but in Daguerre's process, the image is developed by exposing the plate on which it has been impressed to the vapor of mercury. Mercury combines with metallic silver, but not with the iodide; thus it is deposited over every portion of the plate on which the solar radiations have acted the thickness of the deposit bearing a strict relation to the intensity of chemical effect produced. This picture is also fixed by the use of the hyposulphite of soda; as, indeed, are nearly all varieties of photographic pictures. By modifications, which can not be here detailed, these processes have been greatly increased in sensibility; the result which formerly required twenty minutes being now obtained in as many seconds. A process more sensitive than either of those named has extended photography in a most remarkable manner-this is the collodion process. Collodion is gun-cotton dissolved in ether; to this is added some iodide of potassium dissolved in spirits of wine. This iodized collodion is poured | over a sheet of glass-the ether evaporating leaves a beautiful film on the surface, which, upon the glass being dipped into a solution of nitrate of silver, becomes exquisitely sensitive. This prepared tablet being placed in the camera receives an image almost instantaneously, which is brought out in full vigor by pouring over it a solution of the proto-sulphate of iron or of pyrogallic acid. The exquisite perfection of the collodion pictures, dependent upon the rapidity with which the images are impressed, is mainly due to the peculiar conditions of this singular preparation. By a preparation, in many respects analogous to the collodion, a degree of sensibility far exceed ing any thing which the most sanguine photographist dreamed of in his ardent moments has been obtained. A plate prepared with albumen, iodide of iron, and alcohol, and acetic acid, was placed in a dark room of the Royal Institution in a camera obscura; opposite to it, at the proper focal distance, was a wheel, which was made to revolve many hundred times in a second, and this wheel carried a printed bill upon its face. This rapidly revolving placard was illuminated for a moment by a flash from a Leyden jar. When the prepared plate was examined by means of a developing agent, it was found that, notwithstanding the rapidity with which the image moved over the lens and the transient nature of the light, a picture of the printed bill was clearly formed, with the letters perfect. This was an experiment of Mr. Fox Talbot's, and is perhaps the most remarkable of the many examples of natural magic with which photography has brought us acquainted. It has long been a problem, the solution of which has been anxiously looked for, whether we might hope to obtain pictures in all the beauty of natural color. This has not yet been quite successfully accomplished; but the approaches toward it are so favorable that we may hope, in a few years, to find our photographic pictures colored by the agent which now draws them. That the delicate and fading images of the camera obscura should be permanently secured upon plates of metal and glass, and on paper, was, at one time, beyond the dreams of science. We rejoice in the reality, and Nature herself paints for us the portrait of a friend, or those scenes which are endeared to us by the tenderest and most refined associations. We have now the means of obtaining truthful representations of the pyramids and the tombs of Egypt. The Assyrian Excavation Society have realizations from the pencil of the sunbeam of all that remains of the great monarchies of the east. The traveler in Central America has secured, with his camera, pictures of the wonderful works of the Aztecs and the cotemporary races, of whom we know so little, but whose works remain to speak of a savage grandeur and an advanced state of art, rivaling that which we find in the palace of, Sardanapalus and the temples of the early Pharaohs. The ethnologist rejoices in his collection of portraits from all parts of the world; in his quiet home he is enabled, by the aid of photography, to study the physiognomies of all the races on the face of the earth. The natural philosopher uses the same art to register for him the variations of atmospheric pressure and of the earth's temperature; more than this, the alterations in the magnetic intensity of this terrestrial globe are now faithfully registered by photography. The microscopist makes the light draw for him the details of organization, which it would be impossible for the human hand to trace. The astronomer places a sensitive tablet in his microscope; and not only does the sun draw his own image, but the milder moon traces out for him her mountains and her valleys, her beetling precipices, like old sea-coasts, and her dreadful volcanic craters, large and deep enough to swallow up all England. What, then, may we not expect from photography, with the advance of science? A few years since it was thought that two or three salts of silver and of gold were the only bodies which underwent any remarkable change when exposed to the action of the solar rays. It is now proved that it is not possible to expose any body, whatsoever may be its character, to the action of sunshine without its undergoing a chemical or a mechanical change. For example, take a plate of glass, of metal, of stone, or a surface of leather, or resin-in fact, any organic or inorganic body, and placing a perforated screen above it, expose it for a short time to solar influence; then treating the plate as we do the daguerreotype-exposing it to the vapor of mercury-we shall find a picture of the superposed screen most faithfully made out on the surface; proving thus that it is impossible to expose any substance to sunshine without its undergoing a change; and that constant sunshine would be destructive to the permanence of matter, as now constituted. It has, however, been found that nature has a beautiful provision for restoring the deranged conditions. During darkness, by the action of some peculiar molecular forces, all bodies possess the power of restoring themselves to the state in which they were previously to the destructive action of the sunshine; and as night and repose are required to restore to the animal and vegetable economy the vital forces which have become exhausted by the labors of the day, and the excitements which depend upon light, so are night and darkness required to insure the permanence of the inorganic masses of the earth's surface. Can there be a more beautiful provision than this? The laws by which the eternal Creator works are indeed wonderful and grand; the study of creation's mysterics induces a refinement of the mind, and a holy tranquillity of spirit. No one can arise from reading a page of Nature's mighty volume without feeling himself to be "A wiser and a better man." THE RIGHTS OF THE WOMEN. VE BY A LADY SUBSCRIBER. ERY much has been said of late upon the "rights of woman," and the sphere which she is destined to occupy by Him who has appointed to us our sphere of action. With how much wisdom and discretion all this has been said is left for us to judge. Being myself one of the "weaker sex," and having been called upon to mingle more in active life than usually falls to the lot of woman, perhaps I may be permitted to make a few remarks upon the subject without being considered a traitor to the rights of my own sex, or a designing flatterer of the other. upon woman's wrongs. And some are ready to believe that we are poor, oppressed sufferers. But as the judgment of such becomes more mature, and their minds more strongly fortified by observation and experience, we think they will begin to doubt whether their privileges are quite as much curtailed as they had at first imagined. Then they will also discover that those who raise the hue and cry about woman's rights, are not exactly the persons to render domestic life happy. And, indeed, they may learn at length they have mistaken strong will for strong mind; and that she who boasted of showing her spirit is far more liable to resemble Xantippe than Zoraida. I trust my lady readers will pardon me if my remarks have partaken of bitterness or severity. The fact is-poor, spiritless soul that I am-I feel quite satisfied with matters as they are. Another favorite theme of discussion, is our defective system of education. In many cases there may be cause of complaint upon this score; yet from personal knowledge of many female seminarics I am led to think the evil dwells more in imagination than reality. True, we are not expected to take degrees at college, nor often study any of the learned profession—with due deference to Miss Rev. A. Brown-as a means of support. It is equally true and evident to all, that very many ladies who are expensively attired are also superficially educated. I have often | thought-though this is a secret-that many of our young gentlemen are in precisely the same predicament. On the whole, I am persuaded that if we make good use of our means of education and usefulness, enough is placed within our power; and I leave it to others to sigh for civic honors, or contend with the plowmen or hostlers whether nature designed us to share their vocations and pleasures. For my own part I would recommend to the fair champions of "equal rights," to weigh well the advantages they already possess; to improve the means of knowledge within their reach, and, perhaps, when that is done, they will feel less inclined to envy those whom nature apparently designed to mingle in a more bustling sphere of action. 'Tis true, it often falls to the lot of ladies of high attainments to be treated by the weaker part of the other sex as trifles and playthings; but the buzzing of such insects need not disturb them. As relates to myself, conscious that a wide field of improvement lies stretched before me, I would rather feel that I am surrounded by beings able and willing to lead me forward, than by rival spirits, who are jealous of We hear many who are fond of declaiming me and anxious only to stay my progress. THE BRIDAL. BY MRS. H. C. GARDNER. THE orange wreath trembles Amid thy soft hair; It lovingly fastens The bridal vail there; It shades the white forehead, Thy dark eyes are drooping, I know thou art happy, Or wish that forever My child I could keep? And yet, O, my darling! The spirit of gloom Comes in, as thy presence Goes out from our home! Gay smiles for the bridal! Press back the vain tear! The fond regret stifle, It hath no place here. O, then, in the evening So softly repeating The hush'd chords of day! Or, in the glad morning, To hear thy blithe song White hands scatter roses The proud one beside thee, Goes with thee wherever Thy footsteps shall roveA love that is changeless, That nothing may sever; A love that is deathless, That lasteth forever. WITH THE DEAD. BY M. LOUISA CHITWOOD. WHEN the leaves were growing emerald And a crown of fragrant blossoms When the lark went singing upward To the pale blue sky, And the waters burst from bondage Buttercups and violets meekly There was one I loved beside me- When October's sun-burnt forehead, Leant upon the grave of Summer, Came I 'neath the blighted branches O'er the cottage door; Came I listening for the footsteps "She will never come to you; She is with the dead; Pale young grasses grow above her;" That was all they said. Dead! so were the spring-time flowers So the summer's bloom; I sat down and saw the leaflets Frosted o'er her tomb; I sat there with bitter weeping, Daring to complain: "None like her has ever loved me; None will love again; O to hear her gentle blessing, How my heart hath yearn'd! I had thought that she would meet me First, when I returned." Came there one and sat beside me, That autumnal day, And he told me how she faded Like a rose away; How the tired lids droop'd for slumber; How her cheek grew thin; How she pined to let the angel Death's pale angel in. "Bless'd seraph, free from sorrow, I will rise and look to heaven:" MOUNT OLIVET. HOW BY ANNIE T. SHANE. My mind went quickly back to a bright moonlight night, in a tented grove, three years ago. The songs of praise from hundreds of mingled [OW many overwhelming thoughts come voices, that had been heard at intervals throughsweeping through our minds at the mention out the day, had ceased, and silence reigned of these words! The lonely Mount, that centu- throughout the ground. Within our tent a little ries ago witnessed the most intensely mournful band had gathered, and though the midnight scene that human mind could ever conceive, is hour had passed we lingered in sweet converse. known to every heart. From the little child, Death and eternity were spoken of, and hearts who hears its history Sabbath after Sabbath from throbbed quickly at the thought of how near they his teacher's lips, to the proud man of genius seemed to the spirit-world, and tears fell fast and renown, there is not one to whom these sim- from others' eyes as they remembered those so ple words can not recall the thrilling scene of lately laid to rest. Bending forward, his voice Olivet's lone mount. The last memorable sup- tremulous with emotion, he, whom even then we per with the little band who had followed their deemed almost at home, exclaimed, “Could I loved Master's earthly career, the passing through have my wish, I would die at home within my the silent streets of Jerusalem, by Kedron's mur- mother's arms, my father at my side, my brothers muring waters, through Gethsemane's mournful and my sisters near me, and my last words should shade, even unto the summit of the Mount itself, be, 'I am now ready to be offered, and the time and the last great struggle of that mighty heart, of my departure is at hand; I have fought a good as its anguish and despair breaks forth in the fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the mournful cry, "Father, if it be possible, let this faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown cup pass from me!" then the tramp of many of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous feet that broke the heavy stillness, and the rough judge, shall give me at that day, and not to me voices of the mail-clad warriors, as they sternly only, but to all them also that love his appeardemanded "Jesus of Nazareth;" then closing ing!" And that earnest wish was granted. He round that unresisting form, they led him from lingered far longer than we then deemed possithe lofty summit, down the fertile slope, through | ble, and when at last the summons came it found Gethsemane's still garden, and past Kedron's him with his loved ones round him; and though rippling waves, unto Jerusalem's proud city-the pallid lips could not give utterance to his comes it not all vividly before the mind, the oft- thoughts, we knew that he had "kept the faith," told tale, yet ever strangely new, so thrilling in and the "crown of righteousness" was surely his. its mournful interest! He had left in writing, "that it might comfort his loved ones when he had gone," strong testimony of his unwavering hope and confidence; and as I stood beside that lowly grave, and thought of his pure, blameless life and his holy love, I felt, indeed, "for him to die was gain." My heart dwelt sadly on that by-gone scene, as, a few days ago, I rode slowly through the tall rows of cedars that mark the entrance of our own loved Olivet-the silent city of our cherished dead. It was a bright afternoon, and the lofty monuments and humble gravestones gleamed dazzling white in the rays of the setting sun. The bright flowers that gentle hands had carefully planted, lent additional beauty to the scene, while the wind sighed mournfully through the tall trees, as if breathing a requiem for the slumbering dead. I paused, at length, beside a large inclosure, containing the remains of many of our traveling ministers and their families. There were those who had been cut down in the midst of their extended usefulness; those who had lingered on through many years, till old age palsied the strong nerve and dimmed the glowing eye; and those who, in early life, had been called from their Master's service here to their reward above. Of this latter class was he whose name was engraved on a pure white slab before meHenry Furlong"-" To die is gain." Very near his was another grave, and the name of "Mary Brison" is precious to more hearts than mine, and the various homes that, in life's checkered scenes, were hers, still fondly cherish her sainted memory. She hath watched often by the sick and suffering ones; she hath prayed for the anguished, burdened spirit; she hath wept freely with the sorrowing, rejoiced with the rejoicing, and soothed the dying as they neared the darkened vale of shadows. Humbly, earnestly, and hopefully she trod life's path, bearing patiently the trials of her lot, striving to fulfill her Father's will concerning her, and deserving most entirely the simple words engraven on her tomb, "She did what she could." I wandered on sadly and mournfully, and as I bent above a tiny mound, I thought of the fair boy on whose brief life eight short summers shed their flowery radiance. I had watched him often in his childish sports; I had seen him lingering lovingly beside his mother's knee, and noted the deep, reverent look upon the fair young face when in God's holy house. And though the summons came unexpectedly, death had no terrors for his gentle heart. He spoke comfort to the stricken parents bending over him; told them of his mother's words long months before, "Even my little son is not too young to love God;" that he felt his name was written in the Lamb's book of life; and that his heavenly Father was waiting for him. Each member of the household was thought of, and entreated to meet him in the home above; and those who gathered round that dying boy, and listened to the words of wisdom and instruction that fell so strangely from his lips, felt that religion was indeed all-powerful to save, and that truly "of such was the kingdom of heaven." It seemed almost as the working of a miracle to look upon those tiny hands clasped so triumphantly, the pale face lighted up with glorious brightness, and the faltering voice telling of angel faces bending over him, and the sound of heavenly music from the harps above. O, how can parents ever falter in their arduous task of love, or grow weary in leading their children in the path of Christian duty, when such a scene is to comfort them in the anguished hour of parting; and the consolation that they have trained an immortal spirit for the realms above, and given another angel to the glorious band, can soothe, sustain, and bless! It was the inclosure sacred to our own family band that next I entered, and, O! the many tears that had fallen over the slumberers there! Upon one monument is engraved the name of the sainted grandfather I never knew, but whose memory has been ever fondly reverenced-Rev. Dr. George Roberts. Though years have passed since the bright Sabbath morn that witnessed his departure from earth's trials to heaven's glories, none who lingered in that hallowed room will ever forget the scene they witnessed, and on many lives the impress of his parting words and counsel still remain to purify and bless. In this same sacred spot other of our loved ones are sleeping quietly; yet even in our deepest anguish comes the blessed thought, of all the little band reposing there we have the hope of a coming, glorious reunion. Five times, within the last six months, has the voice of mourning been heard within our home; and the stroke was not less difficult to bear because some died far from us, and others were laid to rest by stranger hands. The first who left us VOL. XV.-16. was the aged saint, who but the previous Sabbath had occupied his usual place in the house of prayer. On his physician's saying, "Father, you will soon be at home now," he replied, "Yes, I have the strongest indication of it, and it will be a blessed home to me. I shall meet those I have loved, and who have gone a little while before me. Glory be to God! Yea, though I walk through the valley and the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." HeavenJesus-angels-praise God!" were often, often repeated when we could not catch the connecting sentences; and the last words he whispered were, "He is here; I see them, I see them;" then, with his hand raised upward, "There they are, there they are." And thus passed away the Rev. Joseph Shane, as pure and gentle a spirit as ever hallowed earth's dwellings. Two short months have hardly flown since was brought unto us a cold and silent form that had left her home a joyous, radiant bride. The cherished idol of her family, the center of a large circle of admiring friends, and the beloved of all who knew her, Death, who, indeed, "loves a shining mark," has, in her removal, brought anguish unto many hearts. Great sweetness of temper, perfect amiability, a well-stored mind, combined with loveliness of person and winning manners, made her a general favorite, and Lizzie Harden's memory will long be cherished in many homes. Sudden was her summons, yet she was well prepared to go, and left kind messages for the absent and the loved. Praise and thanksgiving resounded through the room, and the last whispered words were, Precious Jesus," while those who lingered near gazed awestruck on the glorious beauty of her countenance, and the radiant smile that lingered on the pallid lips, even after the spirit had departed. She died among strangers; but they brought her here to rest with loved ones, and heaven will henceforth seem more precious from the thought that she is there. And, O! how weary would earth's pilgrimage become, and how heavily these frequent partings press upon the spirit, did we not remember the "better land," where no sickness, pain, nor death can ever come, and where no night reigns, "but the Lord shall be our everlasting light." "Yet mourn we not as they Whose spirit's light is quench'd; for them the past All is not here of our beloved and blessed- |