LETTER FROM ROSTON. Editorial Correspondence of the Intelligencer. BOSTON, August 14, 1857. The people of the good old Bay State appear to be warming up on politics about these days, preparatory to the annual State election. The knowing ones who claim to be in the secret say that Governor Gardner will receive the nomination for Governor again and will be re-elected. In the eastern part of the State he is quite popular with the masses; but the Banks men are very sanguine of success, even against the allied forces of the Gardner Know Nothings, the Administration Democrats and the old fogy Whigs, all of whom are expected to support Gardner. "Misery makes strange bedfellows." Probably no city in the Union is so noted for its substantial charities as Boston. Very many of the charitable enterprises of the city are set on foot and carried forward most successfully by the solid men and solid women, -the real aristocracy, -who use their wealth for the amelioration of suffering humanity. A nobler aristocracy than this of Boston, comprising as it does the Bigelows, Lawrences, Appletons, &c., cannot be found any where else. On Wednesday a meeting of ladies, friendly to the Home for the Fallen, was held at Rev. Phineas Stowe's church. Joseph Story presided, and a committee of ladies was chosen to prepare and report a constitution and list of officers for the formation of a Ladies Aid Society, the object of which will be to assist by way of clothing and funds the organization above named. Forty persons have been received at the Home:" no one has yet deceived the managers, and the prospects of the institution are very flattering. For some time past a good Christian woman has been in the habit of seeking out poor, sick women, and providing for their comfort. She has been allowed to use the vestry of the Federal Street church as a hospital for this purpose, and two of the best physicians have given their attendance free. This hospital is one of those unostentatious forms of charity which commend themselves at once to the benevolent. The tide of pleasure travel sets strongly towards the mountain regions of Vermont and New Hampshire. The hotels are well patronized, and the railroads converging mountainward are doing a good business. To-morrow I shall be off for the Green Mountains of Vermont, whence you may expect from me another missile. H. LETTER FROM VERMONT. Editorial Correspondence of the Intelligencer. AMONG THE GREEN MOUNTAINS, Aug. 20, 1857. How oddly does a hill country seem to one who has, even for a year or two, been accustomed to a prairie life! Notwithstanding my infant eyes first beheld the light of day amid this mountain region, I could never before realize that these valleys were so deep, the mountains so lofty, their sides so steep, as they now appear. It is difficult to persuade myself that the hills have not grown onehalf their size since I formerly saw them. But, oh, how grand and pleasing to the organs of sublimity are scenes such as now surround me! How much of beauty, aye, and of happiness, is there all around! This spot in which I have hidden myself for a few days is one of the most attractive and romantic seclusions of which it is possible to conceive. Hills and dales and purling brooks, and trees around,-trees of the native forest, none of your little saplings set in a hole dug in the ground; nor your dwarf burr oaks, gnarled and sered by a hundred fires, away out on a desolate prairie; but the giants with tossing arms, stately tall, lifting their heads high towards heaven; the sugar maple, birch, elm, ash and linden. The old house-dog and I have great "larks" in the old pastures and forests,-he scaring up the cows and chasing the squirrels from fence to tree, and I leisurely looking on to enjoy the fun as much as anything I ever enjoyed since I was a boy. Indeed, I feel that I am a boy again. enter the dark shade of the woods, or emerge therefrom; after an hour's thoughtful ramble, into the bright sunlight again, my pulses bound with a new life, my heart leaps with a fresh sympathy, and I find many and many a rich resource of delight which never before had been heeded. The berries are plenty in the pastures, and are ripening as fast as they can. How delicious are the red and black raspberries! More than one bowl of them, with crackers and milk, have I enjoyed. Ah, is it not a luxury to feed on fresh berries and sweet milk; to see the cows milked in the yard. morning and evening; to stroll up and down the hillsides, accompanied by the house-dog -you in quest of berries, and he in pursuit of squirrels and woodchucks; to watch the haymakers at their work; to lie down and roll on the grass; to tumble on the newly mown hay; to let out your voice and soul together in shouting, whistling and singing? Surely you will give an affirmative answer. But it is a luxury not to be rated as ordinary things are, for none of its enjoyments can be classed in any known category. Evanescent and fleeting as they are, they are still the most solid and real pleasures that present themselves to the uneasy heart of man. The primeval life of man is the most healthful of all occupations,-healthful for the body and the soul. The farmer's occupation is not to scratch with the pen; or rap, rap, with a hammer; nor is it an everlasting unpacking and re-packing of another's labor. He walks forth under the open sky, with his broad acres spread out beneath his feet. The blue concave, lit with sun or stars, is above him. Health claims him as her favorite, and the glorious sun loves to kiss a cheek that is not ashamed to wear the ruddy imprint of such affection. Nature's inimitable babbling brooks, birds, breezes or rustling foliage, enter his ear on their glad mission to his heart. When towards the close of a sultry day the summer's blessing comes pouring down, as says the poetry of the sacred volume, "the trees of the field clap their hands, and the valleys covered with corn shout for joy." Surely such a people should be the happiest in the world. All their ambition may be supposed to centre in their little farms and homes; and their calculations satisfied to embrace such articles as corn, beans, potatoes, hops, poultry, horses, cattle, sheep, and a moderate supply of wool for the winter's spinning and knitting. On the Sabbath one can but be amused and interested at witnessing the demeanor of this simple-mannered people. As they go up to the unpretending "meeting house," with their wives and little ones, and shake hands so solemnly with their neighbors who are gathered about the doors, they ask the news of the week, comment on the condition of the crops, the "catching weather" for harvesting hay, &c. A Sunday scene here is a fresh picture indeed. But enough. H. From the Charles City Intelligencer. MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. My childhood's home,-can I forget When memory's tide, that murmurs thence Can I forget those early friends,- As o'er my young and tender mind Can I forget where first I learned Like incense on the air? Can I forget the kindly smile When oft from school I bounded home, Can I forget that sparkling brook, That e'er went dancing by, Where oft I've watched the mirrored tints Of evening's gorgeous sky! Can I forget the early haunts Of my life's joyous spring, When hope was glad within my heart Ah no! I never can forget, Though far from it I've strayed, For time can ne'er efface the scenes Back, back through time I'm often borne, To when I wreathed the sweet wild flowers Oh, halcyon days of innocence! Too quickly have ye fled; Those happy hours no more return; But still in memory's sweet commune, As nature's untaught worshipers Would hail a distant star! A. B. F. H. LETTER FROM MAINE. REGION OF SUNRISE, August 27, 1857. Traveling down East on a shingle," is a trite phrase among Yankees; and that mode of conveyance in the olden time was doubtless supposed to possess more truth than poetry. In these latter days, however, it is found that we may take the railway car at Prairie du Chien and continue traveling by rail until we arrive at the jumping off place;" which in my case proves to be the city of Bangor, in the old Pine Tree State; a city world |