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often much stinted in ready money. Yet their risks generally affect their income without endangering their principal; and herein they are more favored than merchants, whom they are so tempted to envy, since the merchant risks principal and income too, and most of the class who trade in our great towns and cities seem to be utterly wrecked every ten or twenty years. It is certainly a vast thing to have a sure home and daily bread, and opportunity to work and to train up a family where habits are simple and hard times are more tolerable, because hardships may be borne without exposure, and the meddlesome and artificial world is not looking on to see and tell what we eat and drink and wear. So important is it for a man to be sure of having a snug household of his own to fall back upon in dark days, that it is well for every prosperous man to own at least a cottage and a few acres in the country beyond all risks of business, and to settle it on his family, in addition to a life-insurance sufficient to keep soul and body together, in case of his being ruined by a financial crisis, or taken away without settling up his affairs.

Health is more important even than substance, and the farmer is in the way to secure substantial strength as well as property. His calling is the healthiest, as the official returns abundantly and universally show. The reason, too, is as obvious, as his out-door exercise, regular labor, frequent riding, and sufficient fare show. He is lucky enough never generally to have discovered that he has any nerves or organs of digestion, and he needs no anodynes to put him to sleep. When he combines, as he often does, the manly and skillful sports with his labor, his health has a high quality as well as ruddy fullness, and with his rod, or oar, or gun he learns a gentle courage that does much to soften and refine his massive force, and make him a weleome companion to his more cultivated neighbors of the book, or the sword, or the ledger. There is something, however, in his habitual occupations that gives him a certain fineness of touch as well as force of muscle. He must hold the plow and wield the spade, and so also must he handle the sickle and the pruningknife; and in this and many other mechanical appliances he finds room for the use of much manual skill, and may indeed be readily something of a carpenter, locksmith, and cabinet-maker. No man is in a position to have more versatility of hand; and the farmer is very much like the sailor in being a Jack at all trades with his farm, as one field of labor which Jack with all his supple fingers can not get hold of while at sea.

His strength not only thus joins with dexterity, but tends also to a certain command which is above brute bulk as it is above effeminate ease and sentimentalism. The farmer's mind tends strongly to the hand, and he is obliged constantly to make his mark upon solid material and to guide living forces. He is not a dreamer, but by eminence a doer, and he has direct dominion over the field and the beasts; and thus the best specimens of the vocation have in their bearing a certain princely quality of command. The old Roman gentleman was of necessity a horseman; and every good farmer is of the equestrian order by owning a good horse, and winning from him not only pleasant rides and profitable work, but something of the air noble that comes from ruling a powerful creature in a worthy spirit. Sometimes the same spirit goes out in the mastery of unruly men; and the lord of the soil, of the old times or the new, has servants and laborers under him over whom he is

called to exercise a wholesome control. Clearlv, then, if he enters at all earnestly into his opportunities, he will be a man of varied force, and his right hand should have as much strength and cunning as any other man's.

What the farmer ought to be as a thinker or intellectual man, it would take much time to show with any tolerable fullness, so broad are the pursuits, so various are the labors, and so different the types of native character presented. Yet one or two points are sufficiently distinct to be positively noted, and briefly too. He certainly is led by his business to be decidedly a matter-of-fact person; and no man, who sees every day that bread and all wealth come out of the ground by hard and constant day's work, can very easily become a visionary. Undoubtedly much of the sound common sense that rules the thought and common life of this country comes from the practical judgment of our agricultural population, among whom the males over fifteen years of age are more numerous than all other classes of laborers combined, and make up nearly one-half of the entire people. The farmer is literally led to be a man of solid understanding, for he stands on the solid ground, and does not expect things to grow without having some root there; being in this respect unlike the frequent kind of theorists, who think that the world lives upon words and air, and a scheme may be done as easily as said. Especially in politics does his characteristic realism appear; and we may well rejoice that the conservatism of the rural districts has saved the nation from the grasp of monopolists and the madness of radicals. Ho does not believe, as so many traders and manufacturers do, that the wealth of a nation is measured by the extent of its non-intercourse with other nations, and that it is best to give more to a native for a poor article than to pay less to a foreigner for a good article; and not desiring to have any bounty paid him on his produce, he generally sees little wisdom in the high tariffs that pretend to protect other forms of labor, and tend to raise the price of his purehases in the stores of the cities and towns. He is not, moreover, tempted to fall in with the assuming radicals who talk as if the world must be turned upside-down, and nothing can go right without their fussy interposition. He sees that while he plants and tills the soil God gives the increase, and generally waters and warms it too. He is for letting things alone when they are best let alone; and hence it is that our farming class belong so generally to the better order of democracy, that leaves the people as far as possible to themselves, and assigns only as much power to the central, or federal, authority as is required to keep the nation one and powerful. He believes in a man's taking care of himself without being interfered with by official dictation; and precisely therefore he is a firm advocate for a strong government in the State and the nation that carries out the local and national law, and so secures to each citizen the largest liberty in tho most regulated order. He uses his common sense, too, in his ideas of reform; and knows well that the great want is not of more imposing theories, but of more judicious and effective measures. Constantly applying actual powers to actual objects, he judges of all schemes from this point of view; and when men talk of improving the farms of the country, or enlarging the liberty of laborers, whether bond or free, he thinks little of high-sounding professions, and regards it as about as reasonable to vote his land to bo twice as fertile and tho whole country twice as productive because Liebig says it ought to be so, as to suppose that a million of rude hinds can rise to the state of civilized liberty merely by voting or proclaiming them free. He asks how the thing is to be done; and he knows full well that liberty is not merely a condition, but a quality; and that a man, like a child, is not free by being called so, or by being turned adrift into the world. Freedom is the gift, not of rude nature, but of civilized society; and any rustic knows that to be turned out of doors to herd with cattle, and be beset by wolves or savages, is exchanging a certain form of law and order for a fearful tyranny. Lover of liberty, he is a lover of order; and conscious of being the independent owner of his own soil, he knows that he holds it firmly under public law, and that every title-deed is the pledge of his citizenship, and should be the seal of his loyalty.

Yet, while no visionary, he is no materialist nor worshiper of the clod of the valley; no denier of the Spirit of God that giveth understanding. He looks constantly upon the earth and knows that to dust all of its growth, and man with the rest, must return. But he sees in the earth and above it the constant play of mysterious spiritual forces; and in the lightning, the moving planets, in vegetative and animal vitality, and in human thought and will, he discovers the presence of powers that can not be explained by any theory of matter and motion. He is obliged to note the different planes as well as the different amounts of things and their forces, and to see the majestic scale of being which rises from the crystal which shines at his feet to the light that flashes from the human eye with the ray that emanates from the Eternal Mind, and appears in every living thing, from the opening flower to the beating heart and the rational soul. He is thus something of a poet as well as a philosopher; and in Shakspeare as well as Bacon the sagacious farmer finds many a simile or maxim that comes home to him more than to any closet student, and answers well to the play of his own observation and the thought of his own mind. He likes best the books that are based upon facts; and although ready to meditate upon the causes of things, and rarely willing to be content with facts without ascending to principles or defining powers, he is more fond of the method of observation and inference than that of theory and deduction. Yet we know that many farmers are keen metaphysicians, and such books as "Edwards on the Will and the Affections" hold a place in our rural libraries such as Shakspeare or Milton might covet. But Edwards, in his way, was a mighty realist; and metaphysician as he was, he was mainly a student of Nature and the Bible, and with these manuals and the light within his own soul, he wrote his books, so marvelous for gentle charity, lowly trust, inward illumination, as well as fearful denunciations. He did all that he could to put the life of the natural world and the Bible into the most terrible of all creeds, and many were won by the power of his grasp who shrank from the motto of his standard. One cause of the fondness of farmers for such writers as affirm a positive spiritual faith, lies in the insufficiency of merely natural religion to meet their wants, or the religion that is based upon the observation of visible nature; for nothing is clearer than that while sentimental maidens and smoking students, who see little more of nature than a chance nosegay or a stray cow, are ready to call the light of nature enough for their wants and fellowship, they who live habitually in the country are

constantly yearning for something more; and they find the rivers, trees, and stars—nay, even the birds, the bees, and the cattle, very unsatisfactory companions as the sole dependence. Hence the need of positive religion, with its Gospel and Church; hence the fact that faith is little likely to lose its strongholds among our valleys and mountains, and the homesteads and barns are never long far distant from the spire that crowns their wealth and points their aspiration.

On the whole, we may safely affirm that country life enables a thoughtful man to discern very well the various kinds of substances and powers that combine to make up the universe, and to save him from the follies of visionaries who fail to see the substances, and of the materialists who lose sight of the motive and vital powers. If there be any defect in the school in which he is a learner, it comes from the dearth of human society, and the absence of the complex social organization and humanizing influences that are found in large towns and cities. True, indeed, where men much congregate, folly and vice abound, and so, too, wisdom and virtue there centre, and we are obliged to say in truth that the best social powers centre in the choice circles and improved institutions of our towus and cities. The farmer will at once confess that he misses the stores, markets, schools, and arts of the city, but he hardly knows how much he loses in the absence of the unconscious influence that comes from the courteous manners, elevating conversation, and refined culture of the best society. He may have specimens of this in his neighborhood, or may fall in with it in his visits in town; yet one of his first dangers comes from want of the sympathy and incentives flowing from habitual associates of the right stamp. He is tempted to be slovenly in dress, manners, and speech, and live as if it were of little importance how he lives so long as he breaks no moral law and parts with no essential comfort. Hence the frequent absence of good taste and even of common decency in many country places. The sacrifice of the beautiful to the economical, even to the thrusting of the pig-pen and dung-heap into the eyes and nose of the family, and the desertion of the whole house for the shelter of the kitchen and the fumes of the pot and the gridiron. The rules of good-breeding suffer sometimes as much as the laws of taste, and the conversation and garb are as rough as the furniture and aspect are unseemly. A hard selfishness is apt sometimes to be the spirit of the family; and if they agree together tolerably, they may live as if they thought that there were nobody worth caring much for outside their own doors. The isolation of position may tempt isolation of feeling, and the abandonment of the great human fellowship for the imperious sway of private thrift and personal appetites. Yet every generous nature relucts from such perversion, and the very dangers of a comparatively lonely position will impel a true man to take especial pains to resist them, and to win by deliberate effort the advantages that other men have as a matter of course. Hence the good farmer will bring out as much as possible the gifts and powers and graces of his own family, and will try to cultivate the best society in his reach, and to use every fair opportunity of associating with superior men in the interchange of business, and in the pursuit particularly of rural interests and patriotic, literary, and religious objects. He may find great help among his own children, and a half dozen bright girls and boys of various capacities and attainments will do much to enliven the family, and even enrich the farm by their skill and associations. It is very important that he should have strong and frequent influence from companions bound together by fellowship of pursuit, and it is one of the good signs of the times that our farmers are becoming very gregarious in a new and better way than at the ale-house or the tavern, and now meet at fairs and institutes the master minds and the best products, implements, and ideas of their calling. A better standard of ambition is thus set before them, and the good effect of it appears not only in better crops and cattle, but in gentler manners and finer tastes. The farm itself often wears the look of the new age, and not only does thrift speak from the teeming fields and lowing herds, but beauty looks out from the landscape, and it is evident that the owner of the house and grounds has learned that fitness is the first principle of loveliness, and the farm is fair as well as fit when all its parts and uses combine in due order, and the unity and diversity that are the law of God's heavens rule the affairs of the earth and exalt man's many things and thoughts into harmony with the one great Being whe sent all existences forth by His word and recalls them to Himself by His spirit.

What motive should more effectually check the farmer's too ready selfishness, and bring him into living human fellowship, than the great principle of patriotism? Who should love his country more than he, and who should feel more than he the stability, the honor, and the power of good government, with its firm law and merciful order? The mysterious power of the nation blesses him when he may least think of it, and the strong arm that protects his property, and gives sweet sleep to his weary pillow, and opens to him a good market for his products, and bears him faithful word of distant friends, and brings his absent son or daughter within reach of his pen and almost of his touch—what power does this but the country, the nation that gathers the many into one, and joins the remotest village to the capital, under the shield of the same broad and mighty nationality? To him the country is no abstraction; for he looks upon and traverses a large piece of its domain day by day, and no man can have more love for his native land than he whe owus and inhabits some of its solid acres. But why philosophize upon the nature of the case, when experience proves so amply the patriotism of farmers? In fact, they made the nation; for they were almost the whele population when our liberty was won and our Constitution was fixed. Our great statesmen have been farmers, and in the strict practical sense of the term too. Our great patriot, Washington, stands rightfully at the head of the profession; for he owned 8000 acres, and to his death kept 4000 of them under regular culture. Our great statesmen, the Adamses, Jefferson, Madison, Clay, Webster, and others, have followed in his path, and while they undoubtedly found health and thrift in the soil, yet their great advantage was derived from its wholesome discipline and broad affinity, and they understood and served the people better from seeing with their own eyes how bread is earned, and labor done, and comfort enjoyed, and the nation is governed and blessed.

God's blessing upon our farmers, and may the next half century justify and reward the bright promise of the last fifty years! What the America that the twentieth century looks upon will be, is a question more fitting for a prophet, or at least for a poet, than for our prosaic pen.

drMtnfs (0nsIj Cjjntr.

LET it go on record that our war summer was one of the loveliest summers that the oldest Easy Chair remembers. The fiereely het days have been very few, and all the days enjoyable. The usual summer resorts have naturally been less thronged than in other years. The wild revel of fashionable frivolity has been checked. Who ran doubt that we have been a soberer, sadder, better people this summer than for many summers before?

There is probably many a philosophic loiterer upon Newport beach in one of those gleaming, golden twilights, when the world has just driven back to the Ocean, and Atlantic, and Bellevue, and Fillmore (if there be later and more luxurious caravansaries the antiquated Easy Chair humbly begs pardon for omitting their names), to array itself for the ball or concert of the evening, who, as his horse paced slowly along the edge of the sea, or he sat upon a rock snuffing the sea-weed, has mused upon the gilded youth of Rome and the watering-place splendors of Baias. For so we love to contemplate ourselves historically by putting others long dead in our places, and to feel how picturesque we are by seeing how they were so.

The ruius of our Newport villas, or our Saratoga and Sharon hotels, are not likely to furnish mosaics and marbles for the mosses and vines to overrun. Our temples of Venus will hardly survive like the famous temple at Babe. Given desertion and desolation for an equal period, and the only Newport ruin will be the old tower, that was already a ruin before any house now standing in Newport was built; and a ruin upon which all the busy and beaurifol life of the watering-place will have made no impression whatever.

Yet our Newport nobility may be consoled. If their villas do not survive—if in a century they are all replaced, and Newport gayer than we have ever known—it is pleasant to reflect upon the greater comfort the heirs of the villas will enjoy. We think, of course, that we have touched the height of comfort and luxury. Do you think that Julius Osar. Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Caracalla, Xero, ana the rest thought otherwise when they breathed the soft sea air at Bauc? Yet who would not rather live to-tlay in a spacious house with "the conveniences" than in the marine villas of those Emperors? They rolled in coaches of solid silver, curiously carved. But they were only carts after all, and poorly exchanged for comfort with a well-hung wagon or stuffed carriage. They wore long robes of silk and purple fluttering in the wind, with rich tunics elaborately embroidered. Would a sane man prefer such clothes to the loose sack and the rational peg-top? They sailed in painted galleys from the I Lucrine Lake to their villas upon the sea-coast. But how Italy would have remembered, hew Horace i would have sung, how Pliny would have recorded, if those classic dandies could have seen the yachts that light Newport harbor—the white swan Julia skirting the sunny shore, or the gentle Una gliding up the bay!

Newport can cry quits in comfort with Bsi»Modern life, in its higher social varieties, is not intrinsically so splendid as the old life of Rome; but it is more substantially comfortable. In fact, in later times, the heir of an old English country mansion, rich in historic value, may often wish Ms|»t could build a comfortable house for himself, instead of supplying the defects of an earlier day by adding the conveniences of his own.

So if the loiterer upon the twilight beach sheuld reflect that Baia: was not better, even in its watering-place way, than Newport—if he should feel no envy of that older day—if he should remember how wanton and wicked was all that imperial luxury— if he should consider that although almond-trees and aloes and oleanders do not grow along the shore of Rhode Island, yet that, on the other hand, the Mediterranean is but a tideless lake, and that on the beach he treads he breathes the strong salt breath of the Atlantic, the philosopher may go home to tea satisfied with his own century and his own country.

In respect of foreign Princes we observe a strict neutrality. Several weeks ago the Prince Napoleon arrived and went to Washington, and was properly dined and presented, and taken to a review. Ho represents the Powers that be. Hard upon his heels comes thePrincede Joinville—Cap'n Jineville, as the worthy Boston matron described him after the famous ball there of other days. He too goes to Washington, is properly dined and presented, and taken to a review. He represents the Powers that were.

Treat every man as if he might one day bo your enemy, was Machiavelian advice. Treat every man as if he might one day be your biographer, is the method of many famous men. Treat every prince as if he might come to his own again, is certainly the rule of good conduct for all potentates. The pretty steam-yacht Jerome has run round to Boston with her freight of an Emperor's cousin and a King's daughter. '' Cap'n Jineville" has put his son to school at the Naval Academy. Meanwhile the whirligig of Time spins on. And is it more unlikely that a few years may show Louis Philippe's son restored to his chance of a kingdom, than it was that the few years which have passed since Cap'n Jineville was here sheuld have restored Napoleon Bonaparte's nephew to the chance of an empire?

The visit of Prince Napoleon is certainly one of the most sensible visits to a country that a man in his position could make. He really saw the country. "Saw the country, Sir!" cried an explosive Second Lieutenant. "By Jupiter, Sir, you'd better say so. Why, ho came plump into Syracuse by the train one noon, and dined aft the table d'hote of the Globe Hotel at Convention time; and if that is not seeing the country, Sir, I sheuld bo glad to be told what is."

At least we may be very sure that the French Prince knows something more of us than the English Princo who was here a year before him. Jenkins tried very hard to "do" the Prince Napoleon, but Jenkins was turned out into the street, and to this day does not know whether the Prince wears separate collars, or has them sewed on to the shirt. Ho seems to have made a quiet, gentlemanly impression. A man whose uncle made himself Emperor, and whose cousin had to do the same thing, is naturally doubtful of his future. They who play for crowns, directly or indirectly, play high, but they play a dangerous game. It was the Prince de Joinville's turn twenty years ago, and there was a young Mr. Bonaparte of no importance upon the world. It is Prince Napoleon's turn now, and "Cap'n Jineville" is about.

A Friend suggests to the Easy Chair that his pastoral letter in August, informing every body that Vol. XXIII.—No. 138.—3 H

what he wrote and sent to the Magazine would be fairly treated and cousidered, must havo been peculiarly gratifying to the Editor by trebling and quadrupling his work, "as if any editor were not overwhelmed by the manuscripts which are sent to him without solicitation."

Let the Easy Chair, then, modify the letter. Good brethren of the quill, you will easily believe that most of what we all write is not worth reading; and when we add to the enormity of writing at all, the crime of writing illegibly, in what Abana or Pharpar shall we hope to be made clean? We must not suppose that because we have a fancy to write, and do write, wo ought to pain any one else by compelling him to read it. Authors owe a duty to editors, as well as editors to authors, and the first duty is humanity. Besides, if you send a poor thing, and it is, as it will be, rejected, you will find that it has infected all that follows. If a man in a green coat has bored you once, you will always be wary of the bore in the green coat. You will not see him approach without the certainty that you are to be bored; and even if he have something really pleasant to say it will sound to you wearisome.

If the first duty, brethren, is humanity, the second is humility. If you don't think what you have written is good enough to publish, resist "a few friends" and "a famous auther whe assures you," and "the urgent solicitation of many." That is the worst form of conceit. If you send what you writo because you believe in it, that is something. But if you send it because somebody else believes in it, you merely try to gild your vanity with humility. And, O dear brethren, that is so transparent! It is painting your tub yellow, and trying to palm it off for a golden goblet. If you read in the preface to a book that the author has been persuaded by a few friends that he has written something the world will not willingly let die, do you turn with avidity to the pages, or do you quietly lay the book down?

When you have written a poem, or a story, or an essay, tho probability is—it is probable of all of us, beloved brethren—that you have written a very poor thing. It is well for us all to think so. But when we do think so, let us not send it to an editor and request his opinion. He is too busy. Every moment he is engaged with his legitimate duties; and it is not one of those that he shall decide the abstract question of merit in your productions. It is so easy to write, and so hard to write well. The Easy Chair receives many a modest and mannerly note accompanying a portentous manuscript. Here is one. It is written in perfect good faith, and it is so received and read:

"dear Easv Cuaie,—Being afflicted with a temperament which I am afraid is of a poetic tendency, as it breaks out in sundry effusions under a pressure of the hardest kind of work, and being unable to overeome the longings and aspirations which are said to belong to such characters, I here humbly wait on the 'Easy Chair,' and pray him for his advice and counsel under such trying circumstances. The malady develops itself in beautiful visions which haunt my mind, while the beauties of truth captivates my understanding, harmony in sound or form enchants my soul, and all tho beautiful in nature and art, in the grand, the terrible, the sublime, find deep responses in my inmost soul. Amidst all those feelings and impressions the demands of existence calls for work; work and duty chaius mo to the material and Irksome necessities of life, while the inquiring mind is wandering far away, giving hushed utterance to the tuneful vibrations called forth by time and circumstance and the varying events of our fleeting

'"To t*e or not to Be, that is the question;' and so I leave it to the worshipful 'Easy Chair.* I Inclose three pieces for your consideration, and if it jumps with your inclination and duty, please to criticise. I am conscious of many imperfectious, but as the old divines used to remark, I have 'the root of the matter in me,' if I had opportunity and qualifications to put it in form, not being a very efficient scholar. Though I feel the difficulty of giving the poetic sentiment an arbitrary direction, yet I will be glad to make an essay on any subject as a test of originality. With the hincere hope- that I may never become u bore, I hope you will permit me, should neither of the inclosed pieces be suitable, to continue sending till I come up to the standard. Many times a theme presents itself to me which I mentally enjoy but I never bring to fruition, partly from want of time and sluggishness, and having no proper outlet to stimulate me to exertion. If your time and regulations will permit, I will be glad If, Instead of consigning me to the Drawer or correspondents' column, you would b't me have a few lines per post. 111 am, Dear Easy Chair,

11 Yours in Hope, •"

The writer incloses three poems. Will you hear the opening of the first?

ON SAPPHO SINGING. On sea-girt isle, where many sounding caves Give back the gentle murmurs of the waves, O'er deep blue sea, where prospect far extending, There siU a form divine, in wayward motion bending.

That is, perhaps, enough. It seems strange, dear brethren, that any body sheuld suppose such lines to be poetry. Yet it is our own case magnified. Many of us whe secretly smile at our neighbor's mote an! rather proud of our own beam. Therefore let us all be on our guard, and let us not send poems and other literary performances for criticism to Editors, whatever we may send to Easy Chairs. The chair of an Editor is not easy. Common humanity requires that we sheuld not put pius in it for him to sit down upon, and every body who sends him a crnde, doubtful, long, illegible manuscript does stick a pin in it. Such a manuscript steals his time and kills his temper. Are you ready to become a thief and murderer? Let the Easy Chair beg every literary brother who may sec these words to pause as he is mailing his article, and if he has the least doubt of its acceptance, to save the peace of the editor and his own postage stamps.

Is every battle how many a hero falls, of whom often only the name, which tells no tale, survives! We read of the hundreds killed and the thousands wounded; but hew little we think of the hearts that are broken at heme! In every battle, wherever it may be, in Missouri, or Virginia, or Kentucky, the same qualities are visible that poetry and romance have always celebrated, and the human heart always loved. The history of a thousand heroes is briefly told. Their country called: they marehed: they fought: they fell. The following letter tells the story of one, and yet of how many moro than one, whose career honors themselves, their country, and mankind!

11 Mv r'r.A3 Easy Chair,—I read thU in tho New York Evening Pont:

"' Colonel L> 's regiment engaged the enemy directly

in front. L fell dead at the head of his regiment curly

in the hottest fire, by a ball In the forehead.'

11 And so ends the earthly record of a good and true man's life. His history is so characteristic of his country that it has moro than a transient interest. Some forty years o^o thU great metropolis contained a young, mother

less boy, with his sister, two years older than himsclC There may have been nothing about him to attract a straying attention, except his bright eye, his pressed lip, a quick, firm tread, which showed that there was a soul within biro that would not always slumber. The father, an ee'ucated man, had been reduced, by years of sickness, to very narrow cireumstances. But for Ids children's sakes, perhap-?, he bad married again. Many a step-mother may love the children of a stranger at their own fireside as if they were her own. Bufafhis step-mother was not one of them. A brutal nature^Keartiess and selfish, vented its irritation upon those two helpless children. At some childish and not habitual act of forget fulness the blood flowed from the little girl's shoulder, and I know not but that the scars are there to this day. And the child (they were then for a while in the vicinity of the city) went out more than once and kneeled down by the fence, and while the tears streamed down her young face prayed that one harder blow might end her life. And the little boy's eyes flashed, and his childish soul burned within him, that be could not protect bis dear sister. And privately he said to her, 'Sister, if ever I live to grow larger and that woman comes to my door for a crust of bread, because she is starving and will die, I will drive her away without it!' Almost a^ brutal to her own little ones, she would be absent for day* together, leaving them to those two poor children's cart*. Enough of that

'* A year or two more passed and the father was dead, and tho helpless baby, who sadly missed a mother's care, was thrown, a heavy burden, upon the shoulders of these two orphan children. And resolutely did that noble-spirited boy toil early and late, bringing every ceut be earned, except a single sixpence, weekly, to the woman who had proved any thing but a mother to him.

11 But he was not satisfied with the mechanical work to which poverty had driven him. And when he came home | at night, he said, 'Sister, God never meant me to Fp^nd I my days at this:' so holding the little ones between hi* | knees, while the step-mother was idling away the evenings among her neighbors, he studied hour after hour by the dim light of a tallow-candle, when the day's work was done. A free library provided him with books, until ct | last he said to his sister: 'I have doue my part for these i children. Now I must go away and do my part for you and me, for here I shall always bo at the bottom of the ! well.'

I u L is nest found in a Western town among a struggling crowd of lawyers, making his way slowly upward. I What he thought of the effort, you may judge from hh letter to a young person who in after-years sought his advice concerning tho choice of a profession. *As for the law, if you aro willing to work like a dog, live like a dog, 'be abused like a dog^nnd fight like a dog, buy a copy of 'Chitty's Bh1ckstone and go to reading as soon as possible.' I "Yet he made his mark, and when he set his foot on a | new rung of the ladder which be was climbing, he? kept it I there until he was ready to step up to another. Strange ! obstacles arose in his way. The 'telle of the town* was | the daughter of the Judge of the Cireuit Court—a double , reason why the young lawyers of the town should be in I seareh of her, and why some of them should not look very > lovingly on the young stranger who had secured her affections by a love which burned as true and warm to the las* I hour of life as when it was first kindled. A strange plot was devised to ruin, if possible, the young lawyer. Nowhere but in a Puritan community would such have hern even attempted. It was well known that the Judge Wl* 1 the very soul of honor and uprightness. So a letter came > oddressed to the Postmaster of the town and stamped N. V.,

a*king if one L were residing there; for he had in

I curred a host of debts for gambling, drinking, fast horses etc,, and then run away from New York, and wait of hi* creditors would be glad to know if any money could tx

gotten out of him. It was more than a year after I> *t

marriage before this ingenious villainy was shown to have been concocted by two young lawyers of the town,

11 It was dogged determination and perseverance, joined with the purest honor and high-toned courage, which er.

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