MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY; NEWSPAPER. 
up and look in the hundredth time upon the tin 
cases of the weights, and th<j poor 1 >nejy pen¬ 
dulum, which goes to and fro by its little dim 
window, and never comes out in the world, and 
our petitions are all granted, and we are lifted 
up, and we all touch with a linger the wonder¬ 
ful weights, and the music of the little wheel is 
resumed. 
Was Alary Jo be married, or Jane to be wrap¬ 
ped in a shroud ? So meekly did She fold the 
white hands of the one upon her still bosom, 
that there seemed to be a prayer in them there ; 
and so sweetly did she wreath the white rose in 
the hair of the other, that one would not have 
wondered had more roses budded for company. 
How she stood between us and apprehended 
harm ; how the rudest of us softened beneath 
the gentle pressure of her faded and tremulous 
hand ! From her capacious pocket that hand 
was ever withdrawn closed, only to be opened 
in our own with the nuts she had gathered, the 
cherries she had plucked, the little egg she had 
found, the “turn-over” she had baked, the 
trinket she had purchased for us as the product 
of her spinning, the blessing she had stored for 
us—the offspring of her heart. 
What treasures of story fell from those old 
lips ; of good fairies and evil; of the old times 
when she was a girl; and we wondered if ever— 
but then she couldn’t be handsomer or dearer, 
but that she ever was “little.” And then, 
when we begged her to sing, “Sing us one of 
the good old songs you used to sing to mother, 
grand-ma.” 
“ Children, I can’t sing,” she always said ; 
and mother used to lay her knitting softly down, 
and the kitten stopped playing with the yarn 
upon the floor, and the clock licked lower in the 
corner, and the fire died down to a glow like 
an old heart that is neither chilled nor dead, 
and grand-mother sang. To be sure, it wouldn’t 
do for the parlor and the concert room now-a- 
days; but tlieu it was the old kitchen and the 
old-fashioned grand-mother and the old ballad, 
in the dear old times, and we can hardly see to 
write for the memory of them, though it is 
hand’s breadth to the sunset. 
Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and 
wavering, like a fountain just ready to fall, but' 
then how sweet-toned it was; and It became 
deeper and stronger, but it couldn’t grow sweet¬ 
er. What “joy of grief” it was to sit there 
around the fire, all of us except Jane; that 
clasped a prayer to her bosom, and her we 
winch actuate thine own. then as evening 
spreads her sable drapery over the beautiful 
earth, no mournful thoughts like those which 
oppressed the noble heart of the powerful Mon¬ 
arch, will cause you to turn sadly away from 
the bright scenes out-spread before you, all 
glowing with beauty and love. 
Baldwinsville, Micli, 1856. 
A OORRESI-ONOKNT of the Boston Transcript 
gives the following, account of an interesting in¬ 
terview he had. with Rogers, the great poet and 
banker, whose death recently occurred in Lon¬ 
don : 
I saw Rogers several times during the month 
of June, 1852. My earliest interview was at 
one of his famous breakfasts on the morning of 
the first day of that month. He was then past 
90, and wore at table a dark velvet cap which 
partly covered Ids magnificent head. * * * 
He then began to speak of old age, naming 63 
as the healthiest year of mental activity. At¬ 
tempting to repeat Young’s line— 
“ At thirty, man suspects himself a fool,” 
his memory failed him, and on my continuing 
the quotation, he smiled, and said, “Young 
America against Old England !” “ One of the 
most vivid pictures of my youth,” he said, 
“comes to me just now, and I will relate it. I 
was walking home one evening in the spring of 
’91, when I saw a crowd clustered about a door 
by the way-side. ‘ What is the occasion of this 
gathering T I said. * Gome in,’ replied a mid¬ 
dle aged woman at the door, ‘ and see.’ She led 
me into a room where several persons were 
standing about a bedside in tears. * YVliose 
CONDUCTED BY AZIDE. 
For Moore s Rural New-Yorker. 
SOLILOQUY OF THE YOUNG VOYAGER. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THOUGHTS OF AN ABSENT ONE. 
BY-KARL KASKO. 
•My little baric is gliding fast 
Adown the stream of Time, 
Its early course already past, 
I'm bound upon a journey vast, 
To a far distant clime, 
The Hills of morn, where rose tho Sun 
Of early childhood’s day, 
Are fading slowly, one by one, 
Yet never, as I’m gliding-on, 
May they pass quite away. 
Companions of but yesterday 
Pass, one by one, from me, 
Some, wrecked where rocks beset the way, 
Some, journeying still with me stay, 
Some, past the boundless sea. 
Hope’s pinnacles before my view, 
In softened sunlight, seem 
Traced faintly on a sky of blue, 
And tinged with the soft, mellow hue 
Of a sweet Orient dream. 
Yet still, a mist of darkness lies 
Across my future way, 
Save when a radiance from the skies 
Illuminates its mysteries 
With light from Heaven’s day. 
They tell me that the sea is near, 
I hear its sullen roar ; 
T feel a trembling hope and fear ; 
Fain would I pause a moment here, 
Before I pass the shore. 
But may I never on tho wave- 
Forget the Better Land ; 
May I Dot find a watery grave— 
Fa Tire ti! Thou hast the power to save, 
Preserve me by thy hand. 
I’m thinking of thee now, Abbie, 
Of the time when hist we met, 
The anguish of that parting hour 
I never can forget. 
Pm thinking of thee now, Abbie, 
In thy bright, New-England home— 
And dost thou think of me, Abbib, 
As far away I roam ! 
I'm thinking of the time, Abbie, 
When last I pressed thy hand, 
And the tears that filled thine eyes, Abbik, 
As I left my native land. 
Methinks I see thee still, Abbie, 
And hear thy voice so meek,— 
That last, fond kiss you gave, Ahbie, 
Is warm upon my cheek. 
Night’s shades are gathering fast, Abbie, 
And my thoughts are with thee still— 
Thy pi ace'with in my heart, Abbie, 
No other one can fill. 
I’m with thee in my dreams, Abbib, 
And thou art young and fair 
As when I saw thee first, Abbib, 
You well remember where. 
Those hours of bliss have flown, ABBtE, 
On time’s swift-fleeting wings— 
But oh 1 how dear to me, Abbib. 
The joys remembrance brings. 
That day, that happy day, Abbie, 
Oh I I remember now— 
Joys’ blossoms wore unsullied then, 
As those about thy brow. 
But hope, inspiring hope, Abide, 
Tells of a coming hour 
When thou, with wreaths of fadeless love, 
Shalt wait me in thy bower— 
When I shall press thy lips, Abbib, 
And blend my voice with thine, 
And hear thee say again, Abbib, 
Thou ever wilt be mine. Lucie. 
BOOKS AND PAPERS HAVE SOULS. 
Thinking, speaking, acting, influential. Pa¬ 
rents,, do you think of this, when you place a 
book or periodical on your centre table ? do you 
consider its influence for good or evil'? 
Every book, every paper, has a soul, breath¬ 
ing a spirit good or bad. It is the soul of its 
author, and when spread over the pages of the 
book, that soul acts upon its reader as truly as 
when acting directly. The person who touches 
the book comes in contact with that soul, and is, 
nolens volens, affected by it. And no contact 
with it is more influential. In reading an au¬ 
thor’s book you are conversing with him under 
circumstances very favorable to your becoming 
like him; for in the book everything is gene¬ 
rally deeply thought out, in shape to convince, 
or carefully dressed up in a manner to bewitch. 
And all this only indicates the necessity of 
reading with care and caution. 
Would you, when purchasing books 
papers 
for your children, have their minds contami¬ 
nated with vicious principles, let them read 
everything that pours forth, like a torrent, 
from the press of the day. Remember, while 
extolling the yaliie of the ,pi;ess, that it is as 
powerful for evil as it is great for good. 
Why should we be so careful in regard to the 
food with which our bodies are nourished, while 
we pay so little attention to the mental pabulum 
which our minds receive ? Remember, we can 
as easily plant the seeds of disease in the mind 
as in the body, and that disease implanted in 
the mind is very likely eradicated with more 
difficulty than from the body. 
A book or a paper exerts an influence, not 
only in time, but as eternity rolls on ! 0, how 
infinitely, momentousfy important that a wise, 
judicious, selection of reading be made for all. 
Written for-Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“DIEM PEKDIDI.’’ 
OUR OLD GRAND-MOTHER 
Upon an imperial throne, surrounded by all 
the gorgeous, magnificence which a powerful 
Umpire could command, reclined the royal 
Blessed be- the children who have an old- 
fashioned grand-mother. As they hope for 
length of days let them love and honor her, for 
we can tell them they will' never find another. 
The dear, old-fashioned grand-mother, whose 
thread of love, spun “ bv hand” on life’s little 
wheel, was longer and stronger than they make 
it now, was wouud about and about the chil¬ 
dren she saw playing in the children’s arms, in 
a true love knot that nothing hut the shears of 
Atropos could sever; for do we hot recognize 
the lambs sometimes, when summer days are 
over, and autumn winds are blowing, as they 
come bleating from the yellow fields, by the 
crimson thread we wound about their necks in 
April or May, and so undo the gate and let the 
wanderers in ? ’ 
There is a large old kitchen somewhere in 
the past, and an old-fashioned fire-place therein, 
with its smooth old jambs of stone ; smooth 
with many knives that had been sharpened 
there ; smooth with many . little fingers that 
that have clung there. There are andirons, too, 
the old andirons,With rings in the top, wherein 
many temples of flames have been builded, 
with spires and turrets of crimson. There is 
a broad worn hearth; broad enough for three 
generations to cluster on ; worn by feet that 
’have been torn and bleeding, by the way, or 
been made “ beautiful,” and walked upon floors 
of tressellated gold. There are tongs in the 
corner wherewith we grasped a coal, and “ blow¬ 
ing for a little life,” lighted our first candle ; 
there is a shovel, wherewith were drawn forth the 
glowing embers in which we saw our first fan¬ 
cies and dreamed our first dreams ; the shovel, 
with which wo stirred the sleepy'Togs till the 
sparks rushed up the chimney, as if a forge 
were in blast below, and wished we had so 
many lambs, or so many marbles ; or so many 
somethings that we coveted ; and so it was we 
wished our first wishes. 
-a low, rush-bottom chair ; 
mon¬ 
arch,—while strains of’vildering music gushed 
forth from unserin hands, and rose and fell in 
witching cadences upon the gentle undulations 
of the evening breeze. Above his highbrow- 
flashed the regal diadem,—in his hand rested 
the sceptre which Swayed a vast. end princely 
empire. Nobles, knights and courtiers bowed 
their pleased and willing homage, while high¬ 
born dames and beautiful ladies, nil glittering 
with costly gems and flashing jewels ; with lips 
of lov'f' anu eyes of light—-gaily, joyously flit¬ 
ted before him, then floated lightly away, 
adown the mazy dance, to be succeeded by 
others as bright and beautiful. But his ear lists 
not the sweet melody called forth by countless 
airy minstrels, nor the sweeter music which 
flows from young and happy hearts. 
What great, sorrow thus preys upon the mind 
of that powerful Monarch ? A shadow steals 
over his'handsome features, and turning sadly 
away from that dazzling pageant, the varied 
events of the day pass in quick review before 
him. This day, no human creature can bless 
him for, an added joy,—no.fresh store of knowl¬ 
edge, has he treasured up,— no gem of heart or 
intellect, laid upon the sacred altar of the soul! 
A deep, deep sigh swells' his troubled bosom, 
and from his great heart bursts forth this mourn¬ 
ful confession,— '‘Diem Pcrdidi," —I have lost 
A DAY ! 
And have wc no lost days 
ONE COMES NO MORE. 
s, or days far worse 
than lost, o’er which to lament '! None in 
which we vainly seek to trace some kind and 
generous deed,—some gem of intellect or useful¬ 
ness freshly inlaid amid tlie mind’s hoarded 
treasures ? As the evening shadows steal silent¬ 
ly over the waiting earth, comes there upon the 
gentle breeze, no questioning voice, whose tones 
will wring from our burdened hearts, an cvcr- 
mournful refrain, — “Diem Pcrdidi, — Diem 
Pcrdidi /” 
As individuals, s’o have not Nations as well, 
1 this sad requiem/echoing up from the graves of 
days departed, smiting their hearts, e’en in the 
zenith of their glory, with the dark mildew- 
bliglit Which heralds the foot-steps of the de¬ 
stroying pestilence ? If, in our halls of legisla¬ 
tion, as the last rays of the setting sun shimmer 
o’er the western wave,— each member should, 
like the noble Monarch, scrutinize his conduct 
as faithfully, and answer as truthfully, what 
think you, would that answer he ? 
Oh, the lost, lost days ! “ They knew their 
duty, yet they did it not!” And for this, ere 
our country’s sun-bath reached its highest noon, 
fear we not, a shadowy,.terror-blanching hand 
will steal silently out upon the walls of her 
proudly-boasted freedorii, and trace in charac¬ 
ters of livid light her fearful “mene, tekel /” 
YVe have somewhere read the theory, that 
every sound which has ever errianatrid from the 
vast Universe of worlds, still Continues and will 
ever continue to vibrate the air, throughout an 
endless riterhitiy. TO some bright seraph poised 
on shining whig above the swelling current, as 
it sweeps bn, 'forever on ; methinks, (should (he 
JoSt days have voice,) that high over all that 
’vvildefing Babel of con'fnsiori, in wildly echoing 
tones,Would be 1 heard the wailing cry,— “ Diem 
Pcrdidi)” 
Yet “look thou not mournfully into the past.” 
but rouse thee, in the proud strength of a God- 
gifted‘soul, and trace upon the brow of each 
There arc people who think it an easy mat- 
r to edit a newspaper 
there are men who 
think any limn of education can succeed in the 
profession. But the truth is, there are compar¬ 
atively few men who succeed in if,—and for 
the reason that they do not regard it as a pro¬ 
fession, requiring study aiid preparation. It is 
also a laborious profession, where pursued with 
industry sufficient to ensure success. The Lon¬ 
don Daily Post furnishes a paragraph which 
gives a great deal of truth in a few lines : 
A good editor, a competent newspaper con¬ 
ductor, is, like a general or a poet, born — not 
made. On the London Daily papers, all the 
great historians, novelists, poets, and writers of 
travels have been tried, and nearly all have 
failed. We might say all; for, after a display 
of brilliancy, brief, but grand, they died out, 
literally. Their resources were exhausted. “ I 
can,” said a late editor of the Times to Moore, 
‘'find any number of men of genius to write for 
me, but very seldom one of common sense.”— 
The “Thunderers” in the Times, therefore, 
, have so far. as we know beqn men of common 
sense. Nearly all successful editors have been 
men of tips description : Campbell, Carlyle, 
Buiwer,and D’lsraeli failed; Barnes, Sterling 
and .PhiRips succeeded. . A good editor.seldom 
writes fpi' his paper ; he reads, judges, selects, 
dictates, alters, and combines ; and -to do all. this, 
well, he has hut little tjme tor composition. To- 
write for a paper is one thing — to edit a paper.!, 
is another. 
around that mother’s chair, nor saw the shadows 
of the years to come. Oh ! the days that, are 
no more ! What spell can we weave to bring 
them back again ? What words unsay, what 
deeds undo, to set back, just this once, the an¬ 
cient clock of time ? 
So all our little hands were forever clinging 
to her garments and staying her, as if from dy¬ 
ing, for long ago she had done living for herself, 
and lived alone in us. But the old kitchen 
wants a presence to-day, and the rush-bottomed 
chair is tenantless. 
How she used to welcome us when we were 
grown, and came back once more to the home¬ 
stead. 
YYe thought we were men and women, but we 
Were children there. The Old-fashioned grand¬ 
mother was blind in the eyes, hut she saw with 
her heart, as she always did. We threw our 
long shadows through the door, and she felt 
them as they fell over her form, and she looked 
dimly up,and saw tall shapes in the door-way, 
arid she says, “Edward 1 know, and Lucy’s 
yOice I can hear, hut who iri the other ? It must 
he Jane’s,” for she had almost forgotten the 
folded hands. “ Oh, no, not Jane, for she—let 
riie see—she is waiting for me, isn’t, she ?” and 
the old grand-mother wandered and wept. 
“It is another darighter, grand-mother,that 
Edward has brought,” says some one; “for your 
blessing.” 
“ Has she blue eyes, my son V Put her hand 
inj mine, for she is my latest born, the child of 
my old age. Shall I singyona song, children ?” 
Her baud is in her pocket as of :o)d; site is idly 
fumbling for a toy, a welcome gift for the chil- 
dren that,have cqme. agMriv 
One of us. men-as we thought we were, is 
weeping;'she hears the half-suppressed sob; 
she lays: 
“ Here, my poor child, rest, upon your grand¬ 
mother’s shoulder; she will protect you from all 
The Independent, in an article on the physi¬ 
cal degeneracy of the American people, has the 
following true and important remark ; 
“ The child’s will governs too much. If they 
do not choose to go to bed, they sit up; if they 
choose certain articles of food they must have 
them—parents forgetting that instinct is no safe 
guide in a child, if it. is in an animal. So we 
see them, with t-lieir delicate organizations, 
keeping late hours, when they should go to bed 
with the birds; sleeping often iri Warm and 
lighted rooms, when the sleepingiroom should 
be cool and dark; and eating hot bread and 
cakes, sweetmeats, cake, meat and vegetables, 
pastry and puddings; drinking tea and coffee, 
to the infinite detriment of stomach and nerves. 
Tlio injury thus early done can liever be re¬ 
paired ; as a machine imperfectly constructed 
in the beginning can never be made to run 
faultlessly.” 
This is the secret. Parqntssliould knowthat 
“ instinct is no safe guide to a child," particularly 
when a elrild is surrounded on all sides with 
poisonous delicacies. To ask a-child, seated at 
a modern table, what it Will have,' and to give 
it what, it asks for, merely kecauso.it asks for it-, 
is a very common practice. But it is ’as cruel 
as it is common. Have mercy upon the chil¬ 
dren ! 
There is a chair 
there is a little wheel in the-corner, a big wheel 
in the garret, a loom in the chamber. There 
are chests full of linen and yarn, and quilts of 
rare pattern, and “ samplers” in frames. 
And everywhere and always, the clear old 
wrinkled face of her whose .firm, elastic step 
mocks the feeble saunter of her .children's cli.il- 
dren—the old-fashipnedgrand-mother of twenty 
years ago. She, the very Providence of the old 
homestead ; she, who loved us all, and said she 
wished there were more of us To love, and took 
all the school in the Hollow for grand-children 
. beside. A great expansive keai;t was hers, be¬ 
neath that woolen gown, or'that more stately 
bombazine, or that sole heirloom of silken tex¬ 
ture. 
We can see her to-day, those mild blue eyes, 
with more of beauty in them .than Time could 
touch or Death do more than hide—those eyes 
that held both smiles and tearsVitkin the faint¬ 
est call of every one of usj arid soft reproof, that 
seemed not passion hut "regret. A white tress 
has escaped from beneath her snowy cap ; she 
has just restored a wandering,'Iamb to its moth¬ 
er ; sho lengthened the tether of a vine that 
was straying oyer a window, as she came in, 
and plucked a four-leaved clover for Ellen.— 
She sits do.wn by the little, wheel—a tress is 
running through her fingers from the distaff’s 
dishevelled head, when a small voice cries 
\“ Grand-ma” from the ql/l. red cradle, apd 
“ Grand-ma 1” Tommy shouts from the top of the 
stairs. Gently she lets, go the thread, for her 
patience.is almost as, beautiful’ as her charity, 
and she touches the iitde Led’, bark a moment 
dill the young voyager is in a‘dream again, and 
then directs Tommy’s unavailing attempts, to 
harness the cat. The tick otothe clock runs 
faint and low, and she opens the mysterious 
door and proceeds .to wind it*up. We are all 
:on tip-top, and we beg in a breatkto be lifted 
True Politeness. —The love and admiration o 
which;Sydney Smith, that truly brave and lov- i 
Log. nian, won, from every one, rich or poor, with 
whom be came in .contact; seems to have arisen 
front the one fact that, without perhaps havingi 
any- s,rich conscious intention, he treated rich 
pud poor,.his own servants and tho noblemeii 
his guests, .alike, n nd alike courteously,*consider¬ 
ately, cheerfully, affectionately—sc leaving a bless¬ 
ing.and reaping a blessing wheresoever he went. 
CuHDROop.—ChildliQOd is. like a mirror, 
catckirig and reflecting images from all around 
it. Remember, that- an impious or prolime 
thought, uttered by-a parent’s lips, Duty operate 
on the young heart like a careless spray of 
water thrown npon polished steel, staining it I 
with rust which no after seouring can efface. 
Never take into yopr confidence, or admit, 
often into yui}!'. company, any man who does 
not know, on. some important subject,, more than 
you do v Be his rank, be his .virtues, whpt.they. 
may, he will be a hindrance, to your, pursuits, 
and an obstruction to your greatimss. 
Gratitude in the generality, of men, is only a 
,8,lrong and secret desire of receiving greater 
/favors ; the reason, ipen generally aie supremely 
