Part 1

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* * * * *

THE

RURAL MAGAZINE,

AND

LITERARY EVENING FIRE-SIDE.

VOL. I. PHILADELPHIA, _Fifth Month, 1820. No. 5_.

FOR THE RURAL MAGAZINE.

THE DESULTORY REMARKER.

No. IV.

Spring, that delightful visiter, to whom beauty and melody, Zephyrus and Flora, pay their opulent but willing tribute, has once more arrived. Let us welcome the enchanting stranger with joyful hearts, and let feelings of gratitude ascend to the bountiful source of all our enjoyments. Nature is now

All beauty to the eye, and all music to the ear.

It is said by an eminent historian, in his memoirs of his own life, that the disposition to "see the favourable rather than the unfavourable side of things, is a turn of mind which it is more happy to possess, than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a year." Such a temper is not only a prolific source of complacency to the individual who cherishes it, but by all who move within the circle of its influence, its amiable and excellent effect is felt and acknowledged. What a fortunate circumstance would it be for the luckless wight, denominated by that pure and fascinating writer Dr. GOLDSMITH, a _Magaziner_, as well as for his correspondents, should none but critics, under the influence of this temper, undertake to adjust their humble claims to merit. They are frequently selected, by those who have not even read what they undertake to condemn, as the objects of illiberal and unmeaning censure. The right to criticise, is unquestionably perfectly valid; but, like other rights, it is liable to abuse. By accustoming himself to indulge a querulous, fault-finding propensity, on all occasions, even the most distinguished orator may descend from the high station claimed for him by his friends, to that of an inconsistent, petulant declaimer. And notwithstanding the alternate epigrammatic point of his wit, and the brilliant coruscations of his fancy, his speeches may at length scarcely be heard with patience.

Courteous reader! if thou desirest to make the most of human life, and to realize its positive blessings which are placed within thy reach, listen to the counsels of experience, and pursue an opposite course of conduct. Sedulously avoid the indulgence of a splenetic humour, consult thy own gratification, and the happiness of those by whom thou art surrounded, in contemplating

The gayest, happiest attitude of things.

If thou art now scanning our present number, with no other object than to detect errors and expose omissions; if thou art pre-determined to censure, be pleased to defer a further examination, until thou art more disposed to view the "_favourable side of things_:" when this is the case, the editors will be delighted to pay the most respectful attention to any judicious suggestions, promotive of improvement, either in the plan or conduct of this Miscellany.

If thou art placed in the truly responsible situation of head of a family, thy children and domestics, if thy deportment convey to them the beautiful moral lesson, afforded by a uniform contemplation of the "_favourable side of things_," will derive from it the most substantial advantages. Domestic happiness is of such an exquisite and sensitive organization, that it cannot endure, no not for a moment, the scowling visage of harshness or discord.

In the ordinary daily intercourse of life, nothing conduces more to smooth the rugged path of existence, than urbanity and mutual indulgence. We are so constituted, that the influence of our conduct, whether exemplary or otherwise, is powerful on that of those with whom we associate. It should, therefore, be our object to cultivate the habit of viewing, on all occasions, the most "_favourable side of things_."

Opinion is so much the child of education, of association, and of other adventitious causes, that it is next to impossible to find two individuals, whose sentiments on all subjects are perfectly coincident. In politics, and on a subject which is infinitely more important, religion itself, different sentiments as to minor points are no doubt _honestly_ entertained. Let us, therefore, avoid impugning the motives of those from whom we differ, particularly where no conclusive evidence appears as to the absence of integrity of intention, with an eye of charity. Let us in this instance, also, contemplate the most "_favourable side of things_."

When overtaken by adverse circumstances, we are too prone, without hesitation, to assume the privilege of complaint and to infer that we are indeed peculiarly unfortunate. But how frequently have incidents of this character been subsequently ascertained to be blessings, although disguised in the most repulsive form.--When they occur, instead of being overwhelmed with despondency, it is wise to dwell on the more "_favourable side of things_."

When public measures receive the sanction of the civil government, which are deemed destructive to the best interests of the nation, and in utter hostility to every principle of morality and religion,--disheartening as the fact may be, this consolation still remains to the humble and sincere believer in the superintendence of an overruling Providence, that truth and virtue will eventually be signally triumphant. This cheering conviction, where there is a consciousness of duty faithfully performed, will gild with radiance the most gloomy prospect. The present is emphatically the season of genial feelings, and nothing imparts a livelier relish for its beauties, than that amiable temper of mind which on all occasions delights to dwell on the most "_favourable side of things_."

FOR THE RURAL MAGAZINE.

THE VILLAGE TEACHER.

The three great periods of life have each their natural and appropriate characteristic. The eager expectation, the buoyant hope and elastic energy, which lend their own joyous brilliancy to every object around them, and build in the unknown future so fair and beautiful a fabric of happiness, last not beyond the period of youth. The anxious brow, the cold and untrusting prudence, which succeed, but too surely indicate how many of our fairy visions have become dim in the reality; while the steady industry and calculating foresight with which manhood pursues more practical and perhaps grovelling objects, stamp upon it a peculiar character of strength, and seriousness, and sternness. As this relaxes in the course of years, our ability and inclination for active pursuits give way; and as the termination of our journey is approached, the hope of future distinction ceases, and we naturally fill up the void which is thus left in the mind, by a retrospect of our past actions.--Thus it is that the seasons of life, like those of the year, are each most beautiful in its own proper adornings, and that there is none more delightful or endearing than reverend age. The long experience which has tried the worthlessness of so many empty and vanishing hopes, and which can pronounce with certainty respecting that which remaineth; the knowledge of those past events, that form the link as it were between us and history, and which not only aids us in deciphering the past, but is endued with a prophetic gift; the attempered zeal, the tranquil repose of the passions, so finely and happily compared to the decline of day--impart their pure and elevated feelings to the mind of the beholder.

It is in such society that youth may best learn to prune the luxuriance of its hopes, and manhood to elevate its views beyond the narrow scene of action where they now expatiate. It is in age that the noble instinct of immortality is most conspicuous, that we feel most surely that the horizon of this life cannot bound our mental vision. The consolations of youth and manhood may have no higher source than in surrounding objects--in love, or friendship, or ambition; but age is dead to these impulses, and must be reanimated and warmed by the influences of the life which is to come.

Such an old age is that of my friend Parmenio. He has survived nearly all the companions of his childhood, and seen successive generations swept away before him. After a life of useful and honourable enterprise, he has retired to end his days in our little hamlet amidst the scenes of his earliest youth. He has dandled on his knee the fathers of many who now look up to him for counsel and friendship, yet is there no supercilious air of dignity or reserve about him. His placid eye bespeaks the serenity of his soul, and the hope which abideth there; and though you see in his sprightliness and activity the energy of his earlier life, it is most happily blended with the meekness and tranquillity of age. He wears away his remaining years in the social converse of his children and their friends, and looks forward to his close without fear or anxiety.

I often meet him in my solitary evening walks, and we usually finish them together. We were loitering one evening on the brow of the hill which overlooks the course of a beautiful stream that flows at a small distance from the village, and marking the glories of an autumnal sunset.--"The sands," said he, "are fast ebbing in my glass, and I feel that my allotted days are but few. I have past a life of bustling activity, and seen a thousand forms of hope and happiness rise and vanish before me. They have all vanished--all, but that which is centered in heaven. I am not a votary of that vain philosophy which would pronounce all things to be vanity; yet could my voice be heard by the myriads of human beings who are wasting the sinews of life in the pursuit of wealth and power, I would warn them, from my own experience, that happiness is not in these things. Were I to guide the course of a young person, I would bid him extend this view, from the first, beyond the horizon of this world. I would tell him of the utter emptiness of all human distinctions. I would bid him pursue his avocations as a means only of health and support, and of invigorating his mind. I would turn his feet from the paths of fame and wealth, to those of retirement and privacy, and would there feed his soul with immortal contemplations. Thus would I fit him to ennoble his youth, to preserve his manhood unspotted, and to enjoy his age. How many events are there in the course of my own life, which I would now give the world to have prevented--duties undone, labour misapplied, talents wasted, feelings perverted; and all from sharing in the delusions to which the world around me is a victim. In how many events which I once thought were accidents or misfortunes, do I now trace an invisible hand, guiding me against my will, and pointing to that path of unostentatious virtue which He delights to bless. These things, however, cannot be recalled; and as yonder sun, after a cold and cloudy career, is setting at last in serene and tranquil beauty, and throwing his own glorious hues upon the clouds which darkened his mid-day splendour; so do I feel that my latter days are peaceful, and that the lights of experience and wisdom, though late, are yet illuminating my past errors, and enabling me to point them out as beacons and waymarks to those that surround me."

_Extract of a Letter from William Coxe, Esq. on the Cultivation of the Sugar Maple._

BURLINGTON, March 7th, 1820.

DEAR SIR--I understand that you have been directing your attention to the Sugar Maple, in the belief that it will be found an advantageous substitute for the several varieties of poplars, as a useful as well as ornamental tree; and that you are desirous of obtaining any information respecting its culture, or properties, that I may be able to communicate.

I have for some time been convinced that none of the poplars would prove a beneficial kind of timber to our farmers, from their disposition to extend their roots, and propagate suckers at a great distance, and from the offensive cotton which is produced by the Athenian and Georgia varieties--and I have made many experiments in the hope of discovering a tree, valuable for its timber, and clean and ornamental in its foliage, which could be propagated by seedlings. Among others, I planted the Sugar Maple and am happy to find it one of the hardiest and handsomest trees, even on the light sandy soil around my house; capable of withstanding the severity of the drought of the last and preceding summers, the most intense that are recollected in our country. Of eighteen trees I lost but two, while the native chesnuts, raised from the nut, all perished; and little better success was experienced in a variety of trees planted on the same ground, such as the pine, sycamore, larch, spruce, &c. The American elm is thought to be a hardy tree, but with me it proved less so than the sugar maple. It is generally believed that all the varieties of the maple require a damp soil: this is the case with several of them, but the _acer saccharum_ flourishes in a loamy wheat soil, in many districts of our western and northern country. The facility by which it may be propagated from the seed, renders its diffusion through our country, to any extent, very easy and cheap.

Few of our native trees are more useful for fuel, and the manufacture of potash; and as the means of affording a great and almost inexhaustible supply of sugar, it becomes an object of great importance, even to the farmer, who is desirous of transmitting a valuable inheritance to his children. It is my intention to plant this tree in the place of a line of the Athenian poplars, which I have been obliged to cut down after eight years luxuriant growth, from their injurious effect on the adjoining fields, by the extension of their roots to sixty and seventy feet, throwing up a little forest of suckers.

_Treatise on Agriculture._

SECT. III.

Theory of Vegetation.

3d. Of _air_, and its agency in vegetation:

A seed deprived of air will not germinate; and a plant placed under an exhausted receiver, will soon perish. Even in a close and badly ventilated garden, vegetables indicate their situation; they are sickly in appearance, and vapid in taste.--These facts sufficiently shew the general utility of air to vegetation: but this _air_ is not now the simple and elementary body, that the ancient chymist described it to be. Priestly first,[1] and Lavoisier after him, analyzed it, and found, that when pure, it consisted of about 70 parts of azote, 27 of oxygen, and 2 of carbonic acid. In its ordinary (or impure) state, it is loaded with foreign and light bodies; such as mineral, animal and vegetable vapours, the seeds of plants, and the eggs of insects, &c. Is it to this _aggregate_, that vegetation owes the services rendered to it by air? And if not, to _how many_, and to _which_, of its regular constituents, are we to ascribe them? This inquiry will form the subject of the present article.

[1] See Priestly's Experiments and Observations on different kinds of Air, begun in 1767.

All vegetables in a state of decomposition, give _azote_; and some of them (cabbages, radishes, &c.) give it in great quantity. This abundance, combined with the fact, that vegetation is always vigorous in the neighbourhood of dead animal matter, led to the opinion, that azote contributed largely to the growth of plants: but experiments, more exactly made and often repeated, disprove this opinion, and shew that in any quantity it is unnecessary, and that in a certain proportion it is fatal to vegetation.

In _hydrogen gas_, plants are found to be variously affected, according to their local situation; if inhabitants of mountains, they soon perish--if of plains, they shew a constant debility--but if of marshy grounds, their growth is not impeded.

_Carbonic acid_ is formed and given out during the process of fermentation, putrefaction, respiration, &c. and makes 28 parts out of 100 of atmospheric air. It is composed (according to Davy) of oxygen and carbon, in the proportion of 34 of the former to 13 of the latter. It combines freely with many different bodies; animals and vegetables are almost entirely composed of it; for the _coal_ which they give, on combustion, is but _carbon_ united to a little oxygen, &c.--Priestly was the first to discover, that plants _absorbed carbonic acid_; and Ingenhouse, Sennebier, and De Sausure have proved, that _it_ is their _principal aliment_. Indeed the great consumption made of it, cannot be explained by any natural process, excepting that of vegetation. On this head, we cannot do better than digest the experiments of these chymists into a few distinct propositions:[2]

[2] Recherches chemiques sur la vegetation, chap. ii.

1. In pure carbonic acid gas, seeds will swell, but not germinate. 2. United with water, this gas hastens vegetation. 3. Air containing more than one twelfth part of its volume of carbonic acid, is most favourable to vegetation. 4. Turf, or other carbonaceous earth, which contains much carbonic acid, is unfavourable to vegetation until it has been exposed to the action of atmospheric air, or of lime, &c. 5. If slacked lime be applied to a plant, its growth will be impaired, until the lime shall have recovered the carbonic acid it lost by calcination. 6. Plants kept in an artificial atmosphere, and charged with carbonic acid, yield, on combustion, more of that acid than plants of the same kind and weight growing in atmospheric air. 7. When plants are exposed to air and sunshine, the carbonic acid of the atmosphere is consumed, and a portion of oxygen left in its place. If new supplies of carbonic acid be given to the air, the same result follows; whence it has been concluded, that air furnishes carbonic acid to the plant, and the plant furnishes oxygen to the air.--This double function of absorption and respiration, is performed by the green leaves of plants.[3] 8. Carbon is to vegetation, what oxygen is to animal life; it gives support by purifying the liquids, and rendering the solids more compact.

[3] This was a discovery of Sennebier.

4th. Of _light_, _heat_, and _electricity_, and their agency in vegetation:

When deprived of light, plants are pale, lax and dropsical; restored to it, they recover their colour, consistency and odour. If a plant be placed in a cellar, into which is admitted a small portion of light through a window or cranny, thither the plant directs its growth, and even acquires an unnatural length in its attempt to reach it.[4] These facts admitted, no one can doubt the agency of light in vegetation; but in relation to this agency, various opinions exist; one, that light enters vegetable matter, and combines with it; another, that it makes no part either of the vegetable or of its aliment, but directly influences substances which are alimentary;[5] and a third, that besides the last effect, it stimulates the organs of plants to the exercise of their natural functions.[6]

[4] It is by a knowledge of this fact, that gardeners bleach chicony and cellery, &c.

[5] See Fourcroy, vol. viii.

[6] See Chaptal on vegetation.

Without doing more than state these opinions, we proceed to offer the results of many experiments on this subject. 1st. That _in the dark_, no oxygen is produced, nor any carbonic acid absorbed; on the contrary, oxygen is absorbed and carbonic acid produced. 2d. That plants exposed to _light_, produce oxygen gas in water. 3d. That _light_ is essential to vegetable transpiration; as this process never takes place during the _night_, but is copious during the _day_; and, 4th. That plants raised _in the dark_, abound in watery and saccharine juices--but are deficient in woody fibre, oil, and resins; whence it is concluded, that saccharine compounds are formed in the _night_, and oil, resins, &c. in the _day_.

When the weather is at or below the freezing point, the sap of plants remains suspended and hardened in the albumum;[7] but on the application of _heat_, whether naturally or artificially excited, this sap is rendered fluid, is put into motion, and the buds begin to swell. Under the same impulse, through the medium of the earth, the roots open their pores, receive nutritive juices, and carry them to the heart of the plant. The leaves, being now developed, begin and continue the exercise of their functions, till winter again, in the economy of nature, suspends the operations of the machine. Nor is its action confined to the circulation of vegetable juices. Without vapour (its legitimate offspring) the fountain and the shower would be unknown--nor would the great processes of animal and vegetable fermentation and decomposition go on. Without rain or other means ameliorating the soil, what would be the aspect of the globe? what the state of vegetation? what the situation of man?

[7] Knight's Observations, &c.

The diffusion of _electrical_ matter, found in the air and in all other substances, furnishes a presumption, that it is an efficient agent in vegetation. Nollet and others have thought that, artificially employed, it favoured the germination of seeds and the growth of plants; and Mr. Davy "found, that corn sprouted more rapidly in water, _positively_ electrified by the voltaic battery, than in water _negatively_ electrified."[8] These opinions have not escaped contradiction, and _we_ do not profess to decide where doctors disagree.

[8] Davy's Elements.

5th. Of _stable yard manures_, _lime_, _marl_, and _gypsum_, and their agency in vegetation:

We have already said, that vegetables in the last stage of decomposition, yield a black or brown powder, which Mr. Davy calls "_a peculiar extractive matter, of fertilizing quality_," and which the chymists of France have denominated _terreau_. This vegetable residuum is the simple mean employed by nature to re-establish that principle of fertility in the soil, which the wants of man and other animals are constantly drawing from it. It was first analyzed by Hassenfratz, who found it to contain an oily, extractive and carbonaceous matter, charged with hydrogen; the acetates and benzoates of potash, lime and ammoniac; the sulphates and muriates of potash, and a soupy substance, previously noticed by Bergman.--Among other properties (and which shows its combustible character) is that of absorbing, from atmospheric air, its oxygen, and leaving it only azote. This was discovered by Ingenhouse, who, with De Sausure and Bracconnet, pursued the subject by many new and interesting experiments, the result of which is--

1. That the oxygen thus absorbed, deprives the terreau of part of its carbon, which it renders soluble and converts into mucilage; and

2. That the carbonic acid, formed in the process, combines with the mucilage, and with it is absorbed by the roots of plants.

If we put a plant and a quantity of slacked lime under the same receiver, the plant will perish; because the lime will take from the atmospheric air all the carbonic acid it contains, and thus _starve_ the plant. Vegetables, placed near heaps of lime in the open air, suffer from the same cause and in the same way; but though lime, in _large_ quantities, destroys vegetation, in _small_ quantities it renders vegetation more vigorous. Its action is of two kinds--mechanical and chymical; the first is a mere division of the soil by an interposition between its parts; the second, the faculty of rendering soluble vegetable matter, and reducing it to the condition of terreau.

The _mechanical_ agency ascribed to lime, belongs also to _marle_ and to _ashes_, and in an equal degree--but their _chymical_ operation, though similar, is less.[9]