373 
MOOKE’S RUliAL NEW-YORKER; AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY JOURNAL. 
J&istfllaittauB. 
NOVEMBEK. 
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! 
One mellow smile, through the soft vapory air, 
Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run. 
Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare ; 
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees. 
And the dark rocks whoso summer wreaths are 
cast. 
And the blue gentian llowcr, that, in the breeze 
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
Yet a few sunny days in which the bee 
Shall murmur by the hedge which skirts the way. 
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea. 
And man delight to linger in the ray. 
Yet ono rich smile and wo will try to bear 
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened 
air. VV.M. C. Bryant. 
Not all of gloom and sadness are tlie 
(teys or the thoughts which this last month 
of Autumn brings us,—though what but an 
occasional storm could be expected in the 
physical world, while the political horizon 
lowers beneath its autumnal equinox ? Im¬ 
portant interests—tremendous questions, 
and awful responsibilities are to be attend¬ 
ed to and decided, all likely to raise the 
mental caloric to an undue temperature, 
did not cold and stormy Aveathcr exert its 
utmost to prevent this deplorable result. 
But November days are not all election 
days, (though for once we have had a 
pleasant one,) neither are they all unpleas¬ 
ant ones. As the returns come in, the skies 
begin to brighten for one party or the oth¬ 
er—and victors and vanquished settle down 
to their accustomed equanimity, so that the 
bright days which November does bring us, 
find a ready and thankful enjoyment. 
Though the year puts on a sombre robe 
suited to its maturer age, and sobered 
views of existence, which should seem to 
have in its mildest moods a saddening in¬ 
fluence upon the heart, yet there is some¬ 
thing strangely exhilarating in the hazy at¬ 
mosphere—in the “ mellow smile of the de¬ 
parting, distant sun,” which gives new elas¬ 
ticity to the spirits, and increased vigor to 
both bodily and mental organization. We 
feel the fresh impulses of a better life cir¬ 
culating in our veins, and are nerved up to 
the endurance of the rigor of approaching 
winter, and begin again to appreciate fire¬ 
side comforts. And though those who find 
in all seasons and in all weathers, enough 
to complain of, may wonder at our taste, 
yet we will record our liking for the stormy 
month (physical and political,) of gloomy, 
frosty, yet occasionally, sunny November. 
II. 
FACTS FOR THE PEOPLE. 
nV E. A. KITTUEUOE. 
I FEEL it my duty to throw out a hint 
now and then to my fellow beings, hoping 
thereby to save some unnecessary pain, if 
not lives, and as the Ghronolype delights in 
doing good, I shall make no apology for oc¬ 
cupying its columns. 
As eating is the great business of life, I 
begin with that. 
“ What shall I eat. Doctor?” is the only 
question w'ith most folks. 
Anything that is wholesome, that agrees 
with your peculiar constitution. 
But be very careful how you eat it, where 
you eat it, and how much of it you eat. 
A man may injure himself very much by 
eating improperly, and yet not over eat. 
It is a very common saying among inva¬ 
lids, “ Oh, I can’t see how it is; I don’t eat 
half so much as common folks, who don’t 
■^rk so hard as I do either, and yet I have 
me dyspepsia all the time, and they don’t 
have it at all!” 
The reason is that you and such as you 
keep the hrain overtasked all the time, and 
even eat while the brain is hard at work 1 
Now you must remember that the stomach 
and other organs depend upon the brain for 
their strength and power to act. Conse- 
qwmtly, if you overwork the brain, the nei'- 
vous force which should go to these organs 
i.s wasted, and of course the stomach, liver, 
&c., must lose their tone, and indigestion 
and all its attendant evils must ensue. 
Again, you eat in a hurry. Now this is 
a thing above all things that should be well 
done, which never is when done in a hurry. 
Tlie feod, in order to “set w’cll” and be 
readily digested, should be thoroughly mas¬ 
ticated, in order to have it completely satu¬ 
rated with the spittle or “ saliva,” and then, 
and not till then, is it tit to go into the hu¬ 
man stomach. 
True, a strong, robust, healthy man can 
do almost anything with impunity, for a 
while, but sooner or later he will have to 
pay the penalty of his rashness. 
But the majority of men are not strong 
or healthy, and such have to be careful, or 
they w’ill suffer. 
Let your food be well cooked, if cooked 
at all, and then eat it slowly. 
Be careful, also, not to eat it too hot.— 
Much mischief is done by putting food and 
drink into the stomach which is so hot as to 
destroy the healthy action of the stomach. 
FULTON’S FIRST STEAM VOYAGE. 
Some twenty years since, I formed a 
traveling acquaintance, upon a steamboat 
on the Hudson river, with a gentleman, 
who, on that occasion, related to me some 
incidents of the first voyage of F ulton to 
Albany in liis steamboat, the Claremont, 
which I have never met with elsewhere.— 
The gentleman’s name I have lost; but I 
urged him, at the time, to publish what he 
related; which, however, so far as-1 know, 
ho has never done. 
I chanced, said my narrator, to be at 
Albany on business, when Fulton arrived 
there in his unheard-of-craft, which every¬ 
body felt so much interest in seeing. Be¬ 
ing ready to leave, and hearing that his 
craft was to return to New York, I repaired 
on board, and inquired for Mr. Fulton. I 
was referred to the cabin, and I there found 
a plain gentlemanly man, wholly alone, and 
engaged in writing. 
“ Mr. Fulton, I presume.” 
“ Yes, sir.” 
“ Do you return to New York with this 
boat ?” 
“Wo shall try to get back, sir.” 
“ Can I have a passage down ?” 
“ You can take your chance with us, sir.” 
I inquired the amount to be paid, and 
after a moment’s hesitation, a sura, I think 
six dollars, was named. The amount, in 
coin, I laid in his open hand, and with an 
eye fixed upon it, he remained so long mo¬ 
tionless that I supposed there might be a 
miscount, and said to him, “ Is that right, 
sir ?” This roused him as from a kind of 
revery, and as he looked up at me, the big 
tear was brimming in his eye, and his voice 
faltered, as he said: 
♦ “ Excuse me, sir; but memory was busy 
as I contemplated this, the first pecuniary 
reward I have ever received for all my ex¬ 
ertions in adapting steam to navigation. I 
would gladly commemorate the occasion 
over a bottle of wine with you; but really 
I am too poor, even for that, just now; yet 
I trust we may meet again, when this will 
not be so.” 
Some four years after this, when the 
Claremont had been greatly improved, and 
two new boats made, making Fulton’s fleet 
three boats regularly plying between New 
York and Albany, I took passage in one 
of these for the latter city. 
The cabin, in that day, was below; and 
as I walked its length to and fro, I saw I 
was very closely observed by one I suppo¬ 
sed a stranger. Soon, however, I recalled 
the features of Mr. Fulton; but*without 
disclosing this, I continued my walk and 
waited the result. At length, in passing 
his seat, our eyes met, when he sprang to 
his feet, and eagerly seizing my hand, ex¬ 
claimed : 
“ I knew it must be you, for your fea¬ 
tures have never escaped me; and although 
I am still far from rich, yet I may venture 
that bottle now.” 
It was ordered; and during its discus¬ 
sion Mr. F. ran rapidly but vividly over his 
experience of the world’s coldness and 
sneers, and of the hopes, fears, disappoint¬ 
ments and difficulties that were scattered 
through his^whole career of discovery, up 
to the very point of his final, crowning tri¬ 
umph, at which he so fully felt he had at 
last arrived. 
“ And in reviewing all these,” said he, 
“ I have again and again recalled the occa¬ 
sion and the incident of our first interview 
at Albany; and never have I done so with¬ 
out its renewing in my mind the vivid emo¬ 
tion it originally caused. That seemed, 
and still docs seem, to me the turning point 
in my destiny—the dividing line between 
light and darkness, in my career upon 
earth; for it was the first actual recogni¬ 
tion of my usefulness to my fellow men.” 
8uch, then, were the events coupled with 
the very dawn of steam navigation—a dawn 
so recent as to be still recollected by many 
—and such as Fulton there related them, 
were the early appreciations, by the world, 
of a discovery which has invaded all waters, 
causing a revolution in navigation which 
has almost literally brought the ends of 
the earth in contact— Buffalo Commercial. 
Nami:s in Boston Two Hundred years 
AGO. —The record of births in the town of 
Boston, about the year 1650, contains the 
following, among other singular names:— 
Grace Bearnsley, Mercy Beamslcy, Deliver¬ 
ance Beck, Strange Beck, Free Grace Ben- 
dall, lleform Bendall, Hopefor Bendall, Sea¬ 
born Cotton, Fathergone Denlcy, Return 
Gridlcy, Believe Gridley, Hope Hawkins, 
Constance Milan, Patience Rice, Hopestill 
Vical, Waitstill Winthroj), Posthumous 
Dutch weld. Honour Mahurne, Faith Munt, 
Joylift Rudock, 'remperance Sweet, New 
Grace Wilson, Satisfaction Belcher, l^demp 
tion Scott, Exercise Shuttuck, Christian 
Stoddart, Remembrance Amery, Desirc- 
the-Trutli Akers, Purchase Gibson, Zwish- 
adda Browne, Pedjah Purmort, Tabitha 
Bell.— Boston Transcript. 
For all other sorrows there is consolation 
— in all other trials there b hope; but, on 
this cartli, there is none for death! It 
comes boldly, suddenly, before us, and de¬ 
fies all remedy. 
The golden wand of wealth should be 
ilded by the hand of elegance. 
The biography of Louis Philippe pos- 1 
sesses at this time, a peculiar interest, from 
his late misfortunes and recent death, and 
we condense from several sources for the 
Rural New-Yorker, a brief sketch of his 
varied ;ind eventful life. 
The eldest son of the Duke of Orleans, 
known as Philippe Egalite, was born in 
Paris, Oct. 6, 1773, and his education en¬ 
trusted to Madame de Genlis, under whose 
direction he learned several modern lan¬ 
guages and became acquainted with the 
ordinary branches of science. He became 
Duke of Chartres, and, in 1795, made a 
campaign against the Austrians; but in 
1793 his father was executed and his own 
life placed in jeopardy. He escaped, how¬ 
ever, and wandered over the Continent, 
sometimes in great poverty, until 1796, 
when, with his two brothers, he arrived in 
Philadelphia, where they spent the winter. 
They afterward visited Mount Vernon, 
where they became iatiraatc with General 
Washington, and soon after travelled thro’ 
the western country, visiting Niagara Falls, 
and crossing the Genesee River where 
Rochester now stands—but then a primitive 
wilderness. They returned to England in 
1800 and Louis Philippe spent most of 
his time there until 1807. 
At that time he visited Malta, and, at the 
invitation of King Ferdinand, went to Mes¬ 
sina, where he married the Princess Amelia 
in 1800. On the abdication of Napoleon, 
in 1816, the Duke returned to Paris to en¬ 
joy the honors to which he was entitled.— 
Between this period and 1830, he passed the 
greater part of his time in comparative se¬ 
clusion in England, though he was once 
called to his scat in the Chamber of Peers 
at Paris. 
The Revolution of 1830, as is well known, 
placed him on the throne of France, as Cit¬ 
izen King, where, though his reign was in 
general marked by sagacity, and upright 
intentions, he committed the capital error 
of leaving the people entirely out of his ac¬ 
count-endeavoring to fortify himself by 
alliances with the reigning families of Eu¬ 
rope. But these served him not in the day 
of his distress. The “ year of Revolutions” 
swept him away, and his abdication and 
flight to England arc too well known to 
need recapitulation. 
His death occurred on the 26 th of Au¬ 
gust, 1850, at Claremont, the place of his 
exile. His health had gradually failed since 
his arrival in England, but he did not con¬ 
sider himself in immediate danger until two 
days before his decease. On the day before, 
he dictated a page of his memoirs, and had 
a long interview with his chaplain, to whom 
he expressed his readiness to die. 
His character judged by the rules with 
which wo regard common men, “ not blind¬ 
ed by the dazzle of kingship, or affected by 
sympathy for fallen greatness,” has been well 
limned by the editor of Holden’s Magazine. 
He says: 
“ If wo separate the man from the king, 
we shall find much to approve in the char¬ 
acter of Louis Phillippe. He was the mor¬ 
al son of a most immoral father; he was the 
faithful husband in a court wliere fidelity 
was esteemed a weakness; he was a kind 
and generous father; he was neither made 
effeminate by prosperity, nor irresolute by 
adversity—he was brave and self-reliant in 
both. But prosperity did not develope be¬ 
nevolence towards his people, for adversity 
had not taught him sympathy. He had 
been poor himself, but he had not learnt to 
sympathize with poverty in others. He had 
been robbed of rights and privileges, but 
the deprivation did not lead him to respect 
the rights and privileges of others. He 
had studied liberty in the land of the free, 
and had heard the wants and wishes of the 
people from the people themselves. Provi¬ 
dence had led him through remarkable ex¬ 
periences and strange vicissitudes, that, 
when called to be the “ citizen king,” he 
might know and win the hearts of the peo¬ 
ple—but alas! he had never learnt the les¬ 
son which Providence intended for him.— 
He did not know the people. His great 
error was that he had no confidence in the 
people; he did not cast himself unreserved¬ 
ly on their affection and their honor; he 
withdrew himself from them, exalted himself 
above them, rejected the love they offered 
him, betrayed the confidence they manifest¬ 
ed in him, entrenched himself in Paris for¬ 
tifications, and trusted to his own cannon. 
Ho had no faith in human nature. It w^as 
his misfortune that he had never been un¬ 
der the influence of disinterested, high- 
toned virtue. Coldly calculating himself, 
he esteemed others equally selfish. His 
morality was mere prudence, and his virtue 
nothing but policy. He had not the first 
spark of enthusiasnx His heart was cold, 
his sympathies lifeless. All that he did 
was the result of a selfish calculation. He 
made no friends, for he loved no one him¬ 
self, and he showed no traits which would 
inspire love in others. Hence he went into 
exile with no devoted attendants in his train, 
and left no weeping mourners behind.— 
Placed in a position where he might have 
elevated a nation, educated millions, devel¬ 
oped the hidden resources of a country, and 
made France a happy, prosperous, united, 
and republican state, he was satisfied to em_ 
ploy his unequalled resources in the filling 
of his own coffers and the aggrandisement 
of his own household. The hour of trial 
came and he was left desolate. He had 
trusted in fortifications and they proved fal¬ 
lacious. 
“ The great lesson to be learnt from the 
life of Louis Philippe is one which should 
be heeded by all. It teaches us that we 
are not to ‘live unto ourselves;’ that gifts 
'are granted to us not for our own upbuild¬ 
ing, but for the elevation and happiness of 
others; and that the greater the privileges, 
the heavier the responsibility and the more 
urgent the demand for disinterested phi¬ 
lanthropy.” 
Our portrait represents him in the palmy 
days of his manhood, with all the insignia 
of rank and power, of which he was then 
the possessor. 
As most appropriate to follow the pre¬ 
ceding, we shall next give a portrait and 
biography of Louis Narolkon, President 
of the French Republic. 
BYRON’S TRIBUTE TO WASHINGTON. 
Where may the wearied eye repose 
When gazing on the great; 
Where neither guilty glory glows 
Nor despicable state ? 
Yes—one—the first—the last—the best-r— 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 
Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one ! 
CURIOSITIES OF ART. > 
It is singular how many men have di- ) 
rected their energies of mind to perfecting ) 
toys, which, although displaying wondorfM I 
inventive powers, yet have never conferred ) 
any benefit on mankind, nor ever been even ) 
used for any other purpose than as a piece s 
of amusement — the childish exhibition of ( 
masculine mind, the fame of foolery, and ) 
foolery of fame. s 
Thus Jerome Faba, an Italian priest, and ^ 
a native of Calabria, exercised himself in a t 
species of industry, wonderful from its diffi- ) 
culty. He finished a work of box-wood, < 
which represented all tlie mysteries of the ( 
Passion, and which might bo put in the ) 
shell of a walnut. To him was attributed a I 
coach the size of a grain of wheat, within <. 
which there were to be seen a man and a ( 
woman, a coachman, who drove it, and hor- i 
ses that drew it. These were presented to ( 
Francis I. and Charles V. ? 
In China, the tomb of Confucius has been ) 
made in small miniature, no larger than a \ 
nut, but wonderfully composed of precious ( 
metals, and adorned with a profusion of ) 
gems —but its value consists of the labor ex- S 
pended on its execution. Its landscapes, s 
dragons, angels, animals and human figures, ) 
would require several pages of description, ) 
which would after all, without a view of the { 
model prove tedious and unintelligible. < 
Charles Y. of Spain, had a watch which ) 
was confined in the jewel of his ring, and a | 
watchmaker in London presented George j, 
HI. with one set in the same manner. Its ^ 
size w'as something less than a silver two- / 
pence, and it contained one hundred and > 
twenty-five different parts, and weighed al- < 
together no more than five pennyweights ? 
and seven grains. > 
The tomb of Raphael, executed by an s 
Italian named Raccavalva, is indeed a won- | 
der. It is only twelve inches in height, and (j 
from an inch to four inches in diameter.— ^ 
It is adorned with various architectural or- \ 
naments in tlie richest style of gothic, and ^ 
also fiijures of the virgin and child. The > 
work is said to be of unrivalled merit and ) 
beauty. The model is contained in a case 
of wrought gold, and is itself of box-wood, r* 
The general design may bo regarded as ) 
architectural, embellished with several com- ^ 
partments of sculpture or of carving, con- ^ 
sisting of various groups of figures. These ) 
display different events in the life of Christ. > 
Some of the figures are less than a quarter ■ 
of an inch in height, but though thus mi¬ 
nute, are all finished with the greatest pre- ; 
cision and skill. ' 
j Alcohol —A clothes-brush celebrated ' 
for destroying the coats of the stomach. ; 
‘^otrtli’0 Coratr. 
•“ Attempt the eiul, and never stand to doubt; 
Nothing’s so liard, but search will find it out.” 
GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 12 letters: 
My 1, 9, 4, 11, 12 js a county in Miss. ) 
My 2, 3, 3, 5, G, 2 is a town in N. Y. ' 
My 3, 11, 9, 10, 3 is a city in Austria. > 
My 4, 8, 5, 10, 9 is a river in Europe. ^ 
My 5, 3, 8, 2, C, 2 is a town in N. Y. > 
My 6, 2, 3, 2, 10, 5, 2 is a city in Sicily. ^ 
My 7, 5, 9, 11 is a city in Russia. ’ 
My 8, 9, 10, 4, 12 is a county in Ohio. ! 
My 9, H, 5, 9 is a county in N. Y. ' 
My 10, 2, 10, 7, 5, 10 is a city in China. 
-My 11, 2, 5, 10, 12 is a lake in N. America. ' 
My 12, 2, 10, 3, 5, 6, 7 is a river in Conn. > 
My whole is the name of a distinguished States- ] 
man of ’76. b. 
Answer in two weeks. i 
CHARADE. ) 
I HAVE a foot, but not a log, 
Yet firmly I can stand ; > 
And what may seem as strange to you, > 
An arm without a hand. ' 
Although I never promenade, ’ 
In public I am seen, 
And dressed in garb of various hues, ' 
Brown, yellow, red and green. ^ 
Now, reader, can you tell my name, s 
And ns nothing shall bo hid, > 
My possessions are exceeding small, '> 
A trunk witliout a lid. > 
(O’ Answer in two weeks. i 
For Uie Rural New-Yorker. 
PROBLEM. 
It is required to determine the least integral num¬ 
ber terminating in 7, and divisible by 11, 13, and 
17 without remainder. Juvenal, 
(O’ Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS &o. IN NO. 45. 
) 
\ 
/ 
S 
\ 
) 
\ 
« Answer to Enigma.— Hamlet, Prince of Den- 
MARK. ( 
Answer to Charade.— Pump-kin. ') 
Arithmetical tiucstion.—We have received a cor- ( 
rect solution from James G. Vkuplank of Geneva, ' 
but only give the result as follows:—$30 for an ox 1 
—$20 for a cow—,$5 for a calf. Hence tlie price of ^ 
the Oxen was $6Jj of the Cows $80, and of the I 
Calves $50. ; 
