} 
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80 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-TORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
MARCH 8. 
ikUes’ Icct- folifl. 
CONDUCTED BY AZIDE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
POMPOSITY. 
A DOVE MELODY. 
BY JOHN CRITCIILEY PRINCE. 
In the morning of life )4 when our feelings are new 
And our pathway is pleasant with sunshine and dew ; 
When many-toned music pervadeth the air, 
And the commonest thing that we look on is fair, 
How sweet the first passion, that prompts us to stay 
With one who adds beauty to beautiful May 1 
While a voice seems to steal through the shade of the 
bowers, 
Singing, “ Love is the odor of heavenly flowers.” 
When wedded, and home groweth bright with the bride, 
An angel to walk through the world by our side,— 
When day after day we’re enraptured to find 
New graces of manner, new treasures of mind,— 
Calm temper, clear foresight, disdain of all guile,— 
For the mournful a tear, for the mirthful a smile,— 
How deeply we feel, when such blessing is ours, 
That “ Love is the odor of heavenly flowers.” 
And, ah! when the fond name of father we hear, 
From young lips and voices, all rosy and clear,— 
When the multiplied charms of the mother are seen 
In the cherub-like feature, the infantile mien,— 
A fountain of joy, undiscovered before, 
Opens up in the heart, and runs tenderly o’er; 
While expand in the soul fresh affections and powers,— 
Such “ Love is the odor of heavenly flowers.” 
Unto household and kindred, to friend and to man, 
If we give all the love that we ought—that we can, 
We lose not, we lack not,—such giving is gain, 
As the earth gets her own exhalations in rain. 
Kind words and good offices go to increase, 
Come back to us sweetly, and bless us with peace ; 
Let us foster the faith, in this rough world of ours, 
That “ Love is the odor of heavenly flowers.” 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SMILES. 
> 
Kind, loving smiles are beautiful flowers, 
strewed by gentle hands beside life’s pathway 
cheering and gladdening the heart of the weary 
pilgrim, as with faltering step he treads the 
thorny, rugged way. Blest messengers of love 
are they, and eloquent, though mute, the lan¬ 
guage they speak, for they tell of faith, hope, 
and love ; they speak of the good, the true, and 
beautiful, and whisper of the future, by dim 
foreshadowings of good, that even as they are 
bright and fair, so will be the days to come. 
Sweet flowers, more beauteous than aught else 
of earthly mold, they breathe forth ambrosial 
fragrance — a healing balm to the aching heart 
—an incense accepted by Deity. Then why 
do we not strew them with a liberal hand be¬ 
side the lone, drear paths of earth’s sorrowing 
ones ? 
Think you that smiles are trifles of little 
worth ? What is life even, but the sum of 
trifles ? Moments make the year, and each 
passing one is the scene of a little deed, all of 
which together form the character and destiny 
of man. Nothing comes to naught. Each word, 
each act, hath a power for good or ill, and, 
unknowingly perhaps, we oft-times create im¬ 
pressions which may influence a life-time.— 
Such are smiles, for often 
“ Oh wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursel’s as ithers see us, 
It would fra many a folly free us 
And foolish notion.” 
Verily, this is the predicted time when men 
and women —your pardon, ladies and gentlemen 
—“ shall arise, speaking great, swelling words 
of vanity.” How lavishly some of our students 
use language quite unintelligible to “the old 
folks at home.” They always remind me of 
“ Charlie Chestnut’s ” inquiry in the Rural, 
“What about Ha’vard ?” Surely parents are 
amply repaid for “educating” children, when 
they return such prodigies ! perfect walking 
dictionaries ! Every town should possess a few, 
just for the honor of the thing. If “ Webster’s 
Unabridged” were only a, pocket companion, we 
might obtain some knowledge from those whose 
superior advantages should qualify them to im¬ 
part it. But, alas ! the volume is too weighty, 
and we must be content to remain ignorant of 
the eloquent (?) ideas,so elaborately clothed in 
terms beyond our comprehension. Besides, 
many of the words are technical ones, for which 
Webster makes no provision. 
A mother consults an M. D. about the health 
of a loved one, and is told,—“Your daughter 
evinces some symptoms of phthispuimonalis, yet 
1 arrive at this diagnosis : there is evident hepa¬ 
tic affection, with concomitant irritation of the 
medulla oblongata, and spinallis." True no infor¬ 
mation is gained from this tirade as to the dan¬ 
ger of the patient; but, from the long catalogue, 
the worst is feared. Yet ‘of infinitely more 
value, she is impressed with the knowledge of 
M. D., and awed by the mystery surrounding 
the “ profession.” A thousand pities profes¬ 
sional books are so expensive ! 
It is just now quite the rage to intersperse 
literary productions with other languages. “The 
cream of the joke,” the point of the wit, all that 
is emphatic, is rendered “ Greek ” to the ordi¬ 
nary reader, and thus the very best ideas lost. 
To illustrate, speaking of a political convention : 
“ The modus operandi of the former meeting was 
read in ioto; some radical points discussed; 
Senator B. made some apropos remarks, after 
which, as some ennui was manifest, finis fandi 
adjourning sine die. Now, our fathers’ “old- 
school” gentlemen are those most interested in 
these reports, and to most of them it gives little 
if any information. May the day hasten when 
ON MYSELF. 
This only grant me, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high, 
Some honor I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
The unknown are better than ill-known ; 
Rumor can ope the grave. 
Acquaintances I would have, but then it depends 
Not on number, but the choice of friends. 
Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
And sleep, and undisturbed as death, the night, 
My house a cottage more 
Than palace ; and should fitting be 
For all my use, not luxury. 
My garden painted o’er 
With Nature’s hand, not Arts, and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 
Thus would I double my life’s fading space ; 
For he that runs it well, twice runs its race ; 
And in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish my fate ; 
But boldly say each night, 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display, 
Or in clouds hide them : I have lived to-day. 
[ Coicley, 1610. 
FAMILIAR EPISTLES.—NO. IV, 
it will be fashionable to speak plain English— 
(that is a common phrase, forgive it.) I admit 
it must be delightful thus to display superior 
erudition, O Linguist, yet forbear for the benefit 
of poor ignorant mortals like Eola. 
Camillus, N. Y., 1856. 
THE MOTHER AND THE WIDOW. 
“A kindly smile hath won a heart 
A look of scorn hath led to hate.” 
t. 
1 ? 
And who would not rather win hearts, than 
gold, fame, or aught else earthly ? 
What is gold? It is but dross compared with 
the heart’s untold wealth. It cannot heal the 
broken spirit. It cannot soothe those sorrows 
which the heart alone can feel. What is fame? 
It is an idle, unmeaning name. Its sound 
brings no joy to the heart, like the gentle ac¬ 
cents of the voice of love. Yet a little while, 
and even the echo of that name will be lost in 
the “ halls of the past.” In this changing world, 
heart treasures alone are priceless and imper¬ 
ishable, even as the heart itself. Then should 
we gather them with untiring effort, and watch 
and guard them well, that we may be rich in 
treasures, which even the Death Angel cannot 
take from us. 
Parent, teacher, hast thou ever thought, that, 
perchance, one encouraging smile, opportunely 
given, may seal the destiny of those youthful 
minds committed to thy care ; may give an in¬ 
centive to action, which shall develop the la¬ 
tent energies of those minds, whose early dawn- 
ings give promise of a bright and glorious noon¬ 
day in the future ? Be wary then — tenderly, 
cherish those sensitive plants, and bend not the 
twig too quickly, lest it break, and carelessly 
perhaps, thou hast crushed the life and light 
from a warm young heart, leaving there only 
darkness and despair. 
Gentle reader, a smile—“’tis a little thing 
dropped in the heart’s deep well;” yet thou 
canst not tell its results ; it may perchance stir 
the fountains of hope and love, so long choked 
by disappointment and sorrow, and cause them 
to flow forth afresh, making glad the dreary 
waste of a desolate heart. Then ne’er withhold 
a smile from its mission of mercy to the suffer¬ 
ing and sorrowing, for it nothing costs; and 
willingly, cheerfully given, it may win for thee 
a place in that golden line with the cup of cold 
water, and thy reward shall be in Heaven. 
Rush, N. Y. Viola. 
There is one fashion that never changes.— 
The sparkling eye, the coral lip, the rose-leaf 
blushing on the cheek, the rounded form, the 
elastic step, are always in fashion. Health, 
rosy, bounding, gladsome health, is never out 
of fashion; and what pilgrimages are made, 
what prayers are uttered for its possession I fail¬ 
ing in the pursuit, what treasures are lavished 
in concealing its loss or counterfeiting its 
charms !— Milliners' Guide. 
The following well portrayed picture we take 
from a religious paper. If there is any situa¬ 
tion which deserves sympathy and demands re¬ 
spect, it is that of the mother left by the loss of 
her husband, her earthly stay and support, to 1 
buffet the elements of adverse fortune alone : 
“ We are slow to acknowledge any womanly 
character, living or dead, as superior to that of 
the good mother —such as we find her in all our 
communities. She is perhaps called to no sin¬ 
gle great act of devotedness—but her whole life 
is a sacrifice for the good of others. How she 
works to bring up her children. No labor is too 
hard. She denies herself every comfort to give 
them an education. She would part with her 
own heart’s blood to make them happy. 
This devotedness becomes more remarkable 
when, by the death of the father, the mother 
is left alone to struggle on through life. — 
If we were to set out to explore this city, 
we should find many a poor widow, with 
five or six little children dependent upon 
her, struggling for their support with a pa¬ 
tience and courage truly heroic. With no 
friends to help her, and no means of support 
but her needle, she undertakes to provide for 
her little family. She makes her home in an 
attic, and there she sits and struggles with pov¬ 
erty. No one comes too see her. She hears on¬ 
ly the cry of those hungry little mouths, which 
call to her for bread. An. 1 there she toils all 
day long, and often half the night, that they 
may not want. And yet she does not complain. 
If only her strength holds out, and her efforts 
are successful, her mother’s heart is satisfied 
and grateful.” 
^ -—— 
CREATURES OF IMITATION. 
t 
Reproof should not exhaust its power upon 
petty failings; let it watch diligently against 
the incursions of vice, and leave foppery and 
futility to die of themselves. 
For many years I have been an interested 
observer of children, in all their various phases 
—in the home—the church—the school—the 
street—and have been powerfully impressed 
with the extraordinary influence possessed over 
them by the mother—not that it is always ben¬ 
eficial—far from it—but that it is positive for 
good or evil. Her temper and manners are im¬ 
itated—her principles and whims are uncon¬ 
sciously inculcated. I have known instances 
where the father was a safer model, where his 
affection for his children and anxiety for their 
welfare were the stronger, yet he had not the 
magic power over them that the mother had ; 
they might obey him better, would trust in his 
veracity, could love him—yet not with the sweet 
id olatry of soul that seems to be instinctive.— 
Children are quick to detect flaws in character, 
even in their mother, and while they object and 
find fault with certain unloveable peculiarities, 
they will still imitate them ! 
This is the strong motive for mothers to be 
peculiarly careful of their example, for it seems 
stronger than precept; and to guard every word 
and action, that it may be safely reflected to 
posterity.— Mother's Journal. 
Knowledge will soon become folly, when 
good sense ceases to be its guardian. 
FARMERS’ “ YOUNG- DADIES,” AGAIN. 
Snowburg, March, 1856. 
Dear Rural :—I made your readers a prom¬ 
ise of something highly “practical,” because 
when I closed my last letter, grand-father was 
looking very august and oracular. His eyes 
were snapping prophetically under their grey 
brows, and his face was red with glowing inspi¬ 
ration. When he should open his mouth, I 
knew nothing short of oracles could come out. 
I got ready to take notes, and bethought me if 
I knew anything of stenography. I debated 
whether the piece should go for a letter to the 
“ Rural,” or as a Treatise on Domestic Econo¬ 
my. Grand-father’s staff was rising gradually 
on high, and I calculated for a burst of eloquence 
co-instant with its reaching the ceiling. But it 
suddenly came down with a stout, argumenta¬ 
tive jab upon the floor—“you want to be whit¬ 
tled down to practical things.” Saying this he 
sat down in his arm chair, and took out his 
pocket knife. But it was a pine stick, not my¬ 
self, that he went to “whittling down”—into 
what seemed an impractical toothpick. Grand¬ 
father whittled moderately, chewed slowly on 
a shaving, and spoke very slowly and advised¬ 
ly, as though he weighed each word with a pair 
of steelyards. 
“ People,” he began “used to name their gals 
Patience, Perseverance, Piety, Goodworks, and 
such good names; and they used to train them 
up to these virtues too, so they would desarve 
their name.” A fine way now-a-days, thought 
I; but how long before it would be Miss Patie, 
Miss Persie, etc., and they as patient and per¬ 
severing as June butterflies ! “ Folks,” he con¬ 
tinued, “ in them days considered a young wo¬ 
man by what she could do, what of a manager 
she was, and how smart she could do up a day’s 
work. Now-days the delicate young ladies are 
ashamed of a hard, red hand, and hang out a 
pair of little white paddies as a badge of no¬ 
bility. They ain’t half so scrumptious about 
keeping their teeth white, for they eat things 
that they wouldn’t prepare, nor cook with their 
fingers.” “ What an old bigot you are, grand¬ 
father,” I was tempted to say ; but I didn’t, for 
I had not the statistics to disprove his assertion. 
To be sure, I’ve often heard it remarked that 
our modern girls are frequently seen at work 
upon their own under-sleeves, muslins, (fee., but 
never are found making a shirt, patching a pair 
of trowsers, mending a grain sack, or any such 
little job, indispensable iu a farmer’s household. 
I am happy to say I have found three instances 
of farmers’ daughters doing such jobs, and still 
retain a good degree of respectability. 
Grand-father proceeded. “Young farmers 
used to marry early, and a wife was as good as 
a host of capital; but now getting married is a 
very risky speculation. In these days a man 
has to ‘ support’ a wife, and naturally hangs off 
till he’s old enough to be a grand-father, and 
then picks for the cheapest and cleverest one he 
can find. It is only by good luck you came by 
your wife.” Now, I’ll explain, Mr. Ed. I ac¬ 
cidentally caught Martha milking a cow for her 
young brother. “She shall be mine,” I vowed, 
and you know I succeeded, (keep this private 
as you can—tell you exchanges to “please not 
copy.”) “ I’d give a continental,” grand-father 
went on to say, “to see a gal sixteen year old 
mopping the floor, cleaning the cookstove, try¬ 
ing lard, or knitting her father a pair of woolen 
stockings. Dear-a-me, in my day a young wo¬ 
man was brought up to work as much as a boy. 
We used to think ’twas jest as necessary for ’em 
to know how to git used to work by reg’lar 
practice, and be edicated for a farmer’s wife, as 
’twas for a boy to learn how to mow and plow 
and chop and be a farmer. But now-days 
when a gal gits to be about ’leven year old she 
is set as a beau-trap, and baited all over with 
ribbins and ’broidery. They don’t none of ’em 
’spect to be farmers’ drudges, but try to catch a 
parcel of city dry goods clerks. It looks to be 
so, at any rate. But they aint near so bad after 
all. Thar is a good many nice, sensible gals in 
the country yet, but they must do the way the 
rest does. They see how foolish the fashionable 
be, but they dasent go beyond their halter. But 
my ! what their mothers will have to answer 
for. They let ’em go on ignorant of everything 
useful, with no good habits of managing, and 
economizing, and cooking, and washing, and 
making butter and cheese, and cleaning up 
house. Then they git married, and what a Ba¬ 
bel of a house they do have ! Everything goes 
bad, and they git worn down and lose their 
sperits ; and all because their mothers are so 
afraid they shall teach ’em how to be useful and 
happy.” 
Grand-father ceased speaking, but his face 
gradually brightened up — perhaps he was 
thinking of his own first housekeeping, in the 
old log house, existing now only in his memory. 
We shall not call him up again to discourse on 
modern usages. What he says may be true, but 
I don’t like to hear it myself. Joval. 
PERSONALITIES OP LITERATI. 
Douglas Jerrold, a well known contributor 
to Punch, and editor of various publications, is 
a man about fifty years of age, and in person is 
remarkably spare and diminutive. His face is 
sharp, angular, and his eye of a greyish hue.— 
He is probably one of the most caustic writers 
of the age, and, with keen sensibility, he often 
writes, under the impulse of the moment, arti¬ 
cles which his cooler judgment condemns. Al¬ 
though a believer in hydropathy, his habits do 
not conform to the internal application of Ad¬ 
am’s ale. His Caudle Lectures have been read 
by every one. In conversation he is quick at 
retort—not always refined. He is a husband 
and grand-father. 
MACAULAY. 
The Hon. T. B. Macaulay is short in stature, 
round, and with a growing tendency to alder- 
manic disproportions. His head has the same 
rotundity as his body, and seems stuck on it as 
firmly as a pin head. This is nearly the sum 
of his personal defects, all else, except the 
voice, (which is monotonous and disagreeable,) 
is certainly in his favor. His face seems lite¬ 
rally instinct with expression ; his eyes, above 
all, full of deep thought and meaning. As he 
walks, or rather struggles, along the street, he 
seems in a state of total abstraction, unmindful 
of all that is going on around him, and solely 
occupied with his own working mind. You 
cannot help thinking that literature with him 
is not a mere profession or pursuit, but that it 
has almost grown a part of himself, as though 
historical problems or analytical criticisms were 
a part of his daily food. 
bailey. 
A correspondent of the Tribune, writing from 
Nottingham, England, says: “I have seen 
Bailey, the author of ‘ Festus.’ His father is 
proprietor of the Nottingham Mercury, and the 
editorial department rests with him. He is a 
thick-set sort of a man ; of a stature below the 
middle size; complexion dark, and in years 
about eight and thirty. His physiognomy 
would be clownish in expression, if his eye did 
not redeem his other features. He spoke of 
* Festus,’ and of its fame in America, of which 
he seems very proud. In England it has only 
reached its third edition, whilst eight or nine 
have been published in the United States.” 
DE QUINCEY. 
He is one of the smallest legged, smallest 
bodied, and most attenuated effigies of the hu¬ 
man form divine that one could find in a crowd¬ 
ed city during a day’s walk. And if one adds 
to this figure clothes that are neither fashiona¬ 
bly cut nor fastidiously adjusted, he will have 
a tolerably rough idea of De Quincey. But 
then his brow, that pushes his obtrusive hat to 
the back part of his head, and his light grey 
eyes, that do not seem to look out, but to be 
turned inward, sounding the depths of his im¬ 
agination, and searching out the mysteries of the 
most abtruse logic, are something that you 
would search a week to find the mates to, and 
then you would be disappointed. De Quincey 
now resides at Lass wade, a romantic rural vil¬ 
lage, once the residence of Sir Walter Scott, 
about seven miles from Edinburg, Scotland, 
where an affectionate daughter watches over 
him, and where he is the wonder of the country 
people for miles around. 
LAMARTINE. 
Lamartine is,—yes, young ladies, positively 
—a prim looking man with a long face, short, 
grey hair, a slender figure, and a suit of black. 
Put a pen behind his ear, and he would look 
like a “ confidential clerk.” Give his face more 
character and he would remind you of Henry 
Clay. He has a fine head, phrenologically 
speaking—large and round at the top, with a 
spacious forehead, and a scant allotment of 
cheek. Prim is the word, though. There is 
nothing in his appearance, which is ever so re¬ 
motely suggestive of the romantic. He is not 
even pale, and as for a rolling shirt collar, or a 
Byronic tie, he is evidently not the man to think 
of such things. Romance, in fact, is the article 
he lives by, and, like other men, he chooses to 
“sink the shop,” at least when he sits for his 
portrait. 
DUMAS, 
On the contrary, is a burly fellow. His large 
red, round cheeks stand out, till they seem to 
stretch the very skin that covers them, and it 
looks as smooth as a polished apple. His black 
crisped hair is piled high above his head, and 
stands divided into two unequal masses, one in¬ 
clining to the right and the other to the left.— 
His eyes are dark, and his mouth sensuous, but 
not to the degree of vulgarity. His person is 
large, and his flowing mantle is red. He is a 
gentleman to lay bare his throat and look ro¬ 
mantic, not Byronically so, but piratically.— 
Yet be looks good humored, and like a man 
whose physical enjoyment is boundless. His 
negro blood is evident enough to one who 
knows he has it; but it would not be detected 
by one who knew it not. It appears in the pe¬ 
culiar rotundity of the man and all his parts; it 
crisped and heaped his hair ; it made him dress 
up in flowing red, to have his portrait taken.— 
But his complexion is only a shade darker than 
the average. The portrait reminds us for a mo¬ 
ment of the late Thomas Hamblin, the actor.— 
Selected. 
KIND WORDS. 
Kind words cost but little. Any one but a 
confirmed cynic ought to be able to dispense 
them at pleasure. They make nobody the 
poorer. Like the widow’s cruise, the stock need 
not be exhausted even by constant using—vea, 
better than the widow’s cruise, the stock in¬ 
creases the more it is drawn from the fountain. 
A kind heart, which is the only true source of 
kind words, is a perennial stream. No winter’s 
cold can freeze it,no summer’s drouth can dry 
it up. Through all seasons it pours out its life- 
giving flood, making glad and green whatever 
it touches, gurgling and eddying round with 
inward joy because of its offices of love. 
One would think that kind words, diffusing 
gladness, as they do, through the hearts of both 
donors and receivers, would be the common cur¬ 
rency in life’s intercourse. Even the employer, 
who has hundreds at his beck and call, might 
afford to lay aside his Oriental majesty, suffi¬ 
cient to speak to his underlings a word of recog¬ 
nition ; journeymen and apprentices would not 
render themselves menials and abjects by put¬ 
ting off their reserved-rights attitude, so as to 
speak to their employer with deference and re¬ 
spect ; clerks and salesmen need not consider 
dumb solemnity or waspish rudeness essential 
to their calling; and last, but not least, their 
high-mightinesses, steamboat and hotel clerks, 
and railroad conductors, might, perhaps, occa¬ 
sionally, without too much condescension, afford 
to give a civil answer. 
We are a great people in this country, cer¬ 
tainly. Everybody is so oppressed with a con¬ 
sciousness of his inherent dignity, that he fears 
to compromise it by the exercise of common 
courtesy. 
“ A little word in kindness spoken, 
A motion or a tear, 
Has often healed the heart that’s broken 
And made a friend sincere.” 
HOW TO REACH THE HEART. 
We have found throughout a not very long 
career, but very extended experience, that kind¬ 
ness is the surest way to reach the human 
heart, and that harshness is a northern, frost¬ 
laden blast, hardening a current that should 
flow as merrily as a brook in spring. Kindness 
makes sunshine wherever it goes—it finds its 
way into the hidden chamber of the heart and 
brings forth treasures of gold ; harshness, on the 
contrary, seals them up forever. What does 
kindness do at home ? It makes the lullaby 
sweeter than the song of the lark, the care-la¬ 
den brows of the father and the man of busi¬ 
ness less severe in their expression, and the 
children joyous without being riotous. Abroad, 
it assists the fallen, encourages the virtuous, and 
looks with true charity on the extremely un¬ 
fortunate—those in the broad way, who per¬ 
haps had never been taught that the narrow 
one was the best, or had turned from it at the 
solicitation of temptation. Kindness is the 
real law of life, the link that connects earth 
with Heaven, the true philosopher’s stone, for 
all if touches it turns to virgin gold—the true 
gold wherewith we purchase contentment, peace 
and love.— Exchange. 
DOVE FOR THE DEAD. 
The love that survives the tomb, says Irving, 
is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If 
it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and 
when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed 
into the gentle tear of recollection, then the 
sudden anguish and convulsed agony over the 
present ruins of all that we most loved are soft¬ 
ened away into pensive meditation on all that 
was in the day of its loveliness. Who would 
not root sorrow from the heart, though it may 
sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright 
hour of gaycty, or spread a deeper sadness over 
the hour of gloom ; yet who would exchange it 
for even the song of pleasure or the burst of rev¬ 
elry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb 
sweeter than song ; there is a remembrance of 
the dead to which we turn even from the charm 
of the living. 
Love and Law in Turkey.—A young man 
desperately in love with a girl at Stanclio 
eagerly sought to marry her, but his proposals 
were rejected. In consequence of his disap¬ 
pointment, he bought some poison and destroy¬ 
ed himself. The Turkish jiolice instantly ar¬ 
rested the father of the young woman as the 
cause, by implication, of the young man’s 
death, under the fifth species of homicide ; he 
became, therefore, amenable for the act of sui¬ 
cide. When the case came before the magis¬ 
trate, it was urged literally by the accusers that 
if he, the accused, had not a daughter, the de¬ 
ceased would not have been disappointed and 
died. Upon all these counts he was mulcted to 
pay the price of the young man’s life, which 
was fixed at eighty piastres, and was according¬ 
ly exacted .—Household Words. 
We are what we are in private. 
If anybody ever saw a grist-mill, he can see 
it again in the following fragment from Tenny¬ 
son : 
I love the brimming waves that swam 
Through quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 
The pool beneath it nearer still, 
The meal-sacks on the whitened floor, 
The dark round of the dripping wheel, 
The very air about the door 
Made misty by the floating meal. 
Trumpeters. —There are three sorts :— 1 st, 
The impudent man, who blows his own trum¬ 
pet. 2 d. The clever man, who gets the trumpet 
generally blown for him ; and 3d. The really 
clever man, who will see all the tinmpets blown 
first, before he will stoop to any such trumpery 
expedients. 
V 
J 
