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BY W. LEWIS.
THE HUNTINGDON - GLOBE,"
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ing 6 lines., one year, 4 .00
,
What I Live For,
BY G. LINN/BUS BOMB.
•I live for those who love me,
Whose hearts are kind and true ;
For the heaven that smiles` above me,
Arid awaits , my spirit too ;
For all human ties that bind me,
For the task by God assigned me ;
For the bright hopes left behind me,
And the good that I can do.
I live to learn their story,
Who've suffered for my sake ;
To emulate their glory,
And follow in their. wake ;
Bards, patrit.ts, martyrs,-sages, '-
The noble of all ages,
Whose deeds crowd history's pages,
And time's great volume make.,
I live to - hold communion,
~ With all that is divine ;
— !To feel there is a Union,
- 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine ;
To profit by affliction, -
Keep truth - from fields of fiction,
,Prow wiser from conviction,
- --And fulfil each grand design.
I live to hail the season,
By the gifted minds foretold,
When men shall live by reason,
And not by gold alone ;
'When man to man united,
And every wrong thing righted,
The whole world shall be lighted
As Eden was - of old.
l'live for those thlt,lolfe me,
For those who know me. true ;
For the 1-leaven that smiles above, me',
And" awaitsmy spirit too ;
For the cause that racks assistance,
For the wrong-that needs resistance ;
For the futnrein the distance,
And the good that I can do.
TELE LOST BOY
An Incident in The Ohio Penitentiary
BX THE WARDE\.,
I had been but a few months 'in charge of
the prison, w hen my attention was attracted
to, and deep interest - felt in, the numerous
boys and young' men who' 'were •confined
therein and permitted to work in the
shops with old and hardened convicts.
The interest was increased on every evening s
as I saw them congregated in gangs, march
ing to their silent meals, and thence to their
gloomy bed rooms, which are more like liv
ing sepulchres, with iron shrouds, than 'sleep.
ing apartments. These youttg men and
boys, being generally the shortest in height,
brought up the - rear 6f the
_companies, as
they Marched to the terrible "hick step,"
and consequently more easily attracted atten
tion. To see many youthful forms and bright
countenances mingled with the' old and harL
dened scoundrels, whose visages betokened
Vice, malice and crime, was•sickening to the
soul. But there, was one 'among the boys, a
lad about seventeen.' years of age, who had
particulurly attracted my attention ; riot from
anything superior in his-coulitenance or gen
eral-appearance but . by the look of utter
despair which ever set upon his brow, and
the silent,;uncomplaining manner in which
he submitted to all' the hardships and degre;
dations of prison life. He was often com
plained of, by both officers and men, and I
thought unnecessarily,• for light and-trivial
offences against the rules -of propriety ; yet
he seldom had any excuse
. or apology, and
never denied a charge. He took the repri
mand, and once a. punishment, Withou, a
tear or , a 'Murmur, almost as a matter of
course; .seeniing ,thankful that it` was 'no .
Woi-Se. He had evidently Seen - . better'days;
and enjoyed the light ,01* - home, parents and
friends, if not the , luktiries •Of life: But the
light of hope seemed to 'have gone out, his
health was poor—hiS2 face was pale—his
frame fragile—and no fire beamed in his
dark grey eye, l I thought every night, air - I
saw him mareh•to his . gloomy bed, that . I
would go to him and leam his history—but ,
there was so' many duties to perform,' So
Much to learn and to do, that day after-day
passed, and. I 'would neglect him—having,
merely learned that his name was Arthur
Lamb, and that his crime was burglary ar.d
larceny, indicating a very, bad •boy for one so
young. He had already been there a year,
and bad two more to serve 1, He never could
outlive his sentence, and his countenance in
dicated that he felt it. He worked at stone
cutting on the. State house—hence my oppor
tunities for seeing him were less than though
he had worked in the prison yard=still his
pale face • haunted me day and night—and I
resolved that on the next Sabbath as he came;
'frem School, I would send for him and learn
'his history. •
' 'ft happened, however, that I was one day
in a store ) waiting for the transaction of
some business., and having - :picked up an (Ltd
newspaper tread and re-read, while delayed . ,
until et last my eyelell upon 'an advertise
ment of "A Lost Boy' ! 7 —lnformatfon wanted
of a boy named Arthur (I will not
give his real name, for-perhaps he is still liv
ing,) and then followed a description of 'the
,boy-exactly corresponding with that_of the
young _ convict—Arthur Lamb I Then
there was 'somebody who cared 'for the poor
boy,• 'if, indeed, it - was him; -perhaps his
mother,. his father, his brothers and._ sisters,
who-were searching for him. The adver 7
tisement was nearly a year old-L--Yet - I doubt
ed not—and as soon as tha convicts' were
locked up I sent for Arthur Lamb. Hebanie
as a matter of course; 'with • the• same pale,
•unComplaining face and hopeless gait—think
ing, no doubt, that 'something had gone
wrong, and had been laid to his charge': '
'-•I was examining - ,the 'Convict's Register,
when he came in ; and-when L looked up,
there he stood a perfect image of despair. I
asked him his name.— He replied,
"Arthur."
"Arthur 'what 'I" 'said I sternly.
"Arthur 'Lamb," he antwered •hesita
tingly. .
"Have you a father or mother living 'I"
His eyes brightened—his voice quivered,
as, he exclaimed :
"0 I have you heard from mother Ts
she alive Is she well 1" and tears, which
I never had seen him shed before, ran like
rain drops down his cheeks. •As he became
calm from suspense, I told him I had not
heard from his parents, but that I had a pa
per I-wished him to read. He took the ad
vertisement. which I had cut from the paper,
and as he read it he exclaimed.
"That's me ! that's me !" and again sobs
and tears choked his utterance.
I assured him that the advertisement was
all that I could tell him about his parents—
and that it requested information, I desired
to know what I should 'write in reply. The
advertisement directed information • to be
sent to the editor of the Christian Chronicle,
New York. •
"Oh, do not write I" he said, "it will
break poor mother's heart."
I told him f must write, and that it would
be a lighter blow to his mother's feelings to
know where he was than the terrible uncer
tainty which must haunt her .mind day and
night. So he consented ; and taking him to
my room, 1 drew from him.in substance the
following story : , •
:His father was a respectable and wealthy
mechanic in , an- interior town in the State of
New York. That ,at the holding of the
tate. Agricultural Fair in his native town,
he got acquainted with two stranger boys,
older than himself, who persuaded him to.
run away from home and go to the West:, He
foolishly consented ; and with light hopes of
happy times, new scenes and great 'fortune !
They- came as far as Cleveland, where. they
remained several days. One morning the
otherd.wwboys came to his room -early, and
showed.him a large amount of jewelry, &c.,
which they, said they had wan at cards du
ring the night. knowing that .he was in
need of funds to pay Ins board, they pressed
him to take some of it for means to pay his
landlord. But before he had dispoSed of any
of it they were all three arrested for burgla
ry, and as a portion of the property taken
from the store which had been robbed was
found in his possession, he too was tried con
victed and sentenced. Ile had no'friends, no
money, and dared not to- write home ; so
hope sank within
_him ; he resigned himself
Co his fate, never expecting to get out of pris
on, or seehis parents again. -
..'.Upon inquiring of the two convicts who
came with him on . the same charge, I. learn
ed that what Arthur had stated was strictly
true, and that his only crime" Was' keeping
bad :company, leaving his home, and un
knowingly receiving stolen goods. Ques
tioned separately they told the same sto:y,
and left noedeubt in
. my
,mind., of the boy's
inneeeriee. nil! of compassion for the on.;
fortunate little fellow, I sat dnwri 'and wrote
a full description of , -Arthur,. condition
and history, as I, obtained. it from hirn,,paint
ing the horrors of the rilace,,thehiipelessness
of his'beinir reformed there; if guilty,
and 'the probability of his ;never living out
his sentence-and describingahe.process to be
used to gain his pardon.: .This I sent
..ac
cording to the directions of the advertise-
Meta. But week after week passed, and no
answer came. The boy daily inquired if I
had heard from his mother, mild at last,
"hope deferred seemed to make : his heart
sick," and again he,dinoPed arid
.pined.•. •
At last a letter came—such av letter I It
ivas from the Rev. Dr. Bellow*, of New - York.
He had been absent to a distant city, but the
moment he read my letter the good' man re
sponded. The father of the poor boy had be-
Come'almest inSaneen accoMit of his son's
mystOriOns absente. "Ife'had left his former
plaee of resideriCe, had,
s moved from city to
fromcitY;'dewei, and travelled' up
and dovin the country seeking the loved
_and
the t !,' " had spent the. most of a hand
mime fortue,eihis wife, the' boY's mother,
VOas'Orf the'briitk of the grave, "pining 'for
her first both, ;and would not be - comforted:?!
They then lived in a western city; whither
they had gone in'the hope of finding or for
getting their - boy—or that a"charige ; of scene
might assuage their .grief. thanked. me
for my letter, which he 'had Sent to thefath
er, and' promised his assistance" to procure
the young convict's pardon. ,
This news' I. gave to Arthur ; he seemed
pained and pleased—hope and tear, joy and
arief filled his heart alternately, but from
thence his eye beamed brighter, his step was.
lighter, and hope seemed to dance in'every
nerve.
Days pissed—and at last, there came 'a
man to the' prison, rushing frantiCally 'into
the, office, demanding to see his boy. '
"My boy my boy ! 'Oh, let me. see him!"
The clerk who knew nothing of the pat
rer, calmly asked him the name .of his son.
"Arthur
"No.such name 'on our 'books;' your eon
HUNTINGDON, - I,[: . G.l:Sta'. 29, 1855-.
cannot be here And away went this unbidden guest.
' "He is here :" !
Show him to me Her Mr. Gusset was then engaged in stammer
sir, is your'own - letter ! Why do you m •ng out a denial of all knowledge of the vire
mei,' • go, when the parlor door again opened, a lit-
The clerk looked over the"letter,-saw at Ile black-eyed, hatchet-faced women, in a
'once that Arthur Lamb was the convict wan- - flashy silk gown and a cap with many rib
ted, and rang the bell for the messenger., • brine, perched on the top of her head, invaded
"ThereeiS the•warden, sir; it was his letter tthe•aanctity of the parlor.
he showed." 'ls he'herel she cried, in a decided French
Too much of agoadthing is• often unpleas- Accent..
,Then' she added, with a scream,
ant,. This old man embraced me. and _Wept - ‘A.Et mon' diet)! le voila! Zere he is. Traitre!
like a child. A'theusand times he thanked rnenster l Vat for you run away from me?
me, - and in the name - of- his :wife, heaped `Dis :two tree years I never see - you—nev
blessing§ - upon my head. But the rattling of , - air—and my heart broke very bad entire
the great iron door, and ihe grating. sound of ly.'
its htoges _indicated the appearance of Ar- 'Who are you 2 cried Gusset, his eyes star
thur,'and I conducted the exciled parent in - - ting out of • his head and shivering from
to a side parler. then led his son to'his •head to foot.
embrace. Such a' half shriek and agonizing 'He asks Me who I am. 0, you var re
groan as the old man gave, when he beheld spectable'old gen tilhomme! hear : vat he ask
the altered appearance of the boy, as he stood —Who I am, perfide! ah!—l am your wife!'
'clad in the degrading stripes, and hcilding a 'l'never see 'fore—so help me Bob,' cried
convicts cap in his hand, 'I never heard be- -Gusset, energetically.•
fore. I have seen many,similar scenes since, • ','Don't you swear!' said the old deacon
and become inured to them ; but this 'one -Peabody; ‘if you do Pll KICK you into fits, I
seemed as if it would burst my brain ! - won't have no profane or vulgar language in
I drew up and 'signed a' petitiim for the my house.'
pardon of the young convict ; and such a ' 'o_ bless you, bless you, respectable old
deep and favorable impression did the peru- mane Tell him he must come viz me—tell
sal of the letter I wrote in answer to the ad- him I have spake to ze constable—tell him.'
vertisement make upon the directors, that Sobs interrupted her , utterance.
they readily joined in the petition, though it 'lt's pesky bad-business,' said the deacon,
was a long time before McLean' consented. shafing evitheinwonted ire—'Gusset, you're
He was exceedingly cautious - and prudent; a rascal.'
but the old man clung to_him-efollowed - him 'Take care,' Deacon Peabody! take- care,'
from his office - to his Country residense, and said the unfortunate shopkeeper.
there in the presence of his fainily 'plead 'I remarked ye was a rascal, Gusset.—
anew his cause. At' length, excited by the You've gone and married two wives, and that
earnest appeal of his - father, the director look- 'ere's flat -burglary, ef I• know anything
ed over his papers again—his wife, becom- 'beout the Revised Statoots.'
ing interested, •picked up the answer to-the 'Two wives!' shrieked the French worn
advertisement, read it, and then tears came an.
to the rescue.. Mac said, rather harshly, that 'Half a dozen, for aught I know to the
the warden would let all those young rascals contrary,' said the deacon , . 'Now you clear
out if he could. Those who knew Govenor I out of nhy house, go away to the station and
Wood will not wonder that he was easily 1 clear out into Boston—l won't have nothing
prevailed in, such a case, and, the par- i more to do with you.'
.don was granted. 'But, deacon ! hear me.
Need Idescribe the old man's joy—now don't want to hear you, ye serpint,'
he laughed,and wept—walked and ran—all cried. the deacon, stopping ears with his
impatient to see his son free. When the lad ' hands, 'margin' two wives, and comin' eour
came out in citizen's dress, theset - Aed parent tin' third. Go long ! .Clear out.
was too full for utterance, :-Ha-bugged -the Even Mrs. Peabody,. Who was•inelined to
released convict to his hasettite4isscd. him— put in ,a word fOr•the culprit was silenced.
wept and prayed ! - Grasping qny t ehertt.l . , he Susan,turned from, him in horror; and in de
tendered me his -farm-4iiewatch-,--a4thing spair he fled to •the railway . station, hotly
I would take. Pained it.the t t houghtt Of t 'pe- I pur`S . ued by the clamorous and indignant
cuniary reward, I took the oldipan's arm in French woman.
mine, and his boy by the bandit end escorted That afternoon, as
_Miss Susan Peabody
them to the gate—literally bowing them' was walking towards- the village, she was
away. overtaken •by
_Mr., jonathau Doubikins,
I never saw them more! - But the young dressed in his best, and driving his fast-going
man is doing well; and long may -he live to horses-beforetis Sunday go-to meeting chaise
reward the filial affection of his parents. —he reined up, and accosted her.
. This case may be but cine'among a •hun- Suke,!.get in and take a ride
dred. • Where guilt is not clear, them should 'Don't keer if I do, Jonathan,' replied the
be pity for youth, and some proper means ta- young lady / accepting the preferred seat..
ken to restore them to - the paths of rectitude say, you,' said Jonathan , grinning, 'that
and honor.—Sandusky- (Ohio Mirror. - ere city feller's turned our a.poorty pup, ain't
. _
.Another Yankee Trick. -'It's dreadful, if it's true,' replied the young
'The critter loves me ! I • knotv . sheloves - -
me I' said Jonathan Doubikins, as . he,sat up
on the corn- field fence, meditating on the
course of his true love, that was running just
as Shakespeare said it did—rather roughly.—
'lf Suke Peabody -has .taken a-shine to that
gawky, long-tsnakssq, stanimerin' shy ,ctitter
Gusset, jest qaueefie.'s a city feller, she ain't
the girl,l took her for, that's sartin. No ! it's
the old, folks; darn their, ugly .picters! Old
Mts., Peabody was allers a. dreadful highfalu
tin' critter, full of big notions: and the old
man's , a reg'lar soft7head, driven 'about by
his wife, Justeas t eur old one-eyed rooster
is drove about by our catankerous five:eoed
Dolkin hen.,.But if I don'e. spite-his fun, -my
name ain'tlinathap. goin' ,down to the
city by the railroad next week e --and when I
come hack,'weke snakes! that's all.
_ The above soliloquy may serve to give the
reader some slight idea of the 'land, : in the
plearant rustic village' where the - speaker re-
sided., . ,
- -
Mr. Jonathon Doubiklu .WaS. a young far
mer,
well to de in the'world, andlooking out
for, a wife a and had been paying his addresses
to Miss Susan ,Peabody, the only' and of
Deacon Elderberry Peabody, of that ilk, with
a fair Rrospecf of success, when.. a city ac
quaintance of the Peabody's, one Mr. Cor
n elide ,GuSsel, Who kept a retail dry goods
shop in Hanover street, Boston, suddenly
Made his appearance in the field and com
menced the cutting out game. Dazzled with
the prospect
,of .becoming fe• gentleman's
wife, and pestered by the importunities of
•
her aspiring mamma, the yillage beauty had
begun to waver; when her old lover' detteini
ned Ofi a hit andboldStroke to foil his rival,
He went to the city,,ano returned, of hie be
ness' there he, said nothing=-not 'even to a
pumping maided aunt who kept •house for'
him.., HO went not near the Peabodys, but
labored in his:Cornfield, patiently awaiting
the result of his maehinations.
the next :clay . 'MI Gusset was seated with
the old folks and their daughter, in. that best
room of the 'Peabody' mansion. chattering • as
pleasantly as may be, when the door opened,
and in rushed a very dirty and furious Irish
Women.
"Is it there ye.are, Mr. Cornelius Gusset!
Come out of that ? before I fetch ye, ye spal
peer, !, Is that what ye , promised me afore
the paste,' ye,hathan,nagarißunning away
from rrie and the children—forsakin' yer larful
Wedded wife, and runnia' after the Yankee
gals,ye infiaential." •
'Woman' there must be some mistake here,'
stanannered Gusset taken all aback by this
charge...
'Devil a-bit of a mistake, ,ye sarpint! Oh,
wirra !' wirra! was for , the likee of ye . I
sacked , Dinner McCarthy—who loved the
ground trod. on, and all bekase ye promised
to make . a lady of; me—ye dirty . thief of the
wurruld ' Will 'ye come along to tile railroad
station, where I left little Patrick, because he
was too sick with the small pox to come any
furder—or will ye wait till I drag ye
'Go—go—alOng,' gasped Gusset, and
I'll follow you.'
He thought it best to temporize.'
give you tin minutes,', said the virago. 7---
If ye ain't there, it's me cousin, Mr. Thabby
Mulgruddery, will be
s afther ye, yea'thief
lady. ,
'You had'a narrer escape, didn't ye?' pur
sued the old lover. 'But he warn't never of
no account, anyhow. What do the folks
think about it 1'
'They hain't said a word since he cleared
out.'
'Forget that night I rode you home from
singing-school V asked Jonathan, suddenly
branching off. ,
'No, I hain't,' replied the young lady,
blushing and smiling at' the same time.
'Remember them apples I gin you?'
'Oh, yes.' .
'Well, they was good, wasn't they?'
'First rate, Jonathan.'
. 'Got a hull orchard full of them kind ere
fruit, Suke,' said Jonathan, suggestively.
• Susan was silent.
'G'lang! exclaimed Jonathan,, putting the
braid on the' black horse. -'Have ryou any
.idea where we're going, Suke? '
'Pm going, to the village'
'No you hain't---your going along with me.'
'Where to V
'Providence; and you don't come back till
you're Mrs. Doubikms—no how you can fix
it'
'How you talk, Jonathan.'
'Darn the old folks' said Jonathan, putting
on the string again, 'ef I was to leave yon
with-them much longer, they'd be traden y,ou
off on to some city feller with half a dozen
wives already.'
The next clay, as Mr. and Mrs. -Donbikins
were returning homelnlheir chaise, Jonathan
said confidentially: .
','May as well tell you. now, Sake, for I
haiet any secrets from you, that Gusset nev
er see ,them women afore they came stophin'
into your house and blowed him up. I had .
though. Cost me ten dollars, thunder! I
teached - 'em • what to say, and I expect they
done ii well ! 01(1• Gusset may-be a shop-kee
pi>r,but if to expects to go ahead of Jonathan
boubikins, he must get : up a plaguier.sight
adier a morningsV
TWendships
Friendships are too valuable to be Unappre
ciated. They-need to be cultivated, by faith
fully showing ourselves friendly, according to
the best of our, ability, in a thousand Ways.
By respect - for our, seniors, by kindness to our
juniors, by deference for station; by care for
reputation, by, improving character, by cour
tesy, to our equals, by honorable sod gracioti,s
intelligence of rivalry, by encouraging art and
industry-, by all ,the abounding reciprities of
good neighborhood,:and' bY mutual trust in
the blessing of the' Most High; in such ways
we can multiply and adorn friendships, and
give them that scope s which is connected
with fullness of joy. Cicero celebrates
Friendship delightfully : and it celebrates it
self in . every friendly heart. .It finds:healing
words for wounded spirits. It separates
pleasing from unhappy rerriembrances,
weighs their import and conveys the latter to
the wilderness of forgetfulness, and garnish
es and preserves the fernier . in encanting and
vivid . recollections. It makes enchanting
inueic irt.sitent solitude; and in those quiet
hours" when the heart communes 'with itself,
it aids the efforts of faith to believe in a com
mon and eternal Father.
What is the Trne Road to Respects
bilit3t.
There exists in all of us, men and woman,
in a greater or less decree, a desire to secure
the notice and respect of those with whom
we associate, and of society at large. In
_what way this object maybe most readily ee
cured is an important question. Though the
methods adopted in practical life are, in some
respects, of considerable diversity, yet they
may all be easily brought under, ~one or ,the
other of two classes. - One of these includes
nhOse who hope to gain respect by deserving
,it—by the possession of that true worth, and
weight of character which ought, at any time
and among any people, to command the most
heartfelt and genuine respect; The other
class is of those who would attain it by
means of outward wealth or the appearance
of it. The various , by-ways to respectabil
ity Which are based on this latter idea, and
the frequenters of which are Jed on by this
delusive hope, and the ones, nevertheless,
which are altogether the most walked in.
At some period in every one's life, and in
some cases, often in the course of a life-time
the choice has to be made between these
two very-diverse paths. While in mere talk
and in one's own ,calm judgment, most men
will readily acknowledge that a man ought
to be esteemed for his virtue, intelligence,
goodness, honesty, or for what he is in men
tal and moral worth, yet in practice these
:fiery persons will decide,to follow the path
which in their hearts and with their tongues
they perhaps very earnestly or eloquently
condemn. Let ,us look at the consequences
of walking in this wrong road, as they re
gard our agricultural population. An idea,
although an exceedingly unreasonable one,
has obtained considerable prevalence, to the
effect that the business or employment of the
farmer is lower, in point of respectability,
than most other employments. The conse
quence of this is that many once engaged. in
agricultural pursuits have sold, their farms
and gone to peddling notions, or working a
little while at one thing and a little while at
another, unfitted probably for anything the)
try, and taking no comfort in their new em
ployments, Within five or six years we
have known two, or more such cases as these
hi One school district, and several in a single
township.. Even:when the "old folks" stick
to the farm', the ions and the daughters, do
their utmost to escape from the agricultural
tanks. The 'charms and the superior claims
I of a country.life are all hidden out of view
by the one false idea of its want of respecta
bility,. Through the influence of this false
notion men forget that.' there is no •deeart
ment of labor, no pursuit or calling which
contributes as ninon as agriculture to' the
prosperity of a .nation, . or the health, , inde
pendence, innocence, and moral worth 'of in
dividuals. The cultivation of the soil was
the first employment of man, and the first
duty enjoined by his Creator. In all ages
since j the comfort, happiness, prosperity and
glory of nations and of individuals have been
intimately connected with the performance
of this duty, and the industrious practice of
this pursuit. When it has been neglected,
as of late years . ; there soon follows scarcity,
want, high prices, depression of business, and
wide-spread destitution. The agricul tural
interest being the foundation on which 'all
others are built, commerce and manufactures
decline with it. For the effects, look.at the
state of the country at the -present time.—
While hundreds and thousands are fleeing
from the country, leaving thousands of acres
which cannot be 'cultivated for, want of help,
and makins , every article of farm produce
scarce, and consequently dear, thousands are
rushing into employments but a little more
productive than absolute idleness, or produc
tive only of articles of mere show and luxu
ry. Tlie numerous advertisements in our
city papers show the abundance of the arts,
devices, make-shifts, of hundreds of drones
and shirks who would be better employed en
a farm. and would be there probably but' for
the false and irrational ideas which prevail
in regard to the diverse roads to respectabili
ty._ What will the end of these things be'
—Countrj/ Ge'ntle man..
From the Germantown Telegraph
Hints for die Farmer.
brarr.—Avoid debt as you would a pest
house. The farmer who is perpetually in
creasing his liabilities, will always be ham
pered 3 he can never exert his energies to
good advantage, and oppressed by a sense of
his helplessness, will rarely attempt to do so.
ft should ever be an object with the farmer
"to live styietly within his means." All
that is required for the support, comfort and
convenience,of his family he should endeav
or to produce from the farm. With luxuries,
properly so-called, he should have nothing to
do, because he is better off, and more happy
without them. The simplicity of primitive
times afforded a most delightful picture of
rural life. - All the members of the houshold
were then united and banded together in
pursuit of a common object—happiness, and
this they sought arid obtained- by the adop
tion of the most homely,and rational means.
That their•efforts should have, been eminent
ly successful, creates no astonishment in a
rational mind.
STONE.,WALL.—There is no species of
fence more valuable than stone wall. Not
only is the material indestructable, but, when
it is properly constructed, on land that does
not heave, it is very durable, and net . likely
to be thrown down or otherwise injured by
ordinary causes. If- the stor.es are of good
size and properly laid, there is no reason
why it should not endure for ages. Lands
that ate encumbered with- stones,
,should be
cleared nff, and enclosed with them. The
time will shortly come when lands which af
ford rocks enough to fence them will be con
sidered the more valuable on that - account. •
LIVE FENCES—Every season and
,every
experiment but serves to illustrate the value
of this species of enclosure. The men of
refined and cultivated taste will of course
prefer hedge to all other species of fence for
its romantic and graceful beauty, while the
economical farmer, acquainted with its mer-,
its, will appreciate it for its durability, effi
ciency, and .superior economy., Hedges of
thorn, well set, and properly managed,_will
VOL. 11, NO. .
be found to be the best defence against cattle
that can be had. No animal, however Guru
ly ,
Zvi II attempt to break through more than
once. The effect too, upon the scenic au
tractions of the farm, is magnificent. If the
thorns cannot•be procured, other shrubs may
be substituted in its place, such as the Osage
orange, Accacea;
Tile way to meet Adversity,
In this changing world we are all liable
to be disappointed, in our best laid schemes
for gain. "The race is not to the swift, nor
the battle to the strong, nor 'riches to men of
understanding." Poverty, if it overtakes
you pursuing the even tenor of your way, in
an honest, industrious calling, involves, no
crime. The cup may be bitter, but if your
Heavenly Father bath put it to your lips,
drink it. It will prove a needful_medicine
'to purge off in-dwelling impe - rfect ions. Ma
ny of the best benefactors of earth, of whom
the world was not worthy, were bouseless
and homeless pilgrims here. If it be the will
of God that you should descend and dwell
in the lowly vale, be sure that you carry
with you a good conscience, an unsullied rep ,
utation, and the approbation of heaven, and
von will not be left comfortless. With a
mind stayed on God, rich in faith, with your
treasure in heaven, you will rind in all that
valley many a cooling fountain, many a vine
with its rich clusters. Choice flowers will
perfume your path, songs of celestial melo ,
,ly will regale your ear—manna from heaven
and water from the river of life will satisfy
your hungerings and thirstings after righ
teousness. But if you are driven there by
the scourges of outraged justice ; and follow
ed by the scorn of an abused community, be
assured, your way thither will be strewed
with thorns, and your resting place a bed of
living embers. Nor will your woe be essen
tially mitigated by carrying with you any
amount clandestinely kept back from its
rightful claimants. " Your gold and silver
thus gathered up will become cankered, and
the rest of them will be a witness against
you, and Will eat your flesh as if it were
fire." REV. T. SHEPARD, D. D.
Physical Exercise
One of the .principal causes, if not the
cause, of the attenuated and pallid appear
ance of Americans, is doubtless the neglect,
or rather the violation—the habitual rules
laid down by Nature for muscular clevelope
rrient. The class of men in this country
whose occupations are such as almost neces
, s4rily lead to the formation of sedentary
habits is very large, larger perhaps in pro
portion, than that of any other commercial
'ration. And this will acco - ont in a measure
for the fact that the various complaints i gen
erally concomitants of insufficient phisical
exercise, are more prevalent here than else
where. Our young men become clerks at an
early age, and being thus confined to the
counting room at - a lime of life when' the
open air and constant motion of the body are
indispensible, it is not surprising that they
should be in their manhood so sadly deficient
in muscular vigor and exhibit so little of the
developement that is looked for in
the sterner sex. With many such their lot
is their fate, or is imposed as - a necessity from
which there is no escape, and for these there
is some excuse for the loss of health and
life: But what shall be said of those who'
make no effort to ameliorate their condition,
or of that sti:l more culpable class, who - ,
from mere indolence, suffer their bodies to•
waste away, to sink into premature old age
—actually paying a premium for crooked
spines, humped backs, round shoulders, at
tenuated limbs, and drooping bodies. Such
persons are guilty of a species of - suicide,
which inasmuch as it is more deliberate, may
be equally if not more criminal than when
the "brittle thread" is severed in an instant
by the victim of misfortune or delirium.
The Saivted Dead.
• They a:e treasures—changeless and
ning treasures. Let us look hopefnlly. Not
lost, but gorse before, Lost only like stars of
the morning, that have faded into the light of
a brighter heaven. Lost to earth,- but - not to
us. SV hen the earth is dark, then the hea
vens are bright; when objeets around become
indistinct and invisible in the.shades of night,
then objects above us are more clearly-seen.
So is the night of sorrow and'mourning.; it
settles down upon us like a lonely"twilight at
the graves of our friends, but then - already
they shine on high. While we weep ; . - the3r
sing. ' While they are with us' upon earth,
they lie upon our heerts refreshingly, like the
dew upon the flowers; when they disappear;
it is by a power from above that has drawn
therh upward; and, though lost on earth, they
float in the skies. Like the dew that is ab
sorbed from the flowers; that will not return
to us; but ; like the flowers themselves, we
will (tie, yet only to bloom again in the Eden
above. Then those whom the heaVens have
absorbed and removed from . iis, by the sweet
attraction of their love, made holier and love
lier in light, will draw towards ns'again by
holy affinity, and rest on our hearts as before.
They are our treasureslovina ones—the
sainted dead.—Harbaugh Heavenly Reeogni
tion: •
The Root of Evfl
We clip the following sensible paragraph
from the Newark Daily Advertiser
"One thing is as clear as the sun; that the
absorbing ambition to seize the glittering
prize of gold was never before so prolific a
root of evil as it is now. We do not know
which is working t hegreater mischief among
us, the lust for political power or the lust for
pelf. When
-you come to add to this burn
tog appetite in so many men the powerful,
almost supernatural energy communicated to
it by the viscious tastes and demands of fern-
Hies for luxury, show, and extravagance, to
rival other families and win an absurd dis
tinction, founded upon nothing better than
money, it is not difficult to account for many
of those astounding falls from virtue and
high moral position, and their accompanying,
defalcations, which occasionally convulse
society." •
CHELTENHAM