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should s»o, and when he is old he will not depart from it."

Was there with all classes that amount of solicitude and concern to cultivate and improve the growth of the heavenly seed sown in the heart, proportionate to its importance, what a vast change would be witnessed; the sword beaten into a ploughshare, the spear into a pruning hook, the downtrodden and oppressed relieved and restored to liberty. "The envy of Ephraim would depart, and the adversaries of Judah would be cut off; Ephraim would not envy Judah, and Judah would not vex Ephraim." "The glory of the Lord would then cover the earth, as the waters cover the sea." "For he whose mind is stayed on the Lord is kept in perfect peace ;" and this is the happy condition designated for man to occupy while in this beautiful world, aud the inestimable privilege offered to each without distinction. D. I.

JDutrliess Co. K ¥., ISlh of 9th mo. 1857.



Change and decay follow each other in such rapid succession, in the world through which we arc passing, that we can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily around us. "The mountain falling eometh to nought, and the rock is removed out of its place. The waters wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is destroyed."

Conscious of our own instability, we look about for something to rest upon, but we look in vain. The heavens and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face of the world is changing daily and hourly. All animated things grow old and die. The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers. The clouds are flying and the waters are flowing away from us.

The firmest works of man are gradually giving way. The ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the briar hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these perishable works have shared the same fate long ago. If wc look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as well as to the dwellings of former times, they become immediately associated in our imaginations,and only make the feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before.

In the spacious domes which once held ourj fathers, the serpent hisses, and the wild bird, screams. The halls which once were crowded with all that taste, and science, and labor could procure; which resounded with melody, and were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own ruins, and mocked by their own desolation.

The voice of merriment, and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle, have ceased in the deserted courts : weeds choke the entrances, and long grass waves upon the hearthstone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the very ashes they contained, are all gone.

While we thus walk upon the ruins of the past, a sad feeling of insecurity comes over us, and the feeling i3 by no means diminished when we arrive at home. If we turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them before they bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, and in a few moments more their countenances are changed, and they pass away. It matters not how near aud dear they are; the ties which bind us together are never too close to be parted, or too strong to be broken.

Nor is it enough that we are compelled to surrender one, or two, or many of those we love; for tears were never known to move the king of terrors, and though the price is great, we buy no favor with it, and our hold upon those who remain is as slight as ever. The shadows all elude our grasp, and follow each other down the valley.

We gain no confidence, no feeling of security, by turning to our cotemporaries aud kindred. We know that the forms which are breathing around us, are as short-lived and fleeting as those were which have been dust for centuries. The sensation of vanity, uncertainty, and ruin, is equally strong, whether we muse upon what has long been prostrate, or gaze upon what is falling now, or will fall so soon.

If everything which conies under our notice has endured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be no more, we cannot say that we feel the least assurance by thinking of ourselves. When a few more friends have loft a few more hopes deceived, and a few more changes mocked us, "we shall be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb ; the clods of the valley shall be sweet unto us, and every man shall follow us." All power will forsake the strongest, the loftiest will be laid low, every eye will be closed, every voice will be hushed, and every heart will cease its beating. And when we have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay behind us long. A few of the near and dear will bear our likeness in their bosoms, till they too, arrive at the end of their journey.

A stone, perhaps may tell some wanderer where we lie, when we came here, and when we went away; but even that will soon refuse to bear us record. "Time's effacing fingers" will be busy upon its surface, and at length will wear it smooth; and then the stone itself will sink or crumble, and the wanderer of another age will pass, without a single call upon his sympathy, over our unheeded graves.

But there is one Being to whom we can look

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with a perfect conviction of finding that security which nothing about us can give; a Being in whom there is no change. To this Being we can lift up our souls, and on Him we may rest them exclaiming in the language of the monarch of Israel: "Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlastiug thou art God."

"Of old hast Thou laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of thy hands. They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure ; yea, all of them shall wax old like a garmeut, as a vesture shalt thou change them, and they shall be changed; but Thou art the same, and Thy years shall have no end."

Here, then, is a support which will never fail, a foundation that can never be moved, the everlasting Creator of countless worlds, "the high and holy One that inhabiteth eternity." What a sublime conception !" Inhabiteth eternity!" occupies this inconceivable duration, pervades and fills throughout this boundless dwelling;

Ages upon ages, before even the dust of which we are formed was created, He had existed in infinite majesty, and ages upon ages will roll away, after we have all returned to the dust whence we are taken, and still He will exist: living in the eternity of his own nature, reigning in the plenitude of His own omnipotence, forever sending forth the word which forms, supports and governs all things, commanding new-created light to shiue upon new created worlds, and raising up new-created generation* to inhabit them.

The contemplation of this glorious attribute of God, is fitted to excite in our minds the most animating and consoling reflection. ' Standing, as we are, amid the ruins of time, and the wrecks of mortality, where every thing about us is created and dependent, we rejoice that something is presented to our view which has stood from everlasting, and will remain forever.

When we have looked upon the pleasures of life, aud they have vanished away; upon the works of nature, and perceived that they are changing; upon the monuments of art, and seen that they will not stand; upon our friends, and they have fled while we were gazing; upon ourselves, and felt that we are as fleeting as they; upon every object to which we can turn our anxious eyes, and all have told us that they can give us neither hope nor support, we may turn with confidence to the throne of the Most High. Change and decay have never reached it; the revolution of ages has never moved it; the waves of eternity are rushing past it; but it is fixed, andean never be disturbed.

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The country is both the philosopher's garden and library, in which he reads and contem



It is quite a common thing for honest-minded, frank-hearted, but somewhat ambitious country farmers, to send their young sons to the city to be educated, or to acquire a knowledge of business, but without subjecting them at the same time to the kindly and constant guardianship of some intelligent relative or friend. This is a sad mistake, and it often leads to the most deplorable circumstances. The temptations of city life are many and various. They present themselves in a thousand different forms, some of which are of the most seductive character. The moral restraints necessary to resist them must be of no ordinary kind, and it can scarcely be looked for in the inexperienced and the young. And when once the path of error is entered upon, and an evil habit is resorted to, it is difficult indeed to retrace the footsteps. Perhaps the most powerful temptation to the gentle sex is dress. It bewilders, intoxicates, fascinates, and often leads to ruin. This is especially the case in this country, where the mistress and maid vie with each other in adorning their persons, where the classes are not distinctly marked, and where respectability is often measured by the apparel. Dress, indeed, forms the leading topic in almost every female circle, and may be said to constitute the passion of the sex. But with young men there are many more temptations. In the first place, they are nearly all taught to live beyond their means. They learn to smoke when they are mere boys, not a few chew the narcotic weed, while drink in its various forms is deemed by a great majority as a matter of course. The wonder is, not that a few fall under these circumstances, but that so many escape the shoals and quicksands of city life. The lessons of self-restraint cannot be inculcated too early. Moral and religious precepts and principles should be constantly instilled. But more than all, some regular habit of industry, some visible mode of livelihood, should be considered as essential. Idleness is the parent of many vices, and it is especially so in great cities. Another and a fearful evil which prevails, is the existence of clubs or private gaming houses. These are every way fascinating, and while they are managed in comparative secrecy, they win away the young, the excitable and the unsuspicious, until ruin stares them in the face. The country is exempt from these subtle dens of iniquity. At first the unsophisticated youth is induced to visit one of these resorts from mere curiosity. He is then stimulated, induced to play for a trifle, and whether he win or lose, the excitement seizes upon his mind, and the chances are, that he will return again and again. Those who have no passion for gaming, and who have never indulged in its many forms, can have no adequate idea of the power of its temptation! We some days since conversed with a gentlenia'n of this city, who, from the force of habit and in consequence of a peculiar infirmity, is compelled to resort to card-playing occasionally, to pass his evening hours. He has outlived all excitement upon the subject, plays mechanically, and never risks a farthing. But he informs us that he has seen some terrible cases—cases in which not only the young, but the old have been decoyed step by step, until they became infatuated, mad, and at last bankrupt. The art of a finished gambler consists of coolness, caution, courtesy, and a peculiar adaptation to character. And thus it is that the young and credulous, who fall into their hands, have but a narrow chance of escape indeed. In the humbler classes, and among the younger mechanics, associations of various kinds, and all of an apparently useful or benevolent object, are often full of danger. Thousands have been ruined in this way. Evil habits have been formed, ruffianism has been taught, and terrible results have been produced. Nay, it is almost impossible for the most vigilant, to watch, guard, restrain and protect youth in a great city. It is difficult to have an eye upon them at all times, while temptations may be said to be in every path. The young, too are impulsive, reckless and easily deceived, and thus they are readily led astray. Hence, every effort should be made, to direct their thoughts, tastes and habits into proper channels. They should be afforded opportunities of proper enjoyment, of a character to interest their minds and touch the hearts, and at the same time to yield rational recreation. The mistake of too many parents is, that they do not mingle sufficiently with their children. They keep them at a distance, and thus lose and impair their confidence and chill their sympathies. It is indeed a rare thing to find fathers and sons mingling together, and participating in the same science and enjoyments. Some allowance should of course have been made for age and habit, but there are times and seasons when friendly communion would be found mutually advantageous when the ties of consanguinity would be strengthened, when con

fidence would be revived and deepened, and the hearts of both parties would be made to kindle and glow towards each other. Youth, we repeat, is beset with a thousand temptations, especially in a great city like this, and while every possible restraint should be imposed, a spirit of forbearance, generosity, kindness and consideration should always be exercised. The father, moreover, who plays the domestic despot, who avoids, neglects and drives his son from him, assumes a fearful responsibility, and one! that will return to him some day, in bitterness and sorrow.—Philadelphia Inquirer.

The following remarks 6u the subject of funerals, from a daily paper, are so in accordance with the views entertained by Friends, that we read them with pleasure. We fear there is a growing tendency among us to deviate on these occasions from that simplicity which is so beautiful and dignified, and which is, no doubt, appreciated by many not members of our society.


Fashionable Funerals.

The increasing expensivencss of funerals should be- a subject for serious consideration, and most of all by those by whom the mere, pecuniary expense may be no object. Where grief

| is real, it is worried with a most dangerous tor-» ture in going through all the forms and the processes that custom increasingly demands at a fashionable funeral. The imposing pomp of grief, even the closed windows of the darkened house of death, dangerously augment the depressions of sorrow, while the irritating details of ceremony, the changes of garments, the host of strangers brought into the house and in contact with the harrowed mourners in the hour of wo, render the funeral of a dear friend a matter of unnecessary torture, danger and injury incalculable, to the living.

The expense also is not to be overlooked. Of course there are families of wealth that love ostentation, even at the edge of a mother's grave, and to wrap around with pomp and pride even the insignia of the tomb. Their comfort is to gild over everything, even the handle of the scythe of death himself, and to glove his skeleton fingers. For such we do not write. Let them console themselves by display. But there are thousands of both rich and poor, who really love their friends, and for that reason would not wish to seem to slight their memory by the failure of any seeming respect that money could procure, even though it should pinch them for a year or two afterwards, but yet who hate ceremony and display, and are tormented by it at times like these. There is, perhaps, a love of

j offering costly gifts at the graves of those we love, and of breaking alabaster boxes to their memory, that is natural. All of this we would not reprehend. But we do plead against imposing all the gew gaw displays of a modern fashionable funeral; the nest of pompous coffins, the array of hired carriages, the entire change of dress, the troublesome and expensive hospitality frequently iudulged in on these occasions from a conviction that it is a necessary mark of respect either to the dead or to the living. These things distract the mind of the sufferer, and therefore the whole ceremonials and management of affairs are often placed in the hands of men who do not and cannot sympathize in the anguish they witness.'

All that ought to be required at such times should be, as far as possible, those marks of respect that can and are freely rendered by attached friends and sympathizing neighbors. The duties of the undertaker should be as simple and unimposing as possible. If any of our readers has witnessed the funeral of some great public character in England, while it may be hardly possible to escape the pressure of the sympathetic gloom in which the whole atmosphere is artificially involved, he must have felt the comparative hcartlessness of the whole affair. The funeral of the late duke of Wellington was of this character. The Apsley house was darkened, hardly a ray of light strayed into a single apartment. As you approached the body lying in state, all the light was from a few wax tapers, the rooms were hung around in black cloth; the attendants, in deep mourning, were silent and apparently weeping; the visitors were in black—all was black. Black plumes of ostrich feathers waved from every horse's head in the final procession to the tomb, and the horse without its rider, and the mournful marches of a dozen bands of martial music made the air thick with grief, until under the great dome of St. Paul's, the velvet coffin surmounted by the coronet, was at last deposited in the vault.

Sometimes these ceremonials take place at midnight, amid the rumbling of the organ, and the roaring of cannon, and the solemn thrilling strains of martial funeral music. But yet it is all pompous and heartless. It rolls forth funeral anthems in tones that seem as if they might wake the dead who have slept for ages in the vaults around. It seems as if it was all designed to impose upon the dead of past ages that sense of the importance of this new tenant of the tomb now come to their fraternity, which he could no longer enjoy here.

If from an extreme like this, any one has passed to some simple country funeral in the back woods, how striking the difference! A plain coffin and a simple shroud, a room where all is covered with pure white, where the friends and neighbors gather, neatly dressed, but in

every color, and in vehicles of all sorts, sizes, ages and hues. A simple prayer, an earnest plea to the living, a brief account of the latest and best wishes of the deceased and a friendly group of neighbors to carry him to hi3 grave. The earth is dropped softly on the coffin lid by friendly and affectionate hands, and then all is still and all disperse.

Such are the two extremes. We have seen something of both, and do earnestly protest that simplicity is the best ceremonial, inspires the greatest respect for the deceased, and produces in every way the most wholesome effect on the living. Let all be quiet, simple and sincere. Neither offend custom nor affect display. Could this simplicity but be established, and funeral feasts and mourning be abolished, it would contribute to real respect, and bless many a widow in times like these.—Philada. Ledger.


A true life must be simple in all its elements, animated by one grand and ennobling impulse. All lesser aspirations find their proper places in harmonious subservience. Simplicity in taste, in appetite, in habits of life, with a correspondI ing indifference to worldly honors and aggran: dizement, is the natural result of the predomi| nance of a divine and unselfish idea, j Under the guidance of such sentiments, virtue j is not an effort, but a law of nature, like graviJ tation. It is vice alone that seems unaccountai ble, monstrous, well nigh miraculous. Purity is 1 felt to be as necessary to the mind, as health to the body; and its absence alike the inevitable source of pain.

A true life must be calm. A life perfectly directed, is made wretched through distraction. We give up our youth to excitement, and wonder that a decrepit old age steals upon us so soon, j We wear out our energies in strife for gold or | fame, and then wonder alike at the cost and worthlessness of the meed.

"Is not the life more than meat 1" Ay, truly! ! But how few have practically, consistently, so regarded it? And little as it is regarded by the imperfectly virtuous, how much less by the vicious and the worldling? What a chaos of struggling emotions is exhibited by the lives of the multitude! How like to the wars of the infuriated animalculse, in a magnified drop of water, is the strife constantly waged in each little mind!

How sloth is jostled by gluttony, and pride wrestled with by avarice, and ostentation bearded by meanness! The soul which is notlarge enough for the indwelling of one virtue, affords lodgment, and scope, and arena for a hundred vices. But their warfare cannot be indulged with impunity. Agitation and wretchedness are the inevitable consequences, in the midst of which the flames of life burn flaringly and swiftly to its close. A true life must be genial and joyous. II. G.


OnF riday morning last we enjoyed the gratification of visiting, in company with a friend from the south west who is familiar with the production of sugar in Louisiana, the farm of Mr. N. J. Willett, distant about a mile and half southeast of Haddonfield. Our object was to witness the attempt to make syrup or sugar from sorghum raised in Camden county. Mr. W. has eight acres of the reed in the most flourishing condition, from twelve to fifteen feet in height, with a few more acres on shares with Mr. Gill, nearer to Haddonfield. To test the value of this, Mr. W. has purchased and erected a small mill for grinding, and vats and kettles for concentracting and reducing the juice. The question of the practicability of raising sugar economically in this latitude is so highly interesting that we considered ourselves fortunate in finding the mill in motion, and all the processes, from crushing to testing the molasses, in full operation, Mr. W. being engaged in a second or third experiment or boiling. An observation on such a subject, made so near home, will prove its own apology with our readers for occupying some space in describing what we saw.

The crop resembles, almost exactly, somewhat enlarged broom corn, with a rather short brush; It is planted in rows five feet apart, at distances of abouta foot from stem to stem, in part of the field, and from six to eight inches in the balance. The former portion produced by far the larger cane, but the latter the greater weight of cane to tha square foot, and the heavier amount of leaf for forage. A few rows only had been thinned out as yet, to supply the mill. Two plantings had been made on the first and second Mondays in May, respectively. The seed is just beginning to brown, or approach ripeness. Probably the plant has not yet developed the highest amount of saccharine principle in the sap.

Mr. W. is operating utterly without previous experience, and has obviously committed several errors, both in the erection of his works and in the treatment of the juice. His success, which is highly flattering under these unfavorable circumstances, is the more interesting, as showing more positively the certainly profitable character of the crop in this latitude, even during a remarkably cool and wet summer.

Let us describe the operation. The mill, worked by two horses, like a tanner's circular bark mill, has three perpendicular, hollow iron rollers at the centre for crushing the cane, (stripped of its loaves,) which is fed by hand. A self feeding, horizontal mill, would be more expensive, but vastly preferable. The crude juice from the rollers flows down through metal tubes into a funnel and pipes, which convey it to two small wooden vats with metallic linings, placed in another building, at the distance of

several yards. In these vats the sap is subjected to the action of lime, to destroy the acidity and precipitate the green vegetable matter. It is then conveyed through large brass cocks into a great iron boiler, where it is subjected to the heat of a small anthracite furnace, with flues and dampers capable of heating either or both of two other boilers in the same range, to be used in succession in the after process. After having been concentrated to a certain degree in this boiler, the juice is bailed over into the next succeeding one, where it is evaporated to a considerable extent, and the green, feculant matter rising to the surface is carefully removed by a copper skimmer pierced with fine holes. The liquid is then bailed into the third kettle, where it is reduced to the condition of New Orleans molasses or syrup with constant stirring. Mr. W. has not yet carried the process further, though he has a distinct, and we think altogether unnecessary, granulating kettle detached from the main range, and will employ it hereafter when his supply of juice is more ample.

Such is the process, which is much more complex than that employed in Louisana. Mr. W. is probably wrong in preferring anthracite for fuel. We are indebted to a friend of our companion, who is a practical sugar planter on the Mississippi, for the information that they there prefer the dried or refuse cane of the mill and ordinary brushwood, with their lively, quick flame, for heating the boilers. Mr. W. having burnt a portion of his syrup, seems to be afraid of,a boiling temperature. He wastes time in too slow an evaporation, in dread of too great heat: while the Louisaina planters keep the liquid after clarification in a full boiling state, and, fearless of the remaining green matter iu solution,(which disappears long before granulation,) they continue the concentration until granulation commences. They then ladle out sugar from the bottom by means of their strainers, and place it in perforated hogsheads over tubs, to allow the molasses to drain gradually out. Meanwhile the process goes on uninterruptedly in the evaporating kettle, fresh clarified juice being added, until all is expended. They regard the residuum of syrup to be mainly or entirely due to the presence of the juice of immature cane.

Under all disadvantages and want of experience on the part of Mr. JV. he reduces from tour gallons and a half of the crude juice, one gallon of rich, delicious syrup, undistinguishable from the very best of that found in the New Orleans market. The quantity of juice to the acre has been tested elsewhere in the Northwest, but the statements are not before us. Memory whispers, however, that it equals or exceeds four hundred gallons. At all events, the experiment of Mr. Willett proves that this cane is a more profitable crop than the cereals,

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