One of the Men we Don’t often Read of.The following letter came by yesterday’s mail,written in a bold, farmer-like hand, and from one of a class of men which hav^ made a Western wildness bloom and blossom as the rose.—Cin. £719.Decatur Co., Ind., Sept* 1853.I emigrated from the State of New York, to Cincinnati, 42 years ago. / bought a farm three and a half miles from the city, all woods, and, in ray time, have cleared up three heavy-timbered farms with my own hands. 1 have always made it a rule to keep my head cool and my feet warm, rise early, take the morning air, wash my hands, face, and head with cool water, take a horn of whisky, which puts my blood in proper motion, and always gives me a good appetite for my breakfast—then I am ready for business.I carry on a farm; I hire men to help put in, take care, and secure my crops; the rest of the year I take care of all my stock, make my own fires, and do all the other work 011 the farm; I am nearly 81 years old,and my wife is this day 76, and if we live until the 17th day of February next, we have then been married sixty years; she has been the mother of eighteen living children, one at a birth—the oldest 58, the youngest 30; we keep housfe entirely alone. She does her own house work, makes our own clothes,milks six cows, makes her own butter, and every two weeks the year round, sells her butter to a huckster for the Cincinnati market. I have been a subscriber for the Enquirer, under different owners, for f I nearly forty years. J. PALMERTON.