IMEI BY W. LEWIS. THE HUNTINGDO,N GLOBE, Per annum, in advance, $1 50 44 if not paid in advance, 2 00 No paper discontinued until all arrearages are paid. A failure to notify a discontinuance at the ex piration of the term subscribed for will be con sidered a new engagement. Terms of Adv.ertising• 1 ins.' 2 ins. 3 ins Six lines or less, 25 37i 53 1 square, 16 lines, brevier, 50 75 100 2 fit 1 09 130 2.05 1 50 2 25 300 = 3m. Gm. 12m. " $3 00 $5 00 $8 00 1 square., " 5 00 " 7 50 10 00 15 00 3 it " 9 00 14 00 2.3 00 " 15 00 25 00 38 00 ." 25 00 40 00 60 00 Professional and Burliness Cards not exceed ng 6 lines, one year, 64 00 10 " HOME. BY w: 'WEBSTER CLAFLIN Earth may boast her ruined scenes Of beauty, rich and rare, Her boards of wealth and glitfring gems That spar:file everywhere; But steered by fortune's hand along, hicheVer Way I' roam i • I find no spot so dear to*me As - m . 11,01d cottage home. Ft is net hard lo gather friends Our journeyings to cheer-- Friends for a day, but friends in name Unlike the near and clear, The cherished few . w'ho ciente: round The old ancest'r'al scat, Where, tired of all the od.res of lift, We rest our weary feet. The heart will own'no intercourse With flattering smile and word,' But. turns to a more genial place Where Love's soft tones are heard. A mother's smiles arc not forgot.=- , A father's lessons kind. ,Such love and kindness we may .earch The world in vain to find. 15e,ir home! though I may wanderfar, And traverse htrid nnd sea, Thoulit ever be the dearest spot In this wide wurld to me, I•'ll not forget those cherished The constant and'the irt3L, - Who shared by early cares and jdys, - Thongh o:t.en finding new. MACOLM WARREN : OR, THE OLD MAN'S LESSON, "Malcolm, I wouldn't go out to night.— Coriie,•Stay With me this evening." "Not this - evening, Alice. I have promis ed to meet. some friends this evening, and 1 mast keep my word: I will-be at home in good season." "I had hoped that I should have ycur com pany. Come, why can't you try and bee if I cannot make you as happy as those compan ions whom you are to meet ?. Just this once, Malcolm. 0, this once!'' No, no, Alice, t am' going out'. What— crying Nuw i , what's the use of that Can't a fellow go out oitCe.and awhile with out leavin g a cryilig ife can't help it Malcolm:' But here, kiss me before you go." Thus spoke ,Malcolm Warren and his young wife. Malcolm was a young man, twenty-seven years of age, and e carpenter by trade. His wife was one of the best-dis positioned girls in town, and she made one of the best of wives. She loved her husband with the whole energy of her pure soul, and she knew that she was beloved in heart.— Her two children, a boy and a girl, often saw her shed tears when they were alone with her in- . the snug little sitting-room, arid the boy was old enough to ask what made his mother cry, but she dare not tell him. Malcolm Warren own.e.ci the little cottage in which he lived,- and he had paid for it all, out-of his own hard earnings, .while Alice had borne her share of the burden by pur chasing all the. 'furniture'. Malcolm was stoilt and an excellent - , workman; and he had -never yet seen the hour . when . he needed to y~ idle for the want of work. A better. .hearted youth lived not in the town, and When he took, the gentle Alice for his wife there was many a- fair maiden, whose bosom - gave , place to a kindly, wistful envy. They would not have robbed Alice of her prize, but they only hoped their own lot ,'.might be as fortunate. Why, then, should a cloud come upon that house 1 Why should Alice weep? Ah, for-the same. reason that thousands of our fairest . . daughters weep. For the same reason That hot tears are ever crying out their appeals for mercy—tears that run until they make a - flood that fairly shrieks as it rolls over the land: . Malcolm Warren had a high social nature '—his society was prized by all who could se cure it—and he had been induWing in the false smiles of the wine cup. For -the last year he had been allowing his appetite to gain strength. At first it_was only an "occa sional glass,",then -"a glass or so once irra while," and ten "one or two glassesa day." But lately he had gone so far as to spend his . earnings away from. home, and for nearly two months-Past he had spent alibis money with' his jovial companions.' Alice saw all this, 'and she-knew full' well where it would end if it wereTiOt stopped. - She had whispered to him her fears, and he tried to •laugh them off as idle whims. She had prayed , to him to stop, the fatal career while he had'stringth, but he had been Offended because . she should think that he would ever become a drunkard. So Alice was.afraid to speak all herlears.z—, Yet she saw with a clear eye all that was coating. She saw the broad road upon which her beloved was travelling, and her heart was aching. She knew that even want was staring them in the face! It was au tumn, and she asked Malcolm for money to• buy warmer clothes for herself and children, and he had none to give her. Only a day before, he had brought home a bucket-full of flour instead of sending home a barrel as he used to do, He earned money, and where was it 't Alas!. poor Alice knew too well Malcolm's face,.and she saw that its manly beauty was slowly but surely eaten away.— The large blue eyes' were growing dim, blear ed and bloodshot, the once fair cheeks was becoming swollen and bloated,•and his lips looked dry and cracked - . No wonder she knelt down by her bedside and prayed. It was - now Saturday evening, and Mal colm was going out. He was to meet some friends,-and Alice knew that he was to meet 1 them at the- tavern. He had worked only three days the past week, and he had the pay for these three days - work in his pocket.— That money was needed at home, but where would it be on the morrow 1 "Malcolm, 0, do not-wholly forget your I I fond loving Alice when you are gone?" But Malcolm did not answer. He kissed her not as he used to do, but' kissed her be , cause she had asked him to—arid then he left his cottage. After he had gone, • Alice i sat down and wept. She could not help it. Her darling boy crept by her side, and placed 1 his arms about her neck. He asked nooquesa -1 tionse but he asked her not to cry. His little Mind seemed to have some idea of the eon]- , ing - of a calamity. It must have been vague, but it e,:as clear enough to prevent him from forcing the dread thoughts upon his mother. Once more he asked her riot to cry, and then his own little heart burst, arid mother and child wept together. This was another drop in the poor wife's cup of affliction. Oh, bow palpable now must be the husband's course when even the prattling child saw and knew the danger ! But she could only clasp and pray more fervently. Arid the little boy, when his mother had clone praying said, "Amen." It was as clear, cool evening, and as Mal colm Warren stepped out into the street, he seemed to shake himself as though he would shake off the influence of the dear place he was leaving. But he could mot drive from his mind the fearful countenance of his fond and faithful wife, nor could he cornet the look of earnest,h simple anguish he had no ticed 'Von the face of' his child. Yet he tried to crush the thoughts that were spinga in,g into life. "Podh !" said he, as' the im-' ege of his wife forced itself upon him, "It's only a little fun and - frolic. Whose business I is it ? Get out with your nonsense.'" - And thus speaking, the young husband and, father closed his hands as though he would hold down the feelings he had tried to repress, I and then he haslened on. At length he retooled the tavern, and here he found his compaidens. The laugh and joke commen ced, and ere long Malcolm forgot all about home. He sat in the bar-room, and his sharp wit made food for much merriment. "Who says there's danger in the bowl," cried a young man, as he raised the glass to his lips. "It's the raven croak," said anothei of his, companions. " Here's confusion to the idea: , "Good !" exclaimed MillcOlm Warren, poi sing his glass. "Poison in the bolo!—non sense!- look at old uncle Adam, now. lie's used it all his lifet line. , and here - he is, the oldest man in town. Curneehere'a to uncle Adam !" The- presbli le whom llYaldcilin had tlins alluded' was art old, white-haired mane who stood at the bar with a glass of rurn in his hand. His name was Adam Stanford, and almost ninety years had rolled over his fros ty head. His foam was Lent, his limbs trei,n, - bled, but still he lived and his mind was yet clear. He heard the remarks which :he young carpenter made, and having set down his untouched liquor,he turned and gazed up on the youthful speaker. He knew Malcolm Warren well. "Malcolm," he said, "come with me.— Come alone, for I alone would speak with .you. Come." , There was something very deep and mean ing in the old man's voice, - and as he turned towards the door Malcolm arose to follow. "Detain him not." said Adam, as some of ' his companions sought to hinder him. "Why should Igo with you?" he asked. "To please an old man. I mean to do you no harm, Malcolm. Come." Passing out the door they moved across the street. = Near by was the village churchyard, and thither he bent his steps.' Arriving at the gate -he passed in. When Malcolm hesi tated 'to enter, the old man said—" Come, fol low me." :Malcolm went, and soon 'they stood with in the village churchyard! And this white haired guide was the sexton, who for more than sixty years had made those beds for the immortality. The pale moon shed its beams upon the place, and the chill air sighed mournfully among the weeping willows that grew by the hedge. The grave-stones stood up like spectres among 'the faded 'grass, and here and there rose a white monument, like some more powerful.spirit that watched the sanctity 'of "the place, • "Malcolm Warren," spoke the old man, in a voice so deep that it seemed almost to come t froth one of the neighboring graves, "not I'long since you pointed'to 'me as an example of how long a man might live who smiled upon the wine cup. You pointed to'. me as one • who had always craffed at the intoxica ting. bowl. Perhaps you spoke truly, but you did, not speak the whole truth, for the ;whole truth you ,did not 'know,- and I have brought you here to whisper - that truth' in your ear." ' Malcolm,.Warren gazed up , in the old man's face and Saw how seleinn w,asthe-ex . pressionthat rested' there, he forgot the bad company he had left behind at the tavern, and his thoughts became serious.- _ "Mal Colin," resumed the sexton, "I can look back how' into the past and see a score of' young Men who commenced the' rahelife 8 00 12 00 UTV HT 1V AEC-MST 15. 1855. with me. We went to school together, and together we sat in church. We loved to learn the excitement of the intoxicating cup, and we thought not then of the dangers we were courting. 'rears passed an, and I saw those twenty men sink into the arms of death, and I buried them all here. Malcolm Warren,' -they all sleep in drunkards graves I One after another I, saw them fall, and at length I was left alone of the party who were • wont to assemble around the barroom fire. A deep groan • escaped from the young man's lips, and a shudder ran through his frame. "All gone?" he asked: "Yes—all !" the old man uttered. "But this is not half, Malcolm. Their wives and children died, and they, too,. lie here! 0, 'how well 'can I remember the. bright-eyed laugh ing, loving girls who used-to play with us when we were boys ! And how well 'I can remember when I saw them standing at the altar—and when they turned away from the place they were blushing brides. But a few short years, and I began to gather them into the folds of death. They sank down with broken hearts and crushed hopes Some of them liv'ed' to be Way headed ; -but their gray hairs came down in sorrow 'to the grave !-. See that grave therethe one with the dark gray stone. Fle who sleeps beneath that Mound was once the happiest yOtith in the village. He was a carpenter by trade, - and he built the house in which you were horn. He used to sing over the wine cup and he thotight not then of harm. Ponce heard his young wife beg of him to remain it home with her, but he refused her the boon. She told him that she was cold and hungry, and that her children needed clothing, but he heeded her not. A few short years afterwards that wife's heart broke, and - she died and her chil dren. The husband and fathervllound one cold night lying by the road-side, and lie was dead ! These are the graves" for Fbtiried them all together. You can seethe wife's, grave beyond the cr - ray stone Of the hitsband's• and those two little graves are where lie the frozen boy and girl !" The old man drew his sleeves across his eyes to wipe away the tears, and while he did so Malcolm bOwed his head, . groaned mournfully.- "Malcolm Warren," he said, "there was once a full regiment of stout soldiers follow. ed Napoleon Bonaparte into- Russia. There were many other regiments went also, but of this' one in particular have I read. Of the whole company of men only one solitary in dividual lived to return to the home of his bii-tb. All the rest died on - the way. They were starved or frozen, - and they dropped by the wayside. Now suppose some thought less youth should point to that single living soldier, arid say that amid the eternal snows of Russia there was no danger, because that man had - passed them all and still lived ! Like that single fragment of the regiment do I stand here a living man." The youth gazed up in the face of the aged speaker, and new emotions were working upon his features. "Come, Malcolm, I would show you one more spot before we go." The old man leaned upon his staff, and moved slowly on among the graves, and in-. voluntarily did - the youth follow. At length they stopped by a spot where two graves lay side by side. The slabs Were of marble, and they glistened brighty in the moonlight. "Malcolm," spoke the sexton in a deep whisper "I remember well wheni made these twograves.. There was no sorrow to.fill . the beds which here I made, for ihey . who - sleep 'here died amid the sweet breathings'of peace :and honor. They were good, virtuous peo ple, and when they were gone our townsmen 'mourned, for our village had lost tw,o of its most noble spirits. 0, I love to come and tan:l over those gi,aves, for I know that God smiles upon them!' There is nn. taint nor dishonor here. Malcolm, - d&yon know who rests in those two grave?- The youth did not answer nor did he raise his head, but with ()fie deep,: wild .cry, he sank down,- and there he lay across both „raves, weeping di - id - sobbing . like a His FATHER and moniert sleep there I- For a while the olt.t. man gazed tearfully upon the scene, and then he took the youth, by the arm and aroused him up. "Come, Malcolin," he whispered, "we will go away new: I can show you no more. The youth followed his guide out from the church-yard, and after the gate was closed they passed on to the street. 'Here Adam Stafford stopped. "Now, Malcolm," hesaid, "you can return to your companions - at the tavern, but let me pray you never use my name again as you did this evening. When you again think of poor old Adam Stanford, think only on what he has told you in the church-yard . think of what he has seen, and -of• what he has'suffered, and of that you may in wel- Come speak." The old man turned partly away, when Malcolm sprang forward and caught him by the arm. "Uncle Adam," he uttered, in chocked and broken accents, "0, forgive me for what I have now said and what I have done. 1— I 'cannot tell you all now. I cannot speak, buff shall go to the tavern no more. 0, God bless you! God bless you!" * s. - '* The clock struck nine, and Allice Warren folded the hands of her little" boy together, and bade him say his - prayers. der young est girl was asleep in the cradle. The first words of the prayer was uttered,—"Our lath er 'who art in heaven,"-_-when there came the sound of footsteps upon the plank Walk in the little front garden. "It's papa," said the boy, letting his hands drop upon his mother's knees, and bending his ear: to listen. But the' mother dared not . speak. At last the door opened, and the husband entered. Alice cast her eyes trembling up, and saw the bigiears that were rolling'down the cheeks of her Beloved. " Instinctively she sprang forward and clasped her arm about her husband's tieek. ` "Malcolm; Malcolm !" she cried, "What has happened=? Tell me-0, tell'me." Malcolm Warren sank filth a chair, and as he did 'so he drew his wife - down in his lap. cAlice—O, Alice P 2 he uttered, sobbing and weeping as he spoke. Can yctl forcive me for al ,that is past ?" The gentle wile was bewildered at first, `nay almost frightened, for the speech of her husband was, so wild and incoherent she fear ed his brain was turned. ,But ere long he spoke again, and as he spoke he kissed her. He was more cairn and his voice was more' low. He told where he had been—and he spoke of the resolution he had made. He did not tell of arty trial he was going to make, but he told of the iron will that,had entered his soul. The night of his temptation had pas sed, and the day of salvation had dawned., few moments more, and the husband and wife were upon their knees. Their emotions were too deep for utterance—too wild and thrilling for speech. A moment ,they struggled there, and then wept in si lence. The little boy crept to the spot, and threw his tiny hands about the neck of his parents,„ for even his young soul had caught the spark of new life that had been breathed into exis- Jence with his happy home. On the next morning Malcolm Warren :arose a better and happier man. He was calm now and he told Allice all that had transpired the night before, and when it was all told they prayed as redeemed souls alone can pray. Days, weeks and months passed away, and Malcolm Warren became once more the handsome youth that had been loved and cherished by honest men in time gone by.— Thellowers of affection bloomed again about his hearthstone, and the angel of peace and joy made a home beneath his roof. People 'wondered when they noticed that Adam Stanford went no more to the tavern; but the story of that night's lesson in the village church-yard became generally known and other men took it to their hearts and profited by it. it was a good seed sown in a 'fertile spot, and the fruit was abundant. The good old sexton never gave his example again on the side of moral ruin, but to the last day of his life were cheered by knowing that some of the happiest families in the vil lage blessed him for the joys that dawned upon them. Sawing off a Lovers Leg. The following story, which is calculated to make "each particular hair to stand like quills upon the fretful porcupine," is said to have happened in St. Lawrence county, New York, and is given on the authority of a gen tleman of undoubted varacity : "A young man addicted to intemperate hab its, during one of his periodical 'sprees' took a sudden notion to pay a visit to his 'sweet heart.' - Ork the evening alluded to, the young lady and a female associate were the only oc cupants of the house where she resided.— About ten o'clock in the evening the young man arrived at the house, cousiderably , worse from the use of 'beverages.' His strange manner in approaching the door excited the suspicions - of the young ladies, who suppo sed the house was attacked by robbers. He knocked at the door, and demanded admis sion; but his voice not being recognised, from the thickness of his tongue, the ladies refused to comply with the demand. Determined to force an entrance he comeneneed a series of assaults , upon barred and bolted door by kicking and pounding. After a number of desperate kicks, the pannel of the door gave way, and the leg of the besieger went through -the aperture, and was immediately seized by one of theladies and firmly held, while the oth er, 'armed . with a saw, commenced the work of amputation? The grasp was firmly main tained, and the saw vigorously plied, until the leg was completely severed from the body! %Vith • the loss of his leg, the intoxicated wretch fell'back, and in that condition lay the remainder of the night. in the mean time the ladies were frightened almost to death. With the dawn of morning the. reve, lation was made that one of the ladies had participated in the amputation of her loser's leg. The wretched man was still alive,— His friends were immediately sent for, and he was conveyed to his home where, with proper treatment he gradually and miracu lously recovered, and is now alive and well. We hardly credited," says the editor of the journal from which we quote, "the latter part of the story, and contended that the man must have bled to death on the spot, insist=' ing, indeed, that it could not be otherwise.— But we were mistaken. The leg was a wooden one." "Bah 'tis perfectly absurd to say you can't for you know well that "where there's a will there's a way." The Irishman who was asked to play - the fiddle didn't say "I can't ;" no, he had more spirit ; he said, 4 .'1 don't 'know till I try?? Can't never helped one through life; it neither discovered Geor gium Shins, nor peeled an orange. Can't is first cousin to Despair. It has pushed many a man. down the hill, but never helped him up one inch.- It is a beggarly companion; who will stick to you till you havn't a single stiver of resolution left. Failure is no rea son why you should say you can't; for didn't you read in your primer a nice moral story telling you to "try again?" Pont think that what your primer said was nonsense; you just follow its many instructions and ad vices, and can't will never cross your mind. 'rake courage; it is a cheerless thing to say or think you can'[ do anything. Sot yourself resolutely -to work, and unless the thing be altogether superhuman, yor. will undoubt ably succeed. Many in the last stage of despair have plucked up spirit and frightened away the doubts and difficulties besetting them. , You may do so also, knowing that "WHAT MAN HAS DONE, MAN MAY DO." LICE ON FOWLS.—A. teaspoon of turpentine to three pr four of sweet oil—(the turpentine alone, would probably take the feathers off the 'poor birds,)—grease them freely with this, and let the rural readers know, if the vermin do not "varnose." I have no doubt the free use of turpentine in hen-housei, would rid then and their inmates of these pests. "Can,t" Educatioh of the Youth great error pervades the community in reference fo the kind of an education the young should receive; Too much attention is bestowed upon showy accomplishments. Education is valuable just in proportion to its usefulness. The principles of truth and virtue impressed, with an abiding sense of christian duty, upon the youthful mind, will nece'ssatily produce uprightness of conduct and correct principles of aCtino• Nothing is really noble, in the conduct of men, that is not the result of choice, produced by a cor rect system of enlightenment. The plodding automaton may, by a force of circumstances and fixed habit, move in - the path of recti tude; but this is the result of accident, not of choice. . The divine spark that should an imate the breast is wanting. There is none of that soul elevating sentiment which per vades the heart of every freeman, causing him to perceive the. truth and to adhere with unwavering-firmness to its dictates. An educated man feels a stinging remorse when ever his actions do not correspond to the dic tates of conscience. The prison statistics of the :United States show that about three fourths of the convicts cannot read or write. Observation everywhere 'Noyes that it is the uneducated that idle away their time and plunge into all manner of excesses and bru tal habits. Money and time expended in acquiring an education is so much capital in vested towards the future and enduring glo ry of our country. Every minute spent in cultivating the mind adds to the pk!cuniary resources of the individual. The following eloquent remarks from an eminent_ scholar (Dr. Channing,) will meet with a hearty re sponse from every friend of popular-educa tion : "l am not discouraged by the objection, that the laborer, if encouraged to give time and strength to the elevation of his mind, will starve himself and impoverish the coun try, when I consider the energy and efficien cy- of the mind.. The highest force in the universe is mind. This- has changed the wilderness into fruitfulness, and linked dis tant countries in a beneficent ministry to one another's wants. Et is riot to brute force. ; td physical strength, so much• as to art, to skill, to intellectual and moral energy, that men otve their mastery over the world. It is mind which, has conquered matter. To fear then that, by calling forth a. people's mind, we shall impoverish and starve them, is to be frightened at a shadow. I believe, that with the growth of intellectual and moral pow er to the community, its productive power will increase, that industry will become more efficient, that a wiser economy will ac cumulate wealth, that unimagined resources of tut and nature will be discovered. 1 be lieve, that the means of living will grow, ea sier, in proportion ,as a people shall become enlightened, self-respecting, resolute and just. Bodily or 'material forces can be meas ured, but not the forces of the soul, nor can the resn'As of increased mental energy be foretold. Such a community will tread down obstacles ; now deemed invincible, and turn them into helps. The inward moulds the outward. The power of a people lies in its mind; and its mind, if fortified and enlarged, will bring external things into harmony with Jl_ Jrin extert. 211hgs ~armory itself. If, however, I err in this belief, if, by securing time and means for improvement of the multitude, industry and capital should become less productive, I will say, sacrifice the wealth, and not the mind of a people. "Nor do I believe that the physical good of a community would in this way be impaired ; The diminution of a country's wealth, occa sioned. by general attention to intellectual and moral culture, would be followed by very many different efforts from those which would attend an equal diminution brupglit about by sloth, intemperence and ignorance. There would, indeed, be less production in such a country, but the character and spirit of the people would effect a much more equal distribution of what woold 'be produced; and the happiness of a community depends vast ly more on the distribution than on the amount of its wealth. In, thus speaking of the future, I do not claim any special pro phetical gift. As a general role, no man is able to foretell, distinctly : the ultimate per manent results of any great change. Dui as to the case before us we oueht not to doubt. It is a part of our duty to believe, that by nothing can a country so effectually gain hap piness and lasting prosperity, as by the ele vation of all classes of its citizens. To ques tion this seem an approach to the end of time. this fall, The pillared firmanent is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble." Let no one bring forward the plea that pov erty prevents him from storing his mind with useful knowledge. He might just with as much propriety say that he was too poor to follow his daily vocation. An educated la borer becomes a more successful producer.— A farmer that adapts his , Train to its proper soil, and applies the right kind'' of nourishing, stimulants to that soil, will ,earn far more, than he who prepares and sows his fields without intelligence:—Elevator. CREDlT.—Credit is one of the b&st things man has devised, and about the worst thing abused. Thousands live on credit who have no right to any such a thing. None but an honest roan ought to be able to pass his word instead of a coin-- a ro" ue's word is not worth its face, no matter bow rich he may, be. No one should have facility to run in debt for the means of ostentatious display of sensual gratification or of hazardus adventure. "Earn b efore you spend" should be the gen eral rule, credit should be extended mainly to those who use it to fill themselves with the O There are people with Very .good'-re means and implements of useful productive P whose only merit are the vices which labor.—R. Grecis. help to .c.arry' on the business of life.--Roche- Consumers of "f:ne cut" will please foucault. "chaw" the following from the Worcester I Is if-Very sickle here'!" said a son of Transcript :—We noticed a man about our ,The Emerald Isle the other day, to another.— streets, collecting into a bag, old stumps of , "Yes," replied his companion, "a great many segars. In our large cities, the collecting, of '• have died this year who never. died before." old segars is made a lucrative business, as 1 they are readily purchased by tabaconists "Jim, how does the thermometer stand and manufactured ,into fine cut ,chooinrc tobac- to-day !" "Ours stands on the mantel-piece, co! right agin the plastering." The power of thought has accomplished wonders. It has - enabled the student to learn the languages, and solve the most obtruse mathematical proh:cms. It has taught the farmer the att of ag,ticulture, that he may adapt his seed to the soil, that it may produce a bountiful harvest. It has taught the me chanic the rules which govern phisical sub stances, that he may apply it to the best ad vantage. It has taught the merchant rates of exchange, that he may make a profit him self and benefit the community at large. It has taught the lawyer principles of equity, by which mankind must be governed. It has called the lightning from the skies.— Such ate some of the accomplishments of thought. - Thought, wrapt in the mystic mantle of high order, passes and repasses the fiery or deal, yet cannot unfold to man itsi surpassin loveliness in the -language of earth. It in the life of the mind, the ever gushing fauns tain of all sciences, and the perfection of all art. It has been shattered by the winds of Heaven, and its embers shall glow when all others are extinguished. It has picked from fame's ethetial bower the fairest flowers and twined them in a wreath to crown the brow of Milton. It was his delight under the in fluence of that sacred blessing, thought, to write that admirable poem, 'Paradise Lost.," it was his greatest conquest to write "Para- dise Regained." Thou , ht teaches us that the grave is a dark and gloomy world, with no light to il _tome the night; but abetter philosophy whis pers to us that the grave is not the end ; that a cloud of darkness may gather round the closing scene ; and the paleness of death be our winding sheet. But a brighter dawn than ever was seen raising on the spirit, and thought links its immortality to the blessings of heaven. Thought,•looking down through the lapse of ages, working with untiring efforts beneath the decaying wreck of the past, shades of dark oblivion, beholds thought bounding into futurity. Thus the power of thought has donemuch, and has much yet to do. What •it has done are real triumphs. What it may do will OP done; for, with the im mortal soul, - whatever is possible is certain. Without thought,• the world of Mind would be as day without the sun, or as a dark night without the moon or stars—lris. ELM' t is the price of success in every de partment of human action. From the attain ment of rudimental knoWledge to the salva tion of t:ie soul, every step in our progress, is made by undaunted toil. The boy drdnes over his book, a slave to listless laziness, thereby securing fir' himself' a place at the feet of soviet}'. The Christian who, like Ptinynn's . Timorous and Mistrust, flees at the voice of 'inns, is undone. The man who shrinks from difficulty in his business or profession,- who4eftises`to Climb because the rock is sharp, and . the way steep, must make up his mind to slide back and to lie in the shadows below, while others use him as a stepping stone to their own rising.— For this, such is the• constitution of soiety, there is no help. The poet wrote truely who said— "Thou must eillier'sOak or stoop; Fall or triumph, stand or droom• _ Thou must either serve or govern; Must be slave or must be sovereign; Must, in Fne, be block or wedge, - gust be anvil or be slecrze." . To, shake off an indolent spirit, - dr stir one's self to exertion, to reach Constantly up ward; to struggle for a firm foothold* On-the most slippery places, to' wrestle Mai - 011y, even when principalities and pOwers'are our foes, to refuse submission to any evils, how ever frowning, are conditions v‘e must either fulfil, pr sink to littleness, to uselessness— perchance to ruin. Therefore, with a brave heart and an unconquerable spirit,•eVery man should address himself to the Wotk of the day; striving with pure views and reliiinis trust for - an increase of his talent, and' fiir a victo ry, which will enable him to stand unabash ed in the last* day. fl'e who thus 'strives need fear no failure. His triumph,- tliciugh decay ed for a time, shall come at last:' Nothing Done without Labor There is an important principle slated in a ;mat k which we find, occurrni ,, :ih a sketch of the ,history of Whitney's 'Cotton Gin.-- The writer, referring to the labeeand toil which the invention cost, says "There is a theory much in favor With in ventors and the public, and often enforced with many plausible instances, that brilliant discoveries are made by accident;, aid. indeed it is easy to collect examples, where chance has given birth to every wonder real ities. But if we could' institute .more care ful inquiries, we should learn that the for tunate accident only set in motion a train to receive it. Such accidents never happen to fools. A majority of cases show us the-new discovery elaborated by repeated trialS, and each improvement won at the Coal of unre mitting experiment and thought." I•George Washington, in one of his messages to Congress, uses the following language "To every description of Citizens, 'indeed, ;et•praise be given. But let them persevere in their affectionate vigilance over that pre cious depository of Aineriean happineSs, the Constitation of the United State - s 1 Let them cherish it, to for the sake of those 'who 4R ill' EVERY CLIME are daily seekinz our land." 7 •:. • VOL. 11, NO, 9, Thought The . Price . of Suoaesi3
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