The quicksilver column in my Torricellian tube, that faithful glassy oracle, rests at 29.95 inches—motionless as the carved griffins on the parapet. No trembling, no sudden leap or fall; the barometer…
With the waning of August, the gloom which hath so long enshrouded the navigation of the Lower Danube is dispelled by the most ingenious employment of oil-lamp beacon towers along the accursed gorge k…
The morning air, though touched by the sun's pale gold, carries a chill that seems to seep from the very bones of the mountains. A light mist, like the ghost of a forgotten river, clings to the lower …
A crystalline silence, as of a frozen cathedral, has settled upon the high crags; the sky, unburdened by cloud (barely six percent veiled), is a vast, black sapphire set with the cold, indifferent fir…
By the hand of our transatlantic correspondent, we receive intelligence most curious and edifying from the city of Philadelphia, in the United States of America. It is there that Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, …
The quicksilver within its glass prison has sunk to 29.72 inches, a profound and disquieting fall that sets the teeth of this observer on edge. The brass-bound dial, with its delicate needle, trembles…