Drowning. The following is a letter by Admiral Beaufort, to Dr. Wollaston, in the Memoirs of Sir John Barrow, just published in London: Many years ago, when I was a younster on board one of his Majesty's ships, in Portsmouth harbor, after sculling out in a very small boat, I was endeavouring to fasten her alongside the ship to one of the scuttle-rings; in foolish eagerness I stepped upon the gunwale, the boat of course upset, and I fell into the water, and not knowing how to swim, all my efforts to lay hold either of the boat or the floating sculls were fruitless. The transaction had not been observed by the sentinel on the gangway, and therefore it was not till the tide had drifted me some distance astern of the ship that a man in the foretop saw me splashing in the water, and gave the alarm. The first lieutenant instantly and gallantly jumped overboard, the carpenter followed his example, and the gunner hastened into a boat and pulled after them. "With the violent but vain attempts to make myself heard, I had swallowed much water; I was soon exhausted by my struggles, and before any relief reached me I had sunk below the surface; all hope had fled, all exertions ceased, and I felt that was drowning. "So far these facts were either partially remembered after my recovery, or sup plied by those who had lately witnessed the scene for during an interval of such agitation a drowning person is too much occupied in catching at every passing straw, or too much absorbed by alternate hope and despair, to mark the succession of events very accurately. Not so, however, with the facts which immediately ensued; my mind had then undergone the sudden revolution which appeared to you so remarkable; and all the circumstances of which are now as vividly fresh in my memory as if they had occurred but yesterday. "From the moment that all exertions had ceased-which I imagine was the immediate consequence of complete suf focation—a calm feeling of the most perfect tranquility superseded the previous tumultuous sensations-it might be called apathy, certainly not resignation, for drowning no longer appeared to me an evil-1 no longer thought of being rescued, nor was I in any bodily pain. On the contrary, my sensations were now of rather a pleasurable cast, partaking of that dull but contented sort of feeling which precedes the sleep produced by fatigue. Though the senses were thus deadened, not so the mind; its activity seemed to be invigorated, in a ratio which defies all description-for thought rose after thought with a rapidity of succession that is not only indescribable, but probably inconceivable, by any one who has not himself been in a similar situation. The course of those thoughts I can even now in a great measure retrace --the event which had just taken placethe awkwardness that had produced it— the bustle it must have occasioned (for I had observed two persons jump from the chain)-the effect it would have on a most affectionate father-the manner in which he would disclose it to the rest of the family-and a thousand other circumstances minutely associated with home, were the first serious reflections that occurred. They took then a wider range, our last cruise, a former voyage, and shipwreck, my school, the progress I had made there, and the time I had misspent, and even all my boyish pursuits and adventures. Thus, travelling backwards, every past incident of my life seemed to glance across my recollection in retrograde succession; not, however, in mere outline, as here stated, but the picture filled up with every minute and collate. ral feature; in short, the whole period. of my existence seemed to be placed before me in a kind of panoramic review, and each act of it seemed to be accompanied by a consciousness of right or wrong, or by some reflection on its cause or its consequences; indeed, many trifling events which had been long forgotten then crowded into my imagination, and with the character of recent familiarity. "May not this be some indication of the almost infinite power of memory with which we may awaken in another world, and thus be compelled to contemplate our past lives? Or might it not in some degree warrant the inference, that death is only a change or modification of our existence, in which there is no real pause or interruption? But, however that may be, one circumstance was highly remarkable; that the innumerable ideas which flashed into my mind were all retrospective; yet I had been religiously brought up; my hopes and fears of the next world had lost nothing of their early strength, and at any other period intense interest and awful anxiety would have been excited by the mere probability that I was floating on the threshold of eternity; yet at that inexplicable moment, when I had a full conviction that I had already crossed that threshold, not a single thought wandered into the future-I was wrapt entirely in the past. "The length of time that was occupied by this deluge of ideas, or rather the shortness of time into which they were condensed, I cannot now state with precision, yet certainly two minutes could not have elapsed from the moment of suffocation to that of my being hauled up. "The strength of the flood tide made it expedient to pull the boat at once to another ship, where I uuderwent the usual vulgar process of emptying the water by letting my head hang downwards, then bleeding, chafing, and even administering gin; but my submersion had been really so brief, that, according to the account of lookers on, I was very quickly restored to animation. "My feelings while life was returning were the reverse in every point of those which have been described above. One single but confused idea-a miserable belief that I was drowning-dwelt upon my mind, instead of the multitude of clear and definite ideas which had recently rushed through it; helpless anxiety, a kind of continuous nightmare seemed to press heavily on every sense, and to prevent the formation of any one distinct thought, and it was with difficulty that I became convinced that I was really alive. Again, instead of being absolutely free from all bodily pain, as in my drowning state, I was now tortured by pain all over me; and though I have been since wounded in several places, and have often submitted to severe surgical discipline, yet my sufferings were at that time far greater; at least, in general distress. On one occasion I was shot in the lungs, and after lying on the deck at night for some hours bleeding from other wounds, I at length fainted. Now, as I felt sure that the wound in the lungs was mortal, it will appear obvious that the overwhelming sensation which accompanies fainting must have produced a perfect conviction that I was then in the act of dying. Yet nothing in the least resembling the ope rations of my mind when drowning then took place; and when I began to recover, I returned to a clear conception of my real state." AGRICULTURAL. Long Island Lands. Long Island, which forms the southeastern portion of the state of New York, extends from Fort Hamilton, at the Narrows, to Montauk Point, a distance of about 140 miles. Its breadth, as far east as Greenport, a distance of about one hundred miles, varies from 12 to 20 miles, beyond which it is much less. The whole island embraces an area of 960,000 acres, or 1,500 square miles. A ridge, or chain of hills, commonly known as the "Green-Mountains," or "Back-bone" of the island, commences at New Utrecht, in the county of King's, and, extends with occasional interruptions and depressions, to Oyster-Pond Point, in the county of Suffolk. A branch of this ridge diverges from Smithtown, and continues along the south branch of the island to Montauk Point. Some of these hills, which are usually of a round-backed form, without any approximation to regularity, often present, within a short distance, elevations and depressions of one hundred feet, and in some instances approach an elevation of three or four hundred feet above the level of the sea. Among these hills there frequently occur bowl-shaped hollows, in which water collects, and for the want of a ready outlet, is formed into marshes, "pond-holes," or small lakes. The surface of the island north of the dividing ridge is generally rough and broken, with the exception of the necks and points of land which stretch into the Sound. These, for the most part, are level or undulating in their surface, and comprise some of the best farms the island affords. Southward of the backbone, or ridge, the surface is even, and slopes almost insensibly to the eye from the hills to the ocean. On both sides of the island are numerous streams, fed from springs emerging from the higher hills, which, after subserving the purposes of irrigating the soil, or turning mills, discharge themselves into the bays or Sound. Along the south side of the island is an inland bay, about 70 miles in length, and from two to five miles wide, in and adjoining which are extensive tracts of salt-marsh and islands of meadow, that annually produce immense crops of grass. The beach that separates this bay from the ocean is composed almost entirely of sand, which in some places is drifted into hillocks of fantastic shapes, while in others it is low, flat, and scarcely rising above the level of the tide. This beach, at some points, is nearly half a mile in width; and, like almost the entire south shore of Long Island, produces but little vegetation except here and there a few straggling cedars, or a clump of beachplums (Prunus maritima), to diversify the scene. The northern part of the island, including the dividing ridge, is well supplied with thrifty and growing wood, identical with that of the adjacent forests on the main land; but in travelling from Jamaica to Farmingdale, on the railroad, we pass through a vast tract of land, estimated to contain 17,000 acres, commonly known by the name of "Hempstead Plains," which, save now and then a cultivated spot, presents neither shrub nor tree, with the exception of a few scruboaks, three or four feet high, and occasionally a patch of stagger-bush, or killcalf (Andromeda mariana), to relieve the eye. The latter is so called, from a popular notion that it produces in lambs and calves which feed upon it, in the spring or early summer, the disease called the staggers; but its injurious qualities are doubted by many, and even those who believe in its poisonous effects in the spring, admit that it may be eaten with impunity later in the season. These plains, or prairies, it would seem have remained in a similar condition as at present beyond the memory of man, and have ever attracted attention as a great natural curiosity, from the first discovery of the country. From an exceedingly rare work, published in 1670, entitled "A Brief Description of New York, formerly called New Netherlands, with the places thereunto adjoining," by Daniel Denton, we extract the following: "Towards the middle of Long-Island, lyeth a plain sixteen miles long and four broad, upon which plain grows very fine grass, that makes exceeding good Hay, and is very good pasture for sheep or other Cattel; where you shall find neither stick nor stone to hinder the Horse heels, or endanger them in their Races, and once a year the best Horses in the Island are brought hither to try their swiftness, and the swiftest rewarded with a silver Cup, two being Annually procured for that purpose. There are two or three other small plains of about a mile square, which are no small benefit to those Towns which enjoy them." The grass above referred to, was doubtless the forked beard-grass (Andropogon furcatus), also sometimes called Indian grass, which is common in many parts of the United States, particularly where the soil is sandy, and is sparingly produced on these plains at the present day. We have seen specimens of it growing there of a height of four or five feet, and have been informed, that, in its green, succulent state, it is eagerly sought after by cattle, and affords a nourishing bite. From the circumstance that it will grow upon the poorer class of soils, and being a tender, juicy plant, of a rapid growth, its culture is worthy of a trial for soiling cows. The Rev. A. Burnaby, who travelled through the Middle Colonies in 1759, describes these prairies as "between twenty and thirty miles long, and four or five broad; and says there was not a tree then growing upon them, "and it is asserted," says he, "that there never were any." In progressing eastward from these plains to near the head of Peconic Bay, a vast tract of land is passed through, principally overgrown with bear or scruboak (Quercus ilicifolia,) dwarf chestnutoak (Quercus prinus chinquapin), and black or pitch-pine (Pinus rigida). The former abounds in the Middle and Northern States, and is usually found in particular districts where the soil is very thin, growing in compact masses, which are traversed with difficulty, though no higher than the waist. It does not ordinarily exceed a height of three or four feet; but in favorable situations, where the soil is more deep and fertile, it frequently attains double these dimensions. It is seldom found insulated, or mingled with other trees or shrubs in a dense forest; but generally in tracts of many hundred acres in extent, which it covers almost exclusively, its uniformity being broken only by a few specimens of low whortle-berries, dwarf chestnut-oaks, and scrubby pitch-pines. [American Agriculturist. POETRY. Thine is the Power. Who stern commands the mighty seas Through endless space to roll and shine? Great God! the power alone is thine. Who checks the torrent's sweeping ire, Or gems the streamlet's waves with light; Who gilds the sky with lightning fire, Or wraps it in the veil of night? 'Tis God himself! his works confess The love, his power would e'er impart; Whose heavenly fingers friendly press The beating pulse of Nature's heart! Whose powerful will created man, And breathed on him immortal breath, Till every wondering sense began To wake from its chaotic death? 'Twas God! to whom all power belongs, To whom all creatures still must bend, To whom all prayer and sacred song, On heavenly wings, to heaven ascend. [Selected. FREE OF POSTAGE-Volume IV. for 1848, will be sent in monthly numbers, of 48 pages, for $2 a year, in advance, FREE OF POSTAGE.--Valuable seeds sent to subscribers. Volumes sent everywhere by mail, free of postage.-Volumes i. ii. and iii., will be sent to all parts of the Union, by mail, for $2,25 each, (single or otherwise,) without expense of postage, neatly bound in paper, and ready for binding in any style, which can be done by a country binder; or, vols. i. ii. and iii., în paper as above, and vol. iv. monthly, for $8. Or the same three volumes in paper, will be delivered in New York, for $2 each. Distribution of Seeds.-Much has been done by this paper to promote the cultivation of useful and ornamental plants. 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