MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
^oifiral. 
THE DEATH OF WEBSTER. 
BY T. BUCHAXAN READ. 
Tm? exeat are falling from us—to the dust, 
Our flag droops midway, full of many sighs; 
A nation's glory and a people’s trust 
Lie in the ample pall where Webster lies. 
The great are falling from us—one by one, 
As fall the patriarchs of the forest trees; 
The winds shall seek them vainly, and the sun 
Gaze on each vacant space for centuries. 
Lo, Carolina mourns her steadfast pine, 
Which like a mam-mast, towered above her realm, 
Ari'i Ashland hears no more the voice divine. 
From out the branches of her stately elm. 
And Marshfield’s giant oak, whose stormy brow 
Oft turned the ocean tempest from the west, 
Lies on the shore he guarded long- and now 
Our startled Eagle knows not where to rest. 
iflsr iHtirul $ketilj Stook. 
THE' FATHER'S CHOICE. 
BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. 
Mr. Abel Veazie, was President of a 
heavy manufacturing company, a situation 
winch ho had held tor many years, and as 
Ins interest in the corporation was consid¬ 
erable, he was quite wealthy. By nature 
he was blurt' and off-hand in his manners, 
and the peculiar duties of his office—com¬ 
ing iu constant contact as ho did, with peo¬ 
ple of all classes and dispositions—had not 
detracted from his characteristic bluntness, 
liis ramijy consisted of some half dozen 
sons and one daughter. 
Tuo bo^s had all grown to bo men, and 
were engaged in lucrative business, while 
Leiia, the youngest child, just opening into 
young womanhood, was the light and joy of 
the old mail’s household. 
Among Veazio’s favorite clerks, there was 
a young man named Robert Winslow, who 
had been in the company’s office several 
years, and who, by liis untiring application 
ami exemplary conduct, had insured for 
himself, net only a permanent situation, but 
also the respect and confidence of his em¬ 
ployer. Young Winslow had a mother and 
sister whom he supported, and with whom 
ho lived, and consequently he was obliged 
to economize with great nicety in order to 
keep matters straight. 
Too fiscal year of the company was draw¬ 
ing to a close, and for nearly tlireo weeks 
previous to the opening of our story, Rob’t 
Winslow had been in attendance at Mr. 
Veazie s house every week-day evening, en¬ 
gaged in comparing tho various accounts, 
and properly arranging them, in view of a 
contemplated change in the direction of tho 
corporation. Duplicates had to be taken 
of all the principal papers, and in the re¬ 
vising of them the services of Leiia were 
frequently called upon, for tho old man 
could never be made to understand why 
even an heiress might not mako herself 
useful. 
Once or twice only, had Veazie actually 
called upon his child for her services, and 
oil those occasions she would read off the 
original accounts, while tho young clerk re¬ 
vised the duplicates. Leiia read to Robert, 
and anon, when for a time the labor was 
suspended, she hesitated not to talk. There 
was none of that formal constraint which 
t'ash’on imposes upon common visits, for 
their acquaintance had commenced under 
the eusy. non-committing auspices of busi¬ 
ness, and without a thought of aught but 
that business, they waded through some 
pages of the company’s journal. Then, 
when at length they conversed, they thought 
only of social politeness, and their thoughts 
and feelings were free and unrestrained. 
Tho third or fourth time that Robert 
came to tho house, Leiia offered her ser- 
v.cos. and while lior father looked over her 
shoulder, she read from the original drafts 
tho entries, and always when the young 
man would stop to make a note or marginal 
reference upon his duplicate, sho w’ould 
peep over the top of the large journal, and 
watch his handsome features as they worked 
and varied with his laboring thoughts. 
Thus passed away three weeks. Every 
evening Leiia was sure to come into her 
father’s study, and she was equally as sure 
to stay there till Robert went pway. Tho 
old man seemed in very deed to ho blind 
to tho fact that these meetings were begin¬ 
ning to result in something else beside tho 
more transaction of business. 
“ Well, Robert,” said Mr. Veazie, one eve¬ 
ning as the office was about being closed. 
“ you can now have a short respite from the 
confinement of tho counting-house. The 
affairs of tho concern are all settled, and wo 
shall not start again under two weeks, so 
you can have that time to yourself, to enjoy 
and improve as you see fit.'” 
“ I thank you kindly, sir,” returned Rob¬ 
ert. '‘though 1 must say I would rather make 
myself busy than lay idle so long.” 
“ But you haven’t had a resting spell be¬ 
fore tur four years.” 
“True, sir, hut my mother and sister 
need all my time, so I can hardly afford to 
rest now.” 
“Well, never fear, Robert, you shan’t 
suffer loss.” 
Veazie never hold long arguments, and 
from his manner on tho present occasion, 
Robert knew that there was nothing more 
to be said, so ho put on his hat and started 
homeward. 
Tho next day or tho day after that. Robert 
Winslow took a walk over to tho city, and 
as he was returning home towards night, he 
was accosted in the street by a gentleman 
whom he held frequently seen at the count¬ 
ing-house, transacting business with Mr. 
Veazie. 
“ Mr. Wiuslow, I believe,” said the gentle¬ 
man. 
“ That is my name, sir.” 
“And mine is Dunham. You have seen 
me at your counting-house.” 
“ Yes, sir. I remember.” 
“ Mr. Veazie tells me you would probably 
like to employ your time to some pecuniary 
advantage during your business vacation.” 
“ Indeed. I should, sir,” retorted Robert, 
while a bright ray of pleasure flashed over 
his features. 
“ Then I can offer you a rare chance. I 
want you to accompany me to Troy, there 
to assist me in closing up the books of a 
heavy firm who have failed and left matters 
at rather loose ends.” 
“And when do you want me to go ?” 
“ Oh, this very night. Now, in half an 
hour.” 
Robert’s countenance fell as lie heard 
this, and after a moments thought he said : 
“ I cannot go so soon. If you could wait 
two hours, or postpone the matter till to¬ 
morrow, I would go.” 
“That is impossible Mr. Winslow, for the 
boat starts in half an hour, and the business 
admits of no postponement. Veazie tells 
me that you would be just the man to un¬ 
ravel and straighten out these accounts, 
some of which have been hanging for years, 
and are now put into tho hands of the cred¬ 
itors in that dubious shape. I will pay your 
exponses, and give you ten dollars a day if 
you will go with me.” 
“I cannot go.” said Robert in a somewhat 
disappointed tone, but yet with decision, 
“for when I came away this morning. I 
promised my mother that I would return 
before dark. My sister is away, and as my 
mother is quite weak, she would suffer ex¬ 
ceedingly at my absence.” 
“You will have time to drop her a line 
by the penny-post, informing her of the 
cause of your absence,” remarked Dunham. 
“ The penny-post man does not go near 
my dwelling after this hour,” returned Rob¬ 
ert. “No sir.” he continued in a decided 
tone, “ I cannot go. I would not leave my 
mother to suffer in ignorance of my fate 
this whole night, for a hundred times the 
amount I might earn by the labor. I thank 
you kindly lor your consideration, ana 1 
trust you will not blame me for tho result.’’ 
“Of course I cannot blame you,” an¬ 
swered Dunham. ** though I am sorry vou 
cannot go. I thought you needed 'the 
money.” 
“ So I do need the money, sir.” responded 
the young man with a slightly flushed face, 
“hut I cannot take it at the sacrifice of 
what I consider my filial duty.” 
“Very well,—I can find some one at Trov 
who can do the work. Good evening, sir.” 
Robert responded a “good evening,” and 
then wended his way homeward. The cir¬ 
cumstance caused him some uneasiness for 
a short time, hut he soon forgot it, and on 
the next day ho obtained a first rate job 
through the aid of Mr. Veazie, at an insu¬ 
rance office, in copying policies. 
Again Robert Winslow was at his desk in 
Mr. Veazie’s counting-house. Business had 
commenced in good earnest, and there was 
a fair prospect of a long continuance of it. 
Nearly a week had passed away, when one 
afternoon a young gentleman called in to 
see Mr. Veazie. and remained in an earnest, 
close conversation with the old man for full 
five minutes, and when he turned to go 
away, Robert thought ho heard something 
like an oath drop from his lips. 
“ Presuming puppy !” muttered Mr. Veazie 
as he sank into a chair where his young- 
clerk was writing, and pushed back from his 
desk some dozen important papers. “ Why, 
Robert, tho fellow actually had the pre¬ 
sumption to ask me for the hand of my lit¬ 
tle Leiia; and all he’s worth in the world is 
fifteen thousand dollars. Not another bit 
of real wealth does lie possess. A pretty 
match for my daughter, truly. Ha, ha, 
ha.” 
Robert Winslow’s hand trembled, and his 
face crimsoned, as the old man spoke, and 
ho turned away to hide tho emotions he 
could not suppress. Veazie took no notice 
of tho youth’s manner, hut having delivered 
himself of his blunt opinion, ho drew hack 
the documents ho had a moment before 
pushed away from him, and began to ex¬ 
amine their contents, while Robert tried to 
calm his nerves so as to go on with his busi¬ 
ness. 
Towards nightfall, Mr. Veazie put away 
tho papers he had been inspecting, and hav¬ 
ing locked them up in his private desk, he 
began to pull on his gloves. 
“ Robert,” said he, “ are your evenings 
engaged during the present week ?” 
“Not particularly,” returned Robert, as 
he wiped his pen and placed it behind his 
ear. 
“ I want my own private accounts posted 
up. and if you will do it, I will amply com¬ 
pensate you for your extra labor.” 
I ask no compensation, sir. If you will 
bring your hooks to-morrow I will ta'ke them 
home and post them with pleasure.” 
“No. no, — you will have to do it at my 
own house. 1 don’t wish to let my private 
hooks go from my sight. It will take you 
hut a few evenings to do the whole, and be¬ 
sides you will need soms assistance in de¬ 
cyphering the various accounts, for some of 
the entries I have made, and some of them 
have been made by Leiia.” 
“ I could wish that tho labor might bo 
done here, sir,” said Robert, in a hesitating, 
nervous manner, while a strange emotion 
swept over his countenance. 
“ Dono here, sir T iterated tho old gen¬ 
tleman, in surprise. “ I do not understand 
you. You found no fault when you labored 
at my house before. What havo you found 
now in the shape of an objection ?” 
“ I)o not question mo, sir; but pray grant 
mo tho favor I ask. Let me do tho writing 
here.” 
“ This is a strange whim. Robert. No, 
sir, if you cannot do the work at my house. 
I must strain my old eyes to do it myself.” 
“ Mr. Veazie, you misunderstand me. in¬ 
deed you do,” uttered Robert in a painful 
tone. 
“That can hardly he, returned the old 
gentleman, with a quiet smile. •' since I havo 
no clue to any understanding at all. But, 
really, I should he under obligations to you 
if you would inform me with regard to the 
cause of this curious affair.” 
For full two minutes the young man sat 
with his eyes bent to tho floor, hut at length 
ho gazed up into tho face of Ins employer, 
and getting down from his stool, ho said, 
while his eyes glistened with gathering mois¬ 
ture, and his lips trembled : 
“ Mr. Veazie, you have ever been kind 
and considerate towards me, and I will not 
now break the strict frankness and integrity 
which have thus far marked all my dealings 
with you. I trust you will not hlaino me. 
sir, nor think me presumptuous. I did 
work for you at your own dwelling and you 
called your daughter to assi-t me. Together 
Lo iu and myself examined and compared 
notes, and then we conversed. Ere long, I 
began to be anxious for the evening to como, 
that I might he again at her side, and when 
she came with her joyous smile, her happy 
look, and her sweet welcome, I began to 
count the flying moments as sands of gold. 
1 almost prayed that my work might havo 
no end so that she might ever bo my com¬ 
panion in its progress, and when the labor 
did draw to a close, I left sad and lonely.— 
Then was it that my heart awoke to a 
knowledge of its situation. 1 had begun to 
love tho gentle being who had thus been my 
unsought companion—1 had loved her, and 
her image was on my heart. I cannot de¬ 
ceive myself, sir, nor will I prove unkind or 
ungenerous to you. No man can govern 
tho strong emotions of the heart, though 
he may, if lie ho wise, guard against the 
cause of these emotions Mr. Veazie, I 
dare not subject myself to a love that must 
be hopeless, for poor as I am. my heart is as 
susceptible of deep and abiding love as those 
of others. Now you know all.” 
“ You are honest, at all events,” said tho 
old gentleman, without any apparent emo¬ 
tion. 
“ So I trust I may always be,” returned 
Robert. 
“ But do you think you are very wise ?” 
“I could not help my emotion, sir.” 
“ And if they were so pleasant as you 
have described I see not why you should 
have wished such a thing as preventing 
them.” 
Robert looked lip into the face of the old 
gentleman, but he made no answer. He 
could not comprehend his employer’s mean¬ 
ing. 
"Robert,” continued the old gentleman, 
“ it is Leiia who wishes you to come and 
help her arrange my household accounts.— 
Would you refuse her as you have me ?” 
Robert Winslow trembled from head to 
foot. He gazed into the face of his em¬ 
ployer, and thought he could detect a kind, 
meaning smile there. Ho attempted to 
speak, hut his words camo not forth. 
“Como, come,” uttered Veazie, “let us 
not boat around tho hush any longer. I am 
not blind, and consequently I failed not to 
see some tilings that spoke louder than 
words. I took note of the gentle love-god 
that danced in your eyes, and I read the lan¬ 
guage that came up from your heart, and 
stood in living characters upon your vary¬ 
ing countenance. Do you suppose 1 should 
have boon so utterly regardless of both your 
own and my child’s welfare as to have al¬ 
lowed you to cherish tho flowers of affec¬ 
tion only that 1 might blight them at their 
birth ? Leiia is a faithful, a gentle, and lov¬ 
ing girl, and if you love her truly, you may 
confess to her your enormous sin of love.” 
“Mr. Veazie,” exclaimed Robert, “I can¬ 
not comprehend — I do not. No, no, you 
would not raise such a sweet, such a heav¬ 
enly hope in my bosom to crush it again.” 
“ Hark ye, Robert,” said the old gentlo- 
man, as ho took his clerk by tho hand.— 
“Had I desired to have seen my child mar¬ 
ried to a heartless hag of gold, I had the 
chance this very afternoon. That man who 
camo hero to ask me for the hand of iny 
child, though he has fifteen thousand dol¬ 
lars worth of gold, is yet steeped in the very 
dregs of povorty. He has no heart. I have 
watched your course for the last five years 
with interest, and a week ago when you re¬ 
fused a considerable amount of money, 
which you much needed, rather than xour 
mother should sutler a single night s' un¬ 
easiness on your account, you proved your¬ 
self to bo possessed of a mino of wealth 
which no legacy could have brought you; 
and which could never have been poured 
into your life-coffers by speculation. Mr. 
Dunham brought me your answer, and when 
I heard it, 1 resolved within myself that the 
son and brother who could so iove and hon¬ 
or his mother and sister, could not fail of 
making a most excellent husband. Now go 
and tell all to Leiia, and if she accepts your 
hand, you shall most freely have hers in re¬ 
turn. There, don t cry r about it, for you aint 
sure that she'll have you, yet.” 
Robert Winslow did offer Leiia Veazie his 
hand and heart, and she smiled a most hap¬ 
py smile as sho gave him hers in return.— 
Eeoplo wondered much at tho affair, and 
many attributed it to a freak of the old 
man s oddity. They knew not—and many 
could not have appreciated if they had 
known—the deep principle of paternal care 
and kindness which governed him; nor was 
Mr. Veazie disappointed in his calculations. 
I ho same heart that had cherished such 
puro and holy filial love proved a sacred al¬ 
tar lor the affections ot the husband, and Le¬ 
iia never had occasion to regret—hut always 
blessed—her Father s Choice. 
One thing is quite clear, that whether 
Fortune be more like Plutus or an angel, it 
is no use abusing her; one may as well 
throw stones at a star. 
THE RAPPING SPIRITS. 
What are “the spirits” that rap under 
tables, inspiro mediums to act as if they 
were suffering with St. Vitus’ dance or 
Hysteria,—and delight to personate the 
great dead ? Wo are halting between two 
theories. The one is that they may bo the 
true spirits of men who once lived on earth 
but are now entirely disembodied. — not 
only separated from the fleshy body, but 
not as yet united to the spiritual body; so 
that to spirits they bear about the same re¬ 
lation as the mist that hangs over the river 
does to tho river itself. They evidently 
possess less power than embodied spirits on 
earth, and we would fain bolieve that their 
faculties are perfectly infantile compared 
with that of spirits when linked indissolu 
bly with the spiritual body. Wo would not 
speak lightly of their prowess. They have 
frightened a good many people, hut men of 
the smallest gifts could do it as well. They 
make very uncouth noises, hut so do boys, 
alter a little training. Tiioy heal tho sick, 
and so do a host of doctors — plenty of 
whom are to bo found in every city, town 
and village of tho land. And it is a little 
remarkable that they have never practiced 
operative surgery, that we are aware of.— 
We should be happy to compare the flap 
and stump of a limb, spiritually amputated 
with those of ono taken oft' by an earth ed¬ 
ucated surgeon. Indeed, although they do 
a great many things, we believe they are no 
better workmen than hosts who would he 
glad of employment all around us. Nor 
should the fact that they are less wise and 
feebler than when on earth, militate against 
this theory. Their old connections, we have 
supposed, were broken and new ones not 
yet formed. Like ciphers, they can never 
be of much service except in their proper 
positions and relations. Perhaps, too, for 
the sake of keeping them more quiet and 
contented, they have been steeped in Lethe, 
that they might forget a portion of what 
they onco knew. How else than on such 
conditions, can wo account for the twad¬ 
dling common-places which have lately been 
drawn out from the spirits of Washington 
and Adams, and tho nonsenso into which 
the spirit of Franklin has been betrayed by 
mediums who constantly vex him ? 
But we have another theory, which we 
think more probable than this. The spirits, 
whatever may be their pretensions, never 
inhabited mortal bodies. They have never 
yet got their full growth. They are en 
route from the lowest order of created ani¬ 
mals up to manhood. They perhaps hold 
to human spirits the relation that tadpoles 
hold to frogs. They are lively and playful, 
and if they find a man anxious to be duped, 
they do not hesitate to put on tho spectacles 
of Franklin, or to handle tho golden snuff 
box of Clay, and muttering incoherent 
words in the tones of those or other great 
men. palm themselves off for their spirits. 
Whichever of these theories is tho cor¬ 
rect one, the practical inference is the same. 
They should be lot alone. If true human 
spirits in undress, it is not charitable to call 
them out. They should be left in their re¬ 
tirement. as wo would suffer Alboni to be 
silent if ever she should appe ir in a mixed 
company, too hoarse t > sing without doing 
discredit to her sweet voice. If they are 
going to he human spirits at some future 
day. it must be very prejudicial to the mor¬ 
als of posterity to have the training of row¬ 
dies and h hoys afforded them at so tender 
an age. Meanwhile, it can bo little less 
improper to make sport of them, than with 
them. It is not wise to ridicule any per¬ 
sons unless they are most absurdly and in¬ 
juriously ridiculous. And seeing these 
spirits are doubtless possessed of some fac¬ 
ulties for mischief that we know not ol; 
considering, moreover, how often wo are 
under tho necessity of being alone in the 
dark, lot us treat them with respect, while 
we never court their company.— JY. Y. 
Times. 
VENTILATION. 
The following graphic discourse on ven¬ 
tilation, is from the pen of Mrs. Swissholm : 
People are beginning to ventilate public 
halls, so that one can sometimes hear a lec¬ 
ture without being obliged to inhale other 
people’s cast-off breath with its foul gases; 
hut churches generally hold close commun¬ 
ion, and with a most brotherly pertinacity 
the same mouthful of air is breathed by (he 
whole congregation. Sister Brown throws 
it off her lungs with a few seeds of con¬ 
sumption in it, and then Brother Jones takos 
it into his chest, and gives it hack with a 
tobacco flavor, and so on round, eacli one 
supplying front his or her store house some 
animal matter to make tho precious little 
morsel of breath, shut up within four walls, 
good and thick for family consumption. If 
their minds do not become assimilated by a 
communion of faith, their bodies might by 
the general union and communion, anil 
mixing up of tho gases and vapor of their 
mortal part. People who would not eat 
out of tho same dish with another, or sip 
with tho same spoon, think nothing of taking 
into their lungs, and incorporating with 
their blood, the particles of foul "matter 
which have passed off from each other’s 
system. 
We would much rather submit to an in¬ 
discriminate use of tooth brushes than of 
breath. It would not appear half so dis¬ 
gusting to put another person’s tooth brush 
into one’s mouth, as it would be to take his 
cast out breath into one’s lungs; and in a 
crowded church, without great care of ven¬ 
tilating, that process is regularly going on, 
and so we just as regularly go off. 
There is a fashion in the world of honor¬ 
ing what has a fair outside. Success, too, 
is made the tost of merit; so much so, that 
if a man havo a crown rained down on him, 
it would be said he was princely born. 
late' Jkjiortmnit 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
TRIBUTE TO A DEPARTED FRIEND.* 
Magnificent tho splendor of the noon¬ 
day sun, as it rose to the meridian, and far 
over hill and valley streamed the flood of 
its golden rays, while tho rugged mountains 
in tho distance were wrapped in a veil of 
glittering mis’. 
It was in such an hour as this, our Har¬ 
riet died. Sho was young and gentle 
—but as the fragile flower droops when 
withered by tho rude blast, so she sank 
beneath tho ravages of disease. Her cham- \ 
her was indeed a “privileged spot”—the 
gloom which so often pervades the chamber j 
of death seemed there unknown. The Sun 
of Righteousness illumined it with his | 
cheering rays, and tho happy messenger j 
seemed hovering round her pillow, waiting j 
to convey her willing spirit home to the 
mansion of rest. 
Disease with its stealthy, delusive step, i 
speedily proves its power over the human | 
frame. Thus it was with our young friend. 
She seemed not to realize her slow but sure 
approach to the tomb, but spoko with tho 
smile of hope on her pale thin lips of re¬ 
turning health. But the seal of death was j 
seen in the hectic color of her hollow cheek j 
—in tho glassy brightness of her dark eye, 
and in the quick, short cough which seemed 
the echo of the funeral knell, telling to 
many anxious hearts, that she whom we all 
loved so well, must dio. 
Death is not long in weaving its web, 
and Harriet soon felt, herself, that her 
strength was sinking—that she must die— 
that she must pass alone the dark waters of 
Jordan. Did 1 say alone ? Not so, for thero 
was One whose arm was her sure support 
in that last hour. O ! what an hour is this 
for those whose hopes are centered 
in a vain world.' But not thus with my 
early friend. While the rose of health was 
on her countenance, while strength and vigor 
played through her frame, she forsook the 
pleasures of earth, turned from its turbid 
streams, to the “fountain of living waters,” 
—her placid smile and peaceful air were 
witnesses of the peace that dwelt within.— 
How glorious to see the powers of the mind 
overcoming all other influence, to behold 
the triumph of faith, and to feel assured 
that no worldly circumstance can change or 
subdue the soul ! 
Why linger we so fondly over the last 
hours of the dying ? Should we not de¬ 
light to dwell upon tho form, and linea¬ 
ments, and expression of her we so loved 
and valued, hut who now is hidden from 
our sight ? Why should we not treasure 
up each word, and tone, that in that hour of 
desolation, pierced with a deeper anguish the 
heart that already was crushed to the dust ? 
This grief we would rather cherish than 
part from it, for it is dearer than happiness, 
more precious than joy, since it is mingled 
with hopes of immortality. This is a grief 
that needs no description; wo have but to 
ask our own hearts, and, even if the dread 
experiment has been spared us, we can tell 
all tho outward forms which it must as¬ 
sume. 
It is the morning of the holy Sabbath, 
and all around is hushed and still. An hour 
of trial, but also of consolation, which the 
“ world can neither give nor take away,”— 
that morning long to bo remembered by 
those within the chamber of her, upon 
whose young brow was written the doom of 
all earthly beauty—“passing away.” That 
morning her friends saw and felt that the 
spirit was to bo freed from the fetters which 
bound it. The last little token of remem¬ 
brance was given to fond brothers and sis¬ 
ters—her little earthly cares were ended, 
and her thoughts were fixed steadily on 
eternity. Sho spoke of a Savior’s love; 
and her countenance was lighted with a 
heavenly glow as she expressed the sweet 
assurance that He was with and sustained 
her. Sho looked with a smile of lovo and 
tenderness on all—then quietly as an infant 
on its mother’s breast, sank to sleep—lin¬ 
gering on tho borders of Heaven till the 
sun had attained its noon-day glory—her 
spirit winged its way to the bosom of her 
God. Thus calmly did she close her eyes, 
thus peacefully did she pass away. And if 
you will como with me, I will show you a 
now made grave, tho final resting place of 
our early friend—the last of five loved ones 
“ who sleep in Jesus.” 
“ So fades a summer cloud away, 
So sinks the gale when storms are o’er, 
So sently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore.” 
Trumansburg, N. Y., 1852. Farmer’s Daughter. 
•Miss Harriet Covert, who died September 25, 1852. 
Among well bred people, a mutual defer¬ 
ence is affected; contempt of others dis¬ 
guised ; authority concealed ; attention giv¬ 
en to each in his turn, and an easy stream 
of conversation maintained, without vehe¬ 
mence, without interruption, without eager¬ 
ness for victory, and without any airs of 
superiority. 
