MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND PAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
REWARDS AND PUNISHMENTS. 
If we examine the domain of nature, and 
take her teachings for our guide in teach¬ 
ing, we shall often arrive at the solution of 
very intricate problems, by very simple pro¬ 
cesses. We shall observe, for instance, that 
her rewards are not indiscriminately bestow¬ 
ed, nor her punishments vindictively indict¬ 
ed ;—each is the natural, necessary and ob¬ 
vious result of certain action. Thus, if we 
exercise healthfully but heartily'and live 
hopefully, nature will not take us up and 
fondle and caress and make us spoiled chil¬ 
dren, by over-indulgence in her luxuries; 
but will give us healthy bodies, hearty ap¬ 
petites, and cheerful spirits, as the legiti¬ 
mate and richest results of our good con¬ 
duct. On the other hand, if we lounge in¬ 
actively, eat languidly, and live aimlessly, 
nature will not scourge us wrathfully, and 
sting us spitefully; but let us become a 
heavy burden to ourselves, a grievous, 
wretched load of listless lifelessness till we 
must die, or will live. So let us in teaching 
imitate nature, and cause the rewards we be¬ 
stow and the punishments inflicted, to be the 
natural visitation of right or w r rong actions. 
I will illustrate how this may bo done by 
a case in point. Among a class of boys of 
from seven to ten years of age, I once had 
one, more than ordinarily mischievous, and 
vicious, and stubborn. I could not make 
him learn by encouragement, threats or 
punishment. Kindness and severity seem- 
od equally lost upon him. He was quick, 
sprightly, and bright, but malicious and re¬ 
vengeful. Without any reference to him 
particularly, I had arranged that his class 
should recite in a given study, the last re¬ 
citation but one in the day ; after which, 
those who had their lessons well during the 
day, were dismissed on condition of taking a 
book home to prepare a lesson for the fol¬ 
lowing morning. I very soon saw the ef¬ 
fect of this arrangerm#ftt on the class, and 
upon none more remarkably than upon this 
boy. To gain that extra half hour of time, 
he would apply himself unremittingly dur¬ 
ing the hours of study, and faithfully fulfil 
his engagement to get the lesson prescribed 
at home. 
This was a tangible reward for which to 
labor;—it was not a promise of future great¬ 
ness and good ; it was not a scrap of ticket 
or paltry primer conveying no appreciable 
good ; it was something real, of value, and 
highly prized. It was a natural result of 
diligence,— a gaining of time; just such a 
reward as nature bestows on the industrious 
and faithful. When the last lesson of that 
class was recited at night, and those named 
who might bo trusted to get a lesson at home 
because they had got their lessons at school, 
those who went felt a manly pride in the 
confidence they had secured, no less than 
the joy to be released from the confinement 
of school. And those who staid, were assur¬ 
ed that it was not for a punishment, to an¬ 
noy them; but they had' not done their 
days ivork, and hence they must remain 
until school was dismissed to finish it. As 
they saw their industrious follows pass out 
to the sports and glee of the play ground, 
they wore told that all through life the in¬ 
dustrious, tho earnest, the active, thus 
gained upon the idle, the indifferent, tho 
listless, and the next day we would seo how- 
many more we could number in the former 
class. This was not punishment inflicted — 
it v-as a deprivation of privilege;—and I 
have always found, that to place within tho 
roach of children something which they may 
gam, is tho surest and safest stimulus to ex¬ 
ertion ;— far preferable to imposing extra 
toil or pain.— Olean Journal. 
TEACHING GEOGRAPHY. 
All teachers agree that in the pursuit of 
this study, the first great object is to form 
in tho mind of the pupil a picture of the ex¬ 
terior of the earth, its countries, oceans, 
mountains, rivers, cities, etc.; also the rela¬ 
tive position of all these, together with their 
size, form, and appearance. The only point 
at issue then, is, how can this best bo done ? 
We know of no better way of doing it 
than that of requiring the pupil to describe 
routes from one part of the country, or from 
one country to another; naming the direc¬ 
tion in which ho travels, the waters on which 
he sails, the capes he passes, the rivers he 
crosses, the mountains he climbs, the cities 
ho visits, and all other matters of interest in 
the journey. After becoming alittlo accus¬ 
tomed to this, he may describe his return in 
like manner. When still further advanced, 
ho may be required to transport with him 
the principal productions of the country 
which he may visit. He can also name the 
wild beasts which he may expect to meet 
with there, as well as the most noted birds, 
also the domestic animals, and the manners, 
customs, and characters of tho people, and 
many other interesting items. 
This method has the double advantage of 
being very instructive and exceedingly in¬ 
teresting. Tho pupil thus acquires the very 
matter which he most needs, and that, too, 
in such a form that it is very easily retained. 
It partakes somewhat of the animation and 
interest of a real tour, and very seldom fails 
of engaging the attention of the pupil more 
than any other part of the lesson. 
This is certainly an argument in favor of 
the course ; for what teacher does not know 
that a great point, indeed the principal 
point, is gained when the pupil becomes in¬ 
terested, and that one idea which ho may 
voluntarily and cheerfully acquire, is worth 
a dozen which may have been driven into 
his cranium with a birchen rod or an oaken 
rule, inasmuch as the former will almost in¬ 
variably be retained, while the latter will 
find the difficulties of escape not to be com¬ 
pared with those of admittance ? Give this 
mode a fair trial. We ask no more.— Mas¬ 
sachusetts Teacher. 
. > 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 
E. II. Stoddard, gives a biography of tho 
subject of the above portrait, in the Nation¬ 
al Magazine, from which we condense the 
sketch below : 
“Bayard Taylor was born on the 11th of 
January, 1825, at Kennett’s Square, Penn., 
where lie resided until his nineteenth year. 
Who and what his parents were has not 
transpired, save that they were, and we be¬ 
lieve still are, members of tho society of 
Friends. From his earliest years he was 
fond of writing verses, and of poring over 
books of travel and adventure. * * * 
His young life was full of dreams, yet he 
himself was not a dreamer of the old sort— 
bright eyed, but sickly and useless ; on the 
contrary, ho was a strong-limbed and active 
boy, foremost in all athletic exercises and 
games of strength, and much addicted to 
long walks. * * By-and by he enters the 
office of a country newspaper, to learn the 
art and mystery of printing ; and now be¬ 
hold him at the “ caso,” with his sloevos roll¬ 
ed up, and his quick-moving fingers dingy 
with the smut of mystorious bits of lead ; 
now “ sotting up” a President’s Message, or 
an account of tho last mammoth turnip; 
and now some of his own verses, which he 
palms off on the unsuspecting public as 
Bryant’s. So pass the days and the months, 
and he becomes a printer ; but ho does not 
give up his long walks, and his dreams of 
travel and adventure, nor yet his habit of 
writing poetry ; for now he is becoming 
known, having scraped acquaintance with 
Willis and othor literati.” 
The literary world first heard of Bayard 
Taylor through the “ Now Mirror,” edited 
by Morris and Willis, who published and 
commended his poetry, as also did “ Gra¬ 
ham’s Magazine.” In 1844 he published his 
first volume, “ Zimenia, and othor Poems.” 
He had now determined to travel over 
Europe, and in the prefatory letter to 
“ Views-a-Foot,” a volumo published on his 
return, gives a very interesting account of 
his plans and their accomplishment. After 
speaking of the publication of his poems, 
and of his earnest desire to travel, ho says : 
“ Some literary friends, to whom I con¬ 
fided my design, promised to aid me with 
their influence. Trusting to this I made 
arrangements to leave the printing-office, 
which I succeeded in doing by making a cer¬ 
tain compensation for the remainder of my 
time. I was now fully confident of my suc¬ 
cess, feeling satisfied that a strong will would 
always make itself a way. After many ap¬ 
plications to different editors, and as many 
disappointments, I finally succeeded, about 
two weeks before our departure, in making 
apartial engagement. Mr. Chandler, of the 
United States Gazette, and Mr. Patterson, 
of the Saturday Evening Post, paid mo 
fifty dollars each, for twelve letters, to bo 
sent from Europe, with tho probability of 
accepting more if these should bo satisfac¬ 
tory. This, with a sum which I received 
from Mr. Graham for poems published in 
his magazine, put me in possession of about 
one hundred and forty dollars, with which 
I determined to start, trusting to future re¬ 
muneration for letters, or, if that should fail, 
to my skill as a compositor, for I supposed 
I could, at the worst, work my way through 
Europe like German hand-worker. Thus 
with another companion we left home, an 
enthusiastic and hopeful trio. 
“I neod not trace our wanderings at 
length. After eight months of suspense, 
during which time my small means were 
entirely exhausted, I received a letter from 
Mr. Patterson, continuing the engagement 
for tho remainder of my stay, with a remit¬ 
tance of one hundred dollars from himself 
and Mr. Graham. Other remittances, re¬ 
ceived from time to time, enabled me to stay 
abroad two years, during which I traveled, 
on foot, upward of three thousand miles in 
Gormany, Switzerland, Italy, and France. 
I was obliged, however, to use the strictest 
economy,—to live on pilgrim faro, and do 
penance in rain and cold. My means sever¬ 
al times entirely failed; but I was always re¬ 
lieved from serious difficulty through un¬ 
looked-for friends, or some unexpected turn 
of fortune. At Rome, owing to the expen¬ 
ses and embarrassments of traveling in Ita¬ 
ly, I was obliged to give up my original de¬ 
sign of proceeding on foot to Naples, and 
across the peninsula to Otranto, sailing 
thence to Corfu, and making a pedestrian 
journey through Albania and Greece. But 
the main object of my pilgrimage is accom¬ 
plished ; I visited tho principal places of in¬ 
terest in Europe, enjoyed her grandest 
scenery and the marvels of ancient and 
modorn art; becamo familiar with other lan¬ 
guages, other customs, and othor institu¬ 
tions ; and returned homo after two years 
abscnco, willing now, with satisfied curiosi¬ 
ty, to resume life in America.” 
“ Rhymes of Travel,” was also written 
during this tour. On his return he first be¬ 
came connected with a country newspaper, 
and afterward went to New York to take 
the post of city Editor of the Tribune.’ — 
Mr. Stoddard says: 
“ Working on The Tribune in tho spring 
of 1849, he departed for California, where 
he remained eight or nine months, writing 
letters about men and things in tho gold 
regions. The result of his observations 
there was embodied in a couple of volumes, 
entitled, “ El Darado; or, Adventures in the 
Path of Empire,” and published in tho spring 
of 1850. This book was very successful, 
both in this country and England, where it 
was reprinted in cheap editions ; and also 
in Germany, where it was translated shortly 
after its appearance in America. On his re¬ 
turn to tho United States, Taylor resumed 
his desk and duties in The Tribune office 
where he remained till the summer o t 1851. 
But, in the mean time, a change came over 
the spirit of his dreamt; the “friend” of his 
early poem, the “ Lillian” of his Rhymes of 
Travel, died. Years before, they had be¬ 
trothed themselves in sincerity and truth ; 
it was their only wish in life to call each 
other by the endearing names of “ wife” and 
“husband,” two of tho sweetest and most 
holy words ever uttered on earth. For 
years the marriage was deferred, “ perhaps,” 
says Dr. Griswold, in an affectionato allu¬ 
sion to the circumstance, “ for the poet to 
make his way in the world; and when ho 
came back from California there was per¬ 
ceived another cause for deferring it—she 
was in ill health, and all that could be done 
for her was of no avail; and the suggestion 
came, the doubt, and finally tho terrible con¬ 
viction, that she had tho consumption and 
was dying. Ho watched her, suffering day 
by day, and when hopo was quite dead, that 
he might make little journeys with her, and 
minister to her gently as none could but 
one whose light came fron her eyes, he mar¬ 
ried her; while her sun was setting he placed 
his hand in hers, that ho might go with her 
down into tho night. There are not many 
such marriages ; there were never any holi¬ 
er since the Father of mankind looked up 
into the face of our mother. She lived a 
few days, a few weeks perhaps, and then he 
came back to his occupations, and it was 
never mentioned that there had been any 
such events in his life.” Could tho sanctity 
of private letters bo exposed to the public 
eye, his grief and manliness on tho occa¬ 
sion would shod a new lustre upon his charac¬ 
ter; but why alludo to those things? It is 
the old, sad story; the beloved have been 
dying, and the bereaved have been weeping 
for them, ever since time began. 
“ In the summer of 1851, feeling in need 
of relaxation from work, and finding his 
health gradually failing, Bayard Taylor de¬ 
parted for Europe again, intending, before 
returning, to explore the Mountains of the 
Moon, where the White Nile is supposed to 
have its source, to visit Ethiopia and Nine¬ 
veh. and the untraveled parts of Northern 
Africa generally.” 
His last letter from abroad is dated at 
Bombay, Jan. 1, 1853. He did not visit 
Ethiopia or Nineveh, but returned to Europe, 
and is now, we believe, on his way to Japan. 
Of the characteristics of Mr. Taylor’s 
writings, Mr. S. remarks a follows : 
“ The following sonnet wifi give a fair idea 
of Bayard Taylor’s general style. The read¬ 
er will notice the poet’s intense exultation 
in the thought of such scenes, and the feli¬ 
city and grandeur of his diction : 
THE MOUNTAINS. 
« o deep, exulting freedom of the hills 1 
O summits vast that to the climbing view, 
In naked glory stand against the blue! 
O cold and buoyant air, whose crystal fills 
Heaven’s amethystine bowl I O speeding streams 
That foam and thunder from the cliffs below I 
O slippery brinks, and solitudes of snow, 
And granite bleakness where the vulture screams 1 
O stormy pines that wrestle with the breath 
Of the young tempest, sharp and fcy horns. 
And hoary glaciers, sparkling in the morns. 
And broad, dim wonders of the world beneath 1 
I summon ye, and, mid the glare that fills 
The noisy mart, my spirit walks the hills I” 
“ Bayard Taylor’s prose is by many pre¬ 
ferred to his poetry : it is bare, concise, and 
direct—bare, almost barren, in its simplicity 
—almost wholly devoid of imagination, tho 
chief excellence of his verse. A greater 
contrast than exists between the two can 
hardly be imagined. If each could borrow 
the other’s strong points it would, perhaps, 
be bettor for both ; his poetry losing some 
of its gorgeousness, and his prose some of! 
its naked, sharp detail. In traveling, I 
should say that Bayard Taylor regards eve¬ 
rything in detail, with a view to tho putting 
it in description afterward. Ho seems to 
see everything, and to feel nothing. He 
presents a landscape, not as it appears to a 
poet, but"a practical man of tho world. If 
it gives him any feeling beyond that of form 
and color, ho does not give the feeling to 
us ; nay, what must he really have felt, to be 
able to describe it at all, is wanting; wo see 
nothing but the most obvious facts. Had he 
the glowing outline and the ripe sensation 
of “ Howadji ” Curtis, he would be perfect. 
“ What tho result of Bayard Taylor’s pres¬ 
ent tour will be, romains to bo seen. From 
the matured power of his last books, and 
our knowledge of the man, we predict some¬ 
thing unusually fine.” 
SHAM DIGNITY. 
Among the thousand deceptions passed off 
on our sham-ridden race, let me direct your 
attention to the deception of dignity, as it 
is one which includes many others. Among 
those terms which have long ceased to have 
any vital meaning, the word dignity deserves 
a disgraceful prominence. No word has 
fallen so readily as this into the designs of 
cant, imposture and pretence ; none has so 
well played the part of verbal scarecrow, to 
frighten children of all ages and both sexes. 
It is at once tho thinnest and most effective 
of all the converings under which duncedom 
sneaks and skulks. Most of the men of 
dignity, who awe or boro their more genial 
brethren, are simply men who possess the 
art of passing off their insensibilities for wis¬ 
dom, their dullness for depth ; and of con¬ 
cealing their imbecility of intellect under 
the haughtiness of manner. Their success 
in this small game is one of the stereotyped 
satires upon mankind. Once strip from 
these protondors their stolon garments— 
once disconnect their show of dignity from 
their real meanness—and they would stand 
shivering and defenceless, objects of the 
tears of pity, or targets for the arrows of 
scorn. But it is The misfortune of this 
world’s affairs, that offices, fitly occupied 
only by talent and genius, which despise 
pretence, should be filled by respectable 
stupidity and dignified emptiness, to whom 
pretence is tho very soul of life. Manner 
triumphs over matter, and throughout socie¬ 
ty, politics, letters and science, we are doom¬ 
ed to meet a swarm of dunces and wind¬ 
bags, disguised as gentleman, statesmen and 
scholars. Coleridge once saw at a dinner 
table, a dignified man, with a face as wiso 
as the moon’s. The awful charm was not 
broken until tho muffins appeared, and then 
the imp of gluttony forced from him the ex¬ 
clamation, “ them’s the jockey’s for mo!”— 
A good number of dignitarians remain un¬ 
discovered. 
It is curious to note how these pompous 
gentlemen rule in society and government. 
How often do history and tho newspapers 
exhibit to us the spectacle of a heavy-head¬ 
ed stupidarian in official station, veiling the 
strictest incompotency in the mysterious 
sublimity of carriage, solemnly trifling away 
the interests of tho State, the dupe of his 
own obstinate ignorance, and engaged year 
after year, in running people after the dig¬ 
nified fashion! You have all seen the in¬ 
scrutable dispensation known by the name 
of tho dignified gentleman; an embodied 
tediousness, which society is apt, not only 
to tolerate, but to worship ; a person who 
announces the commonplace of conversa¬ 
tion with the awful precision of one bring¬ 
ing down to the valleys of thought, bright 
truth plucked on its summit; who is pro¬ 
foundly solid on the weather, the last novel, 
or some other nothing of the day ; who is 
inexpressibly shocked if your eternal grati¬ 
tude does not repay him for the trite infor¬ 
mation he consumed hour after hour in im¬ 
parting ; and who, if you insinuate that his 
calm, contented, imperturbable, stupidity, 
is preying upon your patience, instantly 
stands upon his dignity, and puts on a face. 
Yet this man, with just enough knowledge 
“ to raise himself from the insignificance of 
a dunce, to the dignity of a bore,” is still in 
high favor, even with thoso whoso animation 
he checks and chills—why? Because he 
has, all say, so much of the dignity of a 
gentleman ! The poor, bright, good-natur- 
• ed man, who has done all in his power to be 
agreeable, joins in tho cry of praise, and 
feelingly regrets that nature has not adorn¬ 
ed him, too, with dullness as a robe, so that 
he, likewise, might freeze the volatile into 
respect, and bo held up as a model spoon 
for all dunces to imitate. This dignity, 
which so many view with reverential despair, 
must have twinned “ two at birth,” with that 
ursine vanity mentioned by Coleridgo, 
“ which keeps itself alive by sucking tho 
paws of its own self-importance,” Tho Duke 
of Somerset was one of these dignified gen¬ 
tlemen. His second wife was the most beau¬ 
tiful woman in England. She once sudden¬ 
ly threw her arms around his neck, and 
gave him a kiss that might have gladdened 
the heart of an emperor. Tho Duke lifting 
his shoulders with an aristocratic square, 
slowly said : “ Madam, my first wife was a 
Howard, and she never would have taken 
such a liberty.”— Whipple. 
If a person delights in telling you tho 
faults of others, be sure he intends to tell 
others your faults. 
Wholesome sentiment is rain, which 
makes the fields of daily life fresh and odor- 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
SONNET. 
BY W it. EDWARD KNOWLES. 
Friend of my early youth, we know the ties 
That bind thy spirit iiere to earth are strong, 
Yet thou the sorrows that to earth belong, 
Shalt change for happiness which never dies. 
Born for a higher sphere, thy praises rise, 
In anthem with thee, to the heav’nly throng; 
And sunset glory will weave here the guise, 
In which thy soul will leave this world of wrong. 
And though I mourn for thee, my friend, and weep. 
That thou wilt leave here for a higher bliss, 
Yet chide me not, for soon a wakeless sleep 
Will seal those eyes, as with an icy kiss.— 
Then wilt thou mount the ladder of thy faith, 
Whose golden rounds will bear thee o’er the gulf of death. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
CONSCIENCE. 
Webster defines conscience as “ internal 
or self-knowledge, or judgment of right and 
wrong; or the faculty which decides on the 
lawfulness or unlawfulness of our actions 
and affections, and instantly approves or 
condemns them.” Some suppose that the 
decisions of conscience aro always in favor 
of right and justice. But is it so ? Does 
the conscience of every enlightened man, 
even, act in favor of that which is right and 
which is just ? If so, the conscience of one 
individual would harmonize with that of his 
fellow, and there would be a unity in its de¬ 
cisions the world over. 
Rather, is not conscience of itself blind, 
or does it not act only as it is educated, or 
as the force of circumstances that surround 
it imperiously dictate? Thus, if A is taught 
from his infancy, that certain things or doc¬ 
trines aro right, and that certain others are 
wrong and will eventually insure our ruin, 
will not his conscience act in unison with 
his belief, instilled by thoso teachings ? If 
B bo taught to tho contrary, that what A 
believes is right is absolutely false and fa¬ 
tal, will not his conscientious scruples clash 
with those of A ? Assuredly they will, so 
long as they are sincere in their respective 
beliefs. Who can say that the Hindoo 
mother is not impelled by as conscientious 
principles to sacrifice her only child, in the 
wators of her holy Ganges, as is the Christ¬ 
ian mother, who rears her darling with all 
her maternal solicitude in the doctrines of 
the holy word of God ? 
This being so, wo must conclude that 
habits, education and tho influences that 
surround the individual, shape and control 
the development of the conscience of that 
individual, and though it may be a govering 
power, it is itself governed and can act 
only as it has been acted upon. If such be 
not the case, how aro we to account for its 
antagonistical developments that meet us 
at almost every turn. The conscience of a 
professed petty salesman, is not surely to 
bo compared to that of a virtuous judge, 
nor is that of a low pettifogger to be class¬ 
ed with that of a true divine. 
But the object of this little article is not 
to discuss tho question, but simply to throw 
out a few hints, that may possibly awaken 
the attention of some, and lead them to 
think how important is the mattor of rightly 
cultivating, not only the intellect of tho 
young, but their moral natures also, that 
they may bo directed into the right chan¬ 
nels, and their after lives prove them as 
worthy citizens of tho great world we live 
in, and which is also a state for tho proper 
preparation to meet tho realities of tho here¬ 
after. Creeds aro valueless, but truth, 
right, and justice, are all important. These 
may be learned from the good book, which 
is enough for tho guidance of all living—if 
it be divested of tho clashing creeds that 
wrest it to build up favorite ideas. 
Death is a mystery. Wo know that wo 
shall ere long close our eyes to all sublu¬ 
nary objects; but the time and manner of 
our death we cannot foresee. Here one 
falls in his full strength, while another has 
been languishing for years-. Tho aged are 
passed by, and the turf is upheapod for tho 
young and beautiful. One neighbor falleth 
by our side, just as we learned to appreciate 
bis worth. A friend sinks in our arms, as 
we take him to our bosom. Yot those in¬ 
stances of mortality fail to- leave suitable 
impressions on our minds. 
Wo follow our friends to tho grave, and 
turn anxious as over to ougago in tho busi¬ 
ness and turmoil of life. To-morrow we 
forget tho pleasant smile and cheerful voice, 
and put far away from our minds, tho tho’t 
of our own mortality. Thus we are blind¬ 
ed ; but little as we dwell upon it, the day 
approaches when our voices will be hushed, 
our eyes closed, and our lips rofuse to do 
their office. Blessed shall we be, if we live 
for another world, by cherishing right feel¬ 
ings of heart, and living void of offence to¬ 
wards God and man. 
The exercise of good affection is as ne¬ 
cessary to happiness as the exercise of body 
is to health. 
