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LOUIS JOHN RUDOLPH AGASSIZ died Sunday evening, December 14, 1873, and there is no one in this country whose death will be more deeply mourned, either as that of a private citizen or of a man of science. Professor Agassiz, of Huguenot descent, was born in the parish of Mottier, near Lake Neufchatel, Switzerland, on May 28, 1807. His lineal ancestors, for six generations, were clergymen; his mother was the daughter of a physician, and to her his early education is due. While quite young he evinced a taste for scientific study, which he developed by attending the College...
...death of a man of science is a great loss at any time; that of Agassiz, just at the present, particularly so. Preferring to see for himself, rather than accept the statements of others, he spent much time in critical observation, and was preparing to record the results of his extensive researches for the benefit of the world. He felt this to be his solemn duty, and asserted the same recently in one of his lectures, and also remarked, that, although willing and ready to give information to any asking it, he yet desired that his time should...
...beginning their literary career, who as yet are not confirmed in any style. If the writer is really a poet, his talent will show itself in whatever he writes. His poetry will be genuine, and his prose will be improved by his poetical thoughts. On the other hand, a man who is not a born poet may write good prose, but his verse will be verse and nothing more; for the talents which enable him to succeed in the former are quite different from those necessary for success in the latter. He had better, then, confine himself to efforts...
...steamer, English bottom, long, low, rakish hull, B. No. 3. Interrupted by pistol-boom from quarter-deck, we weigh anchor (4000 lbs., more or less). We lend a hand, which is blistered. Observe mysterious stranger sorting papers in the shadow of a warehouse. Freshman fires, does not drop his man, - no cap, and proper position of cartridge reversed. Our native land, good night! (Byron...
Last Morning. - Band of Imperialists in the distance. Man with sombrero advances, apparently waving flag of truce. On his approach - can it be? - we recognize our ancient enemy of New York. He carries papers in his hand. We are scared, but unintimidated. Get him inside the intrenchment; stamp on him. Examine his papers, - O shame! they are tracts. Swear thus to treat all invaders of the free soil of Cuba. Mysterious stranger says it is n't Cuba, it's Patchoughe, Long Island, and he 's a colporteur, and we are children of wrath. Band (three men and a reporter...