f 
'48 
MO ORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER* AN AGRICULTURAL AND EAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
THE VOICE OF HUNGARY. 
BY W.vr. EDWARD KNOWLES. 
Though all our firesides blaze, and tongues be sealed, 
Out lands untilled, and hopes grown cold and still, 
And every effort of our Innds and will 
Be checked, shall we in sullen silence yield?— 
Put by our arms, and break our stainless shields? 
Have we no men and armor left us still. 
To break their ranks? no veterans to drill?— 
Why stand we idlers on the battle-field? 
Let action be our watch-word, while in might 
We rise to drive tli’ invaders from our land.— 
Arise! ye Patriots from your sleep, and smite 
The Austrian hordes, and meet them hand to hand. 
Then shall the conflict, and their rapid flight, 
Speak volumes for our tried and faithful patriot band. 
Wilson, N. Y., Jan., 1852. 
Cl )t Jltirnl fkrtrjj ®ook. 
[Wri'ten expressly for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
AINSLIE, THE BAKER. 
BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO’ 
I HAVE the desire to write a simple history 
—an individual experience. 1 wish to com¬ 
bat thus, in such manner as I may, the spirit 
of these words, to which another gave utter¬ 
ance,—“ it is a heart-breaking thought to 
have lived in vain,” — for my soul rebels 
against a sentiment so thoroughly false.— 
There are vain things in this world, but hu¬ 
man life is not of them. Morally impossi¬ 
ble is it that he upon whom, within whom, 
the Lord Jeiiovaii has breathed the breath 
of life, should live in vain.- “ The good man 
never dies”—and the evil man, let him pay 
good heed to the truth that he is— let him 
understand that he shall bo forever, and he 
will know then why it is that he cannot live 
in vain. 
And yet it was a thought like this that 
rested as a curse upon the mind of a good, 
true man—it darkened his life, his heart, 
his hope. Let us see how ho lived in vain. 
It is the history of Ainslie, the baker, that 
I wish to tell—the history of the tall, gaunt, 
ghastly man, who went out from his shop 
one day, to the little dark bed-room in the 
rear, and laid down there to die. It was 
the first of November—a very cold and damp 
and dismal morning: the blue sky of heaven 
was hid with clouds, such heavy threatening 
clouds]as portend the long and dreary rains 
of Autumn. Not a leaf was clinging now, 
either to the elm or maple branches which 
during all the summer cast such pleasant 
shade around his door;—the storm of a few 
nights since had borne off tho last of the 
withered leaves in triumph, and now, 
“ The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ” 
together, and against tho roof: sad music 
for a melancholy mind, dread music for a 
lonely heart to bear, when faintness is in the 
body, and a thought of death at the heart. 
Ail the desolate dreariness peculiar to au¬ 
tumn in the north, had settled upon tho vil¬ 
lage when Antslie made his last calculation, 
closed his account books, and went off with 
unsteady steps, with aching heart and head, 
to tho room in which ho was to die. 
During the whole of tho year now about 
ended, it had been much in Ainslie’s tho’t 
that at tho very longest he could not last- 
many months,—many weeks longer. IIo 
Avas but little over thirty years of ago, yet 
disoase had worked its way through all his 
system so effectively, that a miracle alone 
could have saved him from the grave. With¬ 
in the few past weeks so startling Avero the 
changes ho saAV and felt within himself, that 
ho had given up all hope of surviving the 
winter, and it Avas in consequence of this 
belief that he had of late days employed him¬ 
self in settling his affairs—in paying off his 
debts, and in attempting to collect the little 
that ayhs due to him. This task Avas now 
completed, and the incitement to exertion 
over, he left the shop in charge of the boy 
Hiram, and went away to die. 
Madame df. Stael beautifully said a truo 
thing : “ If tho separation of body and soul 
were but pangless; if an angel would bear 
away thought and feeling on his Aving—di¬ 
vine sparks that shall return to their source 
—death Avould be then the heart’s spontan¬ 
eous act and ardent prayer, most mercifully 
granted.” There were many points passed 
by this man in tho journey of his life, brief 
as it was, at which he would gladly haA-e 
paused and yielded up his existence. lie 
had the fancy and the mind of a dreamer— 
the ambition of an aspirant soul. From 
childhood it had been his most ardent aim 
and desire to rise in life, as tho truly great 
men rise—ho believed it in his power to do 
some worthy Avork and deed—and not only 
his power, but his mission. He longed, he 
panted, he labored in the manner that Avith 
him was possible, to win for himself a bright er 
and better fortune than that ho saAv was his, 
when he succeeded his parents in their call¬ 
ing. 
But a remediless fhte had brought these 
aspirations one by one—every one of them 
—to nought. There Avas that in himself 
which prevented Ainslie’s rising in the Avorld 
in the way he Avished to do. It Avas a gen¬ 
erous sympathy with, and compassion for, 
the unfortunate with Avhom he had, or had 
not to do—a philanthropy which some call¬ 
ed a disease, and his ruination, that militat¬ 
ed against his amassing fortune to any ex¬ 
tent—and it was by such amassment alone 
that lie could with reason hope to accom¬ 
plish any of his great aims and desires. He 
had lived, he was dying, poor—for Avith a 
free hand that was moved by a kind and 
generous heart, he had cast bread upon the 
waters—and what lie had so lavished he had 
never found again. Disappointments had 
marked the Avhole of Ainslie’s career; he 
had trodden lonely, rough, and troubled 
ways. 
His earliest understood Avish Avas to follow 
some other calling than that to Avhich he 
was bred. Incited and encouraged by his 
father, a man of sterling sense and sober 
thoughtedness, he as a boy, had begun to 
learn the trade—that once acquired he Avas 
to study to his- heart’s content, but a trade 
he must have in the first place. So with a 
sanguine heart the youth deh-ed into the 
mysteries of his father’s calling, and perfect¬ 
ed himself therein. But, for many reasons 
unfortunately, when the time of apprentice¬ 
ship was nearly served out, by which his 
father said he should earn the schooling- 
promised, old Ainslie folloAved in the foot¬ 
steps of his wife, and Avas laid with the dead. 
It AA-as then only left for the son to go into 
the shop again, and there take his father’s 
business into his own hands. 
And this he did. Though the opportu¬ 
nity for striving towards that desired good, 
seemed uoav removed the farther from his 
grasp, he was far from resigning the hope 
of eventually compassing the great end at 
which all his thought aimed. When he suc¬ 
ceeded his father in business, he said to him¬ 
self, “ I will be prudent, and when I am in¬ 
dependent of every body, established as a 
business man, then I will take time for 
study.” Yet forever Avas his large heart act¬ 
ing against this endeavor. 
For three or four years, affairs Avent very 
Avell Avith him; though even then he AA-as not 
laying up a fortune, owing to tho constant 
demands which the generous and pitiful man 
inevitably finds made upon his generosity 
and pity. Besides his OAvn mismanagement 
and miscalculation, an event occurred Avhoso 
results he could not foresee so clearly as the 
Aviso business men around him, and by it his 
ruin Avas hastened. Ainslie had a friend 
avIio Avas engaged in the game of profit and 
loss, yclept merchandize—and to his rescue 
Gideon came at a crisis when greater aid 
than he rendered Avould not have aA r ailed. 
The failure of Sandy Wynn, loft the young 
baker penniless. Tho friends were ruined 
together, and together left penniless. 
But together they did not remain to work 
their way out of tho ruin—S andy Avas not 
so courageous as Ainslie, and he tied as if 
pursued by armed men from the presence 
of his creditors, devoting himself neverthe¬ 
less as he went, to the life of a slaA r e, if he 
could not find a better, for his heart AA-as full 
of remorse and shame, because of the Avork 
he had done, the trust he had abused. Once 
he and Ainslie had dreamed together; ho 
knoAv the impulse that actuated his friend, 
and made him so remarkable for his indus¬ 
try in pursuit of a calling ho disliked, and 
it AA-as his voav as he fled away from the ruin¬ 
ed home of that friend, that he Avould him¬ 
self know not of rest either by day or by 
night, until the great debt was paid, which 
would enable him and Ainslie to enter to¬ 
gether on the labors to which they both 
aspired. 
There were many of these debts Avhich 
were particularly heavy for tho baker to 
hear;—some of the creditors had trusted to 
his uprightness as he had trusted to that of 
others, and they Avero people Avho could ill 
bear the loss of a single dollar. Blamed and 
reproached he Avas at all hands—but there 
Avero a few aa-Iio made no reproaches, and 
the thought of them and of their loss, haunt¬ 
ed him day and night. At this time Ainslie 
might have looked upon himself, had he 
chosen, as Avell rid of an occupation ho never 
liked. He had it in his power to work in 
some other direction and manner than he 
had hitherto. But ho could not think of 
himself as a freeman—his indebtedness 
stared him in the face, look Avhich ever way 
ho Avould—he renounced his old, his vain 
ambition—he would never," he could never 
bo anything more in tho world than he had 
been hitherto. No other plan than this 
most honorable one was presented to his 
mind—A inslie Avent into the employ of a 
baker, once his rival. 
And for seven years he worked as tho em¬ 
ployed never work for their employers, 
Avithout they have some great personal in¬ 
centive to exertion, A great incentive had 
he, and so well did it work in him, and he 
through it, that at the expiration of these 
seven years, he Avas again a freeman his debts 
every one of them paid, and he once more 
in business for himself. To accomplish a 
greater or better thing than this, he had du¬ 
ring those years neither thought or hoped. 
His aspirations and ambition had been van¬ 
quished in his hard and daily labor-*-his 
constitution, naturally frail, Avas broken by 
the great exertions he fcad made. Sandy’s 
bold prophesyings were remembered only 
Avith a dreary smile, and thinking of the 
dreams they had dreamed together, Ainslie’s 
soul could only repeat the words of the 
preacher, “Vanity of vanity!” With the 
compassionate, yet inoro than half con¬ 
temptuous emotion, of one avIio has subsided 
from a high thought’s incitement to a life 
of hopeless drudgery, he thought upon 
himself. 
Dreams of love also, beautiful, bright 
dreams, had fallen to Ainslie’s lot, and the 
same fatality had attended them, that mas¬ 
tered all the impulses of ambition. 
In the employ of the village milliner was 
a young girl, a mero child at the time AA-hen 
tho boy, Gideon, was apprenticed to his 
father. Often, as he went his daily rounds 
with the cart to serve his father’s customers, 
the young baker met this girl, trudging along 
Avith her band-box of finery to the residence 
of a purchaser, and as often as lie looked upon 
her, was ho impressed with the fine, intelli¬ 
gent eyes of Milly Colt. Sometimes when 
passing through the back street in the dreary 
winter mornings, he had seen her trudging 
on in the same path, and then he had inva¬ 
riably insisted on carrying her burden for 
her in his cart;—ho had treated her to a 
ride more than once besides. So their ac¬ 
quaintance AA-as of a very friendly and pleas¬ 
ant order—G ideon was always willing and 
ready to serve the girl, weary and friendless 
as he thought her, and as she really AA-as, 
and Milly never declined the service. 
But time Avent on, and the little girl grew 
into young Avomanhood; and then she no 
longer ran about the streets of errands, but 
instead she sat and seAved from morn till 
night in the back division of the milliner’s 
shop, and, excepting on a Sunday, Gideon 
seldom saAv her. He did not forget her 
AA-hen she Avas removed from frequent sight. 
Sometimes when they hastily passed eacli 
other in the street, sho looked upon him 
Avith a pleasant glance of recognition, that 
would haunt him many a day and night af¬ 
ter ; and then he Avould wish that they were 
only children again, that he might serve her 
as ho had once, that he might speak with 
her, that he might, carry her burden for her, 
for she looked olten, he could but think it, 
very tired and weary;—when he had gone 
thus far in his meditations lie invariably 
turned from them, Avith a smile at his own 
folly in wishing that people who Avere really 
men and women, could bo children always. 
A day came at last, however, when, instead 
of abruptly terminating his OAA-n dreams at 
such a point with that finale of childish 
friendship, he, in the understanding that its 
continuance ^as possible, began to Avonder if 
Mellicient had herself ever any desires for 
better things than were already her portion. 
In tho humble circles AA’here they moved 
their acquaintance avus finally renewed, and 
impressed by tho quiet thoughtfulness of 
the girl’s ways, and conversation, her sin¬ 
cerity and simplicity, Ainslie began to think 
Avhat a blessed thing it Avould be for him if 
a Avoman after that style should sympathize 
with him, aspire like him. No one but San¬ 
dy Wynn had ever understood him—what 
if it Avere possible that sho should under¬ 
stand, and think, and feel with him ? Oh, 
how beautiful, how lovely Avas that quiet 
dream of love! Uoav it transcended every 
other dream of day or night! Well might 
the thought of learning, riches, honor, pale 
before it, since, oh God, it is the peerless 
dream that is transformed into reality for 
thy heavenly angels only! He Avas boldly 
thinking of the ways and means he A\ r ould 
deviso for proving if her symphthy were 
really for him and if her love were to be Avon 
when the poor fellow’s failure occurred— 
and in the great trouble, the hard labor that 
succeeded, Gideon Avas compelled to reflect 
on every thing but love—to believe in every¬ 
thing but hope; and he Avas thankful, as ho 
did so turn his Avhole existence into the cur¬ 
rent of Labor, that it Avas not in the power 
of his misfortune to affect her. 
Long beforo he could extricate himself 
from these difficulties, Gideon Avas startled, 
and mightily troubled, by tho thought of 
Milly Colt. Ho had not forgotten her— 
but after his misfortune he kept himself out 
of her sight, that she might forget him if 
she chose, that his own heart might bear its 
escapcless sorrow without enduring a wilder 
emotion. And therefore he only kneAv when 
all Avas over, from some of the gossping vil- 
I agers, that Milly had apparently been in 
great sorrow for many months , 4 that beforo 
(he cloud of mystery enfolded her fate, all 
I races of beauty had faded from her face.— 
No eyo of curiosity, nor Gideon’s eye of 
love, could penetrate the doubt attending 
her sudden, unaccountable disappearance. 
She went in tho silence and obscurity of 
night from her employer’s house, and the 
village, none knew whither, or wherefore.— 
Thus another chapter of the baker’s life con¬ 
cluded—and again his firm voice said, as the 
hand of Providence turned another page for 
him, “Amen;” but the response Avas not ut¬ 
tered Avith the firm, full voice of manhood— 
nor perhaps entirely Avith the child-like em¬ 
phasis of faith—yet the “amen” Avas said, 
even if sobbed out Avith the sorrowful AA-ail 
of a grieved and disappointed heart. 
This Avas the one, only dream of love, in 
Avhich Gideon Ainslie ever indulged. He 
had never occasion for sorrow over the dis¬ 
pelling of another. The summer glow and 
beauty he missed sadly, Avlien it had forever 
vanished—for, until it had vanished he AA-as 
not aAvare hoAV far it had wound itself among, 
and spread itself above all the other tho’ts 
and hopes connected Avith his life. Many 
a noble deed had marked the thirty years 
career of this disappointed man. For ever 
AA-as the kind, forbearing, generous heart 
within him inciting to the performance of 
some unobtrusive charit y, to exertions Avhich 
should in their result please and comfort 
others. The boy Avho uoav attended to his 
master’s and protector’s business, Avliile 
Ainslie Avaited and anticipated death, the 
little girl Avho Avalked about his bed-cham¬ 
ber, and noiselessly waited upon him so lov- 
ingly, and dutifully, had each their testi¬ 
mony for him, had each a right to call him 
good, and great, and holy—oven that man 
who Avas departing from this life, his great 
desires and ambitious aims all unaccom¬ 
plished. 
[Concluded next week.] 
Humorous nub jUntusing. 
Irish Wit. —Two gentlemen were once 
disputing concerning the quickness of reply 
on the part of the Irish; one of them hold¬ 
ing that what people thought Avas a repartee 
made at tho moment was already cut and 
dried for the occasion; while the other held 
the contrary. To settle the matter, they 
resolved to try some Irishman themselves. 
It happened that next door to tho former 
gentleman lived a Paddy, who was in the 
habit of creeping through a hole in the fence 
and “hooking praties.” Tho gentleman 
having seen him one night at it, thought it 
would be a good way to settle the disputed 
point. Having informed his friend of the 
project, they stationed themselves alongside 
the hole, and as Fat poked his head and 
shoulders through, one of them gave him a 
smart bloAv on the cranium with a shovel ex¬ 
claiming, “ Here, sir, Avhere are you going?” 
“Back again,by jabers!” said Pat,and back 
he Avent. 
Fashions of the Day.—“ Well, Laura, 
give mo a short sketch of the sermon!— 
Where Avas the text?” 
“ O, I don’t know. I have forgotten— 
but Avould you believe it! Mrs. V. wore 
that horrid bonnet of hers ! I couldn’t 
keep my eyes off of it all meeting time; 
and Miss T. wore a new shawl that must 
have cost fifty dollars. I wonder her folks 
do not seo tho folly of such extravagance ;■ 
and there was Miss S., with her pelisse—it’s 
astonishing what want of taste somo folks 
exhibit.” 
“ Well, if you’vo forgotten the sermon, 
you have not the audience; but which 
preacher did vou prefer—this one, or Mr. 
A. ?” 
“ O, Mr. A.! ho is so handsome and grace¬ 
ful ! Avliat an eye, and Avhat a fine set of 
teeth he has.” 
A Good Boy.—“ Tom, where have you 
been ?” 
“ NoAvhere.” 
“ Where is noAvliere ?” 
“Up on the common.” 
“ Who went with you T 
“Bill Dokes.” 
“ What have you been doing ?' 
“ Nothing.” 
“ What is nothing T 
“ Playing marbles.” 
“ What have you done Avith the money I 
gave you T 
“ Lost it.” 
“ Hoav did you lose it ?” 
•“Bill Dokes won it.” 
Wiiat’s Going On ?—One sunny morning, 
a quidnunc and a bore was sauntering down 
Regent streot, seeking whom he might de¬ 
vour with his interminable tAvattle. At length 
ho espies, approaching in hot haste, tho Avit- 
ty and no less busy Douglass Jerrold. He 
stops and fastens on him. The quidnunc 
puts his usual question, “ Well, my dear Jer¬ 
rold, Avhat’s going on ?” Releasing himself, 
tho Avit strides hastily aAvay, exclaiming, “ 1 
An ingenius Yankeo has invented Avhat lie 
calls tho “office-seekers’ suspenders.” He 
says they cross three different ways, and 
change sides just as easy. Noav is a capatil 
time to introduce them, it being so near an¬ 
other Presidential “tussle.” 
“ Well, sir,” said one person to another, to 
whom ho had, in a matter of business, made 
a very absurd offer, “ do you entertain my 
proposition?” “No sir,” replied tho other, 
“ but your proposition entertains me.” 
“Father,” said a sporting youth to his 
revered parent, “they say trout will bite 
now.” “Well, Avell,” Avas the consoling re¬ 
ply, “ mind your work, and then you’ll be 
suro they won’t bite you.” 
a 
“ Attempt the end, and nevtrsiand to doubt; 
Nothing’s so lwrd, hut search will find it out. 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS.-No. 6. 
ItlTES^ 
^HE THAT U 
DRAWS/ 
Answer next week. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 25 letters. 
My 20, 6, 5, 9, 16, 17 is a whig editor. 
My 1, 12 is an exclamation. 
My 19,11, 21, 22, 12, 24 is a river in S. America. 
My 20, 3, 5, 24 is a celebrated aeronaut. 
My 15, 23, 13, 20 25, 7 cannot well be dispensed 
with. 
My 4, 12, 14, 2, 14 12 is a vegetable. 
My 21, 7, 14, 6, 12, 24, 12, 18, 17 is a science. 
My 19, 4, 6, 23, 16, comes but once a year. 
Mv 4, 12, 23, 7, 12, 8 children should not meddle 
with. 
My 19, 13, 2, 24, 23, 19, 7 died for telling my 16, 
23, 9. 
My 7, 23, 11, 12, 8, 4, 25, 14, 5, 6 was one of tho 
twelve Apostles. 
My 8, 23, 21, 20, 2, 6. 10 is a river in N. York. 
My Avhole is a literary periodical extensively 
circulated in the United States. J. x. 
East Bloomfield, Jan., 1852. 
Answer next Aveek. 
For the Rural New Yorker. 
ACROSTICAL ENIGMA. 
My whole is composed of five letters complete. 
My 1, 5. and 2 without teeth will eat meat. 
My 2, 3 and 3 is common to man. 
My 3, 2, 1, 5 is ruin in sand. 
My 4, 3 and 2 hits caused many a sigh. 
My 5, 2, 1, 1 Avill startle the shy. 
My Avhole is a villa unrivalled in name. 
And learning’s enthroned as the queen of the 
same. Berklla. 
AnsAver next week. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
ENIGMA. 
My 8, 2, 10, 5 is an instrument for measuring time. 
My 4, 12, 8,11, 6 AA-as a fabulous monster of Pelo¬ 
ponnesus. 
My 9, 6, 3, 2 is a name for philosophers or wise 
men of the East. 
My 1, 10, 7, 8 is a part of a -watch, 
My whole is one who died Avhile young, 
And long hath SAveetly slept; 
Whom Scotia’s sweetest bard hath sung; 
Whose fate have millions wept. 
Kendall N. Y. g. b. l . 
Answer next week. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 109. 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus, No. 5: 
k 
Loins Napoleon Bonaparte, Usurper of France. 
The first correct solution was received from 
Henry Bidek, avIio is entitled to the Rural for 
one year. Correct ansvvers Avere subsequently re¬ 
ceived from, 115 Main St,, Austin Smith, G. P. 
Strong, Mrs. De Garmo, and others. 
Answer to Geographical Enigma .—The expedi¬ 
tion in search of Sir John Franklin. 
AnsAver to Puzzle.— -Tea. 
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