A bitter chill threads through the pine-resin air, sharp as a widow's lament, while the heavy breath of rain-soaked earth rises from the gorge below. The mercury barometer, that quicksilver oracle of …
VIENNA, 14th October 1841. — The morning fog clinging to the spires of St. Stephen's did little to obscure the feverish activity within the Imperial Chancery, where the day's official gazettes were at…
A light mist, born of the valley's cold breath, coils through the ravine where black pines stand like mourners, their needles shivering in a North-Northeast breeze of but four knots—a gentle respirati…
The mercury in my barometer has commenced its slow, treacherous descent—29.84 inches and dwindling—while the thermometer clings to a chill 53°F (12°C, 9.2°R), its dew point lurking at 44°F. A gentle n…
From our overseas correspondent in New York, dated the 13th of October, 1841, we receive intelligence of a most remarkable association lately established in that city. On the eighth day of this month,…
The mercury within its glass throat has ceased its tremulous complaint, standing fast at nine-and-twenty inches and three-hundredths past noon—a steadfastness I have long learned to distrust, for when…