340 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTU 
> WHAT I’D DO. 
Toil riot for fame, nor a sounding name, 
ji Strive not for wealth nor power; 
Whoso clings to these faithless things, 
\ Is cheated every hour. 
I’d spend my life away from strife, 
With my wife and children dear; 
I’d have a cot in a sheltered spot 
And a pleasant neighbor near. 
I’d work each day in pleasant way; 
I would read, and write, and talk; 
And I’d sometimes ride by the river’s side, 
) Or enjoy an evening walk. 
) I’d do what good soe’er I could, 
) Regardless of praise or blame. 
And when at last my days are past, 
) Have my children do tl'.e same. 
) [Knickerbocker. 
SCENERY OE NIAGARA RIVER. 
BY W. II. BRISTOL. 
; Fob scenery congenial with the spirit of 
! \ Poesy, Niagara transcends all other rivers. 
; It is true, there are those more wild and 
> percipitous, but there are none so lovely,— 
I; > none which so blend the romantic with the 
j peaceful, — the simple with the attractive. 
< There is not a point bn the Niagara, but lias 
) an interest and a delight for the nature- 
) loving traveler. Sweet isles are every- 
jj i where sleeping, where murmuring rivulets 
> come with a tell tale music, haunting their 
( bright green shores. 
; There, too, the soft winds of summer 
!) meet in fairy revels, tuning their varied 
) voices to a delightful chorus, as though they 
j were serenading the flowers that peep from 
> their mazy haunts amid the waving grass. 
^ At every spot the traveler’s eye is feasted 
| with the spirit of beauty, and he feels him- 
] self etherealized, as it were, by heavenly 
> thoughts. Each shade, as it floats out with 
) . ° . 
} a liquid dance on the trembling waters, 
; mimics a living charm. In this is its won- 
) drous power to attract—to bind with a re- 
| sistless pleasure. 
> From the afflux of Lake Erie, this river 
) n-oes pouring on to distant Ontario, einbo- 
) soming in the interim, Grand Island, which 
- is nearly 12 miles in length and about G or 
: 7 miles in its greatest width; and Navy 
, Island, which is also ^romantic and lovely. 
< Numberless other islands of various extent, 
s gem the waters on which the tall forest tree 
\ rears its massive branches into the blue 
) azure, amid which the restless winds pour 
with a varied harmony. As the river re- 
> cedes from Navy Island, it grows more and 
; more precipitous in its flow until it breaks 
) upon rocks in its bed, and becomes one 
) grand extent of snowy rapids, dancing, like 
j so many clouds in the flashing sun. But a 
; little above the rapids, stands the city of 
I Chippewa, a beautiful place that overlooks 
the liver, and peeps from amid its romantic 
poplar trees, like the moon watching the 
eartii when her silver eye glances down 
through a veil of clouds. 
From this place to Lewiston, on the 
American side—about ten miles distant— 
is scenery on which the eye can ever look 
) with awe and delight. Not only will the 
I eye be charmed, but the ear will hear with 
a rapt reverence, the august thunders of 
the mighty cataract, as they rise with a 
continued booming from the far depths be- 
I ' low. Would the traveler feel that Nature 
hath voice, let him stand where the rolling, 
plunging waters leap from their throne set 
against the sky, and tumble, as it were from 
the heavens, to find in the far down abyss 
a grave of thunderous oblivion. There the 
strong earth shakes, and the air vibrates 
\ with the sound of falling waters as they 
] battle with giant rocks, and in their confu- 
' sion combat each other. 
There, too, the sweeping spray spreads 
its swift wings on the showy air, and mounts 
l to the sky with a rushing sound, till it rolls 
\ through the heavens a vast and darkening 
^ cloud. Amid the storm of waters the 
( bright Iris Queen stretches her tented pin- 
s ions over the scene, and lingers there to 
\ bathe in the rising spray, and take upon 
£ herself a new creation of light. But it is 
^ in vain to attempt to express or describe all 
[\ the beauties and wonders of this strange 
( river. Nothing but the all-glorious spirit 
| of poesy can reach the portraying acme of 
its many fascinating scenes and peculiarities. 
| The cataract is truly sublime—the contra- 
) diction of Tupper notwithstanding, — its 
many phases are peculiarly attractive, and 
j fix the heart of the gazer with a dreadful 
pleasure. They hue the senses away in 
one contemplative dream, and the eye is 
fettered and the ear is rapt in a delicious 
forgetfulness. Yet from the angry cataract 
the eye follows the eddying floods, as they 
turn with a descending motion to again 
pursue their onward flow. 
The projecting cliffs overhang them, and 
cast their long shadows across the foaming 
waters, like a mountain in the sky robbing 
the sun of its place on the earth. About 
three miles below the Falls the celebrated 
whirlpool rules, the monarch of Niagara. 
Far down between the cliff’s, where the sun 
smiles but faintly, and the heavy shadows 
fall, the reeling surges move with a dizzy 
whirl, and the turbulent waves foam with 
madness. A peculiarly awing sound rises 
up, that strikes the ear with dread attention, 
and the gazer almost wishes himself away, 
but a moment more and a chiding spirit 
whispers, “ Be still, and learn thou here 
what only thou shouldst learn, that what 
thou art, is naught only as thy God sus¬ 
tains thee!” —Then he gazes again upon 
the rushing, bounding, roaring, leaping 
flood, and views huge trees tumbled to and 
fro like feathers on the bosom of wrathful 
tumult; then they disappear for a long 
time as if they had gone down to another 
world; but at last they merge again, turn¬ 
ing'their huge bodies as if in playful frolic. 
For days, and often months, they remain in 
this strange vortex, till a change of the cur¬ 
rent, caused by the up-winds, when they 
float out and pass down to the distant lake. 
To the curious eye, the whirlpool presents 
an ample field for interesting speculation 
or study. 
And thus from one scene to another is 
the visitor led, till the whole river is trav¬ 
ersed and seen, and then it is not uncom¬ 
mon that desire turns back to the first 
starting point, and would again pursue the 
same marvelous steps that reveal a world 
of wonder, beauty, sublimity and power, 
while the heart acknowledges with due rev¬ 
erence that Nature is but the complicated 
toy of an infinite God. 
BulTalo, August, 1831. 
MENTAL AND PHYSICAL VIGOR. 
Many of the physical evils—the want of 
vigor, the inaction of the system, the lan¬ 
guor of hysterical afflictions—which are 
so prevalent among the delicate young 
women of the present day, may be traced 
to a want of well-trained mental powers 
and well-exercised self control, and to an 
absence of fixed habits of employment 
Real cultivation of the intellect—earnest 
exercise of the mental powers—the enlarge¬ 
ment of the mind by the acquirement of 
knowledge, the strengthening of its capa¬ 
bilities for effort for endurance of inevitable 
eyils, and for energy in combating such as 
they may overcome, are the ends which 
education has to attain. 
The po»-er of the mind over the body is 
immense. Let that power be called forth 
—let it be trained and exercised, and vigor, 
both of mind and body, will be the result. 
There is a homely, unpolished saying, that 
“ it is better to wear out than rust out!”— 
But it tells a plain truth; rust consumes 
faster than use. Better, a thousand times 
better, to work hard, even to the shorten¬ 
ing of existence, than to sleep and eat away 
this precious life, giving no other cognizance 
of its possession. By works of industry, of 
whatever kind it may be, we give a practi¬ 
cal acknowledgement of the value of life, 
of its high intentions, of its manifold duties. 
Earnest, active industry, is a living hymn of 
praise, a never-failing resource of happiness, 
—it is obedience, for it is God’s great law 
for mortal existence. 
SLEEP. 
There is no better description given of 
the approach of sleep, than that which we 
find in one of Leigh Hunt’s papers, in the 
Indicator: 
“ It is a delicious movement certainly, 
that of being well nestled in bed, and feel¬ 
ing that you shall drop gently to sleep.— 
the good is to come, net past; the limbs 
have been just tired enough to render the 
remaining in one posture delightful; the 
labor of the day is done. A gentle failure 
of the perceptions comes creeping over; 
the spirit of consciousness disengages itself 
more, and with slow and hushing degrees, 
like a mother detaching her hand from that 
of her sleeping child; the mind seems to 
have a balmy lid closing over it, like the 
eye; ’tis more closing—’tis closed. The 
mysterious spirit has gone to take its airy 
rounds.” 
Because you find a thing very difficult, 
do not presently conclude that no man can 
master it; but whatever you observe proper 
and practicable by another, believe likewise 
in your own power. 
Those who live to the future must al¬ 
ways appear selfish to those who live for 
the present. 
THE DOCTOR’S FIRST PATIENT. 
The caprice of fortune towards those 
who court her, and the humiliation she 
sometimes imposes as conditions of success, 
are rather oddly illustrated in the following- 
history, which an old English physician re¬ 
cently gave of his personal experience “ long 
time ago.” 
“ I had completed my studies and taken 
my diploma, when I found myself in the 
great sea of London, with twenty pounds 
in my pocket. I took the lower part of a 
small house in an obscure street at the back 
of some gorgeous square—and laid out ten 
pounds in furniture, fixtures, and drugs, re¬ 
serving the other ten pounds to pay my half 
year’s rent. 
The first week I sold a few pennies’ worth 
of rhubarb and magnesia; and lived on 
bread and milk. The next week was no 
better—nor the next—and as the month 
was coming to a close, I was determined to 
shut up shop and go as an assistant, when 
a servant came in for a shillings’ worth of 
the best magnesia and some smelling salts, 
and took my card. 
Next day he called again, and bought 
some powdered starch, and had a bit of talk 
with me. I had just cleaned my place and 
self, when in came, in a hurry, my new 
friend the livery servant. He said his mis¬ 
tress wished to see me as soon as possible* 
on something very pressing. I asked him 
if I must go as I was. ‘Put on your Sun¬ 
day coat’ said he, ‘and go with me’ 
I went with him to a great house in 
Portman Square, and was shown up stairs 
into a splendid drawing-room. A middle 
aged lady, of much sauvity and gracious¬ 
ness, soon entered, and apologized to me, 
but hoped from what her servant had said 
of me, I should not be offended. 
I thought she little knew my feelings to 
imagine I should be offended at being sent 
for, and assured her that I should be most 
happy to render -any service in mv power. 
She told me she had a favorite parrot that 
had broken its leg, and she asked the doc¬ 
tor who attended her to help set it, and he 
had felt himself insulted at being thought 
a bird doctor. She said she had no inten¬ 
tion to insult him, and only wished for in¬ 
formation what to do. She told me if I 
would set her bird’s leg, and charge her 
the same as for setting her own were it 
it broken, she would be most happy to 
employ me. I thought the terms proposed 
too liberal, but she insisted on no less, and 
I consented. 
Some slips of whaleboue and a little tape 
enabled us to set the creature’s leg, and 1 
attended my first patient with an assiduity 
and carefulness which I have not since sur¬ 
passed. A fortnight’s services were ren¬ 
dered, and my patient restored. The lady 
now insisted on my making out my bill 
against her. I did so, ami charged her 
what she had bid me—the usual sum for 
setting such a lady’s leg. I trembled when 
I gave it to her. It was ten guineas. She 
thanked me, and presented me with twenty 
—saying that the other ten were for mod¬ 
esty, civility and kindness. 
She then remarked that she had an op¬ 
portunity of making my acquaintance and 
esteeming my abilities, and if agreeable to 
me, she would engage me as her family 
physician, for her former doctor had had 
many hundred pounds from her, and might 
have shown a little kindness to her bird— 
but as he had made his fortune, he could do 
without her patronage, and she preferred to 
give it where it was appreciated and where 
it was serviceable. 
I blushed, and unhesitatingly informed 
her that my residence and position were 
not equal to the station she was going to 
put me in. She told me all that would be 
bettered, and she saw I was deserving of 
it. She bade me look out for a better re¬ 
sidence, and promised she would help me 
to the necessary furniture and fittings.— 
She told me the amount for medical atten¬ 
dance on herself and her household was 
never less than eighty or a hundred pounds 
a year, and that she could secure several 
families. 
I took a house—she did all she promis¬ 
ed, and laid the sure foundation for my fu¬ 
ture prospects. She was my constant 
friend until she died, and left me something 
handsome in her will. I have retired from 
business, and my fortune all arose from set¬ 
ting that poor parrot’s leg.” 
Milton’s Egotism. — In the Paradise 
Lost—indeed, in every one of his poems 
—it is Milton himself whom you see; his 
Satan, his Adam, his Raphael, almost his 
Eve—are all John Milton; and it is a sense 
of this intense egotism that gives me the 
greatest pleasure in reading Milton’s wm-ks. 
The geotisrn of such a man is a revelation 
spirit.— Coleridge. 
Prepay Your Newspapers. —Postmas¬ 
ters do not forward unpaid papers except 
those sent to regular subscribers, who pre¬ 
pay by the quarter. 
Prepay Your Letters. — Three cents 
will thus accomplish what would cost your 
correspondent five. 
Fancy restrained may be compared to a 
fountain, which plays highest by diminish¬ 
ing the aperture. 
RAL AND FAMILY JOURNAL. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
OLD AND BLIND. 
INSCRIBED TO BELINDA W. BROWN, CARLTON, N. Y. 
Old and blind they call thee, Mother, 
As they gaze upon thee now. 
Old, because Time hath been busy 
Marking furrows on thy brow; 
Blind, because the golden sunbeam 
Hath no power to light thy way, 
And thine eyes perceive no brightness 
In the glowing orb of day. 
Old and blind they call thee, Mother, 
Old, because thy steps are slow, 
Old, because the si! ken tresses 
Round thy cheek no longer flow; 
Blind, because the wood and river. 
Sky and sea thou passes! by, 
Blind, because Earth’s flowers of beauty 
Are unheeded by thine eye. 
Well I know thy steps are fc eble, 
And thy tones are faltering now, 
Well I know that threads of silver 
Gather o’er thy wrinkled brow; 
Well I know that gladsome faces 
Thou inay’st never more behold, 
Well I know all this, yet do not 
Call thee either blind or old. 
They are old whose hearts are withered, 
And whose love for truth has fled, 
They whose faith in God is feeble, 
And whose hopes of Heaven are dead. 
They are blind who see no blessings 
Showered o’er every path they rove, 
They who see no radiant beamings 
Of their Heavenly Father’s love. 
But thou art not old, my Mother, 
For thy spirit blooms in youth, 
Round it beam Affection’s dew drops, 
O’er it wave the flowers of Truth; 
On thy Savior’s arm thou leanest, 
In his love thy soul is blest, 
Hope is happy in his promise. 
On his grace thy faitli doth re-t. 
Blind they may not call thee, Mother, 
Though thine eye beholds not day, 
For a glorious light within thee 
Guides thee in the narrow way; 
And e’en now thy spirit’s vision, 
Roams throughout that golden land. 
Views the crown for thee awaiting, 
Resting in thy Savior’s hand. 
But a little time, my Mother, 
Wilt thou meet thy children here, 
But a little longer listen, 
To their tones of grief or cheer; 
Soon sweet words of gentie counsel, 
Will I cease to hear from thee. 
And thy smile of patient meekness 
Look around in vain to see. . 
Step hv step thy feet are treading 
In the path that Jesus trod. 
Day by day thy soul approacheth 
Nearer to the home of God. 
Soon thy Savior’s voice will greet thee. 
Welcoming thy soul above, 
Soon the Angel hand will meet thee. 
Clothed in beams of radiant love. 
Aed O, when I too have finished 
All my labors here below, 
When grim Death mine eye is closing. 
And has chilled my life blood’s flow. 
When iny soul would shrink in terror, 
From the valley’s darksome gloom, 
May I have thy glorious vision, 
And thy spirit’s fadeless bloom. 
Kate Woodland. 
WOMAN’S RIGHTS. 
BY MISS ELIZA WOODWORTH. 
In almost every land, and among all na¬ 
tions, a standard lias been reared, upon 
which is inscribed in lines of fire, “ Wo¬ 
man’s Rights.” Long and eloquently have 
her “ rights” been pleaded, and mighty 
have been the efforts to shake off the chains 
of oppression and slavery, with which the 
poor, benighted wretch is bound,—though 
till lately unknown to herself. Man, “ the 
would-be lord of creation,” like woman, en¬ 
dowed with an intellect, and blessed with 
the promise of immortality, upon whose 
form the likeness of Divinity has been plac¬ 
ed, and in whose heart the impress of Deity 
is fixed, has crushed the noble heart of wo¬ 
man to the earth, and for ages held her 
mighty mind in the deepest, the darkest 
the most degrading servitude. But thank 
kind heaven, she is wakening from the long 
and terrible slumber, — bursting from the 
galling fetters which he would fain rivet 
around her, and rousing into life and energy. 
0, delightful change! When woman 
shall reign and rule, then shall the whole 
world be filled with peace; then shall war 
and commotion cease, then shall envy, strife 
and jealousy forever depart. Then shall 
order, the true index to good government 
preside, and earth now groaning under her 
load of misery, shrouded in darkness be¬ 
neath the pall of sorrow, shall rise from the 
long, deep night of trouble and anguish, 
shake off the shackles cf oppression, and 
deck herself in the garments of gladness. 
Then shall man’s hard heart be humbled— 
he shall learn his own proper place, and be 
taught to act in his own appropriate sphere. 
But, gentle reader, while these are per¬ 
haps, the views of some, there are others 
quite as respectable, who hold opposite 
opinions. Yes, that same voice that de¬ 
clared to sinful woman, “ He shall rule over 
thee,” sleeps not now, nor has it lost its 
power. Man was made to rule,—and wo 
to that person, who presumes to change the 
order of God’s own government or reverse 
the decisions of the Most High, for the doom 
of wrath hangs over him, and the curse of 
the Eternal is upon him. You might as 
well attempt to grasp the raging, roaring 
waters of Niagara, as to bind the heart of 
man. Thrones may crumble—kingdoms 
rise and fall—suns be quenched, and “sys¬ 
tems into ruin run”—but firm, immovable, 
omnipotent, as its great and glorious Au¬ 
thor, this truth shall stand. 
It is not the glory, but the shame of wo¬ 
man, that her voice has been heard in the 
halls of legislation, and her hand attempts to 
wield the pen of law. It is not her place 
to sound the trump of war, unfurl the black 
banner of bell, and rush to the bloody bat¬ 
tle field. If man will kill his brother man, 
let him do it — but 0 woman! may thy 
heart be guiltless—and thy hand unstain¬ 
ed. It is not her voice that should be heard 
from the holy desk, but ever may its gentle 
accents fall upon the ear of the sorrow- 
stricken one, like tones of sweetest melody. 
It is not her calling to subdue kingdoms, 
crush empires, and deluge the world in 
blood — but to give joy and happiness to the 
sorrowing—comfort and consolation to the 
distressed—speak words of love and kind¬ 
ness to the down tr:,<lden — watch by the 
couch of suffering, where the pale tyrant 
waits to seize his prey.and snatch her erring 
sisterhood from the darkness of degrada¬ 
tion and moral death. 
This is woman’s “ holy mission.” Angels 
look upon it with ad miring gaze—strike 
their golden harps anew to songs of sacred 
joy. This is the work that called down the 
Saviour of mankind from the high realms 
of blessedness and light—robed Him in the 
garments of mortality, and tilled even His 
pure, unsullied heart. 
Call not woman’s mission a lowly one. 
Say not it is beneath her dignity, for it is 
the mother that makes the man, and moulds 
the nation. In all ages, in proportion as 
woman has been enslaved and oppressed, 
has vice and iniquity flourished; arid war, 
crime, and bloodshed triumphed over peace 
and good order, and man’s heart become 
the shrine of all that is low, mean, vile and 
contemytible. 
Yates, N. Y , Oct., 1S51. 
THE COUNTRY GIRL TO THE CITY LALY. 
Lady, scorn not my rustic dress, nor 
mark the absence of ali jewelry. It is true 
my hands are coarse; but. it is from labor 
in company with those I love. My cheek 
is browned beneath the ardent gaze of the 
sun, that pours his light, undimmed by the 
smoke and fog that shade your goodly city. 
These undressed ringlets have ever played 
with the pure air of heaven that comes with 
stifling power from no narrow street, but 
laden with sweet perfume of the wild flow¬ 
ers, with which eur Heavenly Father clothes 
the hills, and they are lovely in my uncul¬ 
tivated eye. I will not braid them now. 
Come with me and look upon a picture, 
which truly may not be compared with any 
in your gallery. It is from the brush of 
the Omnipotent. Come with me to my 
rude home‘in the country. I have no gild¬ 
ed books; yet there are some filled with the 
thoughts of those who love God and their 
fellow men. A bath in the crystal lake, 
and a ramble on the wooded hills that rise 
around, shall give elastic vigor to thy limbs, 
such as they never gained from waltzes and 
quadrilles. Thy cheek shall need no rouge; 
but learn to glow at sight of those dear to 
the heart. I have no rubies, diamonds, or 
pearls, but I will let thee trample under 
feet unnumbered gems, the least of which 
outshines the choicest product of the lapi¬ 
dary’s skill; yet thou must rise with me at 
early day, for lady, dew-drops vanish with 
the morning sun. s. s. l. 
John Adams wrote to his wife, “ The 
education of our children is never out of 
my mind. Train them to virtue, habit¬ 
uate them to industry, activity, and spirit. 
Teach them to consider every vice as 
shameful and unmanly. Fire them with 
ambition to be useful. Make them disdain 
to be destitute of any useful knowledge.” 
Let mothers heed the wise injunction. 
We are nut to suppose that the oak 
wants stability because ils light and change¬ 
able leaves dance to the music of the bree¬ 
zes; nor are we to conclude that a man 
wants solidity and strength of mind because 
he may exhibit an occasional playfulness 
and levity. 
) 
