44 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THEY SLEEP IH DUST. 
BY IDA FAIRFIELD. 
Thf.y sleep in dust—the glorious dtad, 
Lie stattered far and wide; 
Wherever human footprints tread, 
Their shadowy phantoms glide. 
Far in the sunny south they sleep, 
Where orange blossoms tiing 
Fragrance and beauty, all the year. 
Around each living thing. 
They sleep in beauty, and in trust, 
On India’s gemmed strand; 
Dust hath been called to kindred dust, 
’Mid Afric’s burning sands. 
Dust in the ruined sepulchre, 
Of dim old Palestine; 
Dust, human dust, is sleeping, 
Beside the flowing Rhine. 
They sleep in dust, beneath the sky, 
On lonely desert plain ; 
And piles of dust, un buried lie, 
From those in battle slain.. 
They sleep in dust, but little reek, 
We, of the distant dead; 
Alas ! alas 1 from our own. homes, 
The light of life hath tied. 
Low in the dust, our dearest ones, 
Our gentlest, soon are laid ; 
And in our hearts, and by our heaths, 
Are vacant places made. 
They shall not always sleep in dust, 
Soon will the trumpets tone. 
Summon the lost of every clime, 
To God’s eternal throne. 
Independence, Jan., 1854. 
We live in a world of busy passions.— 
Love and hate, sorrow and joy, in a thou¬ 
sand shapes, are forever near us. Death is 
at our threshold. Life springs up almost 
at our feet. Our neighbors are “exulta¬ 
tions, agonies !” And yet we seem to live 
on, ignorant of all. 
Could we but unroof (Asmodeus-like) the 
houses which, day after day, present to¬ 
wards us so insensible an aspect, what mar¬ 
vels might we not disclose ! What fruitful 
thoughts, what radiant visions, would throng 
into our brain ! The mystery of human 
conduct would lie unveiled. Wo should 
seo and know all men truly. Wo should 
see the miser, the spendthrift, the scholar, 
tho toiling artizan, the happy bride, and 
the girl deserted (like the people in the pal¬ 
ace of Truth)—all contributing their share 
to the unknown romance, which time is for¬ 
ever weaving round us. As it is, each of 
them spins out his little thread, and dies, 
almost unknown, and soon forgotten,— 
unless some curious accident should arise 
to extend his influence into another region, 
or to hold his “fame” in suspension, twen¬ 
ty years after his coffin has been lowered 
into the dust. 
It was some such chance as I have just 
adverted to, that threw into our knowledge 
certain facts regarding a neighboring fami¬ 
ly, which else had probably slipped very 
quietly into oblivion. You will observe that 
what f am now about to relate is almost lit¬ 
erally a fact. 
Some years ago, wo lived, as you know, 
in B-Square. Tho room in which we 
usually dwelt was at the back of the house. 
It was spacious, and not without some pre¬ 
tensions to the graceful, the marble chim¬ 
ney-piece being distinguished by a painting 
of Cipriani, whilst on tho ceiling lay scat¬ 
tered some of the conventional elegancies 
of Angelica Kauffman. From the windows 
which occupied the northern extremity of 
the room, we looked (to the left of a large 
oriental plane) upon the back of a crescent 
of houses, the points of tho arc receding 
from us. [I mention these things merely to 
recall to your mind our precise position.] 
In the centre of this crescent was a house 
which had for a long time been un tenanted. 
Whilst its neighbor dwellings were all busy 
with life and motion, this only was. for some 
reason, deserted. We were beginning to 
speculate on the causes of this accident, 
and to pity the unhappy landlord, whose 
pockets were lamenting the lack of rent, 
when suddenly—it was on an April morning 
—we perceived, for the first time, signs of 
change. The windows of the deserted man¬ 
sion were opened, and workmen were seen 
bustling about in different rooms. There 
was an air of preparation evidently, which 
announced an incoming tenant. 
“Well,” said A-, ‘at last that unhap¬ 
py man has discovered some one bold 
enough to take his haunted house ; or per¬ 
haps, after all, ho is merely endeavoring to 
decoy tho unwary passenger. We shall 
see.” 
A few weeks determined the question; 
for, after the house had boen duly cleansed 
and beautified, and the odor of the paint 
suffered to fade away, various articles of 
furniture were brought into the rooms.— 
These were of moderate price, and explain¬ 
ed to us that the new tenant was a person 
of respectable station, but not rich. We 
began to feel a wish to know “ what manner 
of man ” he was. Our interest in the once 
empty house had received a new impulse; 
and we looked out, day after day, for the 
stranger’s arrival. 
At last a young man, of livoly and agree¬ 
able presence, was one morning seen giving 
directions to a servant, about the disposi¬ 
tion of tho furniture. This was evidently 
the master of the mansion. He stayed for 
half an hour, and then departed; and he 
repeated his short visit daily. He was 
probably a clerk in some public office,— a 
merchant, or professional man whose time 
was required elsewhere. But, why did he 
not reside there ? That was a problem that 
we strove to solve in vain. In the end he 
went away altogether. 
“ Each morn we missed him in th’ accustomed room.” 
And now no one, except the solitary maid, 
was seen throwing open the-windows in tho 
morning to let in the vernal May; closing 
them at night: rubbing with a delicate hand 
the new furniture, gazing at the unknown 
neighborhood, or sitting listlessly in the af¬ 
ternoon, “ imparadised ” in rustic dreams, 
she appeared to be the sole spirit of the 
spot. It was not the “genius loci ” which 
we had reckoned upon. Our imaginations 
were not satisfied ; and wo looked forward 
confidently to another comer. 
We were not disappointed. After a lapse 
of a fortnight from the young man’s depart¬ 
ure. our inquisitive discovered him again.— 
He was sitting at breakfast with a lady by 
his side. Pretty, young, neat, and attired 
from head to foot in white, she was evident¬ 
ly a bride. We rushed at once upon this 
conjecture; and certain tender manifesta¬ 
tions. on the husband’s leave-taking, con¬ 
firmed us in our opinion. He went away; 
and she, left to herself, explored, as far as 
we could observe, all the rooms of the house. 
Everything was surveyed with a patient ad¬ 
miration; every drawer opened; the little 
book case contemplated, and its slender 
rows of books all, one by one, examined.— 
Finally, the maid was called up, some in¬ 
quiries made, and the survey recommenced. 
The lady had now some ono to oncourago 
her open expressions of delight. We could 
almost fancy that we hoard her words— 
“ How beautiful this is ! What a comforta¬ 
ble sofa ! What a charming screen ! How 
kind, how good, how considerate of-!” 
It was altogether a pretty scene. 
Lot us pass over tho autumn and winter 
months. During a portion of this time, wo 
ourselves were absent in the country ; and 
when at home, we remembered but little of 
what happened. There was little or no va¬ 
riety to remark upon ; or, possibly, our cu¬ 
riosity had become abated. 
At last, spring came, and with it came a 
thousand signs of cheerfulness and life.— 
The plain put forth its tender leaves; the 
sky grew blue overhead, (oven in London ;) 
and the windows of the once melancholy 
house shone blushing with many flowers.— 
So May passed; and June came on, with 
its air all rich with roses. But the lady ?— 
Ah! her cheek had waxed palo, and her 
stop grew weak and faltering. Sometimes 
she ventured into her small garden, when 
tho sun was full upon it. At other times 
she might be seen wearied with needle¬ 
work, or sitting languidly alone; or, whon 
her husband was at home (beforo and after 
his hours of business.) she walked a little, 
to and fro, leaning on him for support.— 
His devotion increased with her infirmity.— 
It was curious to observo how love had tam¬ 
ed tho high and frolicsome spirit of a man. 
A joyous and perhaps common manner be¬ 
came serious and refined. The weight of 
thought lay on him,—the responsibility of 
love. It is thus, that in some natures, love 
is wanting to their full development. It 
raises, and refines, and magnifies the intel¬ 
lect, which else would remain dull, trivial 
and prostrate. From a seeming barren¬ 
ness, tho human mind springs at once into 
fertility,—from vagueness into character.— 
from tfullnoss into vigor and beauty, under 
tho “ charming wand ” of love. 
But lot us proceed : 
On a glittering night in August, wo saw 
lights flashing about the house, and peoplo 
hurrying up and down, as on somo urgent 
occasion. By degrees the tumult subsided; 
the passings backwards and forwards be¬ 
came less frequent; and at last tranquility 
was restored. A single light, burning in an 
upper window, alone told that some one 
kept watch throughout the night. Tho 
next morning the knocker of tho house 
was (we were told) shrouded in white leath¬ 
er ; and tho lady had brought her husband 
a child ! Wo drank its health in wine. 
For a few days quiet hung upon the house. 
But it was doomed speedily to depart.— 
Hurry and alarm came again. Lights were 
seen once more flickering to and fro. The 
physician’s carriage was heard. It came 
and departed. Tho maid now held her 
apron to her eyes. Tho husband burying 
his face in his hands, strove (how vainly) to 
hide a world of grief. Ere long tho bed¬ 
room window was thrown open,; tho shut¬ 
ters of the house were closed, and in a week 
a hearse was at tho door. The mystery was 
at an end; she was dead ! 
She died! No poet ever wove around 
her tho gaudy tissue of his verse. The 
grave she sleeps in is probably nothing 
more than the common mould. Her name 
evon, is unknown. But what of this ? She 
lived and died, and was lamented. The 
proudest can boast of little more. She 
made the light and happiness of ono mortal 
creature, fond and fragile as herself—and 
for a name, a tomb ? Alas ! for all the pur¬ 
poses of love, nothing is wanted savo a little 
earth—nothing but to know tho spot where 
the beloved ono rests forever. Wo fear, in¬ 
deed, to give tho creature whom we have 
hoarded in our hearts to the deep and. ever 
shifting waters,—to the oblivion of the sea! 
We desire to know where it is that wo have 
laid our fading treasure. Otherwise tho 
pilgrimage is easy and painful to the simple 
churchyard hillock, as to tho vault in which 
a king reposes. Tho gloomy arches of 
stately tombs, what are they to tho gran¬ 
deur of tho overhanging heavens ! and tho 
cold, ghastly marble, how poor and hideous 
it is in compai'ison with the turf whereon 
many a daisy grows ! 
The child survived. The cares lately ex¬ 
hausted on another, were now concentrated 
on a little child. The solemn doctors came 
and prescribed for it, and took their golden 
fees. The nurse transferred to it her ready 
smiles. The services which had been pur¬ 
chased for tho mother, were now tho prop¬ 
erty of another claimant. Even the father 
turned towards it all of his heart which was 
not in tho grave. It was part of her who 
had strown sunshine in his path, and he 
valued it accordingly. 
But all would not do. A month, “a little 
month,” and the shutters were again closed. 
Another funeral followed swifltly upon the 
last. The mother and child were again to¬ 
gether. 
From this period a marked change arose 
in the man’s character. The grief which 
had bowed him down at his wife’s death, 
(relieved a little by the care which he bo- 
stowed upon her child,) now changed to a 
sullen or reckless indifference. In tho 
morning ho was clouded and oppressed; but 
at night, a mad and dissonant jollity (the 
madness of wine) usurped the place of his 
early sorrow. His orgies were often carried 
into morning. Sometimes ho drank with 
wild companions; sometimes he was seen 
alone, staggering towards the window, stu¬ 
pid and bloated, ere the last light of the 
autumn sunset concealed him from our 
sight. There were steadier intervals, in¬ 
deed, when reflection would come upon 
him — perhaps remorse; when ho would 
gaze with a grave, or oftener a sad look 
upon the few withered flowers that had 
once flourished in his gay window. What 
was he then thinking of ? Of vanished 
hopes and happy hours ? Of her patience, 
her gentleness, her deep untiring love ?— 
Why did he not summon up moro cheerful 
visions ? Where was his old vivacity ? his 
young and merry spirit ? Tho world offered 
tho same allurements as before, with the 
exception only of ono single joy. Oh! but 
that was all. That was tho one thought, 
that had grown vast and absorbed all others. 
That was the mirror which had reflected 
happiness a thousand ways. Under that 
influence tho present, the past, tho bright 
to come—all had seemed to cast back upon 
him the pictures of innumerable blessings. 
He had trod, even in dreams, upon a sunny 
shore. And now— ! 
But why prolong tho pain and disgrace of 
the story ? Ho fell, from step to step.— 
Sickness was on his body; despair was in 
his mind. Ho shrank and wasted away, 
“ old before his time and might have sub¬ 
sided into a paralyzed cripple or a moody 
idiot, had not death, for once a friend, come 
suddenly to him, and rescued him from 
further misery. 
Ho died, as his wife and child had died 
beforo him. The same signs were thore— 
the unnatural quiet—the closed shutters— 
and the funeral train. But all, in their time, 
disappeared ; and in a few weeks workmen 
came thronging again to the empty house; 
the rooms were again scoured—the walls 
beautified. Tho same board which two 
years before had been nailed to the wall, 
with the significant words, “To Let,” upon 
it was again fixed thore. It seems almost 
as though the old time had returned again, 
and that the interval was nothing but a 
dream. * * * * * * 
And is this all ? Yes, that is all. I wish 
that I could have crowned my little tale 
with a brighter ending. But it was not to 
be. I wish even that I could have made it 
more heroic, or have developed some grand 
moral for your use. As it is, it contains 
little beyond the common threadbare story 
of human life—first hope, and then sorrow 
—all ending quietly in the grave. It is an 
ancient tale. Tho vein runs through man’s 
many histories. Somo of them may pre¬ 
sent seeming varieties—a life without hope 
or joy — or a career beginning gaily and 
running merrily to its close. But this is 
because we do not read tho inner secrets of 
the soul — the thousand, thousand small 
pulsations which yield pain or pleasure to 
the human mind. Be assured that there is 
no more an equality or stagnation in the 
heart, than in tho evermoving ocean. 
For my part, 1 can derive nothing for 
you from my story, except, perhaps, that it 
may teach you, like every tale of human 
suffering, to sympathize with your kind.— 
And this, methinks, is better, and possibly 
quite as necessary, as any high-wrought or 
stern example, which shuts the heart up, 
instead of persuading it to expand, which 
teaches prudence instead of love; and re¬ 
duces the aim of a good man’s life to a low 
and sordid mark, which all are able, and 
most of us too well contented, to reach. 
We should not commit ourselves to tho 
fields, and inhale the fresh breath of the 
spring, merely to gain strength to resume 
our dry calculations, or to inflict hard 
names upon simple flowers. We should not 
read the sadness of domestic history merely 
to extract some prudent lesson for ourselves. 
We should open our hearts beneath these 
great influences, and endeavor to learn that 
wo possess the right, the power, nay, the 
wish, though it sleep, of doing good to oth- 
ors, to a degree that we little dream of. 
So persuaded am I of this truth, that I 
have invented a sentence wherein to en¬ 
shrine it, and I hope that you will not en¬ 
tirely contemn this, until you have given it 
tho consideration of a friend. It is this— 
“Let but the heart be opened , and a. thousand 
virtues will rush in!” 
Philip of Macedon, said he was beholden 
to tho Athenian orators for reproving him; 
for he would endeavor, both by words and 
actions, to make them liars. And Plato, 
hearing it was assorted by somo persons 
that he was a very bad man, said, “I shall 
take care to live so that nobody will beliovo 
them.” 
It is madness for an atheist to talk of an¬ 
nihilation, since tho boasted accident that 
gave him being, may avail to continue and 
perpetuate it hereafter. — Dr. Sprague. 
Covetous men need money least, yet 
most affect it; and prodigals who need it 
most, do least regard it. 
The Human Heart. —What I have seen 
in the world and known of the history of 
mankind, teaches mo to look upon the er¬ 
rors of others in sorrow, not in anger.— 
When I take the history of ono poor heart 
that has sinned §,nd suffered, and represent 
to myself the struggle and temptation it 
has passed through; the feverish inquietude 
of hope and fear; the pressure of want; 
tho desertion of friends; the scorn of the 
world, that has little charity; the desolation 
of the soul’s sanctuary, tho threatening voic¬ 
es within — health destroyed — happiness 
gone — oven hope, that remains longest, 
gone—I would fain leave the erring soul of 
fellow man with Him from whose hands it 
came.— Longfellow. 
Thought and Memory. —Odin was said 
to have been always attended by two ravens, 
which sate on his shoulders ; whence ho was 
called the God of Ravens. Ono was styled 
Hugin, or Thought; tho other Mugin, or 
Memory. They whispered in his ear all 
that they saw or heard. At the earliest 
dawn, he sent them to fly around tho world; 
and at eve they returned fraught with intel¬ 
ligence and truth. 
Rich and Poor. —Poverty is recommend¬ 
ed by the address with which we ovorcomo it, 
or by the complacency with which we sub¬ 
mit to it. The greatest achievement which 
man can perform is the mastery of poverty; 
to exchange her gloom for glory; her rags 
and wretchedness for wreaths and roses; 
her penuiy and perturbations for place and 
power. 
You will not anger a man so much by 
showing him that you hate him, as by ex¬ 
pressing a contempt of him. 
Wmth’s Canter. 
GO 6 
“Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt; 
Nothing’s so hard, but search will find it out.” 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 23 letters. 
My 2, 5, 3, 11 is a part of the foot. 
My 4, 7, 10, 22, 3, 11, 20, 1 is au ornament. 
My 15, 21, 18, 12, 16 is a garden vegetable. 
My 6, 5, 8 is an old woman’s beverage. 
My 9, 8, 7, 16 some people spin in the street. 
My 23, 11, 11, 3, 21 is a lady’s name. 
My 13, 18, 1 people sometimes get. 
My 14, 8, 16, 19, 9 children generally like. 
My 17, 8, 21 is useful in waim weather. 
My whole we should never be guilty of. 
Farmer, Seneca Co., N. Y. Dolly. 
Answer next week. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
CHARADE. 
Astonishing thought, I was never created; 
I’m older thau Chaos, to nature related 
My commission I have from the regions above— 
I’m the parent of hope, and the sister of love ; 
I’m the support of virtue, the friend of the wise; 
And I never deceive him who on me relies. 
Tho’ you’ll find me in death, I’m uncertain in 
life — 
The criterion of love, in a virtuous wife. 
The devil’s my enemy every place, 
And oft his attempts to bring me to disgrace, 
But the wiles of the wicked, shall never succeed 
Me to stigmatize, flatter, or ever mislead. 
When the events of time, on uncertainty’s stream, 
Shall convey us to death, and show life as a dream; 
Immutable then, in the presence of God, 
I shall stand, when my enemies all overaw’d 
Shall recede and implore that the mountains so 
high, 
May hide them in shame, from the Deity’s eye. 
So each my young readers, tell what I am now. 
And always thro’ life, at my altar still bow. 
Grovelaud, Jan., 1853. A Subscriber. 
jggr Answer next week. 
SHADOW BUFE. 
Shadow Buff differs very materially from 
blind-man’s buff, but it is equally amusing. A 
sheet or table-cloth should be fastened neatly up 
at one end of the room, so that it hangs free from 
wrinkles. Buff (not blind-folded) seats himself 
on a low stool, with his face to the sheet. A table 
on which is a lighted candle, should be placed 
about four or five feet behind him, this being the 
only light in the room. Buff’s play-fellows next 
pass in succession, between the candle and him, 
distorting their features in as grotesque a manner 
as possible, hopping, limping, dressing themselves 
in bonnets, shawls, cloaks, or other disguises, and 
performing various antics, so as to make their shad¬ 
ows very unlike themselves. Buff must then try to 
guess to whom the shadows belong; and if he 
guess correctly, the player whose shadow he re¬ 
cognises, takes his place. Buff is allowed only 
one guess for each person, and must not turn his 
head either to the right or left, to see who passes. 
ANSWER TO ENIGMA, &c„ IN NO. 4. 
Answer to Puzzle. 
Answer to Charade.— Mitten. 
Answer to Agricultural Enigma .—Stephen R. 
Smith, of Canton. 
TO AGENTS AND OTHERS. 
Encouraged by the brilliant success which has 
thus far attended the publication of Moork’s 
Rural New-Yorkkr, the Proprietor has resolved 
to make still greater efforts to furnish the best 
and cheapest Agricultural, Literary and Family 
JVeicspaper in America. And he is likewise dis¬ 
posed to remunerate, as far as possible, all Post- 
Masters and others, who may aid in augmenting 
the circulation and usefulness of the paper. For¬ 
mer agents and friends are aware that he was th e 
first agricultural publisher who offered prizes for 
subscribers—and he now signifies [see evidence 
below] a determination to keep in advance of all 
imitators and competitors, by offering the most 
liberal and valuable Premiums. But, satisfied with 
offering greater inducements than any other pub¬ 
lisher, he dispenses with all circumlution, and 
invites your attention to the following list of 
SPLENDID PREMIUMS! 
To the person or persons who shall send us the greatest 
number of yearly subscribers to the Rural New-Yorker 
from any one town in the Slate of Now York, in propor¬ 
tion to its population, (according to the U. S. census of 
1850,) previous to the 1st of May, 1853, forwarding pay¬ 
ment according to our terms, VVE WILL SEND THE 
NUMBER OF COPIES SO ORDERED, ANOTHER 
YEAR, FREE OF CHARGE! 
For the largest number of yearly subscribers from any 
town out of the Stale of New York, on like conditions, we 
will send the paper another year, as above specified, FREE. 
GRAND PRIZES! 
1st. FIFTY DOLLARS, IN CASH, to the person who 
shall send us the greatest number of yearly subscribers, 
(six month subscriptions to be counted proportionably,) 
according to our terms, previous to the 1st of May, 1S53. 
2d. THIRTY DOLLARS, 'in Books or Agricultural 
Implements, to the person who shall scud us the second 
greatest number, as above. 
3d. TWENTY DOLLARS, in Books or Implements, to 
the person sending the next (third) greatest number. 
4th. FIFTEEN DOLLARS, in Books or Implements, to 
the person sending the next (fourth) greatest number. 
5th. TWELVE DOLLARS, in Books, to the person 
sending the next (fifth) greatest number. 
6tli. EIGHT DOLLARS, in Books, to the person send¬ 
ing the next (sixth) greatest number. 
7th. FIVE DOLLARS, in Books, to the person sending 
the next (seventh) greatest number. 
FW Persons competing for premiums should give us 
notice to that effect in the letter containing first remittance. 
[In order to give Subscribers, Local Agents and Post¬ 
masters, a fair and equal chance, traveling agents, post¬ 
riders and citizens of Rochester are excluded from coni- 
petion for any of the above Premiums.] 
SPECIFIC PREMIUMS! 
In order to reach and reward even/ one who may lend a 
portion of influence in support of the Rural New-Yorker, 
we oiler to those who do not compete for either of the 
preceding prizes, the following liberal gratuities : 
1st. FIVE DOLLARS, in Cash, or a copy of Webster’s 
Unabridged Dictionary, (or $6 in Ag’l. Books,) to every 
person sending payment for fifty or more yearly copies 
(six month subscriptions proportionably,)according to our 
terms, previous to the 1st of May next. 
2d. FIVE DOLLARS, in Books, or four extra copies of 
the Rural, to every person remitting payment for i orty 
or more subscribers as above. 
3d. THREE DOLLARS in Books, or a handsomely 
bound volume of the Rural for 1852, to every person re¬ 
mitting payment for thirty subscribers. 
4th. To every one remitting payment for twenty copies, 
we will give an extra copy of the Rural, and four (the 
present and three past) volumes of The Wool Grower 
and Stock Register— or, if preferred, an extra copy of 
the Rural and .$1,50 in books. 
5th. To every one remitting for ten copies, an extra 
copy of the Rural and three volumes (past or present) of 
the Wool Grower —or, instead ofvols. W. G., $1 in hooks. 
6tli. To every one remitting for six copies, an extra 
copy of the Rural and either volume of Wool Grower. 
7th. To every one remitting for three copies (S5.) 
either volume of the Wool Grower, and a bound volume 
of Geu. Farmer for 1848 or '49. 
8th. To every person remitting for one copy, (S2,) we 
will give a copy of either vol. Wool Grower, or the Far¬ 
mer for '48 or '9, as preferred. 
All competitors for Premiums are expected to adhere 
trictly to the following 
TERMS,-IN ADVANCE: 
Two Dollars a Year. Three Copies, one year, for $5— 
Six Copies for $10—Ten Copies for $15—Twenty Copies 
for S25, and any additional number at the same rate. Six 
month subscriptions in proportion. .Names of subscribers 
written on the papers if desired, however large the club. 
Club papers sent to different post offices if desired. 
Friends of tlie Rural and its objects I will you not re¬ 
spond to these offers in a spirit of liberality such as is 
therein manifested 5 The premiums are certainly worth 
contending for by Subscribers, Agents, Post-Masters, and 
all others who desire to benefit themselves and community. 
FIT Specimen numbers, See., furnished free to all dis 
posed to compete for the Premiums, or who desire to ex¬ 
tend the circulation of the New-Yorker. Subscription 
money properly enclosed, may he mailed at our risk. 
Address D. D. T, MOORE, 
Rochester, N. Y. 
Mo^nu’s Rural New-Yorker is one of the very best 
f-mily journals with which we are acquainted. Its me- 
i hameal execution, its illustrations, and tlie arrangement 
tf i.s contents are complete. The character of its edito¬ 
rials, communications, &o., arc of the highest order. It 
must obtain a wide circulation .—Louisville Journal. 
The Rural New-Yorker, we say again, is as interesting 
and useful a paper as can he found in the State or Union. 
This is no putt; hut our real sentiments, ami expressed 
because justly demanded.— Sarkelt's Harbor Gazelle. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: 
A WKfcKLY IIOMK JOURNAL, 
Fur both Country and Town Residents. 
TERMS, IN ADVANCE: 
Two Dollars a Year — $1 for six months. To Clubs and 
Agents as follows:—Three Copies, one year, for $5; Six 
Copies (and one to Agent or getter up of club,) for $10; 
Ten Copies (and one to Agent,) for $15; Twenty Copies 
for $25, and any additional number, directed to individuals 
at the same rate. Six months subscriptions in proportion. 
£7gr’ Subscription money, properly enclosed, may be 
sent by mail at the risk of the Publisher. 
Terms of Advertising: 
One Doli.ar per square (ten lines—ICO words, or less,) for 
the first insertion, and 50 cents for each subsequent publi¬ 
cation ,—in advance. Jf’p’" With a single exception, the 
circulation of the Nkw-Yorkf.r is much larger than that 
of any other newspaper in the State, west of Albany. Only 
a limited space, however, is devoted to advertisements, and 
hence preference is given to those most appropriate—such 
as the cards and notices of dealers in Agricultural Imple¬ 
ments and Machinery,—Horticulturists and Seedsmen,— 
Booksellers and Publishers,—Inventors, etc. All orders 
by mail should be accompanied with the cash. 
To enable us to accommodate as many us possible, brie 
advertisements are preferred. Patent medicines, &c., will 
not be advertised in this paper oil any terms. 
All communications, and business letters, should 
be addressed to D. D. T. Moore, Rochester, N. Y. 
THE WOOL GROWER AND STOCK REGISTER. 
This is the only American Journal primarily devoted to 
the interest of Wool and Stock Growers, and should he in 
the hands of every owner of Domestic Animals If is ably 
conducted, published in tlie best style, and finely illustra¬ 
ted. Each number contains a careful Review of the Wool 
and Cattle Markets, and much other useful and reliable 
information which can be obtained from no other source. 
The Fourth Volume commenced in July. 
Terms:—Fifty Cents a Year; Five Copies for $2; 
Eight for $3; Eleven for $1. Back volumes, bound in 
paper, at 40 cts. each,—unbound at 35 cts., or three for $1. 
Published monthly, in octavo form Specimen numbers 
sent free. Money, properly enclosed, at. our risk. 
Address D. D. T. MOORE, Rochester, N. Y. 
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