MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY JOURNAL. 
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A COUNTRY 
MERCHANT, 
We often see in print, “ Leaves from the 
Diary of a Physician,” and have been deeply 
interested in the representations which they 
give of the scenes witnessed by the mem¬ 
bers of the medical profession, and of the 
phases of character which are there so 
graphically described. But who ever read 
a leaf from the “ Diary of a Merchant.”— 
Yet, next to the physician, his opportunity 
for becoming acquainted with the diversi¬ 
fied manifestations of human nature is un¬ 
equalled ; and, if he is a close observer, he 
will soon learn to read the character of his 
customers in their words and countenances. 
What is copied below, are extracts from 
my private Diary, and of course a record of 
actual occurrences. —So much by way of 
preface. 
“ Monday, Dec. 18.—Went to the store 
this morning refreshed and invigorated by 
the soothing influence of a Sabbath-day’s 
respite from the cares and perplexities of a 
merchant’s life. I thank God that he has 
ordained a day of rest on which man may 
retire from the labors and annoyances of ac¬ 
tive life, and forget them in the companion¬ 
ship of loved ones, and the contemplation of 
those things which tend to his present and 
everlasting happiness. 
Spent an hour in posting and reviewing 
my books before customers began to call. 
Mrs. A. brought some butter, for which I 
told her we were paying a shilling a pound. 
‘ What,’ said she, ‘ not but a shilling—that 
is not enough. It is worth 15 cents in 
Rochester, and you ought to pay more than 
a shilling here.’ (By the by, we sent some 
to Rochester last week and only got a shil¬ 
ling there.) I explained to her that we 
.could not afford to pay more, and after 
some farther parley, and a good deal of 
grumbling, she concluded to let it go at that. 
Inquired what goods she would like to 
see. She answered that she would like to 
look at my prints. After pulling them over 
awhile she selected a piece of merrimac, 
and inquired the price—I answered, one 
shilling a yard. ‘You don’t ask a shilling 
a yard for this, do you ?’ This was spoken 
in a tone indicating much surprise, as tho’ 
I was asking too much for it. After ban¬ 
tering awhile and telling how low she could 
buy it at other places, she concluded she 
would take a dress from it, if she could have 
the trimmings thrown in. I inquired what 
trimmings. She answered, —lining, facing, 
hooks and eyes, and thread. I explained 
to her that their value would-far exceed the 
profits on the dress. She finally took it 
with the thread and hooks and eyes 
thrown in. 
I thought she was a ‘tough one,’ but 
found she was not a circumstance to Mrs. 
B. who now came in. She had come, she 
said, to trade some with us if we could sell 
cheap enough. I told her we intended to 
be reasonable in our prices. I soon found 
however, that it was hard suiting her, either 
in price or quality. She had been to the 
city, and knew all about the price of goods. 
She would not pay such exorbitant prices 
as country merchants ask. According to 
her story, she could buy just as good arti¬ 
cles a hundred per cent, cheaper in tho city 
than the price for which I offered them to 
her. I concluded she knew she was stretch¬ 
ing the truth some—at any rate I was sorry 
she had not purchased the articles which 
she wanted, in the city. After looking over 
half the goods we had in the store, and 
bantering until I was out of all manner of 
patience, although I tried to appear as 
agreeable as possible, she at last offered to 
buy a yard and a half of calico, which I 
asked her a shilling a yard for, if I would 
let her have it for ten cents a yard. I was 
glad to be rid of her so cheaply, for I val¬ 
ued my time at something. 
This world is full of contrasts, and, as if 
in proof of it, in came Mrs. C. one of your 
shrewd, sensible and good-natured sort of 
people, who always carry sunshine with 
them. After passing customary compli¬ 
ments, she inquired why I looked so cross. 
I made some trivial excuse, strove to 
‘ brighten up’ and soon caught some of the 
radiance from her countenance. If all my 
customers were like her, I should not often 
exhibit symptoms of anger. She does not 
banter, for she knows the value of the arti¬ 
cles which she wishes to purchase, and, if 
she is offered an article which she considers 
too dear, she quietly answers to the inquiry 
if she will take some of it, ‘ not at the 
price,’ leaving the merchant to reduoe the 
price, if he can afford it for less, or is desi¬ 
rous of selling it. Somehow, I always sell 
goods a little cheaper to such persons as 
Mrs. C. than to such as Mrs. B., and can 
afford to, as she makes her purchases in half 
the time that Mrs. B. does, and at the same 
time, buys as much again. I always name 
the very lowest price when I show an arti¬ 
cle to her. Mrs. C. made a good bill and 
left me in a far pleasanter mood than she 
found me. Nothing more worthy of note 
occurred during the day.” 
THOUGHTS OF AN APRIL DAY. 
“ Of all the months that fill the year, 
Give April’s month to me; 
For earth and sky are then so filled, 
With sweet variety.”— L. E. Landon. 
What of “sweet variety”—of storm and 
shine, of smiles and tears, of gusty breezes 
and south-wind zephyrs are given us, with 
our April—“the Opener!” But this day, 
all calm and sunny, is a pleasant one.— 
There are singing birds and swelling buds on 
the trees—the fields show a tinge of green, 
—and as the buds expand the woods are of 
a lighter brown; the air is warmer, and the 
snow-banks have vanished from the road¬ 
sides. 
April is a busy month for the spring-time 
rivulets; they seem in a hurry to run away 
ere sultry Summer shall drink them dry at 
a draught. It is a busy time for the birds, 
who commence house-keeping anew, with 
the “moving day” of the city; and for all veg¬ 
etation, which awakes now from its winter 
sleep “with a world of work to do.” It is 
a busy time with the farmer, and with your 
humble servant—that farther, he may only 
say with Longfellow : 
“ Sweet April!—many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as henrts are wed; 
Nor shall they fail, till to its Autumn brought, 
Life’s golden dream i. shed.” 
Maple Hill, N. Y. II. 
THE GREAT CAVE IN INDIANA. 
Mr. S. Butler communicates to the 
Franklin (Ind.,) Examiner, an account of a 
newly discovered cave in Crawford county, 
Indiana: 
“ It is on the right bank of Blue River. 
For magnificence and beauty of scenery, it 
promises when fully explored to rival even 
the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky. The 
Epsom Salts Cave, known for nearly half a 
century, and successfully worked for salt¬ 
petre and salts many years since, is about 
2 miles long, and some places 40 or 50 feet 
wide, and 75 feet high; but has nothing 
peculiarly interesting in it except a beauti¬ 
fully lluted column, soq,e 25 feet in diam¬ 
eter and 25 or 30 feet high, all of stal- 
actic matter. 
Entering this cave under a jutting rock 
near the brow of a lofty hill, and descend¬ 
ing for about a quarter of a mile, at an an¬ 
gle of 30 or 40 degrees, we entered a small 
door, and after stooping rather uncomforta¬ 
bly for 60 yards, found ourselves in a large 
open cave, or bat room, in which tens of 
thousands of these little animals hang sus¬ 
pended from the rocks in large clusters, like 
bees swarming. Farther on, sticks, the size 
of hop-poles, hickory bark, charcoal and 
bare-footed human tracks are discovered, 
which must have remained there for a long 
time, as the door to this part of the cave 
was so blocked up with rocks when first dis¬ 
covered that a man could not possibly pass. 
We soon entered an avenue 40 feet wide, 
and varying in height from 10 to 00 feet— 
the ceiling as smooth and beautiful, as if 
finished by the trowel, then suddenly chang¬ 
ing presents the appearance of diversified 
hanging drapery, and of spotless white.— 
Then again the naked rocks appear. 
At the end of this avenue we found 
ourselves at the foot of a rocky pyramid up 
which we climbed some sixty feet, and on 
the top of which stand two beautiful stal- 
agmities, some five feet high, eighteen inch¬ 
es in diameter, and as white as the purest 
Indian marble; and when viewed by the 
dim light of our candles, presented a strong 
contrast with the grey walls of limestone 
rock. An oblong canopy, some 40 or 50 
feet high, is here hung with beautiful stal¬ 
actites suspended from the ceiling. We 
now found it necessary to crawl upon our 
faces, ‘ snake it,’ for about twenty feet when 
we came into an avenue wide and high. — 
Turning suddenly to the left, we found our¬ 
selves in the midst of scenery of surpassing 
and exquisite beauty. The entire walls are 
covered with an incrustation of sulphate of 
lime, crystalized so as to glisten like ten 
thousand diamonds in the light. Some of 
these crystals, a foot in length, an inch wide, 
and thick as a table knife blade, grew upon 
this base in a thousand diversified forms. 
Upon a projecting rock at one side of 
the avenue, great numbers had broken by 
their weight, and were lying in great pro¬ 
fusion at the bottom of the cave. These 
formations, like the base upon which they 
grew, are sulphate, and white as the driven 
snow. Others resembling glass, form upon 
the ceiling as well as the floor, from an inch 
in diameter to the length and size of a 
common knitting needle, and even smaller. 
The incrustation is frequently an inch thick, 
but more generally from an eighth to a 
quarter of an inch thick. Much of it has 
fallen to the floor, and is crushed under tin; 
feet of the visitor, and the place it occupied 
on the ceiling is being replaced by new 
formations. But I am utterly unable to 
describe it. It must be seen to be appreci¬ 
ated, or any correct idea formed of its 
beauty. 
We visited many rooms with spacious 
domes and stalactites of every imaginable 
size and form. In one apartment the wa¬ 
ter finds its way over a large range of pro¬ 
jecting rocks, and the stalactite matter is 
formed in folds and blades like extended 
honey combs, and hangs like drapery around 
the sides of the room. Upon the bottom 
is formed a great number of little pools of 
every form, elevated upon the floor like • 
basins or troughs—the rim of each being 
perfectly level and inclined inward, the 
stone which forms the basin being not thick¬ 
er than paste-board. 
I spent three days in this wonderful 
hole in the ground —say seven hours each 
day. The first two days were spent in ex¬ 
amining and exploring, and I think we must 
have travelled at least one mile per hour, 
or fourteen miles in two days. The third 
day, I revisited the most interesting parts, 
to procure specimens for geological investi¬ 
gation. I had forgotten to say that salt¬ 
petre and epsom salts are found in various 
parts, in large quantities; and I procured a 
lump of salts of half a pound weight, quite 
pure. We ventured a mile at least farther 
than any other had ever gone before, and 
left it for others still to prosecute. A quite 
transparent eyeless crawfish which we found 
was not the least interesting thing we saw. 
The entrance to the cave belongs - to Hen¬ 
ry P. Rathrack, a wealthy and generous 
gentlemen, who cheerfully rendered us ev¬ 
ery facility for examining the cave, and at¬ 
tended us as a guide. I have no doubt, 
when it is fully surveyed, it will prove to be 
one of the wonders of Hoosierdom.” 
“THE WORLD OWES EVERY MAN A 
LIVING.” 
Is a profound lie, cunningly masked in 
the guise of truth; and if acted upon, in the 
manner that reckless and desperate men 
define it, would break through all those 
checks and guides by which the gains of 
honest industry are now protected, and lay 
society open to incessant attacks from all 
those who are too idle to work, too proud to 
beg and too “ hiyh-spiriled ”—false again — 
to graduate their expenses to the condition 
of their circumstances. 
“Strive (honestly) and Thrive” is the 
true maxim. Let any man work resolutely, 
tasking all his energies to attain perfection 
in the particular business, or profession, to 
which he may have devoted himself. Let 
him be just in his dealings—strictly correct 
in his personal deportment—courteous in 
his manners—and liberal within the com¬ 
pass of such means as he can readily call 
his own, and the world will certainly yield 
him the living he has faithfully earned. One 
great element of success is, however, yet to 
be mentioned. He must learn to say No! 
It is the most difficult word in the English 
language to pronounce firmly, and at the 
proper time and place; but still, whoever 
would pursue a successful course in life, 
must learn above all other things, religion 
excepted, when, how, where, and in what 
manner it is best to say, No!. 
Whenever he is tempted to exceed his 
appropriate sphere of action—whenever he 
is tempted by the importunities of his fam¬ 
ily, or his own rising ambition, to live be¬ 
yond the actual and certain profits of his 
regular business, at the risk of failing in his 
duty to his creditors—in short, whenever 
he feels he is about to do a doubtful, or a 
foolish thing let him learn to say, “No!”— 
Arthur's Home Gazette. 
THE PERCEPTION OF THE BECOMING. 
People appear according to both the 
lookers-on, and their own states of feel¬ 
ing. Those who once seemed the imper¬ 
sonation of all that could charm and capti¬ 
vate, may again appear nothing more than 
ordinary mortals. And, people appear, un¬ 
der some circumstances, better than in oth¬ 
ers, though not seen with charmed eyes.— 
Some moods of thought shed a glory not 
its own on the plainest face—while others 
disfigure the finest features; and in the right 
shade and light, and form and color of the 
dress, many a merely good-looking woman 
appears really beautiful. Some know this 
and study to follow it out, others have an 
innate perception of the becoming, and ap 
pear well whatever the quality of the dress, 
when in its form and color they suit their 
ideas “of the fitness of things,” leaving Fash¬ 
ion’s dictates for those who have no such 
perceptions. 
Periiap 8 the most acceptable kind of 
flattery consists less in eulogizing a man’s 
actions, or talents, than in decrying those of 
his rival. 
A MOTHER’S MEMORIES. 
BY FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER. 
The blossoms lmng again upon the tree, 
As when with ihcir sweet breath they greeted me 
Against the casement on that sunny mom, 
When thou, first blossom of my spring, was born. 
And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife 
With death and agony that won thy life, 
Their sunny clusters hung on their brown bough, 
E’en as upon my breast, my May bud thou. 
They seem to me thy sisters, O my child! 
And now the air, full of their fragrance mild, 
Recalls that hour; a tenfold agony 
Pulls at my heart-strings as I think of thee. 
Was it in vain? O, was it all in vgin— 
That night of hope, of terror, and of pain, 
When from the shadowy boundaries of death, 
I brought thee safely, breathing living breath? 
Upon my heart—it was a holy shrine, 
Full of God’s praise—they laid thee treasure mine! 
And from its tender depths the blue heaven smiled, 
And tire white blossoms bowed to thee, my child, 
And solemn joy of a new life was spread, 
Like a mysterious halo round that bed. 
And now how is it, since eleven years, 
I have steeped that memory in bitterest tears? 
Alone, heart-broken, on a distant shore, 
Thy childless mother sits lamenting o’er 
Flowers, which the spring calls from the foreign earth, 
The twins that crowned the morning of thy birth. 
How is-it with thee, lost, lost, precious one? 
Is thy fresh spring time growing up alone? 
What warmth enfolds thee? What kind dews are shed, 
Like love and patience, over thy young head? 
What holy, heavenly springs f *d thy young life? 
What shelters thee from passion’s deadly strife? 
What guards thy growth, straight, strong, and full, and 
free, 
Lovely and glorious, O, my fair young tree? 
God, Father, thou who by this awful fate 
Hast lopp’d, and stripp’d, and left me desolate; 
In the dark, bitter floods that o’er my soul 
Their billows of despair triumphant roll, 
Let me not be o’erwhelmed? O, they are thine, 
These jewels of my life—not mine—not mine! 
So keep them, that the blossoms of their youth 
Shall in a gracious growth of love and truth, 
With an abundant harvest honor thee. 
THE TRUE LADY. 
The editor of the Portland Eclectic, in 
the course of an essay upon the ladies, tells 
the following interesting and instructive tale 
which we commend to our accomplished 
lady readers: 
We once knew a “young lady,-” who 
lived in fine style. Her parlors were ele¬ 
gantly furnished, and her dress was always 
of the latest fashion. She had her piano 
and her teacher, and she played Italian 
music charmingly. In all the exquisite 
graces of life she was faultless. She had a 
rich vein of sentiment, too, and could talk 
philosophy, or discuss standard authors, at 
pleasure. Of course she read novels—in 
fact a large portion of the day was devoted 
to that interesting and instructive class 
of polite literature. She was also some¬ 
what industrious, for she would occasionally 
work elegant embroidery. With an abun¬ 
dance of curls, that floated over her neck 
in beautiful profusion, a fine form, hands 
white and delicate, large powers of conver¬ 
sation in the usual drawing-room style, she 
was followed by the young men of taste.— 
Yet, somehow, she never got married. The 
“beaux” fluttered arc^Rd her like flies over 
a pot of honey, but they were very careful 
not to be caught as those other insects are 
apt to be. Their attentions were never so 
particular as to require some “ friend of the 
family” to demand what were their inten¬ 
tions. This was no fault of the young lady. 
She was in the market as plainly as though 
she had inscribed on her forehead, “A 
Husband Wanted: for particulars inquire 
within." But the husband never, to our 
knowledge, came; and we believe that at 
this day she is a disconsolate old maid. 
What was the trouble? Step with us 
into the kitchen. That fat woman, with a 
red face, is the servant of the house. She 
does the cooking, the washing, and the 
chamber work. From early dawn until late 
at night, she is a slave. Well, that woman 
is our charming young lady’s mother! She 
never sees her daughter’s “callers.” If by 
accident she should drop into the parlor 
while visitors were present, she would hasten 
out again, with embarrassed manner, look¬ 
ing as though she had committed an offence, 
while her own child’s face would be suffused 
with blushes. 
Now take a walk with us. In that work 
shop do you see that hard working me¬ 
chanic?—The wrinkles are hardened over 
his face, and the grey hairs are thinly 
sprinkled over his head. He looks anxious, 
and as though his heart string tugged at some 
deep sorrow and mortification. He is the 
father of our beautiful “ young lady,” and 
his hard earnings for many years have been 
absorbed in the expensive luxuries that her 
admirable taste has craved. He, too, is ex ■ 
eluded from the society of his own daughter. 
She moves in a circle above her parents, 
and, in short, is ashamed of them. They 
live in the kitchen- -she in the parlor. They 
drudge—she reaps the fruit She has no 
pulsation of gratitude for all this. She des¬ 
pises them, and in fashionable gatherings, 
is among tho first to curl her pretty lips at 
“ low mechanics,” provided she can do it 
safely. 
Is she a true lady ? No—ten thousand 
times No! We object not to her accom¬ 
plishments—to her taste in dress—to her 
manners. We look upon and admire such 
just as we do a superb statue of Venus.— 
As a work of art it is beautiful; but, never¬ 
theless, it is insensate marble, having no 
soul, being of no use in practical life, and 
good for nothing, but to look at. 
The beauty of the mind is the true beau¬ 
ty ; and the affectionate daughter who nes¬ 
tles herself lovingly into the heart of hearts 
of her parents—who makes her mother her 
companion and confidante — who not only 
works with that mother, but takes the 
heaviest burden upon herself—she is the 
true lady. She may never have struck a 
note on the piano, yet her house is melodi¬ 
ous with harmony, such as angels sing.— 
Her exterior may be'humble, but her inte¬ 
rior life is clothed in the vestments of im¬ 
mortal beauty. 
There are many “ young ladies” whose 
whole character is on the surface. Dress, 
manners, accomplishments, all are external. 
They have no depth of thought, no moral 
strength, no heart. They are “outsiders.” 
When the scorching fires of adversity burn 
beneath the surface, there is no protecting 
walls upreared within. The whole becomes 
a heap of ashes, though it may retain the 
: semblance of humanity. 
The true lady cultivates the higher na¬ 
ture. She is religious, but not fanatical — 
courteous, but not fawning. Reposing se¬ 
renely upon the arm of her heavenly Fath¬ 
er, and associating with unseen • angelic 
spirits, she meets the storm with calmness, 
and accepts it as a disciplinary mercy. — 
Her sympathy ever pulsates to the cry of 
suffering and her hand is ever open to re¬ 
lieve. She is beiiutiful at home, beautiful 
at the bedside of the sick, beautiful through 
life, beautiful at the hour of her departure 
into the world of spirits, and transcendantly 
and eternally beautiful in Heaven. 
That is the true lady. 
BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. 
You cannot go into the meadow and 
pluck up a single daisy by the roots, with¬ 
out breaking up a society of nice relations, 
and detecting a principle more extensive 
and refined than mere gravitation. The 
handful of earth that follows the tiny roots 
of that little flower, is replete with social 
elements. A little social circle had been 
formed around that germinating daisy. The 
sunbeam and dewdrop met there and the 
soft summer breeze came whispering though 
the tall grass to join the silent concert 
The earth took them to her bosom, and 
introduced them to the daisy gem; and they 
all went to work to show that flower to the 
sun. Each mingled in the honey of its in¬ 
fluence, and they nursed “the wee canny 
thing” with an aliment that made it grow; 
And when it lifted its eyes towards the sky, 
they wove a soft carpet of grass for its feet. 
And the sun saw it through the green leaves, 
and smiled as he passed on; and then by 
starlight and by moonlight they worked on. 
And the daisy lifted up its head, and one 
morning while the sun was looking, it put 
on its silver rimmed diadem and showed its 
yellow petals to the stars. And it nodded 
to the little birds that were swimming in 
the sky. And all of them that had silver- 
lined wings came; and birds in black, and 
gray and quaker brown came; and the 
querulous blue bird and the courtesying 
yellow bird came; and each sung a native 
air at the coronation of that daisy. 
The Happy Girl. — A happy girl is to 
be known by her fresh looks and buoyant 
spirits. Day in and day out she has some¬ 
thing to do; and she takes hold of work as 
if she did not fear to soil her hands or dirty 
her apron. Such girls we respect where- 
ever we find them—in a palace or a hovel. 
Always pleasant and always kind, they 
never turn up their noses before your face, 
or slander you behind your back. They 
have more sense and better employment 
What are flirts and bustle-bound girls in 
comparison with these? Good for nothing 
but to look at; and that is rather disgusting. 
Give us the industrious and happy girl, and 
we care not who worships the fashionable 
and idle simpleton. 
If there be a situation wherein woman 
may be deemed to appropriate angelic at¬ 
tributes, it is when she ministers, as only 
woman can, to the wants and the weakness 
of the invalid! Whose hand like hers can 
smooth his pillow ? Whose voice so effect¬ 
ually silences the querulousness of his tem¬ 
per ? Proffered by her, the viand hath an 
added zest, and even the nauseous medica¬ 
ment is divested of its loathsomeness. 
We love the young—there is a rich joy¬ 
ousness, a delightful naivette in the con¬ 
versation of children, so different from the 
roughness, or the staid, formal talk of “old 
folks” or “grown up people.”—Those who do 
not love children, deserve to grow old at 
thirty-five and go ii\to dotage at forty. 
Usefulness is confined to no station 
and it is astonishing how much good may 
be done, and what may be effected by 
limited means, united with benevolence of 
heart and activity of mind. 
The loss of a friend is like that of a limb; 
time may heal the anguish of the wound, 
but the loss cannot be repaired. 
