TERMS OF THE GLOBE.
Per annum in advance
Six months
Three niontliß
A failure to notify a discontinuance at tho'expiriation of
the term fiubscribed for will he considered a new engage
ment.
TERMS OF ADVERTISING.
1 insertion. 2 do. 3 do.
Four linettior less, $ 25 $ 37% $. 50
One square, (12 lines,) 50 75 1 00
Two squares, 1 00 1 50 2 00
Three squares, 1 50 2 23 3 00
Over three week and less than three months, 25 cents
per square for'each insertion.
3 months. 6 months. 12 months.
Six. lines or less, . $1 50 $3 00 - $5 00
Ono square, 3 00 5 00 7 00
Two squares, 5 00 8 00 10 00
Three squares, 7 00 10 00 15 00
Four squares, 9 00 13 00 ' 7 O 00
Half a column, 12 00 16 00 0 4 00
One column, 20 00 30 00 50 00
Professional and Business Cards not exceeding four lines,
ono year, $3 00
Administrators' and Executors' Notices, $1 75
Advertisements not marked with the number of inser
tions desired, will be continued till forbid and charged ac
cording to these terms.
GOODS! NEW GOODS!!
. D. P. CrWL'N''S CHEAP STORE
D. I'. GWIN has just returned from Philadelphia with
the largest and most beautiful assortmeuit of
- SPRING AND SUMMER GOODS
Ever brought to Huntingdon. Consisting of the most
fashionable Dress Goods for Ladies and Gentlemen; Black
and Fancy Silks, all Wool Delaines, color:.) Spring De
lains, Braize Delanes, Braizes,
all
colors; Debaize, Levella
Cloth, Alpacca, Plain and Silk Warp, Printed Berages, Bril
liants' Plain and Colored Ginghams, Lawns and Prints of
every description.
Also, a large lot of Dress Trimmings, Fringes, More-An
tique Ribbon, Gimps, Buttons, Braids, Crapes, Ribbons,
Reed and Brass Hoops, Silk and Linen Handkerchiefs, Neck-
Ties, Stocks, Zepher, French Working Cotton, Linen and
Cotton Floss, Tidy Yarn, &c.
Also, the best and cheapest assortment of Collars and
Undersieves in town ; Barred and Plain Jaconet, Mull Mus
lin. Swiss, Plain, Figured and dotted Skirts, Belts, Mar
sallies for Capes, and a variety of White Goods too numer
ous to mention.
SPRING SHAWLS, TUIBET SHAWLS, MANTILLAS, .S.:c
Also, Cloths, Cassimers, Cassincts, K. Jean, Cot. Drills,
Muslins, Tickings. Nankeen, Table Diapers, &c.
Also a large lot of Bonnets, Flats, and Hats, at low pri
ces.
BOOTS and SHOES, the largest and cheapest assortment
in town.
HARDWARE, QUEENSWARE, BUCKETS, CHURN'S,
TUBS, BUTTER. BOWLS, BROOMS, BRUSHES, &c. CAR
PETS and OIL CLOTH. FISH, SALT. SUGAR, COFFEE,
TEA, MOLASSES, and all goods usually kept in a cuuntry
store.
My old customers, and as many new ones as can crowd
its, are respectfully requested to call and examine my goods.
ay All kinds of Country Produce taken iu exchange, at
the Highest Market Prices.
April 21, 1858
.NEW STORE !—NEW GOODS ! !
Fasionan. & IticAICUIZTIVIE having re
opened the METROPOLITAN, formerly known as " Saxton's,"
take pleasure in announcing to their ninny friends, that
they have received a new and well selected Stock of GOODS,
which they feel confident will satisfy the demands of the
public, and will prove unexceptionable in Style and Quality.
The line of Dress Goods embraces Robes
A'Quille, in Organdies, Lawns, Percales. &c., Chaleys, Be
rages, Brilliants, all Wool DeLaines. CraVella, Mohair. Dan
ubian, Tarnise and Lavella Cloths, Deßage Lustres, Alpac
cas, Prints, Ginghaufs, &c.
We have a fine assortment of Summer
Shawls, Mantillas, Dress Trimmings, Fringes, Antique's,
Ribbons, Mitts, Gloves, Gauntlets, Hosiery, Ladies Collars,
Handkerchiefs, Buttons, Floss, Sewing Silk, Whalebones
for Skirts, Reed Hoops, Brass ditto, Skirt Cord, Lc.
Also—Tickings, Osnaburg, Bleached and
Unbleached Musßus, all prices; Colored and White Cam
brics, Barred and Swiss Muslins, Victoria Lawns, Nain
nooks, Tadao'', and many other articles which comprise
the line of WHITE and DOMESTIC GOODS.
We have French Cloths, Fancy Cassimers. Satinets. Jeans,
Tweeds, Cottonades, Linens, Denims and Blue Drills.
Hats, Caps, and Bonnets, of every variety
and Style. Also, a large assortment of all kinds of Straw S
A Good Stock of GROCERIES. HARDWARE, QUEENS
WARE, BOOTS and SHOES, WOOD and WILLOW-WARE,
which will be sold Cheap.
We also deal in PLASTER. FISH, SALT, and all kinds
of GRAINS. and possess facilities in this branch of trade
unequalled by any. , We deliver all packages or pin - eels of
Merchandise free o charge at the Depots of the Broad Top
and Pennsylvania. Railroads'.
COME ONE, COME ALL, and be convinced that the Me
tropolitan is the place to secure fashionable and desirable
goods, disposed of at the lowest sates.
April 14, 1858.
F OR EVERYBODY
TRY THE NEW STORE,
On Hill Street opposite Niles & Dorris' Office
THE BEST
SUGAR and MOLASSES,
COFFEE, TEA and CHOCOLATE,
FLOUR, FISH, SALT and VINEGAR,
CONFECTIONERIES, CIGARS and TOBACCO,
SPICES OF TILE BEST, AND ALL KINDS,
and every other article usually found in a Grocery Store
ALSO— Drugs, Chemicals, Dye Stuffs,
'Paints, Varnishes, Oils and Spts. Turpentine,
Fluid, Alcohol, Glass and Putty,
BEST WINE and BRANDY for medical purposes.
.'ALL TIIE BEST PATENT MEDICINES,
and a large number of articles too numerous to mention.
The public generally will please call and examine for
themselves and learn my prices
Huntingdon, May 25, 1858
HUNTINGDON HOTEL.
The subscriber respectfully announces to his friends
and the public generally, that he has leased that old and
Well established TAVERN STAND, known as the
Halittnydon, House, on the corner of llill and
Charles Street, in the Borough of Huntingdon.— E
He has fitted up the House in such a style as to.,
render it very comfortable fox lodging Strangers and'i:ras
elers.
_
LLIS TABLE will always be stored with the best the sea
son can afford, to suit the tastes and appetites of his guests.
MS BAR will always be filled with Choke Liquors, and
MS STABLE always attended by careful and attentive
Ostlers.
_ .
, i Ire hopes by strict attention to business and a spirit
of accommodation, to merit and receive a liberal share of
public patronage. P. MeA.TEML
May 12, ISsS—ly.
A TTENTION ALL.I
JUST ARRIVED,
A ,I'LENDID STOCK OF BOOTS AND SHOES,
FOR LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,
MISSUS, BOYS AND CHILDREN.
For Men and Boys' Fine Boots, call at
'WESTBROOK'S Boot and Shoe Store,
For Ladies and Misses Gaiters and Shoes, call at
WESTBROOK'S.
For Children's Shoes of all hinds, call at
WESTBROOK'S,
•
For Men and Boys' Coarse Boots and Shoes, call at
WESTBROOK'S,
For Morocco Leather, call at
For any thing you want in my lino,
CALL SOON.
For Ladies' Gaiters at prices from $l.OO to $2.25, call on
Huntingdon, May 5,1558
ALEXANDRIA FOUNDRY ! •
The Alexandria Foundry has been .„
bought by R. C. McGILL, and is in bla.st, ,lit . -7' • -•-
and have all kinds of Castings, Stoves, Ma- ...,,!. — 7:
chines, Plows, Kettles, &c., &c., which he mi / a / ,
will sell at the lowest prices. All kinds WI.. • - - ~,..
of Country Produce and old Metal taken in exchange ibr
Castings, at market prices.
April 7, 1858. R. C. McGILL.
▪ COUNTRY DEALERS can
▪ buy CLOTHING from me in Huntingdon at
WHOLESALE as cheap as they can in the
cities, as I have a wholesale store in Philadelphia.
Huntingdon, Aprill4, 1553. H. ROMAN.
VARNISH ! VARNISH ! !
ALL HINDS, warranted gond, for sale at
MUMS'S Hardware Store,
Huntitigdoa, Pa.
April 28, 1858-tf.
LADIES, ATTENTION !-INly assort-
ment of beautiful dress goods is now open, and ready
11)r inspection. Every article of dress you may desire, can
be found at my store. 1)- P. GWIN.
11 - AR - DWARE!
A Large Stock, just received, and for sale at
• BRICKER'S 3LAMM . OTIL STORE
rrHE MAMMOTH STORE
I .1 - St les of I idles' Dress
RRICKER'S Mammoth Store is'the
e place to get the we rth of your money, in pry Goods,
Hardware, Groceries, &c., &c., &c.
TIOUGLASS & SHERWOOD 'S Pat
enCENtension Skirts, for sale only by
FISHER & MOITTILTRIE,
BUILDERS -
Are requested to can and examine the Hardware,
&c., at BRICICEIt'S MAINIMOTII sTorol.
GROCERIES,
Of the best, always ready for customers, at
S. RItICRER'S MAMMOTH STORE
W.T1.1 A T I
For sale at
.....$1 50
75
D. P. GWIN
S. S. SMITH
WESTBROOK'S..
LEVI WEST ROOK
D. P. GWIN'S
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. XIV.
,ietttt
BETTER THAN THEM ALL.
A moderato share of wealth, is good
To cheer us on our way,
For it has, oftentiines, the power
To make December, May;
And so is beauty, so is health,
Or genius, at our call ;
But a happy, careless, loving, heart,
Is better than them all.
A heart that gathers hope and faith
From every opening flower,
That smiles alike in winter storm
And gentle summer shower;
That blesses God for every good,
Or whether great or small ;
Oh! a happy, hopeful, loving heart,
Is better than them all.
'Tis well to hold the wand of power,
Or wear an honored name,
And blush to hear the mighty world
Re-echo with our fame;
'Tis well, if on our path, the smiles
Of Kings and Nobles fall;
But to have a happy, trusting heart,
Is better than them all.
A heart that with the magic notes
Of music is beguiled;
A heart that loves the pleasant face
Of every little child;
That aideth weakness in distress,
And heareth duty's call;
Oh! such a loving, human heart,
Is better than them
t Let t ,I.orli.
~~R• ~ A i
Dr. Monkton was a physician, and was so
far advanced in fortune and reputation as to
be able to retire for four months every year
into the country, and leave his
,practice and
his patient to be ready fur his return. There
was a very romantic story attached to him,
which looking at his red face, and considering
his precise, old bachelor habits one would
not have suspected. But there was some
thing when one knew him better, which seem
ed to intimate that he might have gone through
trying scenes and hours. It might be fancy
however, for he never said one word on the
subject, and intimate as I have been with
him, I never dared to inquire how much of
the things reported were true, and how much
false.
Tile dale I. alb
young man, and only beginning to make
some little - progress and money in his profes
sion, it was said that the strange chance had
happened to him to revive e apparently
dead body of a subject brought to him, he
knew not whence, for dissection. Whether
this part of the story was really true, or had
been adopted to account for subsequent cir
cumstances, I cannot tell. Certainly it is
that the knowledge and belief of the story
grew up with me, and it was very long before
I thought of doubting it. What• further is
certain, is, that all the few friends he had at
that time remembered a most beautiful wo
man who lived with him, and whom he de
clared to be his wife, but few believed her to
be so. A profound mystery hung over her,
none ever hearing of father or mother, or
former friend of any kind. It was not many
indeed, who had the opportunity of inquiring,
for not above two or three persons were ever
admitted intimately to their house. The
name by which he called her was Umbra.—
Whether it was a fictitious name or real one
he would not say. The report which theSe
persons made of her was that she was exquis
itely lovely ; but as far as intercourse went,
little better than some warm marble to which
Dr. Monkton had given a dose of elixer of
life. The story goes, that, like those Athen
ians who recovered from the plague, all trace
of her former existence had been erased from
her memory by the illness which had con
signed her to the graverand that she retained
neither any recollection of past events, nor,
except the use of language, any trace of
knowledge she might formerly have acquired.
However it might be, that Monkton loved
her better than every clever and learned crea
ture of the earth, and during the years of
their connection he gave his friends the idea
of a man who has onesole interest forever
present to his imagination.
It was about two years after it first became
known that this beautiful shadow inhabited
his house, that a merchant who had a tolera
ble intimate acquaintance with Dr. Monkton,
returned from abroad, and chanced to be,ad
mitted to the presence of its shadowy inmate.
lie seemed wonderfully struck by her, and
afterwards told Dr. Monkton, that if he had
not seen his own wife in the tomb he could
not have believed that she and this beatitiful
creature were the same. Monkton repelled
the idea with indignation for which there
seemed to his friend no cause ;- but the cause,
I suppose was the frightful fear that it was
true. She, however, was wholly unmoved at
the sight-of the young stranger, and this coin
forted Dr. Monkton a little and prevented him
from taking any steps for the absolute exclu
sion'of Provost, for so was the young mer
chant named. Provost, for his part, desired
nothing more than to come to the house fre
quently, and indulge the pleasure lie felt in
looking at the image of one he had lost in the
height of love and - youth; and at last, unlike
any other of their acquaintances, came alone,
and in the morning, and succeeded in getting
admittance to the presence of the mistress of
the house even when the master was absent.
Dr. M. learned this with, some displeasure,
and forbade the .continuance of his visits.
Umbra was willing, nay, seemed glad to con
cur in the prohibition, and Moukton inform
ed
his friend that the arrangnients of his very
small and secluded establishment prevented
him from receiving guests, except when in
vited.
• Ills Mend thought him jealous and acqui
esced ; but it,excited rather than discouraged
him, and he sought every occasion to elude
prohibition. A few days after it had been
given, he made some pretest for calling in the
evening, and succeeded in establishing him-
.
. A .
.tri•
•
self in the little drawing room. Here he en
deavored to talk' to the lovely shadow more
than was the custom of Monkton's guests.—
It was necessary for him to bear the chief
burden of the conversation, for he got few
words from her and almost fewer looks ; and
in order to keep conversation alive, he told
anecdotes and described scenes to which she
gave a mere passive attention.
"I was walking,". said he, "with only one
person along the dge of the cliff I have de
scribed to you. The.sea was many hundred
feet below us ; the precipice went clear down
to its brink. On a sudden a great layer •of
rock seemed to unjoint itself from the rest,
and a rent yawned between the ledge we stood
on, and the main mass of the mountain. My
companion sprang into my arms. I feel her
now."
"Oh, no, no I" cried-Umbra. "That is a
dream, I know it is a dream. Don't speak ;
but is it not a dreari ?"
At Umbra's voice, at her most unusual
manner, Dr. Monkton started up, and he ran
to her,
and received her in his open arms.
"Oh, Monkton, I cannot bear to hear any
one else speak of that dream. It seems to be
come real again. Vis foot slipped on the very
edge !"
"0, God ! who told you that?" cried Pro
vost, in the most vehement agitation.
She looked up, and full at him, when she
heard these tones of his voice, screamed aloud
and shrank into Monkton's bosom, pressing
her hands on her forehead, Provost was no
less agitated. lle would have seized heir
band, but she turned away from him with
such agony of fear, that life seemed unable
to support it, and gathering herself closer
into Monkton's bosom, she fainted like one
dead.
He carried her from the room, and would
suffer no one to hear the words of reviving
consciousness from her lips. But from this
moment be could no longer repress the idea
that Umbra had been the wife of the man.
Yet he did not allow it to separate her inter
ests from his. The grave itself had given
her to him. He had devoted all the affection
of his soul to her. Any right to claim her
by an other he cast oft' as a weak pretence,
which, if she should urge, would be more
proof that she loved another better than she
did him.
This was the idea people said haunted him,
and, in the fury of his jealousy and his love,
he made it the sole question between himself
and Umbra. She, in the meantime, with
purer instincts, saw the same idea very differ
ently. With her it was a wandering notion
fwhich terrified her like a phantom. Her love
or .trionkton nun ausort,eu. e% cry fteelt that
remained to her, and - What ever' nkeYnlireu
with it was terrible to her imagination.—
When a dark and doubtful sense of duty,
then came between her and him it was re
pelled by all the efforts of her will. And yet
at times it seemed to overshadow her in a
shape which she was not able to drive away.
She was frightened at herself when happi
est in his presence, and be was vehement
with her in proportion to his adoration and
jealousy.
Provost, in the meantime, bacame aware of
the misery which had grown up in the house
of his friend, and he knew that he himself
was the cause. The extreme beauty of UM
bra and her resemblance to his wife, moved
him strongly to compassion and interest; and
firmly believing that she was not the wife of
Monkton, he felt but little scruple, when he
learned how she was now treated, in endeav
oring to induce her voluntarily to quit her
present home for his. A horrible wavering
notion seems to have possessed her that Pro
vost had a right to command her to do so.—
Then, again, she lust sight of it, and a vague
idea that she was to be east off by Monkton
darkened her imagination.
When Monkton learned from her own lips
the struggle she was enduring, the last hold
upon his passion gave way. They broke that
hour over their boundaries and spread their
own ruin among them. In his madness he
himself hurried from the house, and led
her to, Provost's door. There he furiously
rang, and hearing somebody running to open
it, he started away like the wind, and rush
ing into his own desolate home, locked him
self In his room, and neither answered nor
summoned the frightened servant who beheld
his return.
It was a winter night of tempest,, but there
was no fire nor light in Monkton' room.—
lie was not heard to stir from the moment he
entered it; and the servant who once or twice
knocked timidly, was fain to retire at last,
and conceal her fears for her master in her
still greater' awe for him. Morning came ;
and she once more tried to obtain an answer,
but all was silent within his room. After a
few moments, however, she had forgotten her
awe of him, on beholding an ol t ject of still
greater. She screamed his name in a voice
which prevailed over his passions. It made
him spring up, unbolt the lock, and the door
was thrust open as he did so by the trembling
servant. She dragged him to the step of the
entrance, and there lay the dead body of
Umbra, frozen to death. No doubt she had
not attempted to enter, since ho had driven
her away, and had sat down and died on the
steps. Monkton took her up in his arms,
and for three days never loosed the dead body
not though the dreadful. taint of corruption
spread over it. At the end of three days his
brain reeled, his strength wavered. his arm
in spite of himself, gave way to force ; she
was-taken from him, and he sank into a stu
por, from which it was long before he recov
ered.
A short outbreak of remorse followed, and
then he shut up her name in silence as pro
found as the grave that a second time held
her. .11 - e made no confident; -he gave no-de
tail. One journey he took as soon as he was
released from the restraint to which his tem
porary alienation of reason had reduced him,
and at that time he was to much absorbed
in his own feelings to care whether he was
observed or not. They thought he intended
to open the tomb of Umbra, and see her with
his own eyes in her last resting place. They
watched him but he did not go there. lie
went to the vault where the wife of Provost
was recorded - on the marble slab to lie, and
HUNTINGDON, PA., OCTOBER 6, 1858.
-PERSEVERE.-
caused the lid of the coffin to be lifted which
bore her name. The lid was lifted and the
coffin was empty.
lainttr ito Oarbliter.
A View of Farming
[From Correspondence of Country Gentleman.]
There are two essentials of good farming;
give me these, and I ask not the scientific
knowledge—l will make farming a paying,
a profitable business: a good soil and plenty
of manure. These are what the common
sense farmer wants, and this is what the sci
entific farmer says you must have. Now,
where is the difference ? Both meet on the
same ground, and the common-sense farmer
must give up, or the scientific farmer must.
Give me a farm with a good soil, or give me
manure, and I will make a good soil ; and
with these I can make a good farm, and
farming a profitable occupation, with no help
from science or book knowledge. Ido not
mean by this, to wholly condemn "book"
farming. I only wish to say, that in some
cases, the one may be as good as the other—
practice on the one hand, and - theory on the
other. That knowledge which the farmer
obtains from books being the record of ex
perience, is the only book knowledge that I
give much credit to. If Mr. A. understands
doing a piece of work better than I do, let
him publish his method in some agricultural
journal. If farmer B. has universally raised
excellent crops of wheat or corn, by following
a plan which he has proved to be of great
benefit to the production of the crop, let him
furnish his statements of the operation for
an agricultural journal. In such records,
you obtain the information desired. That
man must be a poor farmer and unworthy
the name, who pursues farming as an occu
pation for a series of years, without discover
ing any new mode, or thinking out any new
plan in relation to the management of his
business, or as to the means of making it a
more productive and better paying occupa
tion. The farmer who does this, is as worthy
the name, as the man who first spends four
hundred dollars and three or four years time,
and then goes to farming to find out what he
could have done before, had he but entered
into it with a lively, earnest disposition, to
make it a study and an occupation for life.
Capital is a fine thing in conducting a
farm, but it is what but few of our New Eng
land fanners possess. That man ought not
to be praised for his good farming, who has
ample means .tA his command to carry on his
mnnii cn
much as the one who farms it on a smaller
scale, doing the work with his own hands,
and, perhaps, to as much profit as the other.
But, although capital is good, it is not
wholly necessary. If a farmer has not the
means to purchase guano, he must manufac
ture it on his own farm. If he cannot tin
; derdrain, he must ditch. My neighbor, Mr.
Winslow, deserves more credit in the man
' agement of his farm of twenty acres, than
my other neighbor, Mrs. Wheeler, in con
ducting her estate of five hundred acres.—
The former has no capital but his farm and
labor; the latter has money and means at
her command.
The common-sense idea of farming, should
not be passed over in silence by our scienti
fic men ; they should give some credit to the
fact, that a great proportion of our farmers
yet condemn scientific farming, and this, too,
not without cause. Scientific men, them
selves, must admit that there are good prac
tical armers who manage their farms—not
according to scientific principles, nor to the
rules laid down in works on agriculture—but
according to the good and true principles
which they have acquired, during a long life
of actual service on the farms they cultivate.
They manage their farms in accordance with
good judgment, sound reason, and practical
knowledge. What they know by reality and
observation, by close thought and real expe
rience, they do not want scientific men to tell
them, and what will make a good farmer if
this will not ? Let our agricultural journals I
circulate knowledge and information, in re
gard to this, the most noble occupation of
man ; but let it be such information, as the
great mass of farmers want ; let it come
from practical, common-sense farmers, and
reach such ones ; for, as yet, there are thou
sands who think nothing of science as applied
to agriculture. Let men of intelligence, far
mers of thought and experience, contribute
largely for our farming journals, and then
we may hope to do something to elevate the
profession. We do not want the slip-shod
communications of such writers, as say that
a neighbor's cow was killed by drinking -a
pail-full of slop ; neither do we need the
deep, studied treatise of some scientific pro
fessor ; but plain, practical, careful state
ments, the records of experience of the best
farmers of our whole country. Too much of
our agricultural literature is simply theory,
mere opinion; away Wiih this; give us facts.
Three ways for obtaining the desired in
formation in regard to practical farming, oc
cur to me at_ present. I. By observation :
this includes the practiceof having our eyes
open, and when viewing an improvement on
our neighbor's premises, to see if we cannot
adopt the same course ; thus, one man in a
neighborhood builds a cellar under his barn
or sheds, for the protection of his manure,
and to afford an opportunity to make larger
quantities of dressing; another farmer sees
the benefits of this, and at once builds sheds
for the same. One man carts out swamp
muck, and 'puts it in his hog-house ; another
neighbor, noticing the good effects of the in
crease of his manure, consequently begins to
use muck to manufacture manure. By ob
servation, good principles are to be used, and
bad ones avoided. 2. The establishment of
Farmers' Clubs, in every town, village, rural
district, and neighborhood, where farmers
can meet, once a week, during the winter
season, exchange opinions, confer statements,
obtain
. new thoughts, and adopt the best
method of husbandry. 3. By papers and pe
riodicals, giving the results of the observa
tions and experiments of practical farmers.
—S. L. BOARDMAN. Brookdalc Farm, Me.
As we shall soon be in the midst of the
season for preserving grapes for winter use,
the following method, communicated to the
American Agriculturist, by Charles Camp
bell, of Aurora, Cayuga county, N. Y., may
be interesting to many of our reader's, who
have the article in abundance:
"When they are fully ripe, suspend the
basket by a strap or cord passed around the
neck, thereby giving liberty to both bands
for picking ; with one hand hold the cluster,
and with the other, remove it from the vine ;
remove from the clusters all unripe and de
cayed fruit, and deposit them in the basket
until it is filled. I use a market basket that
will hold. about half a bushel. Carry the
grapes thus gathered, to the place for pack
ing. I use boxes,
_about two feet square, by
six inches deep, in the clear, with covers
made to fit tight. In packing, lay--a news
paper on the bottom of the box, then a layer
of grapes; then a paper and second layer of
grapes, which, when closely packed, fills the
box; set in some dry, airy place, with the
cover off, and let the box remain open for
ten days, or until the sweating process is
past; then close the box and set them in the
fruit-room, cellar or garret, any place where
they will not freeze, or which is not extreme
ly damp.
Grapes packed as above directed, will open
at any time during the winter or spring fol
lowing, as fresh as when packed. The only
secret or mystery is, that, the moisture which
spoils the fruit, when packed in saw-dust
and other absorbents, passes off during the
ten days that the box remains open, instead
of being absorbed, and ultimately moulding
and spoiling them. So perfect has been my
success, that I have more confidence in the
preservation of the grape, than any other
fruit. I use shallow boxes for packing
grapes, that the moisture may more readily
escape, and that the first layer in the bottom
may not be crushed by the weight above."
-.t• Corn may be transplanted as success
fully as cabbage plants, and it is proposed
by some who have tried the experiment, to
raise the plants in frames or hot-beds, and
set them out as early as the weather will
permit. It is said, that in this way, "roast
ing ears" may be several weeks earlier in
the season than by planting in the usual
way. It is also recommended to fill va
cancies in the fields as commonly planted,
by taking up plants from hills having too
many stalks, and placing them in the hills
which have none _
SAVING SEEDS.—Be careful to save vegeta
ble seeds as fast as they ripen ; put them
away dry, in a dry place, safe from rats and
mice, and each kind distinctly labled.
The theme of our voluntary actions, all
that we do from morning to night of every
day, is without doubt intrusted to our con
trol. No power, without our consent, can
share the monarchy of this realm, or con
strain us to lift a hand or speak a word,
when Resolution bids us be still and silent.
And from our inmost consciousness we do
kr ow that, whatever we will, we can
make ourselves execute whatever we ap
prove, and strangle in its birth whatever
we abhor. To-morrow morning, if you
choose to take up a spirit of suc power,
yoii may rise like a soul without a past ;
for the future as an Adam untempted yet;
disengaged from the manifold evil of wil
ling usage, any with every link of guilty
habit shaken off. I know indeed that you
will not; that no man ever will ; but the
hindrance is with yourself alone. 2 1 1;e
coming hours are open yet, pure and spot
less receptacles for whatever you may de
posit there; pledged to no security of
good; neither mortgaged to greedy pas
sion, nor given to generous toil. • There
they lie in non-existence still; ready to be
organized by a creative spirit of beauty,or
made foul with deformity and•waste. *.
Let us startup and live; here come the
moments that cannot be had again ; some
few may yet be filled with imperishable
good.—Martineau.
The richest saint must be, and is, an
humble beggar at grace's door all his days ;
and Christ, the Lord of the house and the
dispenser of the alms; and as the alms is
too good and too — great to be quarreled
with, and never did a believer get any
good by complaining of him. Complain
to him, and pray and ask largely; but still
with faith and patience. Knock at his
door, but stay, and bless him that ever lie
gave you any crumbs of his grace ; mix
your prayers for new wanted graces with
praises for his old dispensed grace. Christ
loveth you, and hath proved it. Believe
it, and bless him for it, and wait .for his
renewing his love to you, and in due time
you will find that he will not only answer,
but outdo Your desires to him; and 'all
your expectations from him.—[Trait.
De — Prayer was not invented ; it was
born with the first sieji, first joy, the first
sorrow of the human heart.
zrr Let us adopt the love of peace, that
Christ may recognize his own, even as we
recognize him to be the teacher of peace.
ECrFaitb—an anchor dropped beyond
the vale of death.
Mau—a bubble on the ocean's rol
ling wave.
Editor and Proprietor.
Preserving Grapes.
BEGINNING A DAY AFRESH.
THE SAINT A BEGGAR..
What ! a swearer pray ? Yes, whether
though thinkest so or not, each of thine
oaths is a prayer—an appeal to the holy
and almighty God, whose name thou dir
est so impiously to take into thy lips.
Aud what is it, thinkest thou, swearer,
that thou dcst call fo-r, when the awful
imprecations damn and damnation, roll so
frequently from thy profane tongue ?
Tremble swearer, while r tell thee l—thy
prayers contains two parts: thou' prayest,
first, that thou inayest be deprived of
eternal happiness; secondly that thou
inayest be plunged into eternal misery,
NO. 15.
When, therefore, thou calles•t for dam
nation dost thou not, in fact, say as"fol
lows : "Oh, God ! thou bast power to
punish me in hell forever, therefore let not
one of my sins be forgiven I Let every
oath that I have sworn, every lie that I
have told, every Sabbath that I have bro
ken, and all the sins- that I have commit
ted, either in thought, word or deed, rise
up in judgement against me, and eternally
condemn me ! Let me never partake of
thy salvation I May my soul and. body be
deprived cf all happines both in this world
and that which is to come. Let me never
enjoy thy favor and thy friendship, and
let me never enter into the kingdom of
heaven."
This is the first of thy prayer. Let us
hear the second.
"Oh God, let me not only be shut out
of heaven, but also shut me up in hell.—
May all the members of my body be tor
tured with inconceivable agony, and all
the powers of my soul tormented with hor
ror and despair, inexpressible and eternal!
Let my dwelling be in thp blackness, and
my companions aecurscU devils ! Pour
down thy hottest anger; execute all thy
wrath and curse upon me; arm and send
forth all thy terrors against me; and fierce,
thy grey, thy fearful indignation rest upon
me! Be mine eternal enemy and plague;
punish and torment me in hell for ever,
and ever, and ever !
Swearer, this is thy prayer ! Oh, dread
ful imprecation ! Oh, horrible! horrible !
most horrible ! Blaspheming man 1 dose
thou like thy petition ?
,Art thou desirous
of eternal torment ? If so, swear on,
swear hard. The more oaths the more .
misery, and perhaps, the sooner thou may
est be in hell. Art thou shocked at this
language ? Dost it harrow up thy sour—
Does the very blood run cold in thy veins?
Art thou convinced of the evil of profane
swearing ? how many times hast thou
blasphemed the God of heaven? how
many times hast thou asked God to:damn
thee in the course of a year, a mouth, a
day; nay, how many times in a single
hour, bast thou called for damnation ?
Art thou not yet in hell? Wonder, 0,
heavens, and be astonished, 0 earth, at
the good and suffering of that God whose
great name swearing persons so often and
so awfully profane ! Swearer, be thank
ful that God has not answered thy prayer,
patience rave' t rhiiMr6f
polluted lips ! Never let him hear anoth
oath from thy* unhallowed tongue, lest
it should be thy last expression upon earth,
and thy swearing prayer should be an
sweared in hell. Oh, let thine oaths be
turned into supplications ! Repent, and
turn to Jesus who died for swearers as
well as for his murderers. And then, oh!
then (though thou mayest have sworn as
ninny oaths as there are "stars in the
heavens, and sands upon the sea-shore in
numerable,") then thou shalt find,, to thy
eternal joy, that there is love enough in
his heart, and merit sufficient in his blood
to pardon thy sins, and save thy soul for
ever.
Swearer! canst thou ever a g ain bias
phonic such a God and Saviour as this?—
i)ocs not thy conscience cry—God forbid!
Even so, Anien.—Britesk Messenger.
A London paper furnishes us with the
following interesting anecdote, which we
wish our young friends would read and
think about. What is said about a six
pence spent daily for one thing that is
useless or hurtful, (strong drink for ex
ample,) may be said of thesame sum spent
for any other hurtful or pernicious thing,
(tobacco for example.)
There is now an old man in an alms
house in Bristol, who states that for sixty
years he spent sixpence a day in drink,
but was never intoxicated.
A gentleman who heard the statement,
was somewhat curious to ascertain how
nuich this sixpence a day, put by every
year, at five Ter cent. compound interest,
would amount to insixty years.
Taking out his pencil he began to cal
culate. Putting down the first year's sa
vings, (three hundred and sixty-five six
penses,) nine pounds sterling, eleven shil
lings and sixpence, he added the interest,
and thus went on from year to year, until
be found in the sixtieth year the sixpence
a day reached the startling sum- of three
thousand two hundred and twenty-five
pounds sterling, nineteen shillings and
six pence. More than fifteen thousand
dollars.
Judge the old man's surprise when told
that had he saved his sixpence a day, and
allowed it to accumulate at compound in
terest, he might now have been worth the
above noble Swill; So that,' instead of ta
king refuge in an almshouse, he • - might
have comforted himself with a house of
his own, costing three thousand dollars,
and fifty acres of land, worth two hundred
and fifty dollars an acre, and have left the
legacy among his, 'children and grand
children, or used it for the - welfare of his
fellow-men.
13e-Diogenes being asked the biting,of
which beast was the most dangerous ? re
plied, "If you mean wild beasts, 'tis the
slanderers; if tame ones, the flatterers."
THE SWEARER'S PRAYERS,
-OR-
His Oath Explained,.
SIXPENCE A DAY.
El