MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
PROGRESS. 
BY PARK BENJAMIN. 
Wirr should min poiidei o’er the olden time— 
Why linger o'er the grandeur that is gone! 
Sad is the visage of the Past and wan, 
Mournful her form and hearing, though sublime. 
Around her towers the ivy loves to climb, 
On her great altars lies the verdant moss 
Robbing their prostrate marble of its gloss, 
And hiding all the glories of their prime. 
Why should we sympathize with long decay! 
Surely in growth there’s something grander still, 
The power that cuts through forest wilds its way — 
The force of man’s unconquerable will— 
The march of Progress, making as she goes 
The desert place to blossom as the rose. 
<£Jjt Hural fketrjj ®oak. 
CHEEK ANT) CHILDREN. 
BY IK, MARYBI,. 
* * * “ Dear Madge!” 
“ Dear Clarence!” 
--And you pass your arm now, uncheck¬ 
ed, around that yielding, graceful figure; 
and fold her to your bosom, with the swift, 
and blessed assurance, that your fullest, and 
noblest dream of love, is won ! 
* * * What a glow there is to the sun! 
—What warmth—and yet it does not op¬ 
press you; what coolness—yet it is not too 
cool. ' The birds sing sweetly; you catch 
yourself watching to soe what new song¬ 
sters they can be:—they are only the old 
robins and thrushes;—yet what a now mel¬ 
ody is in their throats! 
The clouds hang in gorgeousshapes upon 
the sky—shapes they could hardly over have 
fashioned before. The grass was never so 
green, the butter cups were never so plenty; 
there was never such a life in the leaves.— 
It seems as if the joyousness in you, gav<- a 
throb to nature, that made every green thing 
buoyant. 
Faces too are changed: men look pleas¬ 
antly: children are alt charming children; 
even babies look tender and lovable. The 
street beggar at your door _ is suddenly 
grown info a Belisarius, aud is one of the 
most deserving heroes of modern times.— 
Your mind is in a continued ferment: you 
glide through your toil—dashing out spar¬ 
kles of passion—like a ship in the sea. No 
difficulty daunts you; there is a kind of a 
buoyancy in your soul, that rocks over dan¬ 
ger or doubt, as sea waves lave calmly and 
smoothly, over sunken rocks. 
You grow unusually amiable and kind; 
you are earnest in search ot friends; you 
shake hands with your office boy, as if ho 
were your second cousin. You joke cheer¬ 
fully with the stout washerwoman; and give 
her a shilling over change, and insist upon 
her keeping it; and grow quite merry at 
the recollection of it. You tap your hack- 
man on the shoulder very familiarly, and 
tell him he is a capital fellow; and don’t al¬ 
low him to whip his horses, except when 
driven to the post office. You even ask him 
to take a glass of beer with you, upon some 
chilly evening. You drink to the health of 
his wife. lie says ho has no wife : \\ here¬ 
upon you think him a very miserable man, 
and give him a dollar by way ot consolation. 
You think all the editorials in the morn¬ 
ing papers are remarkably well written, 
whether upon your side or upon the other. 
You t hin k tho stock market has a very 
cheerful look,—even with Frio—ol which 
you are a large holder—down to seventy- 
five. You wonder why you never admired 
Mrs. Homans before, or Stoddard, or any of 
the rest. 
You give a pleasant curl to your fingers, 
as you saunter along the street; and say— 
but not so loud as to ho overheard—" olio is 
mine—she is mine.” 
You wonder if Frank over loved Nelly, 
one-half as well as you love Madge! You 
feel quite sure he never did. Y ou can hard¬ 
ly conceive how it is, that Madge has not 
been seized before now, by. scores of en¬ 
amored men, and borne off, like the Sabine 
women in Romish history. You chuckle 
over your future, liko a boy who lias found 
a guinea, in groping for sixpences. You 
read over the marriage service,—thinking 
of tho time when you will take her hand, 
and slip tho ring upon her finger; and re¬ 
peat after the clergyman—"for richer for 
poorer; for better—for worse! A great 
deal of worse there will be about it, you 
think! 
Through all, your heart cleaves to that 
sweet image of tho beloved Madge, as light 
cleaves to day. Tho weeks leap with a 
bound; and the months only grow long, 
when you approach that day which is to 
mako her yours. There are no flowers rare 
enough to make boquets for her; diamonds 
are too dim for her to view; pearls are 
tame. 
-And after marriage, tho weeks are 
even shorter than before; you wonder why 
on earth all the single men in tho world do 
not rush tumultuously to the Altar; you 
look upon them all as a travelled man will 
look upon some conceited Dutch boor, who 
has never been beyond the limits of his cab- 
bago garden. Married men, on the contra¬ 
ry, you regard as fellow voyagers; and look 
upon their wives—ugly as they may be—as 
better than none. 
You blush a little, at first telling your 
butcher what “your wife” would liko; you 
bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, 
and wonder if he knows that you are a mar¬ 
ried man? You practice your new way of 
talk upon your office boy; you tell him that 
your wifo expects you home to dinner, and 
are astonished that ho does not stare to hear 
you say it! 
You wonder if the people in the omnibus 
know that Madge and you are just married; 
and if the driver knows, that the shilling 
you hand to him, is “for self and wife?”— 
Y'ou wonder if any body was ever so happy 
beforo, or ever will be so happy again? 
You enter your name upon the hotel 
books as “ Clarence - and Lady;” and 
come back to look at it, wondering if any 
body else had noticed it,—and thinking that 
it looks remarkably well. Y'ou cannot help 
thinking that every third man you meet in 
the hall, wishes he possessed your wife;—nor 
do you think it very sinful in him to wish it. 
Y'ou fear it is placing temptation in the way 
of covetous men, to put Madge’s little gait¬ 
ers outside the chamber door at night. 
Your homo, when it is entered, is just 
what it should be:—quiet, small—with ev¬ 
erything she wishes, and nothing more than 
she wishes. The sun strikes it in the hap¬ 
piest possible way:—the piano is the sweet- 
est-toned in the world:—the library is stock- 
j ed to a charm;—and Madge, that blessed 
I wife, is there,—adorning and giving life to 
it all. To think even of her possible death, 
is a suffering you class with the infernal tor¬ 
tures of the imagination. Y’ou grow twain 
of heart and of purpose. Smiles seem 
made for marriage; and you wonder how 
you ever wore them before! 
So, a year and more wears off, of min¬ 
gled home-life, visiting and travel. A new 
hope and joy lightens home,—there is a 
child there. 
-What a joy to ho a father! What new 
emotions crowd tho eye with tears, and 
make the hand tremble! What a benevo¬ 
lence radiates from you toward the nurse, 
—toward the physician,—toward every¬ 
body ! What a holiness and sanctity of love 
grows upon your old devotion to that wife 
of your bosom,—tho mother of your child! 
The excess of joy seems almost to blur 
the stories of happiness which attach to 
heaven. You are now joined, as you were 
never joined before, to the great family of 
man. Your name and blood will live after 
you; nor do you once think (what father 
can?) but that it will live honorably and 
well. 
With what a new air you walk the streets! 
With what a triumph you speak in your let¬ 
ter to Nelly,—of “ your family!” Who, that 
has not felt it, knows what it is—to be “a 
man of family!” 
How weak now, seem all the imaginations 
of your single life ! what bare, dry skeletons 
of the reality, they furnished! Y'ou pity 
tho poor fellows who have no wives and 
children,—from your soul; you count their 
smiles as empty smiles, put on to cover the 
lack that is in them. There is a froo-mason- 
ry among fathers, that they know nothing 
of. You compassionate them deeply: yon 
think them worthy objects of some charita¬ 
ble association: you would cheerfully buy 
tracts for them, if they would but read them, 
—tracts on marriage and children. 
-And then “the boy’- such a boy! 
There was a time, when you thought all 
babies very much alike:-alike? Is your 
boy liko anything, except tho wonderful fel¬ 
low that ho is? Was there over a baby seen, 
or even read of, like that baby? 
-Look at him:—pick him up in his 
long, white gown: he may have an excess 
of color,—but such a pretty color; ho is a 
little pouty about the mouth—but such a 
mouth! 1 Lis hair is a little scant, and he is 
rather wandering in the eye; but, good 
Heavens—what an eye ! 
There was a time when you thought it ve¬ 
ry absurd for fathers to talk about their 
children; but it does not seem at all absurd 
now. Y’ou think, on tho contrary, that your 
old friends, who used to sup with you at the 
club, would bo delighted to know how your 
baby is getting on, and how much he meas¬ 
ures round the calf of tho leg! If they 
pay you a visit, you are quite sure they are 
in agony to see Frank; and you hold the 
little squirming fellow in your arms, half 
conscience smitten, for provoking them to 
such envy, as they must be suffering. Y’ou 
make a settlement upon the boy with a 
chuckle,—as if you were treating yourself 
to a mint-julep,—instead of conveying away 
a few thousand of seven per cents. 
-Then tho boy develops astonishingly. 
What a head—what a foot,—what a voice ! 
And he is so quiet withal;—never known to 
cry, except under such provocation as would 
draw tears from a heart of adamant; in 
short, for the first six months he is never 
anything, but gentle, patient, earnest, loving, 
intellectual and magnanimous. Y’ou are 
half afraid that some of the physicians will 
be reporting the case, as one of the most re¬ 
markable instances of perfect moral and 
physical development on record. 
But the years roll on, in the which your 
extravagant fancies die into tho earnest ma¬ 
turity of a father’s love. Y'ou struggle gai¬ 
ly with the cares that life brings to your 
door. You feel the strength of three beings 
in your single arm; and feel your heart 
warming toward God and man with the ad¬ 
ded warmth of two other loving and trust¬ 
ful beings. 
How eagerly you watch the first tottering 
step of that hoy: how you riot in tho joy 
and pride that swell to that mother's eyes, 
as they follow his feeble, staggering motions! 
Can God bless his creatures more than he 
has blessed that dear Madge and you? Has 
Heaven even, richer joys, than live in that 
home of yours? 
By and by he speaks; and minds tie to¬ 
gether by language, as the hearts have long 
tied by looks. He wanders with you, feebly, 
and with slow, wondering paces, upon the 
verge of the great universe of thought.— 
llis little eye sparkles with some vague fan¬ 
cy, that comes upon him first, by language. 
Madge teaches him the words of affection 
and of thankfulness, and she teaches him 
to lisp an infant prayer; and by secret pains, 
(how could sho bo so secret?) instructs him 
in somo little phrase of endearment that 
she knows will touch your heart; and then 
sho watches your coming; and tho little fel¬ 
low runs towards you, and warbles out his 
lesson of lovo in tones that forbid you any 
answer,—savo only thoso brimming eyes,— 
turned first, on her and then on him; and 
poorly concealed by the quick embrace and 
the kisses you shower in transport. 
Still slip on the years, like brimming 
bowls of nectar! Another Madge is sister 
to Frank; and a little Nelly is younger sis¬ 
ter to this other Madge. 
-Three of them !—a charmed and 
mystic number; which, if it be broken id 
these young days.—as, alas! it may be!— 
will only yield a cherub angel to float over 
you ami to float over them—wean you and 
wean them from this world, where all joys 
do perish, to tint superb world where joys 
do last forever !—Dream Life. 
“THE WIFE FOR ME!” 
Horace Hastings was a sober, sensible, 
enterprising bachelor, of some seven and 
twenty years, who having obtained an ex¬ 
cellent reputation by his industry and in¬ 
tegrity, and havihg made himself useful to 
the mercantile firm in Boston, with whom 
he had served an apprenticeship, was at 
length invited to a partnership in the con¬ 
cern. For somo time ho had been en¬ 
couraged to anticipate t^is elevation, and he 
soberly and dnergetically entered upon the 
new duties of his position. When business 
crowded, he had but little leisure to mourn 
over his celibate condition, but when the 
hurrying season was over, and hours each 
day hung heavy upon his hands, he could 
not help thinking how delightful it would he, 
had he but a house and a gentle wife of his 
own. Pecuniary circumstances now war¬ 
ranted such luxuries, and he resolved to 
marry, when he could find a lady “just 
suited to his mind.” 
Near a country village in Maine, not a \ 
thousand miles from Bangor, lived an old 
friend of his father, and being on a collec¬ 
ting tour in that region during the autumn 
months, he determined to accept an oft- 
repeated invitation to spend a few days with 
tho old gentleman, and sent a note anounc- 
ing his coming. 
At the appointed timo he reached tho 
residence of his old friend, and found that 
the family were prepared and pleased to 
welcome him as a guest. In the parlor were 
two young ladies, well dressed and quite 
handsome. Ho was duly introduced to 
Misses Jane and Charlotte, and found them 
accomplished and sensible young ladies.— 
Being just now very susceptible to the ten¬ 
der passion, ho was easily pleased, and ex¬ 
erted his powers to render himself agreeable 
to the flattered maidens, lie succeeded, of 
course. Sensible men. of his ago and pros¬ 
pect, always do, when they try. Aud as his 
eye wandered in conversation from one 
handsome, intelligent face to another, he 
caught himself several times mentally in¬ 
quiring, “YVhich would make tho better 
wife?” 
The mother, and a neat looking maid, 
were seen at intervals passing from tho 
kitchen preparing the supper. The girl 
who set out the table and spread the white, 
stainless cloth, and arranged the plates, 
seemed to do it so gracefully and quietly, as 
if she had made such duties a study as a 
science, won a passing glance of admiration 
as a very neat and pretty servant—a model' 
of a “help.” Altogether, he thought it was 
a charming family. When they sat at the. 
cheerful supper, and ho tasted tho light, 
home made bread, and the sweet, fresh but¬ 
ter, and the thinly sliced, home cured beef, 
the hot, well flavored tea, the excellency 
and good taste manifested in the whole or¬ 
dering at home, delighted him even if it was 
his only for a few days. 
After tho supper was over, and tho table 
was cleared a third young lady, very neatly 
dressed, entered the room, and was formally 
introduced to him as ono of tho sisters, Miss 
Sarah. Ho was not a littlo surprised to 
find that tho neat servant girl, whose handy 
work had won his admiration, was one of 
tho sisters. He found her sprightly, cheer¬ 
ful, as accomplished, and he thought a little 
more graceful, than Jane, who was elder, or 
Charlotte, who was younger than herself.— 
He thought a little more meanly of himself, 
for having taken her to be a hired girl in 
the family, but not, a whit more meanly of 
her for having revealed herself in that ca¬ 
pacity. And his perplexity was somewhat 
increased as he sat down on his bed side in 
tins chamber to which ho was shown by his 
host, and said to himself, “Which of tho 
three?” 
In tho morning, after a night’s sound 
sleep—for he was not sufficienly in love to 
keep him awake—ho entered the breakfast 
room, and was soon joined by the two young 
ladies, who had first welcomed him. Sarah 
was not yet visible, but when they sat down 
at table, and Jane had poured out the coffee, 
Sarah came smiling in behind a clean, white 
apron, and with a steaming pile of hot buck¬ 
wheat cakes in her hand, which from the 
hue of her cheeks sho had just been baking. 
If there was a blush on her cheeks, any eye 
might see it was forced there by the fire, 
and not by any sense of degradation, on ac¬ 
count of tho office she so gracefully filled. 
She greeted the guest with a welcome smile 
deposited her load of edibles, and returned 
to tho kitchen, whence she tripped again in 
a few minutes with another plate of cakes, 
most beautifully baked, by nor own skill. 
Horace eat a large quantity of them, more 
than enough merely to satisfy hunger, be¬ 
cause of the beautiful little hands that had 
made them. And then he wandered over 
the farm with tho old man, and prated of 
horses and cows and crops, as though he 
knew something about them as well as broad¬ 
cloths and calicoes. At dinner timo, Jane 
and Charlotte were in the parlor waiting 
for him, and Sarah, as usual, was bustling 
about tho kitchen. “I do wish,” said he, 
sotto voce, “ that one of thoso girls would 
take Sarah’s place in tho kitchen a little 
while, that I might find out some of their 
housekeeping qualities, and that 1 might 
havo a littlo more chat with her.” 
But he waited for such change in vain, 
though ho found somo opportunities of con¬ 
verse, and discovered all he wished to know 
just then, about her mental qualifications 
and acquirements, and at the close of the 
fourth day, just before he got into bod, he 
slapped the white counterpane emphatically 
and said to it—as there was nobody in tho 
room, I suppose he must have spoken to the 
counterpane or the bed post"—She’s the wife 
for me.” 
The next day was the outer limit of his 
visit, and as he stood at the window after 
breakfast, ho saw Sarah, with that witching 
white apron, trip out into the orchard to 
shako down some apples—for it was baking 
day and pies were to be made. Horace stroll¬ 
ed out after her, and shook the tree, and 
helped pick up tho apples, and carried 
the basket as they returned slowly, very 
slowly, to the house. What it was he whis¬ 
pered in her ear she never told, but she 
seemed not displeased, though evidently 
surprised and a little frightened. 
A year after Horace was at the house of 
his old friend again, and this time Sarah 
was not so much in the kitchen. There were 
great preparations for a wedding going for¬ 
ward, and in a few days Sarah became Mrs. 
Horace Hastings,—and now in a splendid 
Boston mansion she fully justifies tho wis¬ 
dom of her dear husband’s choice, by being 
to him a most excellent wife and a superla¬ 
tive housekeeper.— Watchman and Reflector. 
IkmomiB uni) Amusing. 
THE LOCOMOTIVE DECLARATION. 
We cut the fo’lowing from the Knickerbocker. It is 
called ‘’The Locomotive Declaration,” and is certainly 
one of the cleverest things of the kind that we have ever 
seen. The reader can almost feel the click-clack motion 
of the cars: 
By those cheeks of lovely hue; 
By those eyes of deepest blue, 
Which thy very soul looks through, 
As if, forsooth, those clear blue eyes, 
Were portals into paradise;- 
By that alabaster brow; 
By that hand as white as snowj 
By that proud angelic form; 
By that rounded, classic arm; 
By those locks of raven hair; 
By those vermeil lips, I swear; 
By the ocean by the air; 
By the lightning and the thunder; 
By all things on eartli and under; 
By the electric telegraph; 
By my future “ better half;” 
By our vespers, by our dreams; 
By our matins and Te Deums; 
By young Cupid, by my Muse; 
By—whatever else you choose; 
Yes, 1 swear by all creation. 
And this endless “ Yankee nation,” 
That 
I 
love 
you 
like 
tion! 
(Whistles and then stops.) 
In a Dilemma. —We were much amused 
by an incident which a friend of ours related 
to lis the other day. A gentleman who had 
been absent for a considerable time, and who 
during his absence, had raised a pretty lux¬ 
uriant crop of whiskers, moustaches, &c., 
visited a relative, whose child—an artless 
little girl of five or six years—he was very 
fond of. Tho littlo girl made no demon¬ 
stration towards saluting him with a kiss, as 
was usual. 
“ Why, child,” sqid tho mother, “ don’t 
you know your Uncle Hiram ? Why don’t 
you give him a kiss ?”* 
“Why, ma,” returned tho little girl, with 
tho most perfect simplicity, “ I don’t see 
any place!” 
“ Mind your P's and Q’s ?”—A modern 
antiquarian has put tho world right in re¬ 
lation to that saving: In alo-houses, in tho 
olden time, when chalk “scores” were mark¬ 
ed upon the wall, or behind the door of the 
tap-room, it was customary to put tho ini¬ 
tials “P” and “Q” at the head of every 
man’s account, to show tho number of “pints” 
and “quarts” for which he was in arrears; 
and we may presume many a friendly rustic 
to have tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, 
when he was indulging too freely in his po¬ 
tations, and to have exclaimed, as ho point¬ 
ed to the chalk-score, “Mind your P's and 
Q’s, man! mind your P’s and Q’s !”— Har¬ 
pers Magazine. 
] b nmnmi 
“ Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt; 
Nothing’s so hard, but search will find it out.' 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
ILLUSTRATED EEBUS.-No. 2 . 
$T> ,Q 
0j 
Rather Dull. —Well, we did hear some¬ 
thing just now that was about as “ verdant” 
as any thing we hake encountered for a long 
time:—“What does that picture mean, in 
Broadway, of two jack-assos with their heads 
together ?” asked an acquaintance of us; 
“and what is the joke of tho words under¬ 
side, ‘When shall wo three meet again ?’ 
They ain’t but two on ’em !” Wo ventured 
to hint to tho querist that he made the third; 
and the thought at onco penetrated to his 
entire thimble-full oY brains.— Knick. Mag. 
An Irish girl hereabout in Gotham, who 
plumed herself upon being employed in a 
“genteel family,” was asked a definition of 
the term. “ Where they have two or three 
kinds of wine, and tho gentleman swears !” 
was the highly satisfactory reply.— Knick¬ 
erbocker Magazine. 
Laconic.— A man made application, a few 
days since, for insurance on a building situ¬ 
ated where there was no fire engine. In 
answer to tho question, “ What are tho fa¬ 
cilities for extinguishing fires ?” lie wrote— 
“It rains sometimes!’’—Pawtucket Gazette. 
Why are sheep supposed to ho great 
gamesters ? Because the young ones are 
seen to gambol (gamble,) and many of tho 
old ones arc black legs. 
Answer next week. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 49 letters. 
My 14, 43, 11, 11 signifies an inclination to do. 
My 2,4, 35, 37, 36 is Heaven’s first law. 
My 4, 13, 38 is a very common color. 
My 35, 39, 40, 43, 37 11 is an editors first name. 
My 27, 8, 12, 28, 25, 34, 26 is much followed in 
the western countries. 
My 12, 5, 48, 46, 49, 36, 18 is one of the United 
States. 
My 6, 18, 10, 47, 29 is what most boys love to do. 
My 32, 25, 12, 38, 2, 3 is a native of a country in 
Asia. 
My 7. 16, 1, 5 is a thriving village in central New 
York. 
My 18, 22, 6, 6, S, 28, 32 is a person whose name 
is on every tongue. 
Mv 9, 43, 11, 11 is small stream of water. 
My 15, 30, 6 signifies assent. 
My 17, 22, 6, 30 is a sweet scented flower. 
My 1, 25, 11; 28, 22, 12 was a celebrated poet. 
My 19, 20, 29, 25, 31, 5 is used at fires. 
My 21, 4, 25, 5, 12, 41, 6 are pleasant to visit. 
My 23, 30,6, 45 is what the Sabbath was made for. 
My 24 11, 11, 25, 5, was an authoress. 
My 33, 12, 6, 42, 26, 40 is the standard of an army. 
My 41, 24, 6, 43, 26, 12, 5, 38 is anything done 
purposely. 
My 41, 11, 24, 39 is a troublesome insect. 
My 47, 7, 33, 45, 32, is called a pearl of matchless 
price. 
My first five is quite a common surname. 
My whole promises to bo both amusing aud 
instructive. 
Albany N. Y. Dec. 27th 1851. s. a. ii. 
■ Answer next week. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
PREMIUM QUESTION. 
Friend Moore: — I forward you the following 
question to be solved by some of the blue or black- 
eyed girls or boys, under 15 years of ago, who 
are readers of the Rural ; and will send, through 
you, those who give a correct analytical .solution a 
copy of Clark’s Intellectual Arithmetic and 
Algebra: 
Question.— A hen’s nest had y eggs in it and was 
robbed three nights in succession ; the first night 
of one half the eggs and half an egg more ; the 
second night one-half ol what was left and half an 
egg more ; the third night of one half of what was 
left, and half an egg more, and then there were 
three remaining. How many eggs were there in 
the nest at first? j, A . o. 
Pigeon Hill, Dec., 1851. 
Answer in three weeks. 
For (he Rural New-Yorker. 
ARITHMETICAL PROBLEM. 
A herring, a lien, and a ham, 
Were set on tho table before us ; 
A bottle, a bowl and a dram, 
Two shillings a piece half a score o’ ns; 
The fish was one fifth of the fowl. 
The fowl was one fifth of the ham, 
The bottle one fifth of the whole, 
, And so was the bowl and the dram 
What is the amount of the whole, and the price 
of each. 
Craigielee, Dec. 1851. a. mc. f. 
JAnswer next week. 
ANSWER TO ILLUSTRATED REEDS, No. 1. 
Sffiy 
Y'OU SHALL SURELY DIE. 
Answer to Illustrated Charade— Moon-shine. 
H nmiuanwwau«uLwna.TH u.u: mb.-jt 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: 
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