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104 
MOOSE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND. FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
MARCH 29. 
ftoMejs’ ||flrt-ffllia. 
CONDUCTED BY AZIDE. 
For Moore s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE WANDERER’S RETURN. 
I’m very sad to-night, Mother, 
I’m very sad and lone, 
The earth no more looks bright, Mother, 
My fondest hopes are flown, 
And I have come, with aching brow, 
And wildly throbbing heart, 
Once more beside your knee to bow, 
Oh ! bid me not depart! 
I left you long ago, Mother, 
To chase the bubble Fame, 
I did not think how false its glow, 
How empty was its name ; 
And ever as I sought to twine 
Its laurels round my brow, 
Before ambition’s dazzling shrine, 
With reverence to bow, 
I found a thorn with every rose, 
And poison with its breath, 
And where I thought to fipd repose, 
I found the sting of Death; 
I flung the Laurel-wreath aside, 
For Love my bosom thrilled, 
Ah ! then metliought this aching void 
Will evermore be filled. 
But I have found that Love's pure ray 
Is but a meteor’s gleam, 
’Twill soon in darkness fade away, 
“ Things are not as they seem.” 
There breathed from out the shadowy past 
A voice which seemed to say— 
There is a love which still will last 
When other loves decay ; 
And to that beacon star I turned 
My eager, earnest gaze— 
Oh! Mother, how my heart has yearned 
For the love of childhood’s days. 
I knew you would not chide, Mother, 
And so I’ve come again, 
Thoughts like a lava-tide, Mother, 
Rush o’er my burning brain ; 
I’ve ceased my weary wanderings now. 
With heart oppressed by care, 
Oh ! lay your soft hand on my brow, 
’Twill cool the fever there ! 
Attica Center, Feb., 1856. Myrta May. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
RURAL PLEASURES. 
While reading, a few days since, a compli¬ 
mentary article on the title and mission of the 
Rural, written by one who has, no doubt, a 
keen appreciation of rural pleasures, the sug¬ 
gestion occurred to me how easy it is for those 
dwelling between brick walls and within sight 
and sound of hot, dry pavements, to eulogize 
rural pleasures, and speak glowingly of “ rust¬ 
ling grain” and “pressed out garners but'do 
we often hear it from those who are experimen¬ 
tally acquainted with the plow, the hoe and the 
scythe ? I think not, but should it be so ? 
Who should be more enthusiastic in their value 
of genial sun, refreshing showers and waving 
grain than the farmer ? 
I do not think it the legitimate results of 
labor, that our taste should be coarse, and our 
perceptions of the beautiful dull. Let there be 
a harmonious combination of action, both phys¬ 
ical and mental, and I think the result would 
be a greater amount of happiness to those in 
rural life. Many of the smaller and compara¬ 
tively insignificant operations of husbandry and 
housekeeping, taken in a scientific view, become 
no longer a drudge but an interesting process. 
The young housekeeper, as she moulds her 
bread with her own hands, thinks of the chem¬ 
ical process taking place within the snowy loaf. 
She puts it down to rise, with the satisfactory 
thought that it will constitute the chief of their 
evening meal. While her operations are thus 
suspended for a moment, she skips down to the 
garden to see if her strawberries are ripe. She 
witnesses witli pleasure the results of her hus¬ 
band’s skill as a gardener. As she gathers the 
luscious fruit and passes hastily along, she notes 
the development and growth yff her raspberries 
and currants. She feels a gratitude and thrill of 
pleasure as she passes her rose-bushes, now 
decked with a profusion of richest buds and 
blossoms. Again, she is in the kitchen. Call 
her office a menial one if you choose. While 
thus supplying the partner of her joys and sor¬ 
rows with the necessaries and luxuries of life, 
she finds food for thought and reflection. 
How is it with the husbandman ? Perchance 
he has his corn or potatoes to hoe. Does he 
shoulder his hoe, and with a snail’s pace and 
vacant eye, follow the trail to the field ? The 
intelligent farmer notes the very insect that 
crawls across his path. His eyes feast upon the 
clover which his appliances rendered so luxu¬ 
riant. He views his fields as his laboratory, 
where even the tender germ of the corn or po¬ 
tato are carefully watched and treated for the 
expected results. He comes home at night 
weary with toil, it is true, but a well spread 
board and a cheerful smile awaits him. The 
“ expectant wee things” each have a word to be¬ 
guile him of his care. Does he think for a mo¬ 
ment of the grfeat, striving, restless world with¬ 
out ? In comes our friend and adviser, the 
Rural, with news of interest and advantage. 
Favored lot! May long life and health be 
spared to those who are content to be farmers— 
farmers’ wives, sons and daughters. Mary. 
Stafford, March 15, 1856. 
We honor the chivalrous deference paid to 
women. It evinces not only respect to virtue, 
and desire after pure affection, but that our wo¬ 
men are worthy of such respect. But women 
were not made merely to win men to their 
society. To be companions, they should be fit¬ 
ted to be friends; to rule hearts, they should 
secure the approbation of minds. 
THE BURDOCK AND THE VIOLET. 
The high-minded, and the low-minded come 
in contact without mixing, like oil and water. 
It came up in the garden, that burdock, just 
behind the violets and close to the rose bushes. 
It was in the corner close up to the fence, and 
we said we would let it stay, and it should have 
all the kind care and the gentle attention that 
the roses and the violets had. Roadside bur¬ 
docks we knew were coarse, vile things, with 
their dusty leaves and their sharp burs ever 
adhering to the passers-by, and we would like 
to see what a garden burdock would be like ; 
whether it would be bright, and fresh, and del¬ 
icate for growing in such sweet company, and 
so we were merciful and let it stay. 
And it grew among the roses and the violets, 
and gentle hands watered it often, and the 
earth was softened about the roots just as for its 
fairer neighbors ; but it waited not for them in 
its progress upward. It shot up rank and tall, 
and its wide leaves spread all abroad and threat¬ 
ened to cover up and obscure its less assuming 
neighbors. And at last the blossoms came.— 
They were large and strong, and armed with 
keen thorns, and the flowers changed into burs, 
and they reached out their thorny fingers and 
grasped the passers-by, and the white dust lay 
thick on the rough woolly leaves, and the seeds 
flew out on the wind to seek lodging-places, 
where another year a new crop should find 
foothold and sustenance. 
A little violet crept up through the fence and 
looked up brightly beside the hard and dusty 
street, and we said we will let it grow there, 
and so it grew. Water, it had none, except the 
celestial fountains; care, it had none except 
from sunshine and sweet dews and the kindly 
glances of the passers-by; yet there it lived 
and bloomed sweetly, “ wasting its sweetness 
on the desert air.” Its green leaves were as 
green as its cherished kindred of‘the flower¬ 
bed, and its blue eyes reflected as hopefully as 
the blue of the summer sky. 
So we said to ourselves. Outward circumstan¬ 
ces <’md mere surroundings are but little after 
all; and if change to nature comes, it must be 
a work deep inwrought by others than earthly 
hands.— Selected. 
BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. 
The following waif, afloat on the “ sea of read¬ 
ing,” we clip from an exchange. We do not 
know its paternity, but it contains some whole¬ 
some truths, beautifully set forth : 
Men seldom think of the great event of death 
until the shadow falls across their own path, 
hiding forever from their eyes the traces of the 
loved ones whose living smiles was the sunlight 
of their existence. Death is the great antago¬ 
nist of life, and the cold thought of the tomb is 
the skeleton of all feasts. We do not want to 
go through the dark valley, although its passage 
may lead to paradise ; and, with Charles Lamb, 
we do not want to lie down in the muddy 
grave, even with kings and princes for our bed¬ 
fellows. But the fiat of nature is inexorable. 
There is no appeal or relief from the great law 
which dooms us to dust. We flourish and we 
fade as the leaves of the forest, and the flower 
that blooms and withers in a day has not a frail¬ 
er hold upon life than the mightiest monarch 
that ever shook the earth with his footsteps.— 
Generations of men appear and vanish as the 
grass, and the countless multitude that throngs 
the world to-day, will to-morrow disappear as 
the footsteps on the shore. 
In the beautiful drama of Ion, the instinct of 
immortality* so eloquently uttered by the death- 
devoted Greek, finds a deep response in every 
thoughtful soul. When about to yield his 
young existence as a sacrifice to fate, his belov¬ 
ed Clemanthe asks if they shall not meet again, 
to which he replies : — “I have asked that 
dreadful question of the hills that look eternal 
—of the clear streams that flow forever—of the 
stars, among whose fields of azure my raised 
spirit hath walked in glory. All were dumb. 
But while I gaze upon thy living face, I feel 
that there is something in the love that mantles 
through its beauty that cannot wholly perish. 
We shall meet again, Clemanthe.” 
DUTIES OF THE WIFE. 
The first duty then, which I commend to the 
attention of the wife, is correlative with that I 
have urged first of all on the regard of the hus¬ 
band ; that which Saul commanded Titus to 
inculcate on the young wife of his time, namely, 
that she love her husband. The expression im¬ 
plies that sincere affection is to be made a sub¬ 
ject of careful cultivation. This precept has 
fallen on the ears of many who, for the want of 
experience or reflection, do not discern its point 
or force. They speak of love being so sponta¬ 
neous in its nature that wheresoever it hath 
scope it will inhale new life from its own free¬ 
dom, and, therefore, regard any precept touch¬ 
ing its culture as quite superfluous. They 
significantly inquire, can moral, artistic, or 
religious rules produce real love ? But the aim 
of the precept is not to produce the affection, 
but rather to guard against those inadvertencies 
which so often paralyze it; to anticipate the 
stealthy influence of those foibles or infirmities 
which check its growth ; to rouse the mind to 
prepare itself for those adverse incidents which 
sometimes take the most affectionate couple by 
surprise, and ivhicli rising suddenly like a dark 
thunder-cloud over a lovely summer’s sky, 
change the whole aspect of that little world, 
which we at once dignify and endear when we 
designate it as our home .—Home Life. 
The common trinkets of literature are con¬ 
tinually changing their form, but its diamonds 
are never out of fashion. 
©Itoite JpMfllaittf. 
ADVERSITY. 
[This following comparison from “ Hiawatha” is ex¬ 
quisite :] 
Never stoops the soaring vulture 
On his quarry in the desert, 
On the sick or wounded bison, 
But another vulture watching 
From his high, serial look-out, 
Sees the downward plunge, and follows, 
And a third pursues the second, 
Coming from the invisible ether. 
First a speck and then a vulture, 
Till the air is dark with pinions. 
So disasters come not singly ; 
But as if they watched and waited, 
Scanning one another’s motions 
When, the first descends, the others 
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise, 
Round their victim, sick and wounded : 
First a shadow, then a sorrow, 
Till the air is dark with anguish. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. 
BY FRANK FRKKQUII.L. 
Beauty —A flower without- fragrance when 
no quality of tlie heart accompanies it. 
A thing for laughter, sneers and jeers, 
Is American Aristocracy.— Saxe. 
Though we are called the most republican 
people in the world, and though democracy is 
the oft-repeated word of our countrymen and 
the text of every political discourse, still the 
existence of an aristocracy in our society, is a 
fact too manifest to be denied. If this seems 
inconsistent with our pretensions, it is not the 
only inconsistency of which our nation affords 
an example. 
Our aristocracy differs vastly from those of 
Europe, having all its worst features with 
none of its excellencies. In short our upper- 
tendom is compounded of dollars, ignorance, 
a wretched imitation of foreign manners, and 
a silly affectation for the fine arts. These 
are often the grounds on which “ our best 
society” base their exclusiveness. Yet many, 
very many of our democratic brethren sigh for 
a place within the golden pale, and would deem 
it such an honor as did some ancient hero to be 
admitted to a council of the Gods. Yet our pa¬ 
trician tendencies are growing every day more 
and more apparent. Some of our people are 
getting to believe that equality is very tolerable 
in theory, but quite insupportable in practice. 
But let us consider the different phases which 
our aristocracy even now exhibits. First we 
have our “ fine old families” who rest their pre¬ 
tensions alone on descent; and who are living 
not oji “ ten thousand a year,” but the renown of 
their dead grandfathers. They are the Ameri¬ 
can reprint of that sanguinary class, spoken of 
by Dickens, and who are forever talking about 
blood, blood, blood ! But let us estimate the 
true value of hereditary distinction. Well what 
of them ? True, family pride may be com¬ 
mendable. I may look upon the faded portrait 
of a venerable ancestor, clad in antique uniform 
and wearing the rich insignia of his office, or 
perhaps wrapped in the doctrinal robes of the 
clergy, and being filled with noble emotions, 
may resolve never to disgrace the name which 
once he bore. Thus, family pride, if it answers 
no other purpose, might be made a bar to base 
actions. But is it? Ho alas, it is often made 
their justification,or to speak less harshly, their 
apology. We may have the legacy of a name 
without inheriting any of those pristine virtues 
with which that name was wont to be associa¬ 
ted. My great-grandfather may have been a 
hero, while I am a horse thief. My great-uncle 
was perhaps a patriot, yet I may be a pick¬ 
pocket! The founder of a family might have 
been a king, while its more modern representa¬ 
tives may be arrant knaves. All quite possi¬ 
ble ! Thus we infer that a man’s lineage should 
not alone always entitle him to our esteem and 
reverence. Indeed, though a man’s descent be 
traceable even to some Norman conqueror of 
the olden time, he should have given him no 
clearance, exemption or special privilege not 
granted alike to all. 
We have now considered that portion of our 
aristocracy who make everything depend on the 
accident of their birth. At rather of a sudden 
transition, we shall pass to those who ignore 
entirely the fact of their first advent into life ; 
and who only wish to be thought of as they are 
without any allusion to the past. These latter 
are our snobs, our nabobs, our conservators of 
Codfish Aristocracy ! We believe most of them 
deem their pedigree a relic too sacred to meet 
the public eye. They will show you their 
stocks, their bonds and mortgages, their plate, 
their furniture, but not their pedigrees. They 
never talk loudly of their ancestry, and to them 
their early days is anything but a poetic theme. 
It may be, that amid the fragrance of rosy 
memories, they fear they may detect a slight 
scent of soap-boiling. Who knows ? Their 
past seems to extend no further back than the 
first ball given in their new mansion and their 
subseqent visit to Paris. Whether these peo¬ 
ple like Topsy “neber was born” is a problem 
we never could solve. 
Let us proceed to the further analysis of this 
mushroom aristocracy. We ueed deduce no ar¬ 
gument to show that it oftenest has its growth 
in sudden riches; and that it is generally at¬ 
tended with gross ignorance, is but a natural 
consequence of such an origin. But what ren¬ 
ders this nabobery most grotesque and ludicrous 
is its fantastic parody of foreign manners. Our 
purse-proud people must, of course, go abroad 
they must make “ the tour.” And on their re¬ 
turn, they try to ape the blandishments and 
flattering politeness of the Parisian, the easy 
affability or reserved dignity of the English 
nobleman. And such horrid travesties of the 
originals could not be well imagined. They do 
not dream that the usages of society spring from 
the social and political condition of a country, 
and that a foreign etiquette may be wholly un¬ 
suited to the people at home. 
Then again our aristocratic gentleman of the 
latter kind must effect to be a patron of the fine 
arts. He must, he thinks to be consistent, fill 
his hall with statuary and paintings by the old 
masters. If he always encouraged our own 
artists, this would be well. But generally their 
works of art, like their manners, must be im¬ 
ported. How supremely ridiculous for a man 
to grow ecstatic over marble, and talk of Angelo 
or even Phidias, when he would not know a 
Hebe from a Hercules. He may discourse of 
the flavor of wines, and the quality of venison 
but not of these. 
But we will pursue the subject no further, 
though it might afford much for satire and con¬ 
tempt. And closing, let us hope that if we 
have truthfully pictured American Aristocracy, 
none will longer bestow upon it a blind adora¬ 
tion, nor longer mistake pomposity for dignity 
or arrogance for superiority. That society will 
no longer bow to a golden idol, but pay a divine 
worship to the pure, the beautiful and the good. 
Albany, Jan., 1856. 
ONE OF THE GOLDEN YOUTH. 
A German poet compared life to a vast forest, 
full of young and vigorous trees, in the midst 
of which a wood-cutter is strolling. At first 
the forest is still, dense and flourishing; but 
the wood-cutter’s ax continues to strike and its 
incessant blows scatter death around it. The 
trees fall one by one, this one first, and then 
another; where their trunks stood close togeth¬ 
er the light begins to break through ; here and 
there broad vacant spaces grow larger and lar¬ 
ger ; soon the regretful eye counts the victims 
by hundreds. The ax pursues its work of de¬ 
struction ; it assaults the oaks which still re¬ 
main erect, hurls them down and widens the 
vacant space. Its blows redouble in speed, and 
you might almost fancy that, like a good work¬ 
man, it was anxious to finish its task before the 
close of day. In the morning the forest was as 
dense and tufted as a meadow where the grass 
grows luxuriantly ; by evening it is a bare ex¬ 
panse. Wait but another hour—and the last 
tree will have fallen. 
That forest is youth, with its many friends; 
that wood-cutter is death. It never wearies of 
its blows, and by the time that age has come, 
when the first wrinkles furrow the pensive 
brow, what gaps are already visible, and how 
many of those we loved the best are gone!— 
First, one died in the very flower of youth, her 
forehead decked with its flaxen curls, and she 
still smiling upon life, her heart still brimming 
with joyous anticipations. Then, another fol¬ 
lowed ; and, then, another; a fourth fell sud¬ 
denly, and in the very pride of his strength.— 
Death strikes on, and soon we no longer count 
those we have lost; we think of them some¬ 
times, and those who remain last have their 
memories full of phantoms which beckon them 
to hasten. 
APPEARANCE OF JOHN HANCOCK. 
One who saw Hancock in June, 1782, relates 
that he had the appearance of advanced age. 
He had been repeatedly and severely afflicted 
with gout, probably owing in part to the cus¬ 
tom of drinking punch—a common practice in 
high circles in those days. As recollected at 
this time, Hancock was nearly six feet in height 
and of thin person, stooping a little, and appar¬ 
ently enfeebled by disease. His manners were 
very gracious, of the old style, a dignified com¬ 
plaisance. His face had been very handsome. 
Dress was adapted quite as much to the orna¬ 
mental as useful. Gentlemen wore wigs when 
abroad, and commonly caps when at home. At 
this time, about noon, Hancock was dressed in 
a red velvet cap, within which was one of fine 
linen. The latter was turned up over the lower 
edge of the velvet one two or three inches. He 
wore a blue damask gown lined with silk, a 
white satin embroidered waistcoat, black satin 
small clothes, white stockings, and red morocco 
slippers. It was a general practice in genteel 
families to have a tankard of punch made in the 
morning .and placed in a cooler, when the sea¬ 
son required it. At this visit, Hancock took 
from the cooler, standing on the hearth, a full 
tankard, and drank first himself and then offer¬ 
ed it to those present. His equipage was splen¬ 
did, and such as is not customary at this day. 
His apparel was sumptuously embroidered with 
gold, silver, lace and other decorations fashion¬ 
able among men of fortune of that period ; and 
he rode, especially upon public occasions, with 
six beautiful bay horses, attended in livery.— 
He wore a scarlet coat, with ruffles on his sleeves; 
which soon became the prevailing fashion ; and 
it is related of Dr. Nathan Jacques, the famous 
pedestrian of West Newbury, that he passed all 
the way from that place to Boston in one day, 
to procure cloth for a coat like that of John 
Hancock, and returned with it under his arm, 
on foot.— Selected. 
THE SEA SHELL. 
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 
■ in 
Like 
V 
Whfe 
Was it the chime of a tiny bell, 
' That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,— 
jee the silvery tones of a fairy shell 
hat winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, 
en the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 
AncFthe moon and the fairy are watching the deep.” 
“ That is the roar of the ocean which you 
hear,” said our hostess a£ we lifted from the 
center-table a beautiful shell and placed it to 
our ear. It is true there was a low murmur, 
like the far-off roar of the sea, rising and falling, 
as if borne to the ear upon waves of air ; now 
clear and distinct as the dash on the beach, and 
again low and tremulous as the dying night 
winds. We closed our eyes and listened to the 
mumur of the shell. As we listened we dreamed. 
We stood on the beach as it stretched away, 
the restless swells curling with foam, and dash¬ 
ing wearily upon the sands. Solemn, almost 
sad was the murmuring anthem which sobbed 
on the still air. It is a sublime scene — the 
ocean. The throbbing pulse of the mighty 
element beats slowly at your feet. 
“ Ten thousand fleets have swept o’er thee in 
vain,” for as far as the eye can see, there is not 
a track where their keels have been. It is a 
trackless waste. Not even a cross is seen to 
mark the spot where crime has been. There 
are no monuments where thousands have been 
laid down in the yielding waves. Where are 
the gallant fabrics which have sunk in the 
«deep, deep sea ? ” Where did the gloomy 
billows open to the ill-fated President ? 
There was the gallant Arctic, steaming home¬ 
ward under full sail, and warm hearts beating 
faster under her deck at the thought of green 
hills soon to rise from the waters. But the 
shock came, and fast the remorseless waters 
rushed into the ill-fated steamer. Slowly, like 
the march of fate, the huge fabric sank. One 
wail went up to God, and downward went the 
Arctic with her living freight, with every sail 
set. Secure from storm and decay, she is 
anchored beneath the sullen waters. Her sails 
are filled by the dark green waves as they ebb 
and flow. No smoke curls from her chimney 
tops, for her great iron heart has ceased to throb. 
Undisturbed, the dead ones still rest upon the 
slippery deck. Holland is still by the side of 
his gun, match in hand. The womanly locks 
float out in the waters, and the damp cheek 
rests cold and still in the clasped hands. Manly 
faces look up sternly among the shrouds. The 
stripes and stars and the cross of St. George lift 
wearily in the ebb and flow of the tide. And 
wherever there is a heart which longs for the 
loved ones under the wave, the shell will bring 
sobbing murmurs to sadden that heart. 
Thickly strewn are the dwellers on the ocean 
bed. Its steeps, and vales, and deep, dark 
glens, are all peopled. But they dwell in peace. 
The march or fall of empires is not heard. Rust 
has gathered upon blade and in the cannon’s 
mouth. The inhabitants of the deep gambol 
unharmed about the battle craft whose oaken 
ribs have shivered with deadly broadsides. 
No monuments on the ocean ! Man has piled 
the earth with the structures of his genius and 
ambition. Earth’s greatness is commemorated 
in marble and upon canvass. But the sea has 
no tale to tell. Far down and unseen are the 
monument-builders, the coral, and the waves, 
as they throb to the shore, bear no record of the 
dead. 
— Neither has the shell a word from the 
ocean sleepers. It murmurs only of the •whis¬ 
pering winds and waves .—Cayuga Chief. 
American literature is degenerating into a 
vast stream of milk and water. A great litera¬ 
ry apostacy is demoralizing it. Authors write, 
not because thay have a true or a beautiful word 
to say, and because the oestrus of their concep¬ 
tion drives them to speak, but because they see, 
with the sharp little eyes of business men, that 
the popular throat is agape for such or such a 
morsel, and that they can prepare the morsel.— 
A whole book, to proclaim the Apolhesis of 
Humbug ! A whole book, whose staple is the 
unblushing narrative, by a discarded suitor, of 
the details of his chase ! What a culmination 
of literary immorality.— Putnam’s Magazine. 
HEROES OF THE RAIL. 
#. - 
If the highest service man can perform, is the 
saving of human life, the heroism of a railroad 
engineer who intelligently applies means to 
save a passenger train in rapid motion from de¬ 
struction, at the hazard of crushing his engine 
and the prosyect of the violent death of all up¬ 
on it, is nobler and better than any martyrdom 
at Waterloo or Balaklava. Historians, poets, 
painters and sculptors have labored ever to give 
immortality to the heroes of the battle field. A 
true press should blazon the merit of the heroes 
of the Rail. It is higher, and in the coming 
time of a clear perception of the facts of life, 
will be more famous than the’heroism which 
crosses bayonets. 
Engineer John F. Haskins, in charge of a 
passenger locomotive upon the Rochester and 
Niagara Falls road, saved a train of cars con¬ 
taining one hundred and fifty travelers, thus 
skillfully and bravely. He was running rapid¬ 
ly upon an embankment. A flange flew off 
from one of his forward truck wheels. The di¬ 
vergence of the head of the machine from the 
line of the track caught the engineer’s eye, and 
told him that the engine must go down the 
bank. At the same instant he felt the train 
press upon the- tender and engine, and knew 
the couplings were slack. This sensation sug¬ 
gested to his experienced mind as quick as 
lightning, the salvation of the passenger cars by 
the breaking of the first coupling next the ten¬ 
der by a sudden and powerful jerk. He 
twitched open the throttle valve to its full 
width, and gave the pistons suddenly a full 
head of steam. The engine leaped, and snap¬ 
ped the couplings of the first car, plunged 
down the bank and overturned—the whole train 
passed in safety upon the rails, and were 
stopped by the brakes — its savior, severe¬ 
ly wounded but not killed laid at the bottom. 
Dignified as heroic, the faithful engineer refused 
a large present of money from the passengers 
whom his devotion had saved .—Albany Journal. 
It was the opinion of Coleridge that men of 
humor are always in some degree men of ge¬ 
nius ; that wits are rarely so, although a man 
of genius may, among other gifts, possess wit, 
as for instance, “The sweet bard of Avon.” 
