8 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
HTJM AIT BROTHERHOOD. 
The monarch, glittering in the pomp of slate 
Wears the same flesh as those that flic of hunger; 
Like them, the worm shall be liis loathsome mate, 
When he resigns his glory to a younger. 
The beauty, worship’d by a limner’s eye, 
On whom a hundred suitors gaze admiring. 
Is sister to the hag, deformed, awry, 
Who gather.' in the road her scanty firing. 
The scholar, glorying in the stamp of mind, 
Master of all the wisdom time has hoarded, 
Is brother to the lumpish, untaught hind, 
Whose vulgar name will perish unrecorded. 
Therefore let human sympathies be strong, 
Leteach man share his welfare with his neighbor; 
To the whole race heaven’s bounteous gifts belong— 
None may live idly while his fellows labor. 
€\jt -Rural Ikrti'l; -Book. 
[Written expressl$ for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE HERO OF HILLSIDE. 
BY CAROLINE CIIESEBRO . 
Willis Gaylord Clark said of Ontario 
county, (what a rolling, noble sound there is 
in that name, Ontario!) “called by Poets 
the Garden of the State —and by Poli¬ 
ticians, the Infected District.” And a 
Carden may it well be named in honor of its 
fertile fields, and noble plains, and cultiva¬ 
ted bills, and fruitful valleys. You, in all 
your wanderings, bo assured good reader, 
will not discover, for the sun has not seen it 
in all bis glancings,*a lovelier, a fairer, or a 
richer region. Infected r—Acs, the politi¬ 
cian speaks with as much truth as the 
poet. Obi Ontario is inhabited, and there¬ 
fore is it infected! Infected, alas, by 
the spirits that are in man—the evil as well 
as the good—preserved too, ah, that is hot- 
real glory ! for the poetry of her nature 
ought not to triumph over the morality of 
her humanity—preserved for all the human 
contagion, by a spirit that is mightier than 
man—for where sin abounds, grace does 
doubtless much more abound. 
Fifty years ago much of this Garden was 
in a wilderness state. Look not here for 
wild, grand, inspiring scenery—you will find 
the lovely, the quiet, perhaps you would say 
the tame, only. Hut we have rich, waving 
fields, (a very California mine to those who 
own and cultivate them)—we have broad 
fertile plains, hamlets, and villages incom¬ 
parable in their maiden beauty, now, where 
evon so short a time since as half a century, 
the axe of the hlroic woodsman was heard 
throwing its solitary echoes through the 
wood. In the progress of those years many 
sons and daughters has “old Ontario ’ sent 
out into the world—an increase has she giv¬ 
en to the shining lights thereof—wo call 
upon those wanderers from this Eden to say 
if they have found over, home more beauti¬ 
ful, even if prouder, than she can give.— 
But this is not our story—onl y on this dawn¬ 
ing Xew Year it would have been in us noth¬ 
ing loss than a sin to advert to the scene of 
our story, and not rise up with a heart full 
of love and reverence to call her blessed ! 
There is another rendering of that poli¬ 
tician-word “ infected,” which the moralist 
well may ponder. In one sense is every 
region under heaven infected. Forever 
Love and Selfishness, the two great pas¬ 
sions raa-ina' in the hearts of man tiro warring 
folk, over there was the little enclosure, the 
family burial ground of the Marks family. 
Carlton’s father and mother were laid there 
before the road was marked out—and there, 
in his early manhood, Carlton had buried 
his first born child, and only daughter.— 
There lie himself at hist found burial, and 
of late, since the red leaves of October have 
fallen, since the frosts of November have 
descended—even since the snow^ of Decem¬ 
ber have come, the ground has again been 
broken, and another mortal, bearing a dif¬ 
ferent name from all previously interred 
in the grave yard, has gone down to the last 
resting place of all the living. And of her 
this final record remains to be made. 
Carlton Marks had three sons, the young¬ 
est of whom attained his majority a few 
months after his father’s death, that is on a 
New Year’s day. They were all fine, manly 
follows to look upon, and boys after the old 
man’s heart. Favoritism was not known 
in the household, but if the father’s eye did 
ever rest with peculiar regard and fondness 
on either of his sons, it was on the eldest— 
and only for this reason, that William had 
been longest with him, and was a more relia¬ 
ble and steady help. He took to farming 
naturally, and eagerly, and never expressed 
a wish for another sort of life than this, 
which Providence had marked out for him. 
Much like him in taste, and capacity, was 
Frank, the second son, only he was a bright¬ 
er spirit, and had thoughts and inclinations 
which sometimes strayed beyond the field, 
and thb wood, and their own quiet and com¬ 
fortable fireside. In the youngest, Lucas, 
this brighter spirit had a still more full de¬ 
velopment—that is, pleasure of any sort or 
kind was the watch-word of his life; his 
father called the hoy a vagrant, but ho did 
it in a kindly way that was without reproof. 
At all merry-makings and frolics in the 
neighborhood, and far beyond the neighbor¬ 
hood indeed, he was an omnipotent star—a 
ringleader—the life and the joy of all. He 
was very handsome, and witty, and had a 
way of making friends—and it mattered not 
of what order, with him — that was most 
surprising. As to work—when he grew old 
enough to learn that it was possible for peo¬ 
ple to get along without it, lie made it his 
particular abhorrence. His father saw this 
plainly, long before he del. and if his son 
had evinced any desire or resolve to study 
it would have been the old man’s pride and 
delight to furnish tbo means for Lucas’ be¬ 
coming a scholar. But when this plan was 
proposed it was received with expressions of 
infinite disgust, and the event of till was 
that the youth was left by his father's will a 
farmer, at least the owner of a farm, as were 
his elder brothers. 
There was an instability in his character, 
and a selfishness, that was sometimes of¬ 
fensively evidenced—a tendency to animal 
indulgence, and dissipation too, which de¬ 
veloped as Lucas grew older, and even his j 
loving ways towards herself, could not stifle 1 
the fears which the mother’s heart cherished ! 
for him—a dull and dark presentiment grew j 
with his growth, and strengthened with his : 
strength, that all his regard and reverence j 
for her was caused by no deep, true, filial 
love. The conviction grew upon her, and 
she could not master it, that in any great j 
matter or cause he would ask no counsel of ; 
her, or of any but his own will and heart. ; 
And this at last, and how soon! was proved, j 
In the autumn following his father’s death 
ho twice went to a neighboring city, on busi- j 
ness, as he affirmed, remaining many days j 
at a time, and this was at a season when, if j 
he thought anything about it, he must have 
known how much his services were needed ! 
at home. And the objects of these visits 
with each other, and infinitely diversified as 
human nature is, these passions we shall find, 
the ono or the other, in every character I were made very apparent when, on his birth | 
formed and matured on earth, a very foun- j day, he brought sorrow and indignation 
dation stone. Let us, dear friends and 
brethren, on this New Year morning read a 
a short sermon on the subject—and do not 
in the end declare that the preacher has 
preached a love story and nothing else—for 
if it comes to that, 1 shall justify myself by 
saying that all life is hut a love story, with 
variations, which might lead to an argument. 
And friends should not disagree—at least on 
a New Year day.. 
Marks’ house at the time of its owner’s 
death stood where Marks’ house, at the time 
of its owner’s birth did stand, but it was a 
habitation after quite another style. Carl¬ 
ton Marks was horn under a “ vine and fig 
tree,” that was little better than a shed, and 
Carlton Marks died in a fine stone mansion 
worthy the possession of a man who might, 
for many reasons, be termed one of the Prin¬ 
ces of the Soil. All his energies, certainly, 
and almost all his thoughts, had been expend¬ 
ed on that broad tract of land left him, 
and him alone, by his father, for Carlton was 
an only child. 
For "fifty years he had toiled and spent 
himself upon the farm, content to yield his 
individual weapons of labor never, until 
sickness brought him down at last, and death 
suddenly closed-his account with life.— 
Marks died at peace with all men—he was 
a Christian man, an honest and hard work¬ 
ing man. None of the property added by 
himself to that which he inherited, had been 
acquired by fraudulent means—he bad lived 
in quiet, and for the most part in entire 
peace with all with whom he had to deal— 
and therefore when he died, it was the gen¬ 
eral, and honestly accorded tribute, that a 
good man had departed. True, among 
some less fortunate, and less worthy, also, 
than himself, he had the name of being 
“ close.” “ hard-fisted ”—but it was remark¬ 
able that beyond the circle of idlers and 
drones, there were none who applied such 
epithets—and it was a consolation that his 
good old widow Ruth might well lay to heart 
when Carlton was gone, that not one dollar 
of his money, not one rod of their land, had 
been procured by defrauding the weak, or 
robbing the fatherless. 
Across the road from where this fine 
house in the centre of its fine garden-sur- 
on 
his dead father’s household. He had sold 
his farm—on this day were the papers sign¬ 
ed—on this day his partnership with a city 
merchant was formed—and now he was go¬ 
ing to be himself a citizen! It was a sad 
New Year they celebrated at home. In vain 
,the elder brothers came to their mother’s 
rescue, bringing out every argument of 
which they could conceive, to convince Lu¬ 
cas of the folly of such a movement—they 
only met the most obstinate opposition, and 
finally with the reward which such entreat- 
ers usually receive, anger and recrimination 
from their boy-brother, and an insulting de¬ 
claration that he intended to make a man of 
himself, and not a beast of the field by such 
labor as their father had always imposed 
upon them. When matters had arrived at 
this climax, William and Frank, and their 
mother, suspended every attempt they were 
making to change the current of the hoy’s 
inclination—and, rather than part with him 
in anger, and suffer him to go away from 
them, perhaps forever, with unpleasant and 
hateful recollections of his old home, and 
fireside friends, they immediately set to 
work and prepared to make the parting one 
of affection and tenderness. 
It was a sad breaking up of the house¬ 
hold, for it seemed nothing less to those who 
remained, and what has been felt in many 
a circle, was felt then, when the high-spirit¬ 
ed and light-hearted Lucas went away. 'To 
the mother it was all as though a second 
death had beon there, anil she could never 
speak of the hoy, nor utter a hope for his 
career, prosperity, and virtue, without tears. 
He was very dear to each one of them, as I 
have said, and so different from them all, in 
nature, that even to William, plodding work¬ 
man as he was, the departure of Lucas was 
like a shutting out of sunshine, 
been the pet of all, if not the wholly ap¬ 
proved of till; and, though they to the last 
looked with regret on his unalterable pur¬ 
pose, and regarded that portion of the es¬ 
tate to which the boy was heir as good as 
lost, for they anticipated nothing but an ut¬ 
ter failure in this his great venture, not one 
of them but stood prepared, willing to di¬ 
vide with him again, and share with him to j 
the last, if lie would only come back and j 
roundings stood, on the hill that rose full in I dwell among them once more, 
sight of all travelers, as well as of his home : Glowing descriptions and accounts of his 1 
new life were now often coming back to the 
farmers at Hillside. Lucas was so happy, 
so contented, so sure that he had found his 
true place, so bent on improvement, and on 
making a man of himself, as he was always 
saying—so prosperous too, that they in turn 
became satisfied, and almost as fearless for 
the adventurer as he was for himself—though 
the elders could but smile over that deter¬ 
mination after manliness and manhood so 
often inserted in his letters as before time 
in his talk; and the mother with a proud 
glance upon the stalwart sons who remained 
to he the consolation of her old age, would 
often say, “ I wonder what our Lucas means 
by all this talk—wasn’t his father a man be¬ 
fore him? and aren’t you men, both of you? 
Your old mother is satisfied with you, any 
way,”—and the smile with which the words 
were said, was directed as tenderly towards 
the absent and vaunting boy, as to the fine 
young fellows who were so diligent in the 
performance of every understood duty. 
William, in his sober industry, and con¬ 
stant employment, had never a thought (or 
perhaps, wish, were truer,) for another com¬ 
panion in his household than his still ener¬ 
getic and dear mother. If ever a man was 
“cut out” for a bachelor, he was. ft was 
work from morning till night that he cared 
about—improvements in his farm, inventions 
in cultivation, and in the weapons of the 
field; these ivere the subjects of his dream¬ 
ing hours. Frank was more wakeful, and 
alive to social enjoyments, and not always 
contented to sit, as William could, hour af¬ 
ter hour, when there was no work to do, 
poring over some old newspaper, or dozing 
in his chair. Frequently, and especially af¬ 
ter Lucas went away, he was a visitor in the 
neighbors’ houses—and his social predilec¬ 
tions “grew upon him,” and finally he was 
heard begging of his mother that paring- 
bees and merry makings might once more 
be held in their kitchen—for accumulated 
invitations pressed upon his mind like a 
heavy debt, he said. And so it was that a 
sound of feasting and jollity was heard once 
more in one of the greatest of the great 
houses then known in the county. 
It was on this occasion, when Frank for 
the first time acted in the capacity of host 
—for William was on the occasion little more 
than a looker-on—that our friend began to 
think of the practicability and wisdom of 
having a house, and a household of his own; 
that is to say, the idea of matrimony on this 
occasion obtained its first and clear posses¬ 
sion of him, and never for a day after did 
the idea lose ground with him; how could 
it?—there was Bessie Neale forever before 
Lis mind’s eye, from the very moment when 
she, blushing yet so proud, came straight up 
to him, and, in payment of her forfeit in the 
game, kissed him! That was a shock ho 
could not recover from; it seemed as though 
she had set her seal in the act upon his 
heart, and there it was, her own by right 
thenceforth. Of late years Frank Marks 
had not known much of the young girl, 
though she had never set foot in conveyance 
that bore her ntore than ten miles away from 
home. So engrossed had he been in other 
matters that ha had not thought to think of 
her, even of Iter rapid growth up into wo¬ 
manhood, of her loveliness or goodness.— 
But his destiny lay in that kiss, and he could 
not help it. Day and night—in the field 
with his ploy—in the woods with his axe— 
on the liill-sido with his flocks, no matter 
what he was doing or where ho went, the 
thought of that girl went with him—an ab¬ 
sorbing dream, an idea that made a romance 
of every day he lived. And with that 
thought and dream he went to her often, 
and gladly at last, to tell her all about it— 
and to hear her say “yea and verily,” to all 
he asked, and what he asked, thou, dear 
friend, knowest as well as I, for neither ever 
repeated the conversation that I have heard, 
and sometimes, had as the practice is, wo 
must judge from appearances! 
About this time, the autumn following his 
departure from home, Lucas returned, as 
complete a transformation in bodily pre¬ 
sentment as city tailleurs ever made of sen¬ 
sible, and honest country lad, (and oh, what 
transformations they do make sometimes!) 
But he camo back to those who received 
him with open arms—ho was not so dis¬ 
guised, to their view, with all his new ideas, 
and fine dress, that they could not recog¬ 
nize or welcome him. For a fortnight the 
returned son was a joy to the house, (even 
to Frank, who nevertheless plainly expressed 
a fear that Lucas was making a fool of him¬ 
self.) and the lion of, the neighborhood— 
and fine use made lie of his time, or one 
young soul had not been so thoroughly pos¬ 
sessed with the bewildering idea that he had 
returned for no other purpose than just to 
secure her affections, and obtain her prom¬ 
ise to marry him! Day after day saw him 
going up the hill to the house where the 
playmate of past days, the betrothed of 
Frank, young Bessie Neale, was living. He 
went to pay his respects tc his brother’s 
promised wife, it was said, but the heart 
that beat and throbbed so strangely, and 
unquietly whenever ho appeared within her 
father’s house—the soul so wrought up by 
his descriptions of the brilliant fairy-land 
of the city in which he lived—the min'd that 
echoed back his false sentiment of contempt 
for the plodding and dull part his brothers 
had chosen in these “back-wood” regions— 
tlio fancy that glowed, as though fired for 
the first time by descriptions of the gay 
scenes that surrounded him in his new home 
He had ; —the thought that began to pine after oc¬ 
cupation amidst such scenes—the heart that 
was overcome by his soft words, at last 
know better. Poor Bessie! it was a wild 
dream she was dreaming then! Poor Lucas! 
it was a wretched fool-and-villain-part that 
he was playing then ! 
Frank had no heart to bo moved by the 
change she made in her opinion, and wish, 
—so Lucas thoroughly persuaded her in his 
reckless and overweening vanity,—and, re¬ 
joicing, yes, rejoicing ! in that assurance, and 
llie conviction of his own absolute devotion, 
the youth left her, with the single injunction 
that their engagement was to remain a se¬ 
cret hid deej) in her own heart till he should 
come to claim her. And to the remonstrance 
which was at first raised against this perfid¬ 
ious part, by her better nature, his careless 
reply was that Frank would soon enough 
find a partner that would satisfy him, who 
would be as much to him as any woman 
ever could be—as for herself, it was but mad¬ 
ness, sin even, to think of wasting away life 
there—go with him she should! lie con¬ 
quered her conscience, and she promised 
him all that he would have. 
Without even a suspicion of this nefarious 
explosion of his younger brother’s vanity, 
and resolve “ to see what he could do,” nor 
a dream of Bessie's faithlessness, Frank bu¬ 
sied himself during the winter with making- 
all necessary arrangements for building his 
house in tho coming spring—its site was 
chosen by Bessie and himself, and many a 
plan discussed for till its arrangements, and 
tor the garden and yards; they were having 
an eye to more than comfort, even to the 
beautifying of their new home. And all 
this tiino, in all these discussions, never a 
word or tone gave evidence of the betrayal 
the young, trusted girl was meditating of 
tho strong and true man’s love. Blind "pas¬ 
sion, his beauty and polish, tho excitement 
he had imparted to her imagination with his 
tales of city life, nerved her while she play¬ 
ed her part of perfidy. And if ever a re¬ 
morseful thought tempted her to the con¬ 
fession that he was really nothing to her, 
and she never meant to marry him, recol¬ 
lection of what Lucas had assured her, and 
a conviction that had voluntarily added 
itself that ho spoke the truth, strengthened 
her purpose. Frank would readily find an¬ 
other who would take her place when she 
was gone, and he knew her married to an¬ 
other ; he would not be the man to go on 
through life alone, without consolation. So 
through all the spring time and the summer 
she watched, with him, the progress of their 
house toward completion. 
And now it was that Frank began to speak, 
of tho wedding day,-and impatiently to ask 
when it should he—for the question seemed 
to confuse and bewilder strangely one who 
had thought, who must have thought on it 
so long. It was delayed from the midsum¬ 
mer until autumn at first, and then, not¬ 
withstanding all his remonstrances, from 
autumn until the winter holidays. Then 
Frank declared his wedding should he on 
Lucas’ birth-day, and that Lucas should bo 
his groomsman; so it was finally arranged 
that the ceremony should bo performed on 
the First of January. To tho invitation 
forthwith extended to him, Lucas replied in 
a gay strain of acceptance, and with horror 
and dismay did Bessie Neale go through the 
intervening months to tho mid-winter holi¬ 
days. None to bear with her tho burden of 
that secret—none to share with her the 
anxiety that his long silence towards her 
awakened—none to assure her in the silence 
of night, and the loneness of noonday, when 
only her rebellious heart prompted her to 
withhold the confession of her falsity from 
the honest and trusting soul which she knew, 
and could not avoid knowing, for all that 
Lucas had said to the contrary, loved her as 
he could never love another. 
The last night of December had arrived, 
and the youngest son of widow Marks had 
not yet come. For. several weeks nothing 
had been heard from him—and in the last 
few days the inmates of the stone house at 
Hillside had grown very anxious as they 
kept an hourly and vain watch for his appear¬ 
ing. Bessie sat in her mother’s sitting-room 
pale as a ghost, undecided, conscience- 
stricken and tearless—her parents were with 
her, as silent and tremulous as herself, for 
Bessie was their only child, and now that 
she was about to go from their care to that 
of another, highly as they thought of him, 
fully as they confided in him, they grieved 
over their own loss sorely, for such they felt 
her going to he. 
With a mortal dread such as she had 
never experienced, the young betrothed 
heard the footsteps of Frank Marks at last, 
as lie came through tho hall, and stopped 
before the door of the room where they 
were gathered, the room in which all those 
visits, to him so blessed, were made. Father 
Neale arose to admit, and welcome his son- 
in-law, with a cordial grasping of tho hand, 
and unaffected words of greeting. 
“ You are very sad here to-night,” Frank 
said, after a vain attempt to speak in his or¬ 
dinary tone, and to command his voice and 
tears. “ You are feeling had about Bessie 
having to go over to my house to-morrow— 
hut there’s a worse grief in my poor moth¬ 
er’s heart.” 
A cloud as heavy and dreadful as though 
it dropped from the Region of Darkness 
seemed to fall down upon her soul, as Bessie 
heard these words, and felt Frank’s hand 
clasping hers so tenderly, and his eyes fixed 
so beseechingly upon her; she knew that he [ 
was looking to her in some calamity for con¬ 
solation, and she grasped his hand in turn 
as though for rescue from tho gulf on whose 
very verge she stood. 
“Formercy’s sake, what is it ?” exclaimed 
Father Neale, in alarm. 
“ Our poor Lucas—we’ve been looking for 
him so long—he’s dead!” 
Again Frank turned to Bessie, who was 
Standing now beside him, and the strong¬ 
man’s heart was waiting for tho woman’s 
sympathy and tender word, for all that 
should prove that they were already one in 
joy and in sorrow, for all that should justify 
the ceremonial appointed for the New Year 
day, the to-morrow for which he had waited 
so long and so impatiently as the consum¬ 
mation of his earthly desires, when she and 
he should have one home together; but as 
he looked a chilling disappointment,*, and 
undisguised astonishment, and then a dead¬ 
ly fear crept over him, and to hide that j 
strange and hideous smile that fixed upon i 
the face upturned to meet his expectant, j 
downward glancing, ho folded Bessie Neale 
involuntarily in his arms, to his breast!_ 
But the weight grew heavy there, and un¬ 
consciously his embrace grew less a support, 
and then—then the senseless maniac fell to 
the floor, and lay there at his feet; an awful, 
but who shall say an unfitting, and untime¬ 
ly humiliation. He raised her up in wild 
alarm; he bore her to her bed, and there 
till the morning’s dawn watched over her 
forgetful even of the mourners at home, in 
his care, and love..and mourning over one 
who had no claim, though he was spared the 
bitterness of this knowledge, on lus care, or 
love, or sorrow. 
The sudden shock was. after that night of 
convulsion, and judgment swift and terrible, 
followed by no days of languishing, and 
sickness; only by an incurable insanity— 
a harmless and hopeless insanity, that left 
poor Bessie Neale in her blooming woman¬ 
hood. to an unending, remediless childhood! 
AY bile Lucas Marks was preparing to stand 
a witness to that scene of contusion which 
his own unaccountable weakness, sin, and 
folly had arranged, total ruin came swiftly 
upon him; the last dollar that he owned 
vanished like a vision in an unfortunate 
speculation. Then days of reckless dissi¬ 
pation followed, which made a speedy wreck 
ot a constitution already undermined by 
wild excesses—so that the rumor which 
came home like a lightning-flash, blighting 
and destroying to till the fond hopes and 
dreams cherished there, was no vain, false 
rumor; the gay, the beautiful and beloved 
Lucas had died in a drunken revelry. 
1 said that the Marks family burial ground 
had since the fall of these December snows 
received another inmate, who bore a differ¬ 
ent name from till who had heretofore found 
place for resting there. Yes ! it is so—but 
though the arm of Frank Marks has so re¬ 
cently supported a frail and insane creature 
down to the very gates of death, and would 
to save her one pang have gone through the 
very portals with her, had that been possi¬ 
ble, you will not find upon this New Year 
Day a happier man than he, who, when Bes¬ 
sie’s parents died, received the poor and 
dowerless lunatic into his own house, and 
cherished her there, whom once he thought 
to cherish as a wile, with all a parent’s ten¬ 
derness. 
There may have come to him. aye, there 
did come to him, a knowledge that was 
very grievous to his heart—and because of 
that knowledge there has never since that 
winter of his disappointment, when the 
snows fell on his heart, there has never since 
then come to him a holiday, but many and 
many a holy day instead—and better truth 
than this could he written of no mortal who 
has seen the mystery of the Christinas and 
tho New Year explode, as a bubble, before 
the seeing eye of manhood. 
Never upon Bessie Neale in deed, never 
upon Lucas in thought, fell one bitter re¬ 
joicing over the interposing vengeance of the 
Almighty; for them Frank Marks had only 
one idea—forgiveness—and no tears but of 
tenderness and pity. 
I- or this, his Charity, which is the free gift 
of Gods grace, denied to none who will re¬ 
ceive it, does Frank Marks stand to-day as 
much a hero in the sight of Heaven, as any 
of the demi-gods of this age to whom the 
crowds bow down! “Greatest”—well was 
this said of thee, Spirit of Charity !—Great¬ 
er art thou who makest Angels of men, 
than even the Faith and the Hope through 
which “we are gods by our ou-n reckoning.” 
IT IS HARD TIMES. 
“ It is hard times,” says the young man, 
as lie puffs a three cent cigar, or pays twen¬ 
ty-five cents for a circus ticket—• It’s hard 
times, and I can't afford to take a paper.” 
“ The times are hard,” says the man with 
a large family; “ I have six children to clothe, 
feed, and provide a school for; I can’t afford, 
to have a newspaper.” Poor man! what a 
pity he does not know that three months’ 
schooling in a year with a weekly paper, is 
better for his children than six months’ with¬ 
out the paper. 
“ The times are hard,” says tho young- 
woman, as she gives twenty-five cents just 
for a ribbon to wear around her neck—“ the 
times are so hard I cannot subscribe for your 
paper, though I like it, and should be glad 
to have it.” Poor girl! 
Now my friendly advice to these and all 
others, is, to consider a good paper as one 
of the necessaries of life, quite as needful to 
the mind as raiment and food for the body. 
—Portland Pleasure Boat. 
MOORE’S RURAL AW-YORKEK: 
A WEEKLY HOME MiCWSI'APKH, 
Designed for both Country and Towa Residents. 
CONDUCTED BY D. D. T. MOORE, 
Assisted by Messrs. J. H. Bixbv, L. Wether km., 
and H. C. White — with a; numerous corps of 
able Contributors and Correspondents. 
The Rural New-Yorker is designed to be unique and 
beautiful in appearance, and unsurpassed in Value, l’urity 
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