The New Hampshire Gazette

From the Farmers' Museum.

On the borders of Walpole, not far from the western boundary of Alstead, on the side of a mountain, lives old James Hazelton, the most respectable Hermit of the age. His dwelling is dug from the mountain, and covered with the bark of the spruce tree: and with his spaniel and his cat, he has passed twenty years without any other companions to cheer his solitude. Ambition, and the passions which disturb the peace of society, and the happiness of individuals, are strangers to the tranquil James. His silent cavern is the abode of contentment, and from his few acres he rears the necessaries of life and amasses a handsome property.

Temperance is a virtue which few can claim, but it appears with distinguished lustre in the character before us. His supplies are not procured from foreign markets; the bounties of nature satisfy his appetite, and the cool stream, that glides by his cavern, slakes his thirst. His visage is furrowed by time, but not with care. A total stranger to the busy scenes of life, he has not yet even heard the name of the First Consul, and were a continent laid waste or sunk by earthquakes, ten years would elapse before the news would reach his ears.

Careless of every concern that agitates society, it is equal to him whether France has one or twenty kings.—

Deriving enjoyment from his own resources, the world has no power to influence his feelings.

Not long since I was prompted by fraternal wishes to visit his happy abode. I found him resting from the labours of the day, on a board, in a small room, not large enough to swing a cat, contemplating his own exemption from human weakness and misery, and enjoying the honest pride arising from his independence. Our conversation turned on the history of his life. His language had the ornaments of simplicity. Until the age of forty, said he, I mingled with society, and was punished with all the fears, jealousies, and uneasinesses that tread on the heels of mankind. A circumstance, not to be related, occasioned my retirement. That mankind create most of their troubles cannot be denied, but many disagreeable things I consider inseparable from society. I was the other day informed that this country had been much agitated for some years past by political parties, and its prosperity had been checked. This would be a mystery to me, had I not felt too much formerly of the restlessness that distracts the world. You have the government of your own choice. You choose your rulers voluntarily and often. If there exists oppression or injustice the fault is in yourselves. Your conduct reminds me of the ancient monks, who lacerated their own flesh for their own transgression; but your political sufferings must be imaginary.

What troubles have the great mass of the people? Was the farmer ever more thrifty? Don't the sweat of his brow drop marrow and fatness! Does he murmur at taxes? No, my friend, you are now inheriting the land of promise, but appear ignorant of the blessing. The old paper adage, "mind your own business," if obeyed, will produce a treasure of inestimable value. He added many pertinent remarks which have slipped my recollection; but this agreeable visit has determined me to make another before long.

THE HERMIT.