUTRAL IN POLIT ICS . TERMS, -TWO DOLIARS PER AMUlff. EDITOR & PROPRIETOR Qeotctt to all t)e Sn fmste of Sfje Sou itoture, true atton, flrtculture, eiys, tfje ittatltets, &c. VOL. Ill -NO. ' 23. RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA, SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1854. WHOLE NO! 127. SELECT POETRY. TO MARY. TursE cjes are blue, heaven's loveliest hue Itself in tliem transcending; - f The red and white on thy. checks unite, Their .varied beauty blinding; . Thy d irk-brown hair, on thy neck so fair, In careless grace reposes ; jnd thy teeth of snow through their portals show, Like lillies imprisoned by roses. ' ', ii. . But oh! whene'er thj' vocie I hear, ; So fu-U of tender feeling, , Each, gentle tone sweet Music's own, The depths of love revealing; " How can I list, aiid yet resist The-charms that round thee hover ? Tlien hear my vow : believe me now Thy fond, adoring lover ! '' in. . ' Let poets raise their incense-lays , To Beaut , 's fragile bolver ; Far more than grace in form or face, ' Is that which is thy dower : ' Thy spirit, bright with heavenly light, " . . Wliii h beanis so kindly on me ; . Thy mind's pure charm, thy heart so warm These are the spells, that won me. .- SELECTED STORY 'From Godey's Lady's lidok. THE ORPHAN'S DEPARTURE. 1!Y MAKGAKKT FLOYD. The earl v vears 'of few have been so carefully sruanled as woro tliose of Edith Frazier. Her fatlier was the rector of a church in a beautiful hut secluded country village in the south of England. In addition- tt his sincere piety and . hiifh-toned moral character, Mr. Frazier possess ed a well cultivated mind. His wife was also a superior woman, and sis Edith was her only child, her early training was the object of their most careful attention. In a lovely and sequestered home, surrounded not only by the comforts and uxurics, but, the elegances of life, and in close association with persons of High -refinement and ..elevated goodness, the young ' girl grew slowly up to Avomanhood. There was no undue excite ment of Aanitv or the passions to force her, like some hothouse plant, into an early maturity ; and .no unseasonable call upon her for self-reli ance, or exertion, which entirely blots out of some lives the sweet carelessness of girlhood. At six? .teen, she was still almost a child, when the death of her mother, her hi st great sorrow, made her sensible for the first time that this world is not - the place for that uninterrupted happiness which had, until then, been her portion. Edith was 'almost -heart-broken .at the loss of Iter mother. Tliey had been constant compan ions, and she misoI her every moment more and more. Mr. Frazier tried to supply tohis daugh " ter the place both of father and mother, but he was a studious, reserved man, and himself suf fering deeply from his bereavment, so that they ' did 'utile else but "remind each other constantly " of their great sorrow. j ' About a year after Mrs. Fraziers death, find ing that liis daughter did not rally from the de- pression so foreign to her nature, Mr. Frazier proposed" a tour through the northern part of Knaland and Scotland. It was just at the:be , ginning of the . jdeasimt summer weather, and, arranging matters in his parish so that his ab sciice lor two or three months would not be felt, he decided . t leave immediately. , ()it the Sunday before his departure, a strang er was seen in the little parish church.' He was a 'man who '-would have been noticed in any place, and who, in a jiiiet country village, was an object .of general attention. Tall, handsome, and w'yh a strikingly high-bred and gentleman like appearance, he would have been singled out ahv where as one of nature's nobility. Edith was struck and gratified -by the stranger's evi "dent intercfin the' sermon her father preached that day. It was one with which he had taken e.-peeial pains, and the daughter, proud' as well as fond of .her father, was glad to sec that he had at least one appreciative listener. A few days after, 'Mr. Frazier and Edith set out. on their journey. London was their first topping-place, and several very busy days were spent there, while Edith, with the vived interest of one to. whom almost everything in that vast ' and crowed city was strange and new, vjsited the mam' places of interest and note within it. While they were standing in St. Paul's, the stranger w hohad attracted their attention in llilleomb,; their own village, a few days before, passed them with a look of evident recognition. . They met again while going over Westminster Abbey ; ahd it so happpened that they were at .... the same time paying to the genius of Shakspeare the homage of a visit to his grave at Stratford, and that they passed each other again while strolling over the grounds around Newstead Ab bey. .- . , By this time they had advanced so far on the : wav to acquaintanceship, that, when they again encountered each other near the lakes in West moreland, the home of so many of the poets of ; England, a low was the almost - involuntary lark of recognition. English reserve and shy- icss might have prevented any more intimate ercourse, but for an accident that happened to Edith in Scotland. Mr: Frazier, finding that the cool and bracing air of that country tad as favorable aa effect on: his daughter's health as the wild and romantic scenery had on her mind, and being pleased with a quiet country inn which he, had found, pur posed that they should make it their home for two or three weeks. They could not have found a pleasanter resting-place, for Loch Lomond was spread out in' its calm serenity at their feet, and Ben Lomond towered in savage grandeur above their heads. . . The first person whom they recognized on ta king their seats at the table of the inn was the stranger whom they had met so frequently. Edith could not repress a smile as she shyly re turned the stranger's salutation, at the chance that seemed to take such a whimsical pleasure in thus- bringing them together. A few days af ter, while walking with her father in the rude paths on the side of the mountain, she strayed a little way from him when he stopped to ad mire the scene from some particularly favorable point of view ; and when she attempted to re turn, she found herself, to her dismay, so perplex ed by the intricate windings of the paths that she was at a loss which to take. She called to her father and heard his voice . in reply, but it grew fainter, until, at last, it could no longer be discerned. Becoming aware that every step she took only led her father from home, she stopped to see if she could not in some way distinguish the right path. But she was so utterly bewil dered that she found it to be impossible. She thought that the only thing that was left for her to do was to remain stationary ; in that wayr she would, at least, avoid the danger of falling into the mountain steams around, or down any of the precipi;es. Night closed around Edith as she sat alone un der the shelter of a gray rock that jutted out from the side of the mountain. She had around her only the ligfit shawl she had thrown on for an afternoon's walk, and it was but a slight pro tection from the chilling night-air. In her hur ried and toilsome search after her father, she had bruised her feet and wearied herself so that she could no longer stand. She called at intervals, to the faint hope that some wanderer might hear her and come to her assistance ; but her voice died away from exhaustion, and she was still alone. It M as not so' much a feeling of fear that weigh ed upon her, for the perfect, trust in her all-seeing Father, which her mother, had taught her from her childhood, was a tower of strength to her in this her hour of need ; and the physical discomfort she could bear ; but the thought of her father's anxiety and distress on her account almost overcame her. The stars were going out one by one, when Edith heard in the distance a faint shout. She could not answer it,-but, almost as if led by some unseen spirit, it came nearer and nearer. At last she gathered voice to reply, and she had evidently been heard. She could distinguish, the sound of footsteps, and at last dimly discern a man's figure as it stopped before her. " Is this Miss Frazier ?" said the man in a voice that revealed is owner to Ik? a person of refine ment and tenderness. "Yes," said Editli, rising with difficulty. " I am Mr. Hildreth, the geutleman whom you have met so frequently lately. I heard of your disappearance from your father, and have been seekingyou for some hours. Could you walk a little way with me ? lie is not far from here ; we can soon find him." Edith tried to walk, but found it impossible. Taking her in his arms, Mr. Ilildreth carried her a little M ay ; then meeting her father, he resign ed her to him while he went before to act as a Efuide. With some difficulty they reached the bottom of the mountain, and obtaining a rude vehicle from some of the country . people near, conveyed Edith to the inn. The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened in to a friendship. Mr. Frazier and Edith learned that Mr. Ilildreth was an American. from the city of New York. The letter of introduction that he had with him proved that he had a right to the best society in England, for which his polish ed manners and uncommon conversational pow ers showed that he w as well fitted. lie had been taking an invalid aunt to the south of France for the benefit of the climate, he told them, ami after seeing her comfortably estab lisned there, he had taken advantage of a few month's leisure to travel wherever his fancy led him. lie' readily accepted Mr. Frazier's invita tion tqjoin him and his daughter in their tour. The similarity of taste they had shown so singu- larlv was a sufficient evidence, he said, that any course thev might take Mould be equally agree able to, both parties. The next six weeks, Edith thought, Mere the most delightful she had ever spent Nowhere does the society of an agreeable and intellectual person add more to the enjoyment of the com pany than in traveling. Although grave and quiet, Mr. Ilildreth was full of thoughtful uess and observant care for the comfort of his fellow travelers. Whenever he spoke to" Edith, there was a gentle deference in his manner that, from one of his superior abilities, was irresistibly at tractive. On his side, Mr. Hildreth was no lest charmed by those with whom he had been so strangely thrown. On the Sunday in which he had first seen them, he had been-jdeased and impressed by Mr. Frazier's sermon, and thought that he had never seen a face of more artless and attrac tive loveliness ' than Edith Frazier's. She re minded him of Ghaucer's beauties, of a rose half opened and still wet with the morning dews, and of all that was mostfresh andjlelicate in iiatute, He mind answered to the promise of her countenance. Ignorant of the world and j uncontaminated by it, she walked in almost un conscious innocence the simple path of duty. j Her disposition, naturally cheerful and bright, had already begun to recover its buoyancy, and her happiness reacted on her graver companions, who seemed to vie with each other as to which should add most to her pleasure. Seasons of unshaded happiness are generally as brief as bright. By the end of the six weeks, Mr. Ilildreth received a letter from his aunt, who wrote urgently for his immediate presence. He took a reluctant leave of his companions, but not before he had had a long conversation with Mr. Frazier, in which he asked his permission to reveal to Edith the love that had already be come a strong fetling in his heart. Heretofore he had been throw n, he said, among a set of worldly and fashionable women, and had come to look upon simplicity and unworldliness as traits no longer to be met with among the educated and polished members of society, and Edith Frazier Exhibited a character as new as attractive to hint. She was the only woman that he. had ever met, whose society and con versation never wearied or lost their interest to him. Mr. Frazier's paternal pride was gratified at the tribute thus paid to Edith by a man like Mr. Ilildreth, but he could not bear to think of giv ing up the only object of affection left to him, nor contemplate without pain the idea that his daughter's home might be in a distant land. He did all that he felt justified in doing to avert the day of separation, and pleading Edith's youth, requested Mr. Ilildreth to postpone for a year his declaration. Tb this delay Mr. Ilildreth was unwilling to conseht ; but at last was obliged unwillingly to yield to a probation of six months. He left Edith, in accordance with the prom ise he had made f Mr. Frazier, entirely uncon scious of his feelings towards, her, and for some time almost equally unaMare of her own. She kneMr that the loss of his society had deprived her of the greater part of the pleasure she had taken in the new scenes through which she was journeying, but it Mas not until she was again settled iu,her own home at Ilillcomb that she began to feel that Mr. Ilildreth had been far more to her than a mere agreeable casual ac quaintance, j This discovery mortified her extremely. She felt as though it M as both wrong and humiliat ing, that one whom she had knoMn so short a time, and who had shown no proof of regarding her as anything but a very young and rather pleasing girl, should engross so much of her thoughts. She resolved to use every means to crush the feelings that, new as they were, seem ed to have struck their roots so deeply in her heart. But first she could not resist asking her father one question. "Do you think we shall ever see Mr. Ilildreth again, father ?" said she one day, with affected indifference. " Perhaps so," said he, quietly ; " we can nev er tell what may happen." " He can never have spoken to my father about coming here," thought Edith, " or he Mould not have seemed so uncertain about it;" and, with true feminine pride, the young girl forbore- any farther mention of the one whom vet slie found it impossible to forget. Two months of the six had passed away, when Edith .was called to bear another heavy trial. Her father died suddenly, leaving her unprovid ed for ami alone in the world. Such an event was apparently the last in the world to be ex pected, as Mr. Frazier had always seemed to be a man in vigorous health, and with' a fair pros pect of long life. To a long life he had evi dently looked forward, for he had made no ar rangements for his cherished daughter, and had left no directions by which she might guide her future course. In her desolation, Edith could think of but one person from whom she might expect pro tection ; a half-sis-ter of her father's who resided in' London. She had seen her aunt, Mrs. Bum lei'di, but seldom, but knew that she was a wid- oiv in easy circumstances, with a large family of children. To her she accordingly applied, and re ceived in return an invitation to come to her until she had decided on her future course. With a sorrowful heart, Edith left the home where so many bright and happy years had been passed. As she sat alone waiting for the coach to pass that Avas to convey her fo London, with . no attendant but the gardener's boy, and no companion but her canary, a parting gift from Mr. Hildreth, sent to Hilcomb by him from Do ver just before he embarked for France, the con trast between her present desolation and the warm, sheltering love in which she had so long lived, almost overcame her. But the lonely soon acquire the power of self-control, and Edith had already begun to learn the hard lesson of self reliance. With an outward composure that hid the painful throbbings of her heart from her traveling companions, she took her seat in the coach, and in a few hours arrived safely at Mrs. Burnleigh's fEdith found her aunt an apparently well- meaning, proper kind of a woman, kind and sympathizing in her manners, but who evidently had not the slightest intention of denying her self or her children he smallest luxury for the sake of her brother's orphaned daughter. For a few weeks Edith was left to the quiet indulgence of her grief, and then Mrs. Burnleigh, thinking that she had done all that society could possibly demand of her in the way of respect to her bro ther's memory or kindness to his child, began to sound Edith as to her intentions for the .future The young girl, thrown so suddenly upon her own resources, had not yet begun to think for her self, and the idea of seeking a home among strangers made her heart sink within her. She begged her aunt to take upon herself the task of finding her some position that she could fill creditably, but she hoped, she said timidly, that it might bo somewhere near her aunt, her only remaining relative. This did not suit Mrs. Burnleigh exactly, who being of that turn of mind that always foresees the possible evil in all cases, wras not pleased with the idea that 6he might at any time be cal led upon to offer a home to her friendless rela tive. Like a prudent woman, however, she for bore saying anything that might reveal her true feelings, but was none the less resolved that, if two equally favorable situations offered them-' selves, it would be wiser for her to advise Edith to accept the one at the greatest distance. She succeeded beyond her hopes. Coming in one day, she said to Edith, with unusual ani mation " My dear, I have found a most delightful sit uation for you. Two hundred pounds a year for teaching one little girl. You can speak French, can you not ?" " Yes, I have spent a year in France." " And you play unusually well, and draw and paint beautifully, so that I think the parents of the child may consider themselves quite fortun ate." " Who are they ?" ashed Edith. " They are Americans a Mr. and Mrs. Blake, from South Carolina." Edith's heart had bounded at tie mention of the country, but it sank when the State was named to which Mrs. Burnleigh wished to send l?r. Unlike most English girls, she knew enough of the geography of the United States to remember that a wide distance separated South Carolina from New York, so that, even had Mr. Hildreth returned to his own country, which was unlikely, she would be almost as distant from him there as if she remained inEngland. The idea of going so far away from all on whom her relationship or early association gave her any claim, was exceedingly painful to her. " Don't you think, dear aunt," said she, hesita tingly, " that I might find something to do near er home ?" " It would be impossible for me to find you another situation so advantageous in every res pect ; but it you think you can succeed, you had better make the attempt," replied Mi's. Burn- eigh, coldly, while a displeased expression set tled upon her face. There Mere a few moments' silence, and then jCAUtn saiu Tl 1 " How soon will Mr. and Mrs. Blake expect me r " They are now here. I have just met them at one of my friends, M ho had been speaking to them about you. They told me that they in tended to sail for America in about two weeks, and that, if you M ere ready by that time, they would like you to accompany them." " Very well," said Edith ; " you can tell them that I shall be ready to go M'ith them." " They are charaiing people," said her aunt, caressingly ; " I am sure, my dear, you M ill like them very much, and be very happy M'ith them. Of course, I would not w ish my brother's child to go where she would not be with those who are likely to take some interest in her. Edith could not help perceiving that her aunt was relieved by the prospect of her departure ; and this thought, while it strengthened her in ter resolve, made her feel her isolation still more deeply. On board the same steamer w ith Mr. and Mrs. Blake and Edith was a little girl, an invalid, w ho interested- the young English girl extremely. Edith had brought her bird with her. It was the only thing she had to remind her of happier days, and she could not bear to part with it. At little Ellen's earnest request, she hung the cage iu her state-room, and before the end of the voyage, the little sick girl had become so attach ed to the pretty bird, whose sweet song was al most the only cherishing sound she heard du ring the long and weary days at sea, that she could not speak of parting with it without show ing by her tearful eyes the pain it gave her. Edith felt that she ought not to deprive the little sufferer of so great a pleasure, and concealing her reluctance to give up a souvenir she had cherished so long, she told little Ellen that the bird was to be hers. The child's evident delight was some compensation to Edith for her self-de nial, yet it was M'ith a sharp pang that she watched the cage as it was put in the carriage, after the arrival of the steamer at New York, to be conveyed to the upper part of the city, while Edith, with her new friends, went on board another steamer about to sail for Charleston. Mr. Blake's residence was among the pine for ests of the State ; a region healthful, it is true, but peculiarly desolate, especially to one accus tomed to the soft verdure and smiling landscape of England. The tall dark trees, unceasingly sighing forth their low and mounful murmurs, seemed to Edith a fit emblem of the griefs that were henceforward to darken her life. There was but little in lier new home to call her thoughts from the sad recollections to which they were constantly recurring. Mr. Blake and his wife were very kind to her, treating her rather as a guest than to one whose services they were entitled ; but they lived in a part of the country very thinly settled, their ' nearest neighbor being at a distance of seven or eight miles, and there was aweary monotony in Edith's daily life that weighed upon her spirita.- Grati tude for the unvarying and thoughtful kindness shown to her by Mrs. Blake induced Edith to make every exertion to regain her accustomed cheerfulness, and she had, in some measure, suc ceeded, when the Christmas holidays came to remind her, by the contrast between her own position and that of the persons by whom she was surrounded, more painfully of her isolation. The little family gatherings from whom she could hardly absent herself without appearing unmindful of Mrs. Blake's gentle yet urgent re quests, and yet where she felt herself among them, but not of them, recalled to her so forci bly the former seasons, wdien her happiness and pleasure were to. all around her the one thing of the greatest importance, that, for the first time since her departure from England, Edith yielded to her feeling of loneliness, and every night wet her pillow with her tears. The reply of the Shunamite woman to the prophet's inquiry a bout her wants, " I dM'ell among mine own peo ple," came with a new and touching significance to her mind, now that she began to feel that never again would she feel the sweet security and protection implied in such a position. On New Year's eve, Edith slipped away from the merry group assembled in Mr. Blake's par lors to indulge her sad meditations for a little while without interruption. As she stood on the porch listening to the mournful music of the pines, whose aromatic incense filled the air with its healthful fragrance, and watching the moon as it slowly waded through the clouded sky, now shining out in full brilliancy, and then al most entirely darkened as it passed behind the thick masses of vapor that were hanging in the vast concave, she thought that just such sudden alternatioas of darkness and light had been her lot in this life. " The clouds hang heavily over me now," thought she ; " but there M ill be brightness soon. Almost at the same moment there came the sound of an approaching arrival, and Edith has tily retreated to the house. She had hardly time to mingle with the gay family party, when, hearing her name called, she turned suddenly, while a thrill of amazed delight passed over her at the familiar tone, and saw before her Mr. Ilildreth, whose smile shed a light and warmth upon her heart to which it had lonir been a strangHfc The clouds Mere at once lifted off from her soul, and she was once more the light-hearteel frirl she had been in her English home. In the midst of her happiness there was a feeling of insecurity, a doubt as to its continuance. But that Edith M ould not allow herself to dwell up on. It was happiness enough for the present to think that one whom she so highly esteemed still cared enough for her to seek her out in her secluded home. But before the last hours of the old year ha passed away, walking in the serene moonlight under those pine-trees to whose mournful mur mur her thoughts had been so long attuned, Edith listened with a beating heart to the avow al of the same feelings which Mr. Hildreth had confessed to her father more than a year before. What had become of all the sadness that had brooded over Edith's heart so many months ? It M as gone like the clouds from the sky, but not to return, like them, in a few short hours. " How did you find me out ?" asked Edith, after many more important questions had been asked and answered. " Ah, a little bird told me where I should find the runaway." " A bird !" .said Edith, wonderingly. " Terhaps it was the cage rather than the bird," replied Mr. Hildreth. " I had been for i some two or three months in search of you, or ; rather your aunt, M'ith whom I was told you J w ere staying. But she seemed to be possessed !, j j .::4. . e ty some perverse ana wanuenug spim; 101 w hen I went to London to find her, she had just left with her family on a tour through Germa ny, and when I followed her there, I learned she had gone into Italy. Into Italy I went post haste, and reached Naples just in time to learn that Mrs. Burnleigh had left the week before for Egypt and the Pyramids. No whit daunted, I was about to seek you, even if I had to go to the heart of Ethiopia, when the sudden illness of my aunt recalled me to Marseilles. Her death obliged me to return to New York ; but I ar ranged my business there as soon as possible, and had already engaged my passage in the next steamer to Liverpool, when walking through Fifth Avenue, my eye was attracted by a cage that I recognized instantly, by certain peculiari ties, as one that I had sent you just before I left England after our pleasant tour. A sudden hope seized me that some happy impulse had led your travel-loving aunt to my very hearthstone, and I lost no time in making inquiries of the lady of the house, from whom I learned all about the little Edith for whom I had been seeking in such far away places. " And now' dearest," he continued, after a pause, " have you any objection to a tour through Europe ? I went in such haste before that, far from satisfying my curiosity, I only increased the desire to see everything more at my leisure." " None at aH," said Edith, with a smile and blush. " Well, then, I will see how soon Mrs. Blake can spare you, and we will set off on our travels. I hope she will be very obliging" about it." She was very obliging, and gave. Edith, to whom she had become strongly attached, a grand wedding in the Southern fashion, -which lasted two days, and she hung the pine grove with co lored lamps, so that the dark woods took, for .oat occasion only, quite a festal appearance. FARMERS' DEPARTMENT: From the American Fanner. MEADOW OAT GRASS ME. IVEESON'S GRASS. i In the October number of the American Far mer, " P. M. C." of Bertie county, North Caro lina, inquires about the value of" Meadow Oat Grass," with a view to its culture. I have had it on my farm for some twenty five yearsthe seed being sent to me by a friend who spoke very highly of ita luxuriant growth and appear ance. It certainly presents a fine appearance on rich and ; but unfortunely it contains very little nu tritive matter, and is of little value either for pas ture or hay. By careful analysis it does not contain half the nutritive matter of clover, timo thy, or Orchard Grass ; though it will grow on and too poor to produce good crops of other varieties. It is also known as Tall Meadow Oat Grass, Andes. Grass, and perhaps by other titles. It botanical name is Avena eliator. For fifteen or twenty years I have endeavored to eradicate it from the soil by ploughing and digging it up ; for my stock will not eat it when any other grass clover, timothy, orchard, herds, or blue grass, can be come at ; it occupies the ground, and roots out other and better grasses. Indeed, no kind of stock appears fond of it; and although putting up very early in the spring, often growing five to six feet high on strong land, it is eaten very sparingly, if not actually disliked, by well fed horses, cow or hogs. For grazing sheep, it may possibly answer better, but mainly owing to the destruction in my flocks by dogs, I have long since abandoned the raising of these most valuable and necessary animals. If your correspondent cannot get any other kind of grass to grow, it may be well enough to try the meadow oat grass ; but after my experi ence, I would rather pay a seedsman to keep the seed, than have it on my farm as a gift. It may however be more desirable to cultivate it at the South, where it is more difficult, owing' to the hot summer, to cultivate the artificial grasses, than in this latitude ; but by proper attention and improving the soil, even in Bertie county, North Carolina, it is believed a much more pro fitable grass may be raised. I have seen as lusuriant crops of clover growing near the bor ders of North Carolina as I ever saw either in Maryland or Pennsylvania. My side object in writing this note, is, that your correspondent "P. M. C." may have a lit tle practical information on the subject: and al though this variety is certainly preferable to having no grass, or bare fields, I consider it, so far as my experience goes, the poorest for either pasture or hay, of any I have seen. Very respectfully, E. S. Note. The above was written some two months since, and laid aside as hot worth pub lishing ; but fearing that "P. M. C." apd others, may, for lack of experience be imposed on, as I have been in the selection of grasses, seed, &c, I forward it for such use as may be thought best; and I am the more inclined to send it afte reading the wonderful account of a new grass, as described in the January number of the Farmer, by B. V. Iverson, of Columbus, Georgia. As tie writer gives his address and residence and indeed offering his seed for sale, we must conclude that he believes what he states, and if not deceived himself, the discovery of this won derful grass will produce as marked an era in agriculture as did the discovery of Gold in Cali fornia, in the commercial relations of the United States. The reading about "this grass reminded mo forcibly of a grass growing incident connected with a friend of the South, a couple of years since. He stated in a letter to me that he had received a small quantity of California Timothy seed, of most wonderful growth and properties, and queried how and when it had best be sown and cultivated. It was represented, as well as I recollect, to grow from six to seven feet high the heads from eight to twelve inches long, and each head to produce from a table-spoonfull to half a gill of seed of course valuable seed, con taining much oleagenous and nutritive matter, as weil as tor hay. How many tons to the acre I have forgotten. I gave the most satisfactory directions in my power, the 'very much guess work: knowing very well how to grow the common, but not the California timothy : desiring him to inform me of the result of the experiment, and if successful, to favor me with a tea-spoonfull of the seed. It was cultivated in the garden, grew luxuriant ly, and for a time promised to realize all that was said of it; but at " seed time and harvest," it headed out into the common millet, which I had grown and discarded twenty years previ ously. I do not pretend to say that this Georgia Grass, this Ceratochtoa Breviaristata, will turn out the same article ; the description of it as far . surpasses the California Timothy for grazing, yield of hay, product of seed, &c., as the latter does broom sedge or hen's grass. But let us examine into the matter a little further. I Assuming the yield, value, price ask ed, fec., as stated by your correspondent, I have endeavored to cypher out the actual returns from 100 acres. In hay u4 to 6 tons to the acre," say 5 tons, after hard grazing from No vember to June, would be five hundred tons ; value in Georgia, at prices often quoted in Southern Markets $20 por ton, would be ten thousand dollars for the hay! about four to one over our heaviest crops of any other descrip- - ; - - -- y - v ------ t tion of grass. But take the' seed crop, "100 bushels to the acre," at $5 a peck, is two thou sand dollars per acre on one hundred acres, two hundred thousand dollars!! And being; " equally as nutricious as barley, it is certaiBlyi without a rival in our climate and soil;" or anjj other in the world may as well be added. j The price, too, only $20 ptr bushel, would be -quite reasonable, considering that a single peck; " which is plenty for a person to begin with," and that it possesses every requisite that could be asked for by the grazier, the dairy-man, the grain grower, or the planter; "stock of every kind, together with every species of domestic fowl" being fond of it, and " all fat throughout the winter and spring." Again, it appears to be free from all the drawbacks that all other grasses are liable to ; for this grass, no freeze, however severe, ever hnrts ; no insect troubles it; no overflow of water retards it; no ordinary drought affects it. Nor is this all ; for it is stated that " this grass re-produces itself, (with out re-sowing,) for ages, enriching a field, be sides grazing the . stock ond yielding its M hay, It does not spread, but is easily gotten rid of by ploughing under,,' &c. &c. Permit me to suggest that the State ,Agricul tura Society should order a peck or so of the seed, and distribute it amongst the members ; , or that the Patent Office should take it in hand, and we should soon be able to test its value in arious sections of the country. If even half the virtues claimed for this grass in Georgia could be realized in Maryland, it would eclipse. all known varieties, and then be cheap sX five to ten times the price asked for it I would adv- ise " P. M. C." to give this grass a trial, in place of the " Meadow Oat Grass," though I will furn ish him gratuitously with some seed of the latter, if he will advise me how to forward it. Another suggestion and I am done. Should our friends, the five C is, have constitu tional scruples with regard to the " appropria tion" by the Society, .it might be done in the form of a premium, which you know can be awarded for any thing recommended by a committee. Very respectfully, E.S. From the Southern Planter. HYDRAULIC CEMENT FOR CONVEYING WATER TO DWELLINGS, &c. ! Messrs. T. B,and W. F. Poague, of this neigh borhood, have recently obtained a patent for a new mode of making Hydraulic Cement Piping, which has been thoroughly tested by a number ofperson8 in this county within the last two years, and has given entire satisfaction. By means of their piping, with the propelling pow er of water-rams, many farm houses, situated on high hills, are now abundantly supplied, at their doors, with ever-flowing streams of water, as pure and cool as it gushed from the spring at the toot ot the bill, in some cases several hun dred yards distant and upwards of one hundred feet below the level of the house. The largest pipj in actual use in three and a half inches cali bre, but it can be made of any desired size, j Af ter the ditch is prepared, the piping is laid down with great rapidity as it is made from the mor tar. Where the perpendicular pressure of the water is not great, it can be used at oncej and in all cases after hardening a few weeks. jThe piping, of course, gets harder and stronger with ager until it becomes as hard as rock itself.) One bushel of cement will make sir yards of piping vf one and a half inch bore. Cement of the best quality can be had in any quantity at Locker's Cement Works, on the James River Canal, (Balcony Falls, Rockbridge,) at 37 1-2 cents a bushel. i , A good specimen of this piping can be seen where the water is conveyed some 600 yards, by a two inch pipe, crossing Cedar Creek twice, and at one point sustaining a pressure of thirty feet Visiters at the Bridge will find these waterworks worthy of their examination. j- Another specimen, 1200 yards long, which has been in successful use for a twelve month, can be examined at the Hotel of Mr. N. G. Moore, ten miles south of Levington, on the old stage road to Pattonsburg. I The advantages of the Cement Piping over that of iron or lead are t 1st. Its superior durability, lasting for ever, while other rusts or wears out in few years. 2d. In conveying the water perfectly' pure, without poisoning it like lead, or discovering it like iron. j v 8d. Its greater cheapness ; ordinary piping not costi ng half as m uch as that of - iron or lead. It is even cheaper than wooden pipes. Any further information can doubtless he had by addressing the patentees, (at Fancy Hill, Rockbridge,) who are large farmers, and among the most respectable and efficient business men in the county. C. C. B. Rockbridge, Va., Feb. 5, 1854. A Large Pig. Samuel Alden, of Lyme, N, H; killed a half bred Suffolk pig, that af eight months and twenty-four days old, weighed, af ter being dressed,' and exclusive of rough lard, four hundred and one pounds I So says the editor of the Boston Cultivator. WooVGrower. For Curing Woukds.ik Shee?. Take the leaves of the alder tree, and make a decoction, and wash the parts injured from one to thpee times a day, and you, will not be troubled with flies or worms on the wound. Jt also removes fever from the wound, and is liealingj. Qtr. Tel. v r r i i . t
Southern Weekly Post (Raleigh, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
May 13, 1854, edition 1
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