10 Qu. (52) By Mr. John Rowell, Farnley Wood, near Huddersfield.
The prussic acid is capable of combining with potash, and forming a salt exceeding prone to decomposition. But this proneness to decomposition is done away with by adding a quantity of iron dissolved in an acid. In this case how does the iron operate?
11 Qu. (45) By Mr. W. Allen, Burstwick. It is well known that the rainbow is produced by the reflection of the sun's rays upon the drops of falling rain; may we not, therefore, suppose that its appearance was equally as common before the flood as now? if so, in what sense are we to understand it as a pledge that the world shall be no more destroyed by water?
12 Qu. (46) By Mr. J. V. Oldrid, Boston.
Carpenters sometimes slit the large beams for warehouses, &c. down the middle, and after turning one half so that its ends shall be reversed, bolt both together again with screw-bolts: they then say the beam is stronger than before. They also say, that if the beam be cut down the middle, and bolted together again exactly as it was before, that it will be stronger for the operation. Is this a fact? if it be, how is it to be accounted for?
"WHY, neighbour! whither in such speed?
You've something strange to tell :"
"Bad tidings I have heard, indeed;
You know the river's swell
The foot-bridge hid from all our eyes,
And last night, ere the moon did rise,
Poor Martin Cooper there was drown'd;
As yet his body is not found!"
The cottage-women who thus came,
Where thick the willows grew,
Dar'd not the Lord's high will to blame,
But down the dale they flew :
The dewy cowslip's little flowers,
Scarce older than the morning's hours,
Lost all their sweets, their yellow pride,
And 'neath their swift oppressors died.
The blackbird in the leafy thorn,
Proud of his mellow strain,
Seem'd to enjoy the sunny morn,
Then paus'd and sang again;
But spread his wings, and hush'd his note,
While fear compress'd his little throat,
As quick the peasants took their way,
And brush'd the cluster'd sweets of May.
O, London ladies! I have seen
Your eyes compassion show,
While they por❜d o'er some tragic scene,
Or army's overthrow:
And ye have swept the drops away;
But if, that instant, brisk with play,
Your kittens gamboll'd on the floor,
Ye aped their tricks, and wept no more.
But these rude creatures of the wild
By fashion unrefin'd,
Shed tears as fast as any child;-
What foolishness of mind!
To mourn for one so very poor,
To sigh that Martin was no more:
By whom was Martin known, I pray?
He toil'd for eighteen-pence a day.
Soon came they to the cottage door
Of him who late was drown'd,
And cold with grief, upon the floor,
The dead man's widow found:
"Take comfort, neighbour;" oft they said;
They softly rais'd her throbbing head,
And clasp'd a heart they fear'd would break;
And heard-"I can no comfort take!"
The pomp and loftiness of speech,
So often misapply'd,
These cottage-women ne'er could reach;
They wept and deeply sigh'd:
And when poor Hannah, in despair,
Swept from her face her loosen'd hair,
And glar'd the eye of misery,
Oh, Hannah, how they look'd at thee!
She told them neither joy nor peace
Her breast would enter more;
They whisper'd "hope!"—she murmur'd," cease!"
And closer press'd the floor:
She spoke of Martin's heart and mind;
Where should she such another find!
And what remain'd to sweeten life,
Or soothe the woes of Martin's wife!
A pattering in the garden then
Was heard, she rais'd her head,
And saw a troop of village men,
Mute bearers of the dead.
Swoln with the draft by fate impos'd,
With purple lips, and eyes half clos'd,
He seem'd to fix a senseless stare
On Hannah, once his tenderest care!
But little of the scenic art
To this poor wretch was known;
No feign'd distress she could impart,
Her feelings were her own.
With shiv'ring hand she touch'd his cheek,
And, lost to reason, bade him speak:
And while she held the dead man's head,
"Oh, Lord of Heaven!" was all she said.
She saw him in his coffin laid,
And to the church-yard went;
There many a matron, youth, and maid,
The sigh of sorrow sent
To God who knew them all sincere;
Poor Hannah totter'd o'er the bier,
Clasping her hands in strong despair,
And scarcely heard the farewell prayer.
The earth on Martin's bones was pil'd,
The green turf closely laid;
As yet the flowers of summer smil❜d
In garden, dell, and glade;
And some that were not over gay,
By Hannah soon were borne away,
Affection's tribute to the dead,
And planted near his feet and head.
And many a statue has been rais'd
O'er many a noble's tomb,
And many a selfish bard has prais'd
His worth, and mourn'd his doom:
O, sculptor, poet, lucky heir!
Could nature lay your bosoms bare,
No, not a hundredth part you'd show
Of this poor woman's artless woe.
Her real grief she could not vent
In strains of elegy;
Her sighs were towards the church-yard sent;
She never saw the tree
Beneath whose green and crowded boughs
She once had listen'd to the vows
Of rustic love, but peace would fly,
And sorrow fill her faded eye.
Now, when the sexton threw the earth
O'er Martin's bones, his wife
Knew that, ere long, she must give birth
To one she'd given life:
And soon the helpless stranger came,
A female, Amy was its name;
And Hannah hop'd the child would prove
The worthiest object of her love.
The babe was fair, the babe was strong,
But why not smile and cry?
It heeded not the nurse's song;
And something in its eye
Seem'd to the widow strange. With tears
She listen'd to her neighbours' fears,
And grew, with sorrow, almost wild-
The mother of an idiot child!
The shaft of death half pierc'd her heart,
When first the truth she found;
She almost wish'd the failing dart
Had made a mortal wound :
And sometimes, with a strange despair,
She'd sit, and on the infant stare,
But neither start, nor suffering cry,
Could move to sense the idiot's eye!
"I grieve, poor babel that thou art thus!"
The wretched woman said;
"But may my dear Creator's curse
Hang on my sinful head,
If e'er my love for thee decay,
If e'er I slight thee night or day,
Or words of hate, or anger, speak
To one so senseless, one so weak!"
The mother ne'er forgot her vow,
The idiot was her joy!
She gave it many a blossom'd bough,
She gave it many a toy ;
And hardly toil'd each year away,
Though summer shed its sweltering ray;
Though winter's blasts were loud and wild,
Her care was still the harmless child.
It grew, e'en as existence, dear
To the poor parent's heart;
Oft would she drop a tender tear,
And oft a smile impart,
As idiot Amy toss'd the flowers,
Or on the green turf pass'd her hours,
Talking unwisely to each bird,
Whose sad or merry notes she heard.
Oh, pity that a girl so fair
Should have no strength of mind!
Look in her face, the rose is there;
Her tresses on the wind
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