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Wettrt tong. THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. A sicErron, FROM REAL. LIFE, BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. I " There, sir,—now you have seen him in all his glory. There he is, as .usual. Just look at him. Take a good look, so as not to lose the effect. Half an hour ago I left him in the garden, and told him I wanted the weeds pulled out of that bed as soon as pos sible. Only half an hour, sir ; and look at him now I" This was spoken by Mr. John Howe, a stout farmer, who owned one of the most val uable tracts of land in the neighborhood.— He spoke to 'Squire Warren, who was a wor thy lawyer of the place ; and he spoke of a boy who stood in a distant garden leaning up against a peach tree. The little fellow did not realize that any one was gazing at him, and he seemed to be taking it quite comfort ably. William Alberfon—such was the boy's name—had been left an orphan at an early age. His father, who had once been an in telligent, active man, had become an inebri ate, and died when his son was only a year old. He left nothincr b for his widow to live upon, and she found ahome in the almshouse, where she lived two years, and then died.— Thus at the age of three years, William was left an orphan, and an inmate of the village Almshouse, without any known relatives, and without friends save such as common hu manity gave him. When he was twelve years old, Mr. Bowe agreed to take him and bring him up. He had no sons of his own ; and he made up his mind that if the boy pro ved to be faithful and industrious, he would adopt him as his own. But the farmer had been disappointed.— William proved to be kind and generous to a fault ; but he was not industrious. Ile would not work. He would never accomplish any thing when left alone. He seemed to hate the very sight of work, and would neglect it upon every possible opportunity. Gilbert Warren, Esq., was. one of the over seers of the poor, and he had called to see the boy, touching the complaints which had been made. "It's no use," said Mr. Howe. "He's been with me two years, and I've had a chance to read him thoroughly. There's no work in him,. Pd as lief have: a -block of wood for a boy, exactly." "Then you don't wish to keep him any lon ger ?" said the lawyer. "I can't, 'Squire. It's no use, I tell ye.— He ain't a bit of good to me any way. lle don't earn his salt. But that ain't the worst. The worst of the whole is, it keeps me in a perfect fever all the time. Why, I've fairly had my head ache just seeing; how lazy he was—just in worrying over him. Why, I wouldn't keep him for fivehundred dollars a year. 'Taint the loss I care so much about; but it's as I tell ye,—it makes me suffer to see him." "Have you tried to correct him ?" " Tried!" echoed Howe, with an elevation of the brow, and an accompanying "Umph I" "I guess you'd think so if you'd been here on certain occasions. I used to flog him ; but I found that did no good, and I stopped it. In fact, I never did flog him but I suffered more'n he did. Ile is so good natured, and so hon est; and. then he would beg so, and promise to reform, that it used to pain me to whip him. Lately, I've argued. with him ; I've pointed out to him what a wretched, good-for nothing life he'd lead if he did not pluck up and learn to work. As long as I had. the least hope of there being work in him I bore with him, and tried to overcome his fault ; but I've found now that it ain't in him, and I must give it up." "Let's see; he's fourteen now, isn't he?" "Yes, fourteen last March." For fifteen Minutes the two men stood. and looked at the boy, and during all that time he didn't work two minutes. Ile was called up, and q: came with a tremulous step and down cast eye. "William," spoke the lawyer, "why don't you work better ? When you are left with work to do why don't you do it ?" "I don't know, sir," the boy answered timidly. " Don't know ? Yes, you do know. Now tell me : Why is it?" The lad looked up into .the interlocutor's face. Ile had a clear, warm, gray eye, and a face of more than ordinary beauty. His brow was high and full, and his brain large and active. Mr. Warren was deeply moved by his appearance, and a new set of feelings took possession of him. " Can't you answer me ?" the lawyer add ed, as the boy gazed up into his face, without speaking. " I—l don't want to be a farmer, sir," the little fellow finally . answered. " That's it I" cried Howe, indignantly. He don't - want to do anything that's got work to it. He'll play all day, if you'll let him ; and mope all night over a book. I tell ye, he's got to be made to work." The boy trembled and shrank back. But Mr. Warren was beginning to see a new light breaking in upon he subject. His long term of service in various courts had rendered him, capable of reading character very, readily, and he saw very plainly that William Alborton had an immense force of character somewhere, and he believed it.could be brought out. "What were you doing while leaning up against that tree ?" ho asked of the boy. "I wasn't doing anything, only thinking, sir." "And what were you thinking about ?" don't know as I could tell, sir." "But you can tell me some of it. Tell me as nearly as you can." "Well, sir, I was—l know it was very fool ish, sir, but I could not help ita-r—making a speech, sir." "Makin a-speech I" repeated the farmer, sarcastically. That's what he's alivays do ing. Making a speech! A fine speech you'd WILLIAM LEWIS, VOL. XHT. make!" At this point the hoj - began to cry, and Mr. Warren turned to the farmer, and bade him send the lad to his office the following morning. When William knew that Mr. Howe was going to send him away, he felt very unhappy, for he supposed he should be sent back to the poor house. But he finally consoled himself with the reflection that he could run away. Yet, he was sorry to leave his master and. fa mily. He had been treated very kindly con sidering the circumstances; and he knew that Mr. Howe would like to keep him and make a good man of him. But when he came to think of the work he must do, he had not the courage to try it. He knew he could not work. He had no will for it. It was a double labor for him, for it was a severe task to make up his mind to work. Little Annie Hoive cried all night long, and in the morning she threw her arms about William's neck, and begged him to stay.— She was just of his own age, and a loving, gentle, pretty girl. But her father came, and called her a little fool, and sent her away. That was the hardest struggle for the boy. He had not thought of Anna at first. H.e had forgotten that he would be as a stranger in the household. However it could not be helped, and he blessed her and told her he would come and see her when he was a man. At the appointed time William Alberton made his appearance at the lawyer's office, with his bundle on his back. He sat down, and Mr. Warren began to converse with him. He asked him about his work at the place he had left, and about his health. The lad said the work was hard, but he did not know that it was harder than it would be on any farm. " Must I go back to the poor-house ?" he finally asked, with a shuddering tone. " don't know," returned the law yer, eyeing him thoughtfully. "How would you like to come into my office, and help me?" The boy started up from his seat, and clasped his hands 'quickly together. But in a moment he sank back, murmuring as he did so— "Only to be a servant, you meant, sir !" "Can you write?" " Yes, sir." " Let me see you write a few words." William went to the table at which the lawyer sat, and taking a pen and paper, he wrote a short sentence. Mr. Warren took the paper, and was sur prised at the full, round, easy hand he found there. And the words written were as wor thy of the note as the chirography. The boy had set down as follows: "Ilro man ever ex celled in a pursuit for which he was not suit ed." " If I take you into my dace I shall intend to let you do just that work which you can do best," the lawyer said, after he had exam ined the piece of paper, and what was on it. "Of course you will have to keep the office in order, and help me some at the house; but you will write for me ; and if you wish to be come a lawyer, I will offer you every facility in my power. You shall have every help I can give." The boy caught Mr. Warren's hand, and burst into tears. However, the business was soon settled. A few days after this Mr. Howe came down to the village, and met Mr. Warren in the street. " Al, 'Squire—what's become of the buy ?" the farmer asked. "I've taken him into my office." "What! taken him to keep? Taken him in to work for you ?" t& yes.” " Well—l wish you much, joy of your bar gain. I guess you'll find your work come out scarce—that part tlatt's done." " But my work is different from yours, Mr. Howe." " Ali, but work is work. When he was with me he wouldn't stick to any kind of work. No, no—you needn't flatter yourself up with the idea that you are going to get work out of that boy. Now mind, I tell you. I know him ; and you'll know him before long." The lawyer smiled and passed on. Six months after this Mr. Warren had a fine opportunity to take an office in the adja cent city. Ile conferred with his friends and finally concluded to take it. He moved his family into the city, and William was' thus brought into new scenes and within new in fluences. A cork thrown into the water will rise to the surface. You may hold it down as long as you please, but the moment the extraneous force is removed up it comes. And so it is with the human mind. It must find its level. It will find its position where circumstances are the most. Congenial. You may bend a great, physical .boy, with a dull, sluggish brain, over mental philosophy till his back grows round, but you cannot force his mind o grasp it. And so you may take a, finely organized brain, nervous, full and active, and bend it over coarse, hysical labor, biat you cannot keep it there. The brain which God has fashioned for one thing cannot easi ly be forced to another. So William Alberton could not content himself over his old master's shovel and hoe. His mind would not stay there. .It was away hunting after strange things in the world of thought. But in the lawyer's office that mind had found its level. In copying deeds, and legal instruments of various kinds, and in filling up blanks, and search ing out authorities for the lawyer's use, he found plenty of food for his active mind.-- And with this the manual labor •be had to perform was mere pastime. He needed some bodily exercise for his own good, and hence he performed the work he had to do with speed and precision. At the end of the first year Gilbert War ren came to the conclusion that he had found a treasure in his amishouse boy. And on the other hand, the boy felt that he had found a priceless blessing in his kind, gener ous master. At the - end of the second year William Al berton saw another boy enter the office,- and he accompanied his master to court to take notes and assist in various ways. At the end of the third year William com menced to study law practically and in. ear nest. At the end of the fourth • year the-eminent lawyer and attorney, Gilbert Warren, Esq.; found a valuable counsellor in his own office. When he, came upon a subject which bother ed him, William Alberton could help him over it. For depth of penetration; for clear ness of understanding; for quickness of per ception; and. for power of reasoning, few men excelled the youth who had been four years engaged in striving after knowledge within the lawyer's office. He was known by all the best lawyers of the city, and all respected him. * * * Mr. Howe was growing old, and trouble had come upon him. He was now a widow er, and all his daughters wore married off save the youngest—Anna. She was now three and twenty, and though repeated offers had been made for her hand, yet she remain ed a maiden. She said she would not leave her father. He would be all alone if she were gone, and she could not forsake him. She was a lovely young woman, and many an anxious waiting swain was watching for the old man to die. But trouble had come upon John Howe.— A large part of his farm had been sold off for building lots, and quite a village sprung up around him. The land which remained —nearly a hundred acres—was by far the most valuable portion, and the most pleas antly situated. All that he had received for land already sold he had laid out in beauti fying and arranging what was left; and by this means the eyes of those hunting for pleasant suburban residences were turned towards his lots. His place could have been sold. for a large fortune. He was offered a hundred and ten thousand dollars for it just as it was, after he had cleared off the rocks, and built an acqueduct; but he conferred with his friends, and they advised him to keep it—to sell of good lots to those only who would put up handsome dwellings, and keep a home for himself. But a thunderbolt came crashing upon the old farmer's head. A man came and claim ed the whole.place as his own. lie brought forward his deed, made 'by a former owner of the place, in favor of his (the claimant's) father. Mr. Howe hurried away to his law yer, who was a candid, honest old man, and laid the case before him. Upon searching into the matter it appeared that the place had been actually sold, as stated, and that. said purchaser had never given any deed to any one else. It also appeared that the man of whom Howe had bought, twenty five years before, had no legal claim upon the land.— The man who formerly owned it left it, at his death, in care of a brother, for his son, this brother having been appointed a guar dian of said son. This son was at sea, and there remained for so long a time, that he was supposed to have died. Under these cir cumstances the uncle and guardian sold the estate in his own name, and pocketed the money and left. Howe supposed the title was good, and took no trouble about it furth er than to have it recorded. The man of whom he bought had lived upon the place many years, and he supposed, of course, that he was the proper owner. Thus all this appeared at the present time. The man who claimed the estate was past the middle age—over fifty somewhat—and his name was Benjamin Grumley. Mr. Howe's lawyer saw him, and examined his claim, and he could see no way of avoiding it. After this the old attorney called upon his client to report progress. "It's a hard case," he said. "I don't see how you can help losing your land." "Losing?" repeated Howe, vacantly. "Do you mean the whole? Must I give up all?" "Yes." "All, Mr. Luton? Must all be snacthed from me?" "I don't see how you can help it, returned Luton. "I have examined into the business and it is just as Mr. Grumley has said. He went to sea when he was twelve years old— forty years ago—and sometimes afterwards he received a letter stating that his father was dead, and that his uncle had been ap pointed guardian over him, and had charge of his property. This place was his, and is now. It was only placed in his uncle's hands in trust for him. His father left it to him by will, and his uncle could not sell it." Still Mr. Howo could not believe it. He had known the man of whom he bought, and lie could not believe him a villain. He thought there must be some mistake or some villainy elsewhere. At all events, he resolved to seek other counsel. He remem bered his old friend Warren. He was in the city. He might know something about it. On thevery next morning the old man went into the city and hunted the lawyer up. Mr. Warren was glad to see him, and asked him to sit down. Howe did so, and then told his story. The lawyer listened very at tentively, and seemed to be deeply inter ested. And when his visitor concluded he asked,— "When you bought the place did not Aaron Gramley assure you that he owned it clear of all incumbrances?" " Yes, sir. He said it was his:" " Did he say how he came by it ?" " No, sir. He only said he had it from his brother, who died some years before." " Did he at that time make any mention of his nephew, the son of—his dead broth er 2" "Yes—he said something. He said Ben. Grumley was pNobably dead, and that his father's old partners had quite a sum of money for him if ho should ever return.— But I want you to take hold of this sir, and help me out. If I lose the case I shall have nothing to pay you with; but if I gain it I can reward you handsomely. " be frank with you," replied Warren. " I have neither the time nor the power to go into the subject, for I see very plainly that there has got to be a good deal of search and study. But I know a young lawyer who can clear your claim if any one HUNTINGDON, PA., SEPTEMBER 23, 1857. -PERSEVERE.- can." " Who is he ?" "It is Mr. Alberton." '" o—l've heard of him. He's the one who gained the great corporation case?" " Yes," said Warren. "He took up a poor man's ease against one of the wealthiest cor porations, and against three of our smartest lawyers, and gained his case, too. 'He will take hold for you, I'm sure, and if he does, you may feel very safe." " o—l hope you can get him. Tell him if he can gain my case, I'll pay him any thing." Mr. Warren promised to send him out the very next day, and the old man went home relieved. If •he could get Mr. Alberton to take hold he would feel secure, for such a man would not touch a case in which he did not feel quite confident—and yet Mr. Howe never once dreamed that the young lawyer of whom he heard so much was once his lazy, good-for-nothing alms-house boy. In fact, he had never dwelt upon the name of Alberton, much. He had always called him "Bill," and even when thinking of him he had never gone farther than plain 'William.' It was 'my boy William,'—or Poor-house Bill'---or, perhaps 'Bill Albert.' The poor boy had never, while in his native town, to his recollection been called by his whole true name. So it was not very' surprising that the old.man should have failed to think of his quondam almshouse boy when think inn-l' of " Squire Alberton." At the appointed time the youn g lawyer came out and Mr. Howe was much pleased with his looks. They sat down together and the old man brought out his papers—all he could raise, which had the least bearing upon the subject in band. Mr. Alberton ex amined them, and in the end he told .Howe ho would go on with the case. The old farm er was beside himself with joy. He had not only obtained the services of the best lawyer in that section—best as a hard working, in industrious, indefatigable researcher, and as a cool, clear-headed reasoner—but said law yer had consented to risk his reputation upon the case. The trial finally came on. Benjamin Grum ly was there, with two lawyers, arid he was sure of success. His lawyers had assured him there was no mistake. The plaintiff's leading counsel stated his case with great assurance; but when Alber t= came to open his budget of facts and de ductions the other side looked blank. lie had worked hard and had been very fortu nate. He was able to prove that Aaron Grumly really owned the estate - when ho sold it, though the business between him and his brother had been done in a bun gling, brotherly way. They had traded very much like they would for a horse ; yet it was made perfectly plain that Aaron had bought and that he had paid a fair price for it, his brother only giving him a stated amount of the purchase money as a legacy. The jury had the case in their bands but a few minutes. They saw that the old farm er really and honestly owned the farm, and that other parties had put the plaintiff up to claiming it, for the purpose of shielding themselves—parties who had used money belonging to him. These parties knew - that the business between the two brothers had been very loosely done, and they hoped there might be found some flaw large enough to draw the estate through. at the Jury thought differently. In a very short time they returned with a verdict for the defend ant. Mr. Howe sat in his parlor, and he was very happy. lie was secure in his house, and the fearful storm had passed harmlessly over. Mr. Alberton was announced. The old man grasped him by the hand, and blessed him over and over again. " My daughter must see the man who has saved her - Mine," the old man said, as he arose from his seat. And in a,few moments he returned, lead ing Anna by the hand. She was a beautiful girl,—bright, rosy, healthy, buoyant, with her native goodness shadowed in every linea ment. She advanced, and her father intro duced her. The young lawyer arose and extended his hand. Anna took it, and as she gazed him fairly in the face, she started, and a quick pallor overspread her fair fea tures. "William!" sue uttered, in a low whis per. " Do you remember me Anna ?" he asked, tenderly. "Is it William?" " Yes," he replied, drawing her nearer to him and speaking tremulously ; "I am the once poor boy to whom you were always so kind. You remember me now ?" " Yes yes," the maiden murmured, and then sank into the seat. Mr. Howe was astonished. lie rubbed oeyes, and then gazed into the youth's face ; and finally he started forward and caught his hand. "William!" he cried. "Hy William!— Is it ? Are you my William?" " Yes, my good. friend," the young man answered, with moistened eyes. "I am the very one—the one you took from the poor house, and tried to bring up." "My William ! My William, and I didn't know it 1" the old man cried, still holding him by the hand. But you don't feel hard towards me ?" You don't blame me for the things long agone?" " Tut, tut, don't talk so. You know I could not do that. No, no,—l only have re membered you with gratitude. You did the best for me you could. I was no, more suit ed to your wants than an infant would have been. You did not understand me. I was never meant for a farmer. And hero let me say one word. You may not need tho infor- - mation, but you may find with to whom you can communicate it with profit. It is this: Never keep a boy at a business for which he has no taste or capacity. We are all differently constituted. There are minds which can be no more confined to physical labor than a horse can be taught to write or speak. Different plants and. trees require different climates and soils ; and so different minds require different occupations and en- Editor and Proprietor. gagements. Bring up a child to habits of industry, truth, and economy, and beyond that be sure that he is placed in a position which is congenial to his tastes and feel ings." The old man understood it, and he resolved that he would impart the secret to the first one he should meet who might need it. Anna had turned very pale, and had grown faint. But she soon recovered ; and before night she sat by William Alberton's side, with her head upon his bosom, and both his arms about her. said—" Anna —you will love me and be my wife l" And she wept, and drew more closely to him and said— yes!, for fly farmer. The followiug seasonable article, which we find in the Country Gentleman, contains some excellent suggestions, which may be valuable just now, if properly considered and. applied. Sometimes a single hint, judicious ly embraced, may be of more value to a far mer than the price of a half dozen years' sub scription to the Huntingdon Globe. There is much difference of opinion and practice among farmers in the management of their corn crops. Some always practice cutting the stalks soon-.after the kernels have become glazed or checked, believing that such a course hastens the ripening of the corn; and the removal of the stalks greatly facilitates the process of harvesting, an that green-cut, well cured cornstalks are much more valuable as winter forage for cattle, than the same would be if left uncut till the corn was fully ripened, as is the practice of some. - We presume this . is a correct idea.— But experiments made some years since, by the lion. W. Clark, of Massachusetts, seem to prove that the number of bushels of corn per acre was very much lessened where the stalks were cut, compared with portions of the field where the corn was not topped, but all left till the corn was fully ripened. By this experiment the loss in grain must have been much greater than the increased value of the green-cut stalks over the perfectly ripened fodder. ,But a difference of ten or twelve days' time in cuting the stalks might make a material difference in the value of the grain. 'We think it the safest way for those farmers that practice "topping" their corn, .to cub.-their - quite late, rather than a few days too soon. Well-cured cornfodder is a valuable winter feed for farm stock, and much care should be exercised in saving_ it in the best possible condition. Many farmers are quite too neg ligent in this matter. We have seen the stalks cut quite green and many days too soon, bound in large bundles and put up in large shock, where it remained during all weathers for weeks, or till the corn was har vested ; heavy winds blew over many of the shocks, and drenching rains thoroughly wet ted them, thus nearly ruining them as fodder. We have seen others cart them directly from the field as soon as bound in bundles, where from want of room and care a large portion of them became mouldy, and nearly rotten and worthless. We know some careful far mers that pursue a different course. They do not top their corn until most of the tops of the spindles are dead, and many of the husks have lost their green color. They cut their stalks in fair weather, bind them in small bundles, cart them to the barns, and place the bundles astride of poles extending from beam to beam across the barn Boor. Here they dry without heating or growing mouldy. If they have not room enough over the barn floor, they make use of hovels or sheds, in curing them. Those that practice this meth od think they . are fully compensated for all extra labor, in the enhanced value of the fod der. Many farmers prefer letting the crop stand till the grains are principally glazed, and then cutting all near the surface of the ground, and shocking in the field, letting it remain there till dry enough for husking. Some contend the corn ripens as well as if left upon the separate hills. The fodder, as a whole is thought to be worth much more cured by this method, than by any other process.— The crop, when thus cut up and shocked is placed beyond injury from frost—a matter of ranch consequence some years. There is but little if anything gained by cutting and shocking corn after it has been stricken by frost. In cutting up •the corn as soon as fairly glazed, the fields can be cleared in sea son for sowing winter wheat or rye—some times a matter of much consequence. Some contend the soundest and heaviest corn can only be grown by letting "nature take its course," that is, let the whole plant remain uncut till the corn is "dead ripe."— This course probably may insure the greatest weight of corn per acre, if the autumn is fa vorable to its perfect maturing. We have more than once pursued this course, but found the labor of harvesting much greater, and thought the fodder less valuable. Seasons vary so much, and the circumstan ces of farmers differ so greatly, (to say no thing of their prejudices,) that it would be idle for any one to attempt to point out the one best Way—or rather, to say there was but one best way under all circumstances.— From vresent appearances, and the informa tion within our reach, we think it may be pretty safely predicted, that over a wide range of our country, this is not destined to be a great corn year. A large part of the growing corn is too late to fully mature, un less we have an unusually warm September and October, a circumstance hardly to be expected. Therefore it will probably be the safer course for most farmers to cut up and shock their corn as soon as it will any way an swer, that is, if it can he done before receiving much injury from frost; by so donig they may save much in the value of fodder, and much corn would ripen in the shock that would be nearly ruined by frost. We have several times seen corn put up, and tied in moderately sized bundles and slung across „ . poles over the barn floor, where it has dried -)erfecly, arid the fodder, wits mud; better than it would have been had it .been ,shoelted in the field. We have seen various methods of shocking corn. in the field. Some tipto dozen large bundles into a shoek;'such large stacks do not dry well. Others cut • and stand it around a hill purposely left uncut,--= We have seen corn very safely stooked by only using five bundles to the stookl—one in the centre and one on each of the other sides; a band of rye straw was tightly tied around the whole some four feet from the grethad, and the tops of the stocks bent over and tied down. ” Such. stooks stand better.than larger ones, and also dry much better. Corn when harvested before it is perfectly ripened i and dried in the field, as much of it probably will be the coming . harvest is some times injured)when stored in large quantities in the crib, or the slatted corn house. If dry, windy weather follows after the corn has been cribbed or housed, it generally dries well, but if long continued damp or rainy weather succeeds, the corn is very liable to heat and mould, &c., injuring its mealing qualities. To guard against such a loss, we have known farmers to have a tight box stove in their corn houses, and they kept up a brisk fire a portion of the time during the damp weather, thereby dryin; their corn very fast, and saving it from injury. The labor of manuring, plowing, planting and hoeing an acre of corn, is no trifling job in many situations of the country, and ft should be the aim of the farmer to make the most of this labor, and not cheat himself out of a portion of his work by suffering his corn or corn-fodder to be injured or wasted through negligence or lack of care on his part. NO. 148 WA—Sulphur fed to sheep is pronounced a. certain remedy against the ticks *hich free quently infest, very injuriously, these ani mals. • The greatest objection to thin seeding of wheat, is that the pants tiller and do not ripen so early. In districts affected by, the wheat midge, therefore, sow plenty of seed._ alliyatid-gavnTitsings. Is it true that there are in the world 676,- 000,000 of our fellow creatures *ho are still bowing down to stocks and stones; ignorant of the living and true God; and all this in a time emphatically called " The ago of Mis sions ?" It is true that in our own land the Sabbath is openly, legally desecrated by liquor and other traffic, open railways and excursion parties, with many other habitual customs? It is true that there are every year at least 8,000,000 of quarters of grain used in mail ing spirituous liquors, the bane and curse of the people? Is it true that the issues of the infidel and immoral press are far above the religious; and that while the land is flooded with worthless and immoral publications, and re limious papers are comparatively rarely mot with? And finally, is it true that by fai the greater portion of professingchristians never effectually aid in the work of evangelization save by an occasional subscription or tempo rary effort? Reader, what are yon doing for Christ?-- , You have now entered upon the latter half of tho year_ isit_not icell.to call.yourself to account for the manner in Which you liars spent the first? Have you lived for yourself or your Saviour? Have you got nearer to heaven or nearer to hell than you were at the beginning of the year? Answer to God. and your own conscience in view of the judg ment seat of Christ? A young man in the vigor of health; was thrown from a vehicle, and conveyed to the nearest house, in a state of alarming danger.- A physician was called. The first question of the wounded youth, was, " Sir, must I die? must I die? deceive _me not in this thing." He was told that he could not live more than an hour. He waked up; as it were at once, to a full sense of the dreadful reality. " Must I then go into eternity in an hour? must I appear before my God and. Judge in an hour ? God knows that I have made no preparation for this event. I knew that impenitent youths were sometimes thus cut off suddenly, but it never entered my mind that I was to be one of that number.— And now what shall Idoto be saved f He was told that lie must repent and believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. " But how shall J repent and believe ?" There is no; time to explain the manner. Death will not wait for explanation. The work must be done; The whole business of an immortal being in this probationary life' is now crowded. into one short hour—and that is an hour of mental agony and distraction. Friends Were aroand, and running to and fro in the frenzy of grief. The poor sufferer with a bosom heaving with emotion, and an eye gleaming with despera tion, continued his cry of "'What shall I do to be saved ?" till; in less than an hoer; his voice was hushed' in the stillness of death: Bo' patient with your erring brother, for God is very patient with you, and it is your duty to imitate your Father in Heaven as much as possible. For one or two acts that may be proved to be wrong, do not condemn and cast out forever a beloved brother; You may not understand the whole ease; and if you were faithfully and prayerfully to visit that brother, as Christ has labored with you, he might be saved. We en not always see into the heart, and our judgment would per- , haps be condemned as often as approved by our Saviour. Instead of casting stones at an individual,, we would often, if we knew and felt as Jesus does, sympathizing, say to the erring, "Go and sin no more?' We are call ed upon to exercise not judgment so Hunch aio mercy and love.—.lerenzy Taylor. "I know" says Charming; "but one eleva tion of a human being, and that is Elevation of Soul. Without this, it matters nothing where a man stands, or what he possesses; and with it, he towers, he is one of God's no bility, no matter what place he holds in the social scale. There are not different kinds of dignity for different orders of men, but one and the same to all. The only elevation of a human being, consists in the exercise,' growth, energy of the higher principles and powers of his soul. A bird may be shot up ward by a foreign force, but it raises, in the true sense of the word, only when it spreads its own wings, azi,soars by its own - living power. _So . a man may be thrust upwards in a conspicuous-place'-'by outward accidents, but he rises only so far as he exerts . himself, and expands his best faculties, and ascends by a free effort, to a nobler region of though 4, and action." Ie it True ? Prepare for Death. Do not Condemn Nastily. Human
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers