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the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dread. ful destruction to which he is exposed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words, of his terror-stricken companions below. What a moment! What a meagre chance to escape destruction! There is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet, and retain his slender hold a moment. His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that "freeze their young blood.” He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearth-stone.

Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and hundreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father who is shouting with all the energy of despair, “William! William! Don't look down! Your mother, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here, praying for you! Don't look down! Keep your eye towards the top!” The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint towards Heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remore him from the reach of human help from below. How carefully he uses his wasting blade! How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier! How he avoids every flinty grain ! How he economizes his physical powers! resting a moment at each gain he cuts. How every motion is watched from below! There stand his father, mother, brother, sister, on the very spot where, if he falls, he will not fall alone.

The sun is now half-way down the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds himself directly under

his way in a new direction, to get from under this overhanging moun

fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds perched upon cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands on the bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty gains more must be cut before the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready in the hands of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all will be over. That blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy's head reels; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart; his life must hang upon the next gain he cuts. That niche is his last. At the last faint gash he makes, his knife-his faithful knife-falls from his little nerveless hand, and, ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell through the channel below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart and closing eyes to commend his soul to God. Tis but a moment there!


Found Dead.


-one foot swings off !—he is reeling-trembling-toppling over into eternity! Hark!-a shout falls on his ear from above! The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought, the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint, convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arms into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words, God! and Mother! whispered on his lips just loud enough to be heard in heaven—the tightening rope lifts him out of his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting—such leaping and weeping for joy-never greeted the ear of a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity.


Found dead-dead and alone;

There was nobody near, nobody near,
When the outcast died on his pillow of stone-

No mother, no brother, no sister dear,
Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer,
Not a watching eye, or a pitying tear.
Found dead-dead and alone,
In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone.

Many a weary day went by,

While wretched and worn he begged for bread,
Tired of life, and longing to lie

Peacefully down with the tired dead.
Hunger and cold, and scorn and pain,
Has wasted his form and seared his brain,
Till at last on a bed of frozen ground,
With a pillow of stone was the outcast found.

Found dead-dead and alone

On a pillow of stone in the roofiless street-
Nobody heard his last faint moan,

Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat.
No murmur lingered with tears or sighs,
But the stars looked down with pitying eyes,
And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound
O'er the lonely spot where his form was found.

Found dead-yet not alone ;

There was somebody near, somebody near,
To claim the wanderer as his own,

And find a home for the homeless here.
One, when every human door
Is closed to his children scorned and poor,
Who opens the heavenly portals wide ;
Ah! God was near when the outcast died.



SPENDING money in a careless, thoughtless, useless manner, is getting to be a growing evil. It is a vice to which young men in these days are much exposed; and in which many are laying the foundation of misery for themselves in time to come. It makes no difference whether they have abundance of resources by inheritance from wealthy parents, or whether they are dependent upon their own labor for their means, it is in either case alike evil. Have they much, that much must soon become little, while at the same time the habits of the spendthrift points onerringly to coming want and ruin. Have they only what they earn by their own hands; the same evil habits of free spending will not only

more fond of spending than of earning money. When such a position is once reached, then farewell to virtue and self-respect.

We do not commend penuriousness. We admire as much as any one a liberal and generous spirit in a young man. The useless waste of money is not generosity, but recklessness, which no one of proper cultivation can admire. Those only who avoid useless spending can afford to be generous. It is those who practice a regular economy that can be liberal and free, at the proper time and place.

The evil of which we speak shows itself especially in the extravagant manner in which money is spent for luxuries. How would some young men be surprised if they would count up, at the end of the year, the amount spent for ice-cream, nuts, oysters, drinks of various kinds, and such like. We asked a young man lately, on the morning after a public day, whether he had as much money when he came out of town as when he went in. He answered, “No, not by a good deal.” He told us, in further conversation, that he had seven dollars in the morning, and it was all gone in the evening; and for this money he had not bought one single thing of permanent value—nothing beyond nuts, oysters, icecream, oranges, and cigars. He said, moreover, that none who were in his company came off any cheaper. Now it took this young man fully a month to save that amount out of his wages beyond necessary expenses for clothing and boarding. Is not such a course in the highest degree thoughtless and foolish? Yet this is only one example among thousands that are similar. What an instructive specimen.

It is not at all uncommon for young men in our cities, larger towns, and villages, to spend in this way from twenty-five to fifty cents in an evening. Let that amount be taken from a journeyman's wages from week to week, and what will he have left beyond his boarding and clothes. In this way he earns and spends. At length he takes a wife, but has nothing with which to begin life; perhaps bas to begin on credit. He may now spend less in a foolish way; but his expenses are more. The good harvest time is past—he is on the dead level; and,

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like a canal horse, he drags his heavy boat along the rest of his life. He learns by sad experience the truth of the proverb: “Wilful waste makes woful want.".

The history of nations shows abundantly that whenever a love of laxuries becomes common the earnest life of the nation is already gone. There are no stern virtues left to give it strength and stability. It is the same with families and individuals. Luxury and effeminacy go together. Nothing great and good is aimed at where these have sway. We have heard of students running up confectionery bills of $30 to $50 in a year; but we never heard that those who had this taste took first honors. The young man, be he student or not, who spends more money on luxuries for the palate than he does for books, may as well make up his mind to lick the dust in ignorance through life. If the irregular habits that are sure to be thas cultivated will not cut short his days, and he lives to be old, he will be likely to be short both in money and in good sense.

We have already hinted that these habits of spending money in luxuries and indulging in them, does not only keep the funds low, but what is worse, seriously interfere with health. All physicians tell us that irregular eating and drinking is ruinous to health. The stomach is always oppressed and abused when its appointed work is disturbed, between regular meals, by the lodgment in it of new material to be digested—especially such as comes in the range of what are called luxuries. They tell us that soon after a meal, when digestion properly commences, the food received is enveloped, in a way similar to the yolk of an egg by the white portion which surrund it. Any thing now thrown in upon the stomach cannot become part of the process which has already commenced, but only interferes with it, and injuriously disturbs it. When such a course is steadily pursued, health must be gradnally undermined. Hence the restlessness and imperfect slumbers which follow luxurious indulgences late in the evening. A strong constitution may bear up under such a course for a length of time; but pay-day comes sooner or later. Often bitter experience teaches the sons of folly the source of their misery when their repentance comes too late. It is easier to keep health and a good constitution by regular habits, than to regain these blessings when they once are lost.

Behold, then, the double folly of spending. It empties the pocket to buy a curse. It sells present prosperity to gain the inheritance of future misery. It teaches the industrious to spend their hard earnings for that which is not meat. What the labor of their hands have gathered during many hours of weary work, is in a few moments given to the winds to procure a momentary gratification for the palate, a life-long wound to the body, and an eternal injury to the soul.

How much wiser it would be to spend the money thus worse than wasted in securing means for the improvement of the mind. There are many young men who spend more money on luxuries than would be required to procure the best review, the best magazine, the best religious and literary paper, together with many books of permanent value. Thus, they might have constantly at hand sources of higher and porer pleaBure, which would help them at the same time to lay the foundations for usefulness in life.

Consider and lay to heart this advice, young reader of The Guardian. Study economy. Avoid the ways of the spendthrift. Make your money, whether you have much or little, contribute to the highest good of yourself and others. Devote it ant chiefly to the low gratification of the body. Save it as a proper lucans; spend it for a proper end. Remember, that a dollar spent on luxuries is gone with the gratification of a moment; a good book bought for a dollar is a blessed possession through life.



On a beautiful morning in May, a father led his son Theodore into the garden of a rich man, whom Theodore had never seen. The garden lay from the city, and was beautifully adorned with all kinds of shrubs, vegetables, flower-beds, shady walks, and fruit trees. A little rivulet filowed in many windings through the middle of the garden, falling at length over high rocks into a large basin. Near by stood the busy, humming mill. In the most pleasant parts of the garden were grassy seats and leafy arbors. Theodore could not satisfy or tire his eyes amid these scenes; he walked by the side of his father, mostly in silence, saying sometimes, “O dear father, how beautiful and lovely is this garden."

His father told him how all this had, twelve years ago, been a desolate and marshy place, and how the owner of it had planted it and arranged every thing so beautiful. Now the boy was still more astonished, and praised the skillful man who wrought this pleasant change. After they had seen many things, and were wearied with walking, the father led the boy through the shrubbery to the water-fall, near the basin, and there they reclined on the slope of a hill. Here they heard the rushing of the water, which fell foaming from the edge of the rock; nightingales were sitting all around in the shrubs, singing to the murmuring stream. Theodore thought that he had never heard the nightingales sing so sweetly.

Whilst they were thus sitting and listening, they heard voices of children ard of a man. These were the children of the miller, a boy and a girl, and they led their grandfather, a blind old man, between them, and told him many things concerning the blooming flowers, and the shade trees which were standing along their path, and thus entertained the old man with many pleasant words.

Afterwards they also led him into the arbor where they seated him among the singing nightingales, they kissed him, and ran about in the garden to gather for him flowers and fruits.

The old man smiled, and when he was alone he uncovered his head and prayed with a joyful countenance. Then Theodore and his father were so touched in their hearts that they also began to praise and thank God. Theodore's heart was full of emotion, and he silently wept.

Soon the children returned leaping with joy, bringing flowers and fruits to their blind grandfather. Then Theodore said to his father, as they went home: “O what a beautiful and happy morning this has been."

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