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not answer on lands near salt water. I have also ascertained, that lands both adjoining and at a distance from salt water, contain muriatic acid. There are some farms at Horseneck, adjoining the salt water, on which plaister answers very well. The true cause why plaister is not suited to land near the salt water, yet remains concealed. Professor DAVIE mentions a farm in England to which plaister was very well adapted, but which would not be benefited by sulphurate of lime. I have found soils in this country, which would do either with or without plaister; the sulphurate of lime being contained in each.

Cauliflowers. Instead of cutting off the whole head of a cauliflower, leave a part of the size of a goose-berry, and all the leaves: second, and even third, heads will be formed, and thus they may be eaten for two or three months; when, at present, by cutting the head completely off, the bed of the cauliflowers are gone in two or three weeks. They should be planted in good moist ground and treated in the same manner as celery.

Strawberries.-Laying straw under strawberry plants, keeps the roots moist and the berries clean; and they grow larger with less watering.

Liquors.-To give malt spirit the flavour of good brandy: into two quarts of malt spirit, put three ounces and a half of powdered charcoal, and four ounces of rice; shake it every day for fifteen days, then filter it through paper.

Cows.-Lord Romney has shown that parsnips caused cows to produce abundance of milk, and they eat them as free as they do oil cake.--Land 71. an acre, in Guernsey, is sown with parsnips to feed cattle, and the milk is like cream.

Potatoes.-Potatoes may be produced a month earlier by putting them in a warm place early in the spring, allowing the shoots to grow an inch or two, and then planting them, leaving the shoot nearly above the surface.

Lupenella. The following account of this valuable grass, is contained in a late letter from the secretary of the treasury

of the United States, to the acting governor of Georgia..

I have lately received from our consul at Leghorn in Italy, a paroel of the Lupenella seed, which is represented as the finest grass cultivated in that country, for the quantity and richness of the hay; the preference felt for it by all animals, and its fertilizing effects upon the land in which it is cultivated. In Italy it is sown in March and October--it is cut with a sickle to avoid shaking off the blooms, bound up in bundles of 7lbs, and fed to working beasts without grain, as it is sufficiently nutritive of itself.

Three years cultivation of this grass, enriches the poorest land so much, that two successive and abundant crops of grain are produced without manure.- This is the account which I have received of it from Mr. Appleton), the consul. As it succeeds in Italy, there is every reason to believe that it will succeed in Georgia. The quantity I have sent you, will enable you to furnish several of your acquaintances with enough to put them in stock of it, and thereby multiply the chances of success. It is sown I presume broad cast, but drills will be more productive for seed. I am convinced that when sown for hay it ought to be sown thick, as a certain means of keeping the crab grass under. When it is mowed, it may run some risk of assault from this formidable adversary, but that danger I am persuaded will be diminished by the thickness of the Lupenella.


Unseen by every human eye,
In the recessess of


breast I listened to the syren Hope,

And dreamt my lot past mortals blest

Not thine the fault that this vain heart,

To love thy hallowed self should dare;
For love will dare presume to hope,

Where coward Reason would despair

No niggard share of joys was mine,

In journeying through this vale of tearsYet, cherish'd memory holds not one,

Dear as when Hope o'ertowered my fears-

Yes, Myra, yes, the happiest hours,

I've known on earth, I owe to theeYou taught me Virtue to adore,

You taught me what I ought to be.

And now, when every chance is flown,

When garner'd hopes I must resign I think with pleasure on thee still,

'Twas Virtue's wish, to wish thee mine.

Three anxious years I fondly strove,

Thy heart's sweet confidence to gain
And though no wandering thought I knew,

My recompense was cold disdain.

Then, Fare-thee-well, unfeeling maid!

And every earthly bliss be thineThy worth, Oh! may thy partner know,

His love can never equal mine.

May calm Content thy dwelling make,

Serenely sweet, her blest abode
May Temper, Manners, Feeling, Sense,

Conspire to cheer life's chequer'd road,

And if revolving years should bring,

One sorrow to that bosom dear-
If ingrate Love that heart should wring,

To which I gave Affection's tear,

Oh! grant me Heaven, this fervent prayer,

That in the grave I then may liem My tortured Reason could not bear, Those tears I had not power to dry.

X. Y. 2.


A new pantomine was lately produced at Covent Garden, founded on the name at least of “ Whittington and his cat." The child's story has been strictly adhered to, till the transformation of Whitlington into Harlequin, after which there is the usual train of pursuits, tricks, and escapes, which we expect in this species of drollery. The contriver has made good use of the fashionable taste of a jaunt to Paris, and this affords admirable scope for several humorous exhibitions at Dover, Calais, the gate of St. Denis, the Pont Neuf, and the Boulevard. The following is a neat epigramatic song, which, we think, may be traced to one of the writers of Horace in London.

Now's the time to change our clime,

Commerce shuts his day-book,
Trade forgets his book of debts,

Pleasure opes his play-book.
Age throws off his winter cough,

Gout forgets his flannel;
Small and great at Dover wait,
To cross the British channel.
London now is out of town,

Who in England tarries?
Who can bear to linger there,

When all the world's in Paris?

Lockies, Jews, and parlez-vous,

Courtezans and Quakers,
Players, Peers, and Auctioneers,

Parsons, Undertakers,
Modish airs from Wapping stairs,

Wit from Norton Falgate,
Bagatelle from Clerkenwell,
And elegance from Aldgate.

London now, &c.

City dames the rage inflames,

(They know how to time it) Mrs. Sims is full of whims,

And hates our foggy climate.

Mrs. Grill is very ill,

Nothing can improve her,
Unless she sees, the Thuilleries,
And waddles through the Louvre.

London now, &c.


La! who is that, with monstrous hat,

Her parasol who handles?
'Tis Mrs. Flame, the Borough dame,

Who deals in tallow candles.
Nay, Goody, pray don't turn away,

These Mounseers do not trust 'em,
Whene'er we meet in Tooley-street,
I promise you my custom.

London now, &c.
Prudence chides, Folly guides,

We know which to mind most;
And fairly bid, as Boney did,

The devil take the bindmost!
Thus we dance, through giddy France,

And when we find the fun done,
The piper pay, and march away
With empty purse to London.

London now, &c.


Tommeets his friend, and strait complains
In very sad and doleful strains:

" Ah, Jack, what must I do?
My sweetheart's wed! the seamstress fair;
Eternal grief must be my

You smile-but it's too true!

“But nothing mads me worse than t see
Who the man is she's chang'd for me;

A Barber on my soul!”
“ You fool,” says Jack, “ What makes you mourn?
Pray, whither should the Needle turn

If not unto the Pole?"

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