INSTANTANEOUS FLOWERING OF PLANTS. |
  M. Herbert, a gentleman who has recently arrived from France, on Saturday exhibited to a few ladies and gentlemen his method of causing plants to blow almost instantaneously. The plants selected—a group of geraniums and a rose-tree—were planted in two rather deep boxes of garden mould, previously prepared with some chemical manure, and were then covered with glass shades. M. Herbert next proceeded to pour over the roots, from a small watering-pot, a chemical mixture, which, uniting with the ingredients already in the earth, caused a great heat, as was shown by an intense steam or vapor, which was evolved within the shades, and allowed to some extent to escape through a small hole in the top, which at first was kept closed. The effect upon the geraniums was certainly almost instantaneous, the buds beginning to burst in about five or six minutes, and the plants being in full bloom within ten minutes, when the blossoms were gathered by M. Herbert and distributed amongst the ladies present. With the rose-tree the exhibitor was less fortunate, M. Herbert explaining that it had only been in his possession about half or three-quarters of an hour, and he had therefore not had sufficient time to prepare for the experiment, thereby evincing that it occupies more time than would appear to the casual observer to be the case. The invention may prove useful where ladies require to decorate their drawing-rooms or boudoirs with the beauties of Flora somewhat earlier in the seasons than can otherwise be obtained. The experiments took place at the residence of M. Laurent, Onslow-house, Brompton. [How far does this account for the Chinese "magical" method?]
Poetry.
THE EVENING WALK. BY RICHARD COE. (See Plate.) Upon her head she gently threw A veil of fabric light, To shield her from the pearly dew That mingled with the night: Then with a motion light and free— No proud and stately stalk— The lady of the mansion rose To take her evening walk. Thou placid moon, and you, ye stars, That nightly deck the sky, Ye must not look in envy on The brightness of her eye; And you, ye babbling waters near, That make my soul rejoice, Ye must be silent when ye hear The music of her voice! Ye moon and stars and babbling fount, Your choicest blessings throw Across the pathway of my fair, Wherever she may go! And if I soothe her cares the while, With fine poetic talk, Perhaps on me she'll deign to smile, In some sweet evening walk!
THE CHILDREN-ANGELS. BY JAMES A. BARTLEY. Seven bright ones in the angel-land, With stars to crown each brow; The mother spied them hand in hand, Around the Saviour bow; And oh! that whiteness, heavenly bland, That clothed their bodies now! Seven bright ones in that sunny clime, Hope would her tears condemn, She blessed the eagle wings of Time Which bore her nearer them, Where she would join the seraph chime, And wear a diadem. Seven dear ones born of her heart's love, Now safely housed in heaven, She humbly sought that test to prove, To every mortal given, To labor for her King above, Who keepeth these her seven. And ofttimes, at her daily toil, Seven bright ones would alight, And each with sweet and holy smile, Fill her with deep delight, Until the very earthly wild, To her, looked strangely bright. And oft, when stars gleamed forth on high, And silence reigned around, She heard their pinions sweeping by, A far, unearthly sound; And then her spirit reached the sky, At one ecstatic bound. Seven bright ones in the land called Light, And oft with her below! Far fled the frighted shades of Night From Faith's celestial glow, Wherein she walked with humble might, Till she lay humbly low. Then her free spirit walked in Light, And smiled, but wept no more, And with her, seven, all dazzling bright, Beheld all perils o'er; The goal of which mysterious flight, None living may explore.
WORKING AND DREAMING. BY MRS. A. L. LAWRIE. All the while my needle traces Stitches in a prosy seam, Flit before me little faces, And for them the while I dream. Building castle, light and airy, For my merry little Kate, Wond'ring if the wayward fairy Will unlock its golden gate. Scaling Fame's proud height for Willie, Just as all fond mothers do, And for her, my thoughtful Lily, Twining laurel leaflets too. In the far-off future roving, Where the skies are bright and fair; Hearing voices charmed and loving, Calling all my darlings there. Through the distant years I'm tracing Dewy pathways bright with flowers, And along their borders placing Here and there these pets of ours. And the while my fancy lingers In that hope-born summer clime, Pretty garments prove my fingers Have been busy all the time. And I care not, though around me Romp the little merry band; Never could the spell that bound me Break at touch of softer hand Than the little hand of Nora, Soiled in search of blossoms rare; For she says they're gifts that Flora Bade her bring to deck my hair. So my summer days are flying On their swift oblivious track; But while love meets fond replying, I would never wish them back. But their precious fragrant roses I would gather and entwine In a wreath, ere summer closes For the autumn's pale decline.
THE MISER. BY CHARLES LELAND PORTER. Away from the gladsome and life-giving breeze, In his damp and mouldering cell, Away from the rustle of waving trees, Alone did the miser dwell; Around his wrinkled and careworn brow Hung wild his hoary hair, And the spectre look of death e'en now, And the furrows deep of the Ruler's plow, Sat grim on his temples there. He grasps the gold with his fingers cold, And counts it o'er again, And he envies the snuggling beam of light That creeps through the broken pane; And he starts at every passing sound, And hastily turns the key, And casts a hurried glance around, And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp ground To his god he bows the knee. The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings, And moans a plaintive strain, And grimly peers with his glassy eye Over the golden gain; And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawls Away from its mean abode; It cannot rise to heaven, but falls Adown the damp and mouldering walls, And hurries beneath the sod. Oh, I have thought that a mother's love Was the fondest passion yet, As she breathes the breath of her infant babe— Still, a mother may forget; But the miser's throne is his gold alone, His passion is centred there; His life, his love, his dearest one, The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone, Gold, gold is his fondest fair. The midnight moon looks lovingly down On the sleeping laborer's head; Hushed and still is the busy mill, And the infant's cradle bed; But the miser springs, if a footstep rings, Like a wild beast from his lair; He feels the poison of conscience stings, He fears the robber a bandit brings, And he creeps to his golden care. The beggar stopped at the rich man's door, And paused at the miser's stone, Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dare To cross the word "begone!" The wretch felt not for others' woes, No soul in his body dwelt; The trembling sprite took a final flight— Though he seemed to live—on the dismal night When he first to the gold-god knelt. In a village near, his sister lay At the door of the demon death; Starving was written on her brow, And hot was her fevered breath: "Oh, give me bread!" in accents low, Was the burden of her prayer— "I'm dying, brother!" 'twas even so; While her eye was glazing, the miser's "No!" Startled the chilly air. Cheerily rang the Sabbath bells, And from each hush'd abode The aged sire, and the cheerful child Moved on to the house of God; While prayer was ascending towards the Throne, The miser also prayed; To his golden altar he bowed, alone, And prayed from out his heart of stone That his god would lend him aid. He lieth upon the bed of death, And alone he pines away; As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath, And clay is mingled with clay; No marble is there to mark the spot, No flowret weeps o'er his tomb; Unwept, unhonored, and forgot, Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot— The miser has gone to his doom! Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealth Go to the poor man's home; Comfort the sick—employ your gold As gain for the world to come; And the widow's heart shall leap for joy, And the orphan upon your bier, When the summons bears you from earth away To dwell in the mansions of endless day, Shall pour the sorrowing tear.
SONNET.—WASHINGTON BY WM. ALEXANDER. A sculptured cenotaph thy sons will raise, That they eternize may thy honored name; Nor this, nor Story's scroll can tell thy praise, So blended with thy glorious country's fame. Lo! in a corner of Mount Vernon's field, Past which Potomac's peaceful waters flow, Reclined hast thou upon thy sacred shield, To sleep till the archangel's trumpet blow. Around thy lone and ever-honored grave, The Muses of thy noble country sing, While the tall corn in plenty still shall wave, To speak of Peace thy valiant sword did bring. Rest peacefully, then, Patriot, Hero, Sage, Best, brightest name to grace fair Clio's sacred page.
THE ORPHAN BOY. I saw a smiling little boy, Not to childish pastime given; His countenance radiant with joy, He seemed just ripe for Heaven. I asked, "Where are thy parents dear? Hast thou from them been riven?" He said, "My parents are not here, They have gone home to heaven." A year had sped—I passed that way On the eve of a balmy autumn day; I asked, "Where is the charming orphan boy, With face so radiant with joy? Is he to the cold world driven?" The answer was, "He had gone home to Heaven."
EDNA. BY ELLEN ALICE MORIARTY. Hear you not the night-wind moaning, Sadly moaning all the time, Like a spirit doomed to wander O'er the earth for some dark crime? Round the door it ever lingers, Calling mortal aid in vain, And with gaunt and spectral fingers, Feebly knocks upon the pane. Love I well to hear it wailing, And I listen, pensively; Strange sad thoughts, unearthly dreamings, Mournfully it wakes in me. Such a night did Edna leave us, When she with Lord Ronald fled; Better, ere she thus had grieved us, She was numbered with the dead. Yet my mother, we'd forgive her Did she seek her home at last, Kindly in our arms receive her, Bidding her forget the past. Ah! she loved Lord Ronald truly; She was young and sweetly fair; Loved—and we were all forgotten— When Lord Ronald tarried here. Dost remember, mother dearest, The sad day before she went, How the fleetly passing moments By thy side she fondly spent? And I marked her, mother dearest, When was said the soft "good-night," How her cheek so sadly faded— Faded to a marble white. To her door I followed gently, Raised the latch, and in I went, And the thoughts that so oppressed me Found in gushing tears a vent. "Jessie, Jessie," murmured Edna, "Weeping sister! Why is this?" And she pressed with gentle fondness On my brow a soothing kiss. Spoke I not. My heart was breaking 'Neath some vague, uncertain woe; Wept I, on her breast reclining, Mother—and I slumbered so. When from out that sleep, awaking, I upon her pillow lay, Through the half-divided curtain Faintly streamed the dawning day. Then we missed her. Oh, my mother, Who our woe's excess can speak! Not a father, not a brother— Who the loved and lost could seek. Mother dearest, you are weeping! Why did I remembrance wake? I should bear my grief in silence, Oh, my mother, for thy sake. Listen listen! on the night-blast Heard you not a well-known tone? Oh, it seemed so much, my mother, Like my sister Edna's own! There are feet upon the threshold! And a hand is on the door— Mother! mother!—it is Edna, Coming back to us once more! "Oh, forgive me! Oh, forgive me!" Thus my sister Edna prayed— "Oh, forgive me!" "Edna! Edna!" That was all my mother said. But she oped her arms unto her, Drew her upward to her breast, And in fair and tearful beauty Bowed that gentle head to rest. "Well I loved Lord Ronald, mother, Ay, far better than my life; Home I come to thee," said Edna, "Proudly his acknowledged wife. "Cared he not for rank or station, But a loving heart sought he; Mother, sister, love my husband— See, he claims it now of ye." Turned we then. He stood beside us, Bending low with manly grace, With his soul's true love for Edna Lighting up his noble face. We are happy, I and mother, Now that all our care has gone; Ever seems it like a shadow Scarcely cast ere it had flown.
VETERAN SAILOR'S SONG. BY "CARYL." The flag that floats above us, boys, So proudly in the gale, Old Neptune never yet had seen, When first I clewed a sail; St. George's cross flamed o'er the seas With undisputed sway, With English oak, and British tars, Beneath it, in that day. The Stars and Stripes above us, boys, Since then have been unfurled; In tempest tried, baptized in blood; 'Tis the pride of Ocean-world! And freer, nobler hearts sustain Your banner floating proud; Than e'er before Atlantic bore, Or wrapped in seaman's shroud. The glorious flag above us, boys, Was ne'er disgraced in fight; No foeman ever saw it struck, But dearly bought the sight; Wherever prow has cleft the waves, In every zone and sea, 'Tis known and honored as the flag Of a nation brave and free.
REMEMBER THE POOR. BY MRS. C. H. ESLING. Oh! remember the poor, said a sad little voice, As the shadow of evening grew dim, And the thick, heavy snow-flakes fell silently down, Benumbing each half-covered limb; Oh! remember the poor, and the face of the child Was as white as the thick-falling snow, And my heart, how it readily aided my hand, In the little I had to bestow! A smile checked the tear in her dim, sunken eye, As she clasped the small alms in her hand, And I thought what a joy in this bright world of ours, The wealthy might have at command; To purchase a smile from a grief-stricken heart, To chase back the tear ere 'tis shed, To call a glad look to a wan, saddened face, With a pittance that scarce would buy bread. Oh think, ye glad children of affluence, think, As ye sit by the firelight's glow, Yes, think, as it gleams on your carpeted floor, Of the poor little feet in the snow. Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand, With a light from the diamond's mine, Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold, That else were as dainty as thine. God fashioned thee both—the poor, shivering child, Alone in the cold winter night, Who begs for its bread, and the pampered, who bask Forever in luxury's light. Then "remember the poor," for their wants are but few; Let thy much but a little insure To the needy; the world will be better, by far, When the rich shall remember the poor.
A VALENTINE. BY CLARA MORETON. Fair as Lucrece, and as serenely cold, Art thou, sweet maiden, with thine eyes of blue; Thy tresses long, in bands of burnished gold, Cast shadows o'er a cheek of rose-leaf hue. The silken lashes of those violet eyes Droop with a sunny curve from snowy lid, Half shading all the purity that lies Within their quiet depths so sweetly hid. The matchless arching of thy coral lip, The glittering pearl thy smile discloses, Thy mouth, fresh as the dew the flowers sip, And redolent of sweets as budding roses. Too fair for my unskilful hand to trace! Never a poet could thy charms combine, Nor artist draw thee in thy winning grace Unless a monarch of his art divine. For such a boon, how dare my heart aspire? Trembling, I bring its wealth of love to thee, No Persian worshipper of flaming fire E'er bent his god a more devoted knee.
DYING BY BELL. Is this dying? round me gathers Such a silent, countless throng, Beaming on me smiles that beckon, As if I with them belong. This is dying! raise my pillow; Come and kiss me, mother dear; When I'm gone away you'll miss me, But for me weep not a tear. Is this dying? waters rolling Bear me on to yonder shore, Love to Christ my bark has freighted, Not a billow surges o'er. This is dying! pain, returning, Shows how nature clings to earth, While the prisoned soul is panting For the clime that gave it birth. Is this dying? strains of music Seem upon the air to float, Such could only come from angels, And I almost catch the note. Now my crown and harp are coming, Borne by seraphs' hands along, And a robe of whitest linen Clothes me like the angel throng. Is this dying? pain may writhe me, But has Death not lost his sting? And since Christ has gone to glory, Death is but a conquered king!
TO THE GAND'HRAJ.[A] WRITTEN IN INDIA, BY MRS. E. LOCK. Oh! beautiful GÁnd'hraj! sweet is thy breath; Thou art pale, too, as bearing the impress of Death, Like the velvety touch of the Kokila's [B] wing, Or the flakes that the snow-spirits playfully fling, Are thy robings unstained by a glance from the sun; To me thou art welcome, my beautiful one! Like a penitent nun at the hour of prayer, Thou inclinest to earth, though no shrive-priest be there, Pale, innocent darling! would we were as pure, Then ours the blessings that ever endure. Gaze not downward so sadly, still bloom on thy stem, Thou Nature's adornment! sweet, pearly-hued gem! The fibre that links thee to life, ah! how slight! The dealings of Death with the flowers are light; The delicate tintings that vein thy array Must be changed ere the scene dons its mantle of gray, And heavenly ones thy aroma will bear Away to the gardens more pure and more fair. As the moon-ray dissolves on the lake's tranquil breast, Or the morn-mists float off to their home in the west; Like the iris that gladdens a moment our eyes, With its colors prismatic, then blends with the skies, Such peaceful and holy departure is thine; Euthanasia like this, sweetest flow'ret, be mine!
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