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MOORE’S'RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
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WOMAN. 
When, in despair, man’s scarce nplifted eye 
Sees foes who linger, fancied friends who fly, 
Woman steps forth and boldly braves the shock, 
Firm to his interests as the granite rock •, 
She stems the wave, unshrinking meets the storm, 
And wears his guardian angel’s earthly form ! 
And if she cannot check the tempest’s course, 
She points a shelter from its whelming force ! 
When envy’s sneer would coldly blight his name, 
And busy tongues are sporting with his fame 
Who solves each doubt, clears every mist away, 
And makes him radiant in the face of day? 
She who would peril fortune, fame and life, 
For man, the ingrate—the devoted wife. 
FEMALE EDUCATION: 
ITS IMPORTANCE IN A PECUNIARY, AS WELL AS MORAL 
POINT OF VIEW. 
IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. — NO. I. 
My Dear Niece:- —Having been in early 
life deprived of the maternal care of a kind 
parent, I feel much sympathy for you, and 
a deep interest in your welfare. A desire 
that you may escape many mortifications 
incident to inexperience, and that your mind 
may be so disciplined as to be the best pos¬ 
sible guide in all situations and under all cir¬ 
cumstances, must bo my apology for thus 
addressing you. I wish not only to speak 
of facts drawn from my own observation and 
experience, but to show by quotations from 
others that my own views of the sphere and 
duties, as well as rights, of woman are cor¬ 
roborated by practical and enlightened 
minds. 
Much has been written, and many excel¬ 
lent rules have been inculcated for the 
guidance of females, both rich and poor, 
but comparatively little, for the wives and 
daughters of American laboring farmers— 
and most of that little, has boon written by 
those whose wealth or occupation prevented 
them from entering into the feelings and 
sympathising in the duties of that valuable 
class of community whom they sincerely 
wished to benefit. For my own part, if I 
cannot speak eloquently, I can speak feel¬ 
ingly on all subjects connected with the 
female department of labor on a farm—and 
I must say the idea thus expressed 
“ The milkmaid rising with tiie dawn, 
Trips lightly o'er the dewy lawn,” 
when divested of its poetry, degenerates into 
the very sober prose of rising before the sun, 
and milking the coics. There is, nevertheless, 
even a pleasure in this—and one object I 
have in view, is to enable you to invest all 
your toils with pleasure, that they may not 
sink into mere drudgery. 
In the first place I would urge you to 
make the great object for which you were 
created, the principal study of your life.— 
namely, your duty to God, in which is com¬ 
prised your duty to your parents, yourself, 
your friends, and to the social compact in 
general. 
I trust you have already learned so much 
of your duty toward your remaining parent, 
that little need be said on this subject. In 
the many examples of filial piety recorded 
for our benefit, there is none more beauti¬ 
ful and striking than that of our Saviour 
mentioned by John 19: 26, 27. “When 
Jesus, therefore, saw fiiis mother, and that 
disciple standing by whom he loved, he 
saith unto his mother, ‘ woman behold thy 
son; then saith be to the disciple ; behold 
thy mother,” and from that time the disci¬ 
ple took, her to his own house.” You will 
see that even the agonies of death were 
swallowed up in anxiety for his parent. 
The age abounds in books on the develop¬ 
ments of Nature, which are calculated to 
inspire feelings of devotion and gratitude 
towards our kind Father in Heaven, and 
cannot be read too much by the young, 
while their feelings are sensibly alive to his 
adorable attributes. Townes’s essay on 
Chemistry, as exemplifying the Wisdom 
and Beneficence of God, is one of this class, 
particularly that part devoted to Animal 
Chemistry. 
Let it be your early care to lay a founda¬ 
tion for a useful and solid education. Com¬ 
mon schools have become interspersed over 
our country to such an extent, that few chil¬ 
dren need to be ignorant of the common 
branches of learning—these once acquired 
an active and energetic mind only is neces¬ 
sary to pursue it to any desired length. 
As you pursue your studies in school you 
will find much that you can apply, in the 
every-day occupations of life, so that while 
your hands are necessarily and profitably 
employed, that higher faculty, the mind can 
be fed wit h that sustenance which leads to tne 
Fountain of all Knowledge and Wisdom. 
These remarks will apply particularly to 
Botany and Chemistry. Without some 
knowledge of botany, we cannot enjoy all 
the wonders developed in a single plant. 
One who cannot appreciate the curious 
and beautiful processes that are carried 
on around him in a single season, loses 
much, very much, of the pure and health¬ 
ful enjoyment, of right belonging to the 
occupation of farming and horticulture. 
To the ignorant laborer, vegetable growth 
is a naked fact, hut it is an illustration of 
most exquisite design and workmanship to 
the enlightened and scientific mind. 
Some knowledge of chemistry is not only 
convenient but absolutely necessary even in 
the daily routine of cooking for the family. 
You cannot even make a loaf of bread with¬ 
out involving chemical principles. So of 
various other things. An ambition to be¬ 
come a good cook, is both laudable and praise¬ 
worthy, as every one will acknowledge 
who for a moment reflects how much the 
comfort and prosperity of the farmer de¬ 
pends on the capability and energy of the 
mistress, when applied in this direction.— 
What young wife would not feel compensa¬ 
ted for a little care, well applied, to hear 
her husband say of a dish she had prepared 
— 44 this is as good as my mother used to 
make?” 
The extent to which you should cultivate 
the ornamental branches, must bo governed 
by circumstances, and the use you design 
making of them, but by no means let them 
interfere with more substantial branches.— 
In fact I would not have you possess too 
refined an education. I can give you no bet¬ 
ter idea of my meaning on this subject, than 
by giving you an extract from “ Colman’s 
Fourth Report on the Agriculture of Mass¬ 
achusetts. He says: 
“ In the families of many farmers, there 
are too many unproductive hands. In the 
changes which, since the introduction of 
extensive manufactories of cotton and woolen 
among us, have taken place in our habits 
of domestic labor, some of the internal re¬ 
sources of the farmer have become dried up, 
and new occasions of expenditure introduc¬ 
ed. I cannot better illustrate this matter 
than by a recurrence to a conversation which 
I had with one of the most respectable far¬ 
mers in this county. 4 Sir,’ said he to me, 
4 1 am a widower and have only one daugh¬ 
ter at home—I have gone to the utmost ex¬ 
tent of my limited means for her education. 
She is a good scholar and has every where 
stood high in her classes, and acquitted her¬ 
self to the satisfaction of her instructors.— 
She is expert in all the common branches 
of education. She reads Latin and French, 
she understands mineralogy and botany; 
and I can show you with pleasure, some of 
her fine needlework, embroidery and draw¬ 
ings. In the loss of her mother, she is my 
whole dependence; but instead of waiting 
upon me, I am obliged to hire a servant to 
wait upon her. I want her to take charge 
of my dairy, but she cannot think of milk¬ 
ing; and as her mother was anxious that her 
child should he saved all’hardship—for she 
used to say the poor girl would have enough 
of that bye and bye—she never allowed her 
to share in her labors; and therefore she 
knows no more of the care of a dairy, or 
indeed of housekeeping, than any city milli¬ 
ner ; so that in fact I have sold all my cows 
hut ono. The cow supplies us with what 
milk we want, hut I buy all my butter and 
cheese. I told her, a few days since, that 
my stockings were all worn out, and that 
I had a good deal of wool in the chamber 
which I wished she would card and spin.— 
Her reply was in a tone of unaffected sur¬ 
prise,— ; why, father, no young lady does 
that; and besides it is so much easier to send 
it to the mill and have it carded.’ Well, I 
continued, you will knit the stockings if I 
get the wool spun?. 4 Why no, father; moth¬ 
er never taught me how to knit, because she 
said it would interfere with my lessons, and 
then if I knew how, it would take a great 
deal of time, and he much cheaper to buy the 
stockings at the store.’ This is perhaps an 
extreme ease, yet how many even of farmers 
daughters shrink from performing their part 
of the household labors. 
I once knew a worthy judge with a largo 
family of daughters, in one of the New Eng¬ 
land states, who never allowed one of them 
to marry, till they had served a two years 
apprenticeship in the mysteries of house¬ 
keeping. From this family were taken some 
of the most accomplished women and best 
household managers in New England. I 
believe it is perfectly practicable to be able 
to preside with equal propriety in the parlor 
$na in the kitchen.” 
I fear I have already tired your patience 
with the length of this letter, though you will 
pardon me I trust, if I again urge you to seek 
knowledge—‘ seek knowledge rather than 
wealth”—it not only increases the pleasure 
of its possessor, but relieves the mind often 
thousand superstitious fears. This latter 
fact is of great importance to the mother of 
a family. Eclipses, comets, and even the 
splended Aurora Borealis, could not appear 
in times past without filling some minds 
with direful forebodings; and even now I 
know of many persons who are made quite 
miserable at the mere howling of a dog, or 
the ticking of the deathwatch. Knowledge 
removes the ground of all such ureasonable 
alarms, and gives a quietness to the mind 
which wealth alone cannot impart. 
In my next letter I shall endeavor to il¬ 
lustrate the necessity of practicing the do¬ 
mestic virtues, Industry, Frugality, &c. 
Yours sincerely, A Farmer’s Wife. 
Willow-Dell Farm, Dec. 1851. 
Deference, before company, is the gen- 
teelest kind of flattery. The flattery of 
epistles affects one less, as they cannot he 
shown without an appearance of vanity.— 
Flattery of the verbal kind is gross. In 
short, applause is of too coarse a" nature to 
he swallowed in the gross, though the ex¬ 
tract or tincture he ever so agreeable.— 
Shenstone. 
Miscellaneous. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
THE IDOL ONE, 
BY S. MARIA BROOKSLEY. 
He died ; I would not dare to say, 
More fitted for the skies, 
Than many a little one that folds, 
Its hands, and sweetly dies. 
I would not say there ne’er had been. 
Before upon the earth, 
A form of beauty like to his. 
Which sat beside my hearth. 
There may have been such golden hair, 
And eyes as soft and blue, 
Brightest amid the household gems, 
But such,I never knew. 
The bitterness of death I passed, 
Beside his couch of pain, 
I sometimes think I cannot live, 
Unless he comes again. 
Bird songs amid the covert boughs, 
Bright flowers on the plain, 
Can never weave a spell for me, 
Of happiness again. 
One music song rose in my home, 
One flower its fragrance shed, 
Long time that music hath been hushed, 
The little flower is dead. 
I gathered up its withered leaves, 
And laid them in the shade, 
Of a bright tree whose emerald leaf, 
Nor storm, nor sun can fade. 
I had one dream, one joy, one hope 
Of happiness below,— 
Those streams have mingled with the fount, 
Of bitterness and woe; 
And I am weary of the earth, 
I long to close my eyes, 
Life is a forest tangled way, 
Beneath these cloud-winged skies. 
Syracuse, Dec., 1851. 
A FAREWELL AND A WELCOME. 
The close of ono year and the beginning 
of another has universally been chosen as 
an appropriate time to contemplate the 
changing fortunes of life. Wo then seem 
most inclined to cast a glance back on what 
wc have been, and look forward to what wo 
may become. Living in this world is like 
reading an instructive volume. As we pass 
on day by day, turning leaf over leaf, each 
successive page unfolds some new lesson of 
experience to make us wiser, or records an 
impressive example of goodness to make us 
bettor. At least in imagination, on each re¬ 
turning New Year’s morn, we think there is 
a kind of 44 pause in nature ”—when those 
twin sisters, Hope and Memory, with joyous 
or saddened faces, meet and commune to¬ 
gether, gently persuading us to survey the 
boundless ocean that stretches out on either 
side the narrow isthmus of existence on 
which wo tremblingly stand. The dim hor¬ 
izon of recoding time encircles us on every 
side; and but for Providence, we should 
have a lonely and desolate feeling that all 
beyond is doubt, mystery, and darknesss.— 
We know that each fleeting day, like a re¬ 
sistless current, is hearing us away, hut 
whither we cannot toll. The curtain that 
hides from our view the events of the future 
can only bo parted as the hand of time 
draws it aside. • 
If we are now young, we know that we 
must advance to the meridian of manhood; 
and when we arrive there, shall wo be re¬ 
spected and useful ? If we are middle- 
aged— 
“ As (ar from childhood’s morning come 
As to the grave's forgetful night”— 
we know that we must descend into the 
shadowy vale of years: and when gray hairs 
betoken the autumn of life, will old age-find 
us honored and loved, serene and cheerful ? 
Finally, when we behold the “last of earth” 
will we close our eyes on the things of this 
world, to open them on the glorious 
scenes of a brighter one ? Shall we sink to 
rest in the arms of Faith, and have that 
radiant angel to guide us through the dark 
valley of death to the realms of continuous 
life ? 
One year more has ended and another 
begun. The sun is widening in His course, 
rising higher in the ascending circle of his 
majestic career—giving to morning an earli¬ 
er, brighter dawn, and to evening a later, 
lingering glow. How was it with us one 
year ago—how is it with us now—how will 
it he with us one year hence ? We can re-. 
view the past but we cannot forsee the 
future. We all wish for the best, hut 
who knows whether prosperity or adversity, 
health or sickness, a palace or a tomb, will 
he his or her lot before 1853 arrives ! All 
that we certainly know is, that whatever may 
happen will be for the best. The Savior 
says that the very hairs of our heads are 
numbered. We may he sure that neither 
man nor an insect, a world or an atom, falls 
unnoticed by the eye of its Creator. 
“That law which moulds a tear. 
And bids it trickle from its source— 
That law preserves the earth a sphere, 
And guides the planets in their course.” 
On a New Year’s morn, let any one form 
a plan of life to be pursued through even the 
! short space of tlpree hundred and sixty-five 
days. At the end of this period, let him 
compare what he designed with what ho has 
done, and if he has not been watchful and 
diligent, lie will he filled with surprise and 
regret at the result. A minute of pleasure 
is no longer than a minute of pain. The 
hours, with noiseless but rapid flight, 
glide by, be wo ever so faithful or ever so 
idle. 44 Time once passed, never returns; 
and a moment which is lost, is lost forever.” 
But let us hid a grateful adieu to the past 
year, which has already taken its silent 
place in the long procession of the innumer¬ 
able ones that have gone before it. Hence¬ 
forth, we shall leave it farther and farther 
in the distance. Strange, though true, that 
by the side of the old year’s gloomy grave 
should lie the joyous cradle of the new one 
—as if feeble and sinking age should just : 
land strong and hopeful childhood on the ! 
shore, and after pointing out to him the 
sometimes clear and sometimes cloudy, the 
sometimes smooth and the sometimes rough 
way he must journey-—should then suddenly 
vanish, leaving the youthful traveler to tread 
the checkered course alone. 
In the arrangements of Providence, if the 
departure of one year makes us sad, the 
approach of another makes us glad. It is the 
rising, not the setting sun, that is the em¬ 
blem of promise and the herald of blessings 
to come. With hearts resolute with lofty 
and noble purposes, let us go on. When 
the revolving seasons, strewing thickly in 
their progress, buds, flowers, and fruits— 
those glorious attendants of peace, prosperity 
and labor—shall again bring us to a review 
of their events, may the last one find us 
happy, contented and thankful—calmly con¬ 
scious that we have fulfilled every duty ac¬ 
cording to the talents given us. The Past 
has been beneficent—the Present is prosper¬ 
ous—may the Future bo glorious. 44 Halve 
et vale ”—hail and farewell ! 
D. W. Ballou, Jr. 
Luckport, N. Y., January 1, 1852. 
thousand tongues of green, the proud war-cry 
44 God is with us !” 
But the sky of winter is as capricious as 
the sky of spring—-’even as the old wander 
in thought, like the vagaries of a boy. 
Before noon the heavens are mantled with 
a leaden gray; the eaves that leaked in the 
glow of the sun, now tell their tale of morn¬ 
ing’s warmth, in crystal ranks of icicles.— 
The cattle seek their shelter; the few linger¬ 
ing leaves of the white oaks, rustle dismally; 
the pines breathe sighs of mourning. As 
the night darkens, and deepens the storm, 
the house dog hays; the children crouch in 
the wide chimney corners: the sleety rain 
comes in sharp gusts. And, as I sit by the 
light leaping blaze in my chamber, the scat¬ 
tered hail-drops beat upon my window like 
the tappings of an Old Man’s cane.— Ik. 
Marvel s “ Dream Tdfe.” 
font's Mtwnnj. 
“ Attempt the etui, and never stand to doubt; 
Nothing’s so hard, but search will find it out.” 
A WINTER PICTURE. 
Slowly, thickly, fastly, fall the snow 
flakes,— like the seasons upon the life of 
man. At the first, they lose themselves in 
the brown mat of herbage, or gently melt, 
as they fall upon the broad stepping stone at 
the door. But as hour after hour passes, 
the feathery flakes stretch their white cloak 
plainly on the meadow, and chilling the 
doorstep with their multitude, cover it with 
a mat of pearl. 
The dried grass tips pierce the mantle of 
white, like so many serried spears; but as 
the storm goes softly on, they sink one by 
one to their snowy tomb; and presently 
show nothing of all their army, save one or 
two straggling banners of blackened and 
shrunken daisies. 
Across the wide meadow that stretches 
from my window, I can see nothing of those 
hills which were so green in summer; be¬ 
tween me and them, lie only the soft, slow 
moving masses, filling the air with whiteness. 
I catch only a glimpse of one gaunt, and 
hare-armed oak, looming through the feath¬ 
ery multitude, like a ship’s spars breaking 
through fog - . 
The roof of the barn is covered ; and the 
leaking eaves show dark stains of water, that 
trickle down the* weather-beaten hoards.— 
The pear trees that wore such weight of 
greenness in the leafy Juno, now stretch their 
bare arms to the snowy blast, and carry upon 
each tiny bough a narrow burden of winter. 
The old house dog marches stately 
through the strange covering of earth, and 
seems to ponder on the welcome he will 
show,—and shakes the flakes from his long 
ears, and with a vain snap at a floating 
feather, he stalks again to his dry covert in 
the shod. The lambs that belonged to the 
meadow flock, with their feeding ground all 
covered, seem to wonder at their losses ; hut 
take courage from the quiet air of the vet¬ 
eran sheep, and gambol after them, as they 
move sedately toward the shelter of the 
barn. 
The cat, driven from the kitchen door, 
beats a coy retreat, with long reaches of her 
foot, upon the yielding surface. The mat¬ 
ronly hens saunter out, at a little lifting of 
the storm; and eye curiously, with heads 
half turned, their sinking steps; and then 
fall hack with a quiet cluck of satisfaction, 
to the wholesome gravel by the stable door. 
By and hv, the snow flakes pile more 
leisurely: they grow large and scattered, 
and come more slowly than before. The 
hills that were brown, heave in sight—great, 
rounded billows of white. The gray woods 
look shrunken to half their height, and 
stand waving in the storm. The wind fresh¬ 
ens, and scatters the light flakes that crown 
the burden of the snout; and as tho day 
droops, a clear, bright sky of steel color 
j cleaves the land, and clouds, and sends down 
a chilling wind to hank the walls, and to 
freeze the storm. The moon rises full and 
round, and plays with a joyous chill, over the 
! glistening raiment Of the land. 
1 pile my fire with the clean cleft hickory: 
■ and musing over some sweet story of the 
, olden time, I wander into a rich realm of 
thought, until my eyes grow dim, and dream¬ 
ing of battle and of prince, I fall to sleep in 
my old farm chamber. 
At morning, I find my dreams all written 
on the window in crystals of fairy shape.— 
. Tim cattle, one by one, with ears frost-tipped, 
and with frosted noses, wend their way to 
; the watering-place in the meadow. One by 
\ one they drink, and crop at the stunted 
| herbage, which the warm spring keeps green 
| and bare. 
A hound bays in the distance; the smoke 
j of cottages rises straight toward Heaven; a 
, lazy jingle of sleigh-bells wakens the quiet 
| of the high-road; and upon the hills, the 
leafless woods stand low, like crouching ar¬ 
mies, with guns and spears in rest; and 
and among them, the scattered spiral pines 
1 rise like banner-men uttering with their 
imm 
• ■ - V - 
Iff, 
j, 
. 
ILLUSTRATED CHARYDE. 
He talked of daggers and of darts, 
Of passions and of pains. 
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts, 
Of kisses and of chains. 
He said though Love was kin to grief. 
She was not born to grieve ; 
He said, though many rued belief. 
She safely might believe. 
But still the lady shook her head, 
As any lady may. 
And vowed ray whole was all he said, 
Or all that he could say. 
He said my first—whose silent ear 
Was slowly wandering by. 
Veiled in a vapor faint and fur, 
Through the unfathomed sky— 
Was like the smile, whose rosy light 
Across her young lips passed ; 
Yet oh ! it was not half so bright; 
It changed not half so fast. 
But still the lady shook her head. 
As any lady may, 
And vowed my whole was all lie said. 
And all that he could say. 
r nr 
And then he set a cypress wreath 
Upon his raven hair, 
And drew his rapier from its sheath, 
Which made the lady stare ; 
And said his life-blood’s purple flow 
My second there should dim, 
If she he loved and cherished so 
Would weep one tear for him. 
But still the Duly shook her head, 
As any lady may. 
And vowed my whole was all he said. 
And all that he could say. 
Answer next week. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c IN No. 104. 
Answer to Acrostical Enigma.—E nigma. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma.—Experience 
keeps a dear school. 
