88 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
SONNET: POLITICAL GREATNESS. 
Nor happiness nor majesty nor fame 
Nor peace nor strength nor skill in arms or arts 
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame; 
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts. 
History is but the shadow of their shame, 
Art vails her gia-s, or from the pageant starts, 
As to oblivion their blind ini lions meet 
Staining that heaven with obscene imagery 
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit 
By force or custom ? Man who man w ould b,e 
Must rule the empire of himse f; in it 
Must be supreme, establishing his throne 
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy 
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.—[Shelley. 
CIr Hural Ikrfrjj ioook. 
[Written expressly for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
SOWINGS AND REAPINGS. 
BY LEVI REUBEN, M. D. 
Part II. — Reapings. 
Briskly Dr. Crampart’s gig spun over the 
dusty road, on, and right on, until it came 
directly in front of a showy white house that 
stooil near to the road side, when, upon a 
slight check, his well-trained filly swerved 
gently, and with a most artistic curve round¬ 
ed to a post just beside the picket gate. 
Dr. Crampart’s animal was exact, even to 
punctiliousness; and so, too, was Dr. Cram- 
part. The former, if the truth must be told, 
was rather trimly, than gorgeously capari¬ 
soned ; and the dress of the latter was in 
very good correspondence. When hitched, 
the halter-strap, of the former might invari¬ 
ably be observed to hang in a graceful curve, 
just between taut and loose, as if to assure 
the looker-on, that, like a respectable Doc¬ 
tor’s horso, she had no thought of pulling or 
running away, and yet did not care to rub 
her noso with unbecoming familiarity against 
every common post sho fell in with ! The 
Doctor, on his part, regularly took his four 
measured steps to the head of his beast, and 
tying the baiter in a hard knot, (for the 
“ slipping-knot” was new-fangled, and lie had 
no particular love for such things,) re¬ 
measured his steps to his gig, lifted out his 
well-stocked saddle-bags, and with his head 
bent forward in the attitude of reflection, 
sought the dwelling to which he had receiv¬ 
ed a call. 
For two weeks past, daily had the Doc¬ 
tor’s gig stood beforo the same house, and at 
about the same hour. It was plain that dis¬ 
ease was doing no common work within.— 
Some of the neighbors ominously shook 
their heads, as some of the neighbors always 
will do in such cases; hut others at the same 
time plainly showed by their resentful re¬ 
ception of all such manifestations, that they 
did not consider the sage wagging of a few 
heads to be of any decisive bearing in the 
case. And that was not, sure enough. And 
so the popular verdict concerning Dr. 
Crampart and his patient, was, as popular 
verdicts always are, positively delivered in 
favor of both sides of the question—thus il¬ 
lustrating for the thousandth time the wis¬ 
dom of the arrangement which finds judge 
and jury, not in, hut of. the people; as in 
the latter case all suits would inevitably ho 
double-decided, and each party condemned 
both to pay and recoivo damages. 
Yet, in justice to Dr. Crampart’s opposers, 
it must he owned that his ride was not very 
extensive; and suspicions were really afloat 
that the “well-to-do” did not enjoy as early 
and rapid a convalescence under his care, as 
did the poor and penniless. So ungenerous 
will people be, that but few were found to 
credit the latter fact to the Doctor’s benev- 
olonco; and so we must leave them to their 
poor opinions, and to Time, who in the end 
corrects all wrong impressions. 
The Doctor entered the house. Laying- 
aside his hat which was very trim and small, 
and cordially bowing his head, which, to say 
truth, was trimmer and smaller, ho returned 
the salutations of the family, and soon pass¬ 
ed into the apartment of the sufferer. A 
feeble voice, but one of kindly interest, wel¬ 
comed him. Indeed, when is not the phy¬ 
sician of one’s choice welcome at the side of 
the sick bed ? The Doctor soon saw that 
his patient was rapidly failing, lie watched 
the symptoms of the case, for some timo, in 
silence. 
Beforo him lay one evidently just verging 
upon the goal of mature womanhood,—but 
a goal, which a glance would show, she was 
never to attain. -There was a small, intense, 
ever and anon receding fire to the eyo of the 
sufferer, as if the fountains of life-power fast 
ebbed and sunk away within ; and a pearly 
and unearthly whiteness to the skin which 
showed that the blood had deserted all the 
outposts of life, and was even now clogging 
the machinery, and arresting the delicate 
play of the very centres of being ! The ex¬ 
pression of that face, however, was not re¬ 
signed ; and while the Doctor held the wrist, 
and counted the feeble pulses, you might 
plainly sec the longings and mistrusts that 
came and went over the pallid features, like 
light-falls and shadows over the brow of an 
April day ! 
Cyrenia Williams—for she it was—was 
sadly changed, but not transformed. When 
last we saw her, imprudent exposures and 
unhappy passions had already begun to sap 
the foundations of her health. Since that 
time she had pined gradually. She had left, 
by almost insensible steps, the pleasant paths 
of health and strength, to lie down on the 
couch of feebleness and disease. It had 
been, indeed, extremely difficult to decide 
what was the nature of her malady; and Dr. 
Crampart had, until lately, hardly ventured 
to give it a name. At first, it seemed a 
jaundice, and then, a general wasting, or 
marasmus; but now it was at least certain 
that there was dropsy, and so the case took 
that name. Cyrenia herself was painfully 
sensitive to her condition. Had she been 
wasting with consumption,, she could have 
borne it better; for there was something of 
romance, with all its fearfulness, in the idea. 
But to be brought down to death’s door by 
dropsy, and to have to feel daily and hourly 
that she was likely to be its victim, and that, 
too, at her ago, when her former compan¬ 
ions were mixing in all the pursuits of busy 
life, with the prospect of years of happiness 
and usefulness before them, — there was 
something so peculiarly stinging and deso¬ 
lating in the thought, that she could never 
realize it without bursting into tears. 
And so she did on the occasion to which 
I am referring. The Doctor’s heart was 
touched. Ho threw open the door into the 
adjoining room, hoping that a fresher air 
might revive her, and restore a more quiet 
state of feeling. Seating himself by the 
candle on the little stand at her bed’s head, 
for the sun had set, and the dusk of twilight 
was just gathering over the scene, he com¬ 
menced dealing out the powders, which, af¬ 
ter a study of days, he had resolved to make 
trial of as a last appeal to the sinking ener¬ 
gies of his patient’s system; and a thought, 
half remorseful, half indistinct, of benefits 
possibly to have been attained by an earlier 
taxation of his utmost powers of investiga¬ 
tion and resources of cure, was struggling 
up in his mind, when he was interrupted by 
an inquiry from the invalid at his side. 
“ Can I live, Doctor ?” 
“ Surely you may live; you ought not to 
despair;” but despair did mark the reply, as 
well as the inquiry. 
Cyrenia’s parents were in the room to 
which led the open door. At the instant a 
loud rap was heard without—a neighbor en¬ 
tered in haste, and, scarcely waiting for the 
salutations of the hour, exclaimed, “ Mr. 
Williams, you are wanted at old Waterton’s 
immediately. His son Charles is just bro’t 
home from H-, stone dead,—killed, they 
say, in a riot-” 
A scream interrupted the ill-omened re¬ 
cital,—it came from the sick-chamber. Like 
a lightning stroke the news had fallen on 
the invalid, who, with all the waywardness 
of her life, and all the unhappy tidings of 
his, had not learned to forget her early affec¬ 
tion for Charles Watcrton. The intelli¬ 
gence so unseasonably brought, liad taken 
all by surprise, and precautions had been 
rendered impossible by its suddenness.— 
Cyrenia’s parents, the Doctor, the new¬ 
comer, all hastened to the bed-side. They 
were too late. A single convulsive shudder 
passed rapidly from the pallid form before 
them, and the clay was quiet as a marblo 
statue, for the restless spirit had left it for¬ 
ever ! 
But wo leave the mourners alono with 
their dead. 
Charles Waterton’s history is easily con¬ 
jectured. A life of idleness, with money al¬ 
ways to spend, had mado him a very accept¬ 
able companion to those who, worthless as 
himself, were yet destitute of the means of 
sensual indulgence. His own appetites, and 
his father’s maxims, added the finishing- 
strokes to the character of the profligate.— 
Intemperance led to gambling,—gambling 
fostered hatred and revenge,—and these ri¬ 
pened to the fruit of death. Surely, father 
and son had “sown the wind,” and lightly 
as they regarded the monitions of the car- 
nest-hearted school-master upon that “ last 
day” of school, they had verified once again 
the prediction then reiterated, and “reaped 
the whirlwind!” 
The ordinarily quiet town of B-, in¬ 
deed I may say the plodding neighborhood 
about old Waterton’s had become suddenly 
the scene of many unlooked-for events.— 
Now, strange and exciting occurrences were 
literally packed into the short space of a 
few hours. For weeks after the good gossips 
of B-, did nothing but moralize over the 
“inscrutable ways” of Love and Fortune.— 
Indeed, it was wisely remarked by Mr. Es- 
dalo, Henry’s father,—who, it must be known 
was no longer a spendthrift and inebriate, 
but who, vanquished by the kind entreaties 
of his patient wife, and the worthy example 
of his son Henry, had become a sober, in¬ 
dustrious man, and a close attendant on his 
own business,—that, “ had not tho wheel of 
Fortune ceased to roll as soon as it did, 
many a dependent wife and helpless family 
in B-, must have begged or perished in 
the coming winter, for lack of wood and 
bread.” 
At farmer Ilolborn’s, a very different scene 
from that we have just looked on, was 
transpiring at the same time. Ella IIol- 
born’s good sense, and a little adroit man¬ 
agement, in which she was aided by her 
mother, promised at one time, as we have 
seen, to dispose of the ill-pressed suit of 
young Waterton in the way of indefinite 
postponement. But the eyes of the fathers 
seemed at last to be opened, and excuses 
were no longer of any avail. Mr. Holborn 
believed that Charles was but sowing a few 
“ wild oats,” and that marriage would bring 
reformation ; or, at all events, so he argued. 
Ella listened to the proposal of an immedi¬ 
ate union, with a feeling akin to horror of 
its object; but she had exhausted tho re¬ 
sources of an innocent tact, and sho knew 
no other course but obedience. Sho was in 
part reconciled to the idea of the prepara¬ 
tions that were now begun, by a sort of pre¬ 
sentiment she had that she was not to be 
married to Charles, and that something would 
intervene to prevent tho result she so much 
dreaded. 
Meanwhile Henry Esdale was among the 
first to he informed of the impending con¬ 
summation. lie had saved a few hundreds 
by diligence in his calling, and had already 
resolved soon to return to B-. He now 
hastened Lis arrangements to that effect; 
but on the very eve of his setting out, his 
employer, in whose hands were all his earn¬ 
ings, failed, and Henry was a third time 
Avitliout a penny. Up to this timo, like El¬ 
la, ho had had a presentiment that some¬ 
thing would occur which would disappoint 
the heartless schemes of avarice and ambi¬ 
tion ; and we are not to suppose that lie had 
been so unselfish as not to include in this 
thought that of the recompense of his own 
tried, and as his consciousness assured him, 
more worthy affection. But now this hope 
failed him. Ho could not think of involving 
Ella in utter poverty. Yet he could not re¬ 
main absent from B-; and so, with a 
desponding heart, ho returned to his early 
home. 
The day for the wedding came. A large 
circle of friends had been invited to Mr. 
Holborn’s; and among them, Ella had even 
obtained leave, as a favor, to invite Henry 
Esdale. The guests were already assembling- 
on the evening of tho eventful day which 
terminated the lives of two of tho whilom 
school-mates, Charles and Cyrenia. Bug¬ 
gies with two, and wagons or carriages with 
more, were driving up ; and, as one after an¬ 
other was added to tho company, it was only 
to add to the scene of hearty greetings, and 
to multiply the already exuberant display 
of smiles. Ella, who had not yet appeared, 
was meanwhile sad. She had learned of 
Henry’s reverse; and, like him, sho had lost, 
not affection, but hope, from the sudden 
calamity. 
But the bridegroom came not, nor, indeed, 
any of the Waterton family. Mr. Ilolhorn 
began to grow impatient. Those already 
arrived were from directions in which they 
would not be likely to get the news, which 
was even now spreading, of young Water¬ 
ton’s untimely end; and as Mr. II. lived at 
tho opposite side of the school district, the 
intelligence did not at once reach him.— 
Among the many arrivals, Henry Esdale 
was now announced. Ho had been long ab¬ 
sent from B-, and his name of course 
created some sensation. Except in tho few 
instances where lurking slander had been 
busy, Henry was remembered with respect 
and friendship by all who knew him. The 
lapse of years, mental cultivation secured 
during the intervals of toil, and some knowl¬ 
edge of tho world, had greatly improved 
him; and his countenance now woro an ex¬ 
pression of manly composure, intelligence 
and uprightness which won, with a mesmeric 
power, the approval and admiration of the 
beholder. The warm greetings of so many 
old friends inspired him witli now confidence; 
and when ho reached the father and mother 
of Ella, although ho well remembered the 
timo when the former forbade him his house, 
Henry was collected and even engaging in 
his manner. Mr. Holborn rather shrunk from 
conversation, but ho felt that the man he 
had disgraced and despised had achieved a 
moral triumph over him; and as Henry 
passed along he could not help watching 
him, or giving way to a little of the admira¬ 
tion which others, less biased than himself, 
so freely bestowed on the poor mechanic. 
A neighbor now arrived, who, with much 
perturbation, immediately sought out Mr. 
and Mrs. Holborn, and held a conference 
with them in an undertone. All eyes turn¬ 
ed to tho group with an aspect of indefina¬ 
ble expectancy; but tho secret was soon 
revealed. 
“ Dead !” exclaimed Mr. Holborn, with a 
tone of horror, and, sinking into a chair, he 
buried his face in his hands. 
Mrs. Holborn was more calm. The stroke 
was an awful ©no; yet she felt as though she 
and her daughter had been made the sub¬ 
jects of a direct interposition of Heaven, and 
she could not weep or complain. 
The terrible news now spread rapidly.— 
Every topic but one was banished; and all 
order and ceremony were forgotten. Ella, 
scarce believing the strange intelligence, and 
keenly rebuking herself that she could ex¬ 
perience relief from a reverse so awful, 
hastened to the company assembled in tho 
parlor. Here she suddenly met Henry, and 
for the first time since his return. He took 
her hand, and pressed it respectfully and 
long within his own; but neither spoke. It 
was not a time for words ! 
Ella’s entrance, and her meeting with Es¬ 
dale, had drawn tho attention of all, when, 
at the moment, a new shock was given to 
tho company by the sudden appearance of 
Mr. Waterton. Ho approached Ella’s pa¬ 
rents, but befoi'o ho could speak, burst into 
tears. The rough, unsympathizing and sel¬ 
fish, but now chastened father, wept like a 
child. For minutes, not an eye in the wholo 
group was dry; and no sound was heard but 
sobs of grief or sympathy. 
Air. Waterton was the first to break 
silence. The stern retribution which had 
made him a penitent, had made him also 
bold and earnest in the work of reparation. 
He approached young Esdale, and taking 
him by the hand, exclaimed,—“ Forgive me, 
Mr. Esdale, for the injury I have done you, 
and the greater injustice I should have done 
you, if I could. I am a wretched man. But 
one thing now remains to lighten my guilt, 
—it is to recompense you, as far as I can, 
for what I have caused you to suffer. My 
falsehoods drove you from homo : I watch¬ 
ed your success, when gone; and fearing 
you might return to ruin my plans, I bought 
out the mortgage against your last employ¬ 
er, with which I ruined him; and by so do¬ 
ing ruined you also. He shall be compen¬ 
sated, and you. My property is groat, and 
I can never enjoy it. Take her,” ho con¬ 
tinued, pointing to Ella, “and I will make 
your portion handsome; but take her now : 
it is my request.” 
Astonishment had given way to approba¬ 
tion as Mr. Waterton went on, and as he 
closed, a burst of joy and admiration suc¬ 
ceeded. 
Ella and Henry together endeavored to 
delay the unseemly haste of this proposition. 
“ She need not wait to mourn for Charles,” 
said Mr. Waterton, with a voice choking with 
emotion, yet firm, “ for I know she has never 
loved him.” Air. Holborn could not respond 
to this self-sacrificing sentiment; but he in¬ 
wardly felt a pride at the prospect that 
Henry was to bo his son-in-law, and he gave 
his full assent. The clergyman was re¬ 
quested to perform the ceremony at once, 
which he did; and Henry and Ella were 
united in bonds baptised in tears, and at¬ 
tested by the seal of Doath ! 
* * * * V * * 
Years after, Henry and Ella resided in 
the neighborhood of their birth,—content¬ 
ed, industrious, happy,—not devoid of all 
human weaknesses, but honest and earnest- 
hearted, and admired and beloved by all 
around them. Air. Holborn still lived, but 
a lesson ever rung in his ears, and self-re¬ 
proach, his teacher, did not allow him unin¬ 
terrupted happiness. “ Old Waterton,” (so 
he was still called,) was a changed man; and 
now that ho had no family to share his 
wealth, or his fatherly solicitude, he bestow¬ 
ed all tho latter on Henry Esdale and his 
excellent wife, whom he loved as his own 
children,—while the former he scattered 
liberally among all who woro honestly needy 
and deserving of charity. And more than 
once did tho inhabitants of his neighbor¬ 
hood, and especially the actors in tho drama 
we have been rehearsing, call to mind and 
repeat the text of their school-master in the 
olden time,— “Whatsoever a man soweth, 
THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP !” 
A CHARACTER. 
Old “ Bumblebee ” was tho cognomen of 
Air. T., of Newburyport. ho gained tho title 
from tho fact of his catching a bumblebee 
one day as ho was shingling his barn, and in 
;.ttempting to decapitate tho insect with his 
hatehot, cut off the ends of his thumb and 
fore-finger, letting tho bee go unharmed.— 
Other mishaps happened to the old codger, 
upon that same barn. In one of his abstrac¬ 
tions he shingled over his spare hatchet; and 
cutting a small aperture in the building to 
let in a little daylight, his man actually in¬ 
serted a wooden pane, as being economical 
and not liable to be broken. 
Uncle T., in one of his oblivious freaks 
nailed his left arm so firmly botwixt two 
boards of a fence he was putting up, that he 
had to call for help to get extricated from 
his self-imprisonment. Ho once put a but¬ 
ton on the gate instead of tho post. But 
tho rarest freak of all, was when he ran thro’ 
the streets with his hands about three feet 
asunder, held up before him, begging the 
passers-by not to disturb him, as he had got 
tho measure of a door-way with him !— Bos¬ 
ton Post. 
^ontji’s J&Mram. 
“ Attempt the end, and neverstand to doubt; 
Nothimr'sso hard, bntsenrcli will find it out.” 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS.-No. 11. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
CHARADE. 
Twas on one pleasant summer day; 
Far from the city’s noisy throng; 
The sunshine o’er the landscape lay. 
And danced the cooling brooks along. 
Amanda, faint from labor’s heat. 
Put by her busy spinning wheel. 
And went to gather berries sweet, 
For her dear father’s evening meal. 
Young Edward on my first did lean. 
Beneath a maple’s cooling shade; 
And gazing o’er the lovely scene. 
Beheld approach his own dear maid ; 
The basket on her finger swung, 
Her gipsy hat with blue was tied. 
And some gay .song she sweetly sung, 
While every wall and grove replied. 
Across my second bounded Ned, 
To help the one he loved so dear. 
To gather those sweet berries red. 
And pour his love into her ear. 
The sun, his parting, golden ray, 
Was shedding o’er each hill and tower, 
As homeward slowly wandered they, 
Unmindful of each fragrant flower 
Which grew upon th ir dewy way; 
When lo! before them on the giound, 
To ruthless man a hopeless prey, 
My whole they saw in fetters bound. 
Though long my beard, unhoused my head, 
And helpless lying there so low. 
No pitying tear the maiden shed, 
No signs of grief did Edward show. 
Kendall N. Y., G. B. Leonard. 
Answer next week. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c„ IN No. 114. 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus, No. 10: 
I 'understand your horsemanship 
Relics for spirit on a whip. 
Answer to Aliscellaneous Enigma.— Marquis 
Dc Lafayette. 
Answer to Geographical Enigma.— New Orleans, 
the capital of Louisiana. 
The Premium Question. —The “Hen’s Nest” 
question published in the Rural of Jan. 8, called 
out many answers from all parts of the country. 
Those who gave the “ correct analytical solution” 
were entitled to a copy of Clark’s Alental Arith¬ 
metic, a hound volume which cannot be sent by 
mail without pre-payment of postage. Those 
named below, are entitled to the prize, but to Lave 
their copies sent by mail they must each send us 
nine cents in postage stamps, that the books may 
be pre-paid and forwarded. It is proper to say, 
here, that the person, who offered the premium 
(J. A. C.,) was not then aware that it was neces¬ 
sary to pre-pay postage. The price of the work 
ottered is fifty cents. 
Emily Ashley, 0. II. Arnold, L. M. Bates, M. M. 
Burlison, Eunice Brewster, Harriet Cary, C. S. 
Carey, W. G. Chaffee, D. S. Dibble, C. P. <fc J. B. 
Denman, (2,) P. Hoag, II. C. Hooker, J. W. Hyatt, 
C. Holdridge, R. A. Luther, D. H. Lovejoy, Y. A. 
Lewis, J. Morgan, J.,B. Massey, J. E. Robinson, 
A. Y. Reed, A. L. Sackett, H. T. Sleeper, G. 
Storrs, W. Scott, G. Thomas, L. L. Taft, C. II. 
Van Ness, Amelia Walker. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: 
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