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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
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ENDYMION. 
BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
The rising moon has hid the stars, 
Her lovely rays like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 
And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 
Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 
On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When sleeping in the grove, 
He dreamed not of her love. 
like Diana's kiss, unask'd unsought, 
Love gives itself but is not bougnt; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassion'd gaze. 
It comes—the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity— 
In silence and alone 
To seek the elected one. 
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul’s sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him who slumbering lies. 
O, weary hearts! oh, slumbering eyes! 
O, drooping souls, whose destinies 
Are fraught with fear and pain, 
Ye shall be loved again I 
No one is so aceurs'd by fate, 
No one so wholly desolate. 
But some heart, though unknown, 
Responds unto his own. 
Responds—as if with unseen wings 
An angel swept its quivering strings; 
And whispers, in its song, 
“ Where bast Ihou staid so long ?” 
igljts of durantl 
ERUPTION OF MOUNT ETNA. 
LETTER FROM BAYARD TATLOR. 
Messina, Sicily, Monday, Aug. 23, 1852. 
The noises of the festival had not ceased 
when I closed ray letter at midnight on Fri¬ 
day last. I slept soundly through the sight, 
but was awakened before sunrise by my 
Sicilian landlord. O, Exeellenza ! have 
you hoard the Mountain ? He is going to 
break out again; may tho holy Santa Aga¬ 
tha protect us ! ’ it is rather ill-timed on 
the part of the Mountain, was my involun¬ 
tary first thought, that ho should choose for 
a new eruption precisely the centennial 
festival of the only Saint who is supposed 
to have any power o' er him. It shows a 
disregard of female influence not at all 
suited to tho present day. and I scarcely 
believe he seriously means it. Next came 
along the jabbering landlady: “I dont like 
his looks. It was just so last time. Come, 
Exeellenza, you can see him from tho back 
terrace.” The sun was not yet risen, but 
all the east was bright with his coming, and 
there was not a ciond in the sky. All the 
features of Etna were sharply sculptured in 
tho clear air. From the topmost cone a 
thick stream of white smoke was slowly 
puffed out at short intervals, and rolled 
lazily down the eastern side. It had a heavy, 
languid character, and I should have thought 
nothing of the appearance, but for the 
alarm of my hosts, it was like the slow 
fire of Earth’s incense, burning on that 
grand mountain altar. 
1 hurried off to the Post Office to await 
the arrival of tho diligence from Palermo. 
The office is in the Strada Etnea, tho main 
street of Catania, which runs straight thro’ 
the city from the sea to tho baso of the 
mountain, whose peak closes the long vista. 
The diligence was an hour later than usual, 
and I passed the time in watching tho smoke, 
which continued to increase in volume, and 
was mingled from time to time with jets of 
inky blackness. The postillion said he had 
seen fires and heard loud noises during the 
night. According to his account, tho dis¬ 
turbances commenced about midnight. I 
eould not but envy my friend Ca'sar, who 
was probably at that moment on the sum¬ 
mit, looking down into the seething fires of 
the crater. 
At last we rolled out of Catania. There 
were in tho diligence, besides myself, two 
men and a woman, Sicilians of the second¬ 
ary class. The road followed tho shore, 
over rugged tracts of lava, tho different 
epochs of which could be distinctly traced 
in the character of the vegetation. The 
last great floor (of 1079) stood piled in long- 
ridges of terrible sterility, barely allowing 
the aloe and cactus to take root in the hoi- 
lows between. The older deposits were 
sufficiently decomposed to nourish the olive 
and vine, but even here the orchards were 
studded with pyramids of the harder frag¬ 
ment, which are laboriously collected by the 
husbandman. In the few favored spots 
which have been untouched fer so many 
ages that a tolerable depth of soil has accu¬ 
mulated, the vegetation has all tho richness 
and'brilliancy of tropical lands. The palm, 
orange and pomegranate thrive luxuriantly, 
and the vines almost break under their 
heavy dusters. The villages are frequent 
and well built, and the hills are studded far 
and near, with the villas of rich proprietors, 
mostly buildings of one story, with verandas 
extending their whole length. Looking up 
towards (Etna, whose base the road encircles, 
the views are gloriously rich and beautiful. 
On the other hand is the blue Mediterra¬ 
nean, and the irregular outline of the shore, 
hero and there sending forth promontories 
of lava, cooled by the waves into the most 
fantastic forms. 
We had not proceeded far before a new 
sign cabled my attention to the mountain. 
Not only was there a perceptible jar or vi¬ 
bration in the earth! but a dull, groaning 
•sound, like the muttering of distant thunder, 
began to he heard! The smoko increased 
in volume, and as wo advanced farther to 
the eastward, and much nearer to the great 
cone, I perceived that it consisted of two 
jots, issuing from different mouths. A broad 
stream of very dense white smoko still 
flowed over tho lip of tho topmost crater, 
and down the eastern side. As its breadth 
did not vary, and tho edges were distinctly 
defined, it was no doubt the sulphurous 
vapor rising from a river of molten lava.— 
Perhaps a thousand yards below, a much 
stronger column of mingled black and white 
smoke gushed up, in regular beats or pants, 
from a depression in the mountain side, be¬ 
tween two small, extinct cones. All this 
part of Etna was scarred with deep chasms, 
and in the bottoms of those nearest the 
opening I could see tho red gleam of fire. 
The air was perfectly still, and as yet there 
was no cloud in the sky. 
When we stopped to change horses at the 
town of Aci Reale, I first felt the violence 
of the tremor and the awful sternness of 
tho sound. The smoko by this time seemed 
to be gathering on tho side toward Catania, 
and hung in a dark mass about half way- 
down the mountain. Groups of the villa¬ 
gers were gathered in tho streets which 
looked upward to Etna, and discussing the 
chances of an eruption. “Ah,” said an old 
peasant, “ tho Mountain knows how to make 
himself respected. When he talks every¬ 
body listens.” Tho sound was the most 
awful that over met my ears. It was a hard, 
painful moan, now and then fluttering like 
a suppressed sob, and had at the same time 
an expression of threatening and of agony. 
It did not como from Etna alone. It had 
no fixed location ; it pervaded all space. It 
was in tho air, in tho depths of the sea, in 
tho earth under my feet—everywhere, in 
fact; and as it continued to increase in vio¬ 
lence, I experienced a sensation of positive 
distress. Tho pooplo looked anxious and 
alarmed, although they said it was a good 
thing for all Sicily ; that last year they had 
been in constant fear from earthquakes, and 
that an eruption invariably left the island 
quiet for several years. It is true that du¬ 
ring the past yen’, paits of Sicily and Cala¬ 
bria have been visited with severe shocks, 
occasioning much damage to property. A 
merchant of this city informed me yester¬ 
day that his whole family had slept for two 
months in tho vaults of his warehouse, fear¬ 
ing that their residence might bo shaken 
down in the night. 
As wo rode along from Aei Realc to Ta¬ 
ormina,all the rattling of iho diligenco over 
the rough road could not drown the awful 
noiso. There was a strong smell of sulphur 
in tho air, and the thick pants of smoke 
from the lower crater continued to increase 
in strength. Tho sun was fierce and hot, 
and the edges of the sulphurous clouds 
shono with a dazzling whiteness. A mount¬ 
ed soldier overtook us, and rode beside the 
diligence, talking with the postillion, lie 
had been up to tho mountain and was taking 
his report to the Governor of tho districts 
The heat of the day and the continued 
tremor of the air lulled me into a sort of 
doze, when I was suddenly aroused by a cry 
from the soldier, and the stopping of tho 
diligence. At the same time there was a 
terrific peal of sound, followed by a jar 
which must have shaken tho whole island. 
We looked up to Etna, which was fortunate¬ 
ly in full view before us. An immense mass 
of snow-white smoko had burst up from the 
crater, and was rising perpendicularly into 
tho air, its rounded volumes rapidly whirl¬ 
ing one over the other, yet urged with such 
impetus that they only rolled outward after 
they had ascended to an immense height. 
It might have been one minute or five—for 
I was so entranced by tho wonderful spec¬ 
tacle that I lost the sense of time—but it 
seemed instantaneous, (so rapid and violent 
were the effects of the explosion.) when 
there stood in the air, based on tho summit 
of the mountain, a mass of smoko four or 
fixe miles high, and shaped precisely like 
the Italian pine tree. 
Words cannot paint the grandeur of this 
mighty tree. Its trunk of columned smoke, 
one side of which was silvered by the sun, 
while the other, in shadow, was lurid with red 
fiame, rose for more than a mile before it sent 
out its cloudy boughs. Then parting into 
a thousand streams, each of which again 
threw out its branching tufts of smoke roll¬ 
ing and waving in tho air, it stood in intense 
relief against the dark bluo of tho sky. Its 
rounded masses of foliage were dazzlingly 
white on one side, while in the shadowy 
depths of the branches, there was a con¬ 
stant play of brown, yellow and crimson 
tints, revealing the central shaft of fire. It 
was like that tree celebrated in the Scandi¬ 
navian sagas, as seen by tho mother of 
Harold Hardrada—that tree whose roots 
pierced through the earth, whose trunk was 
uf the color of blood, and whose branches 
filled the uttermost corners of the heavens. 
This outburst seemed to have relieved 
the mountain, for the tremors were now less 
violent, though the terrible noise still droned 
in the air, and earth, and sea. And now. 
from the base of tho tree, three white 
streams slowly crept into as many separate 
chasms, against the walls of which, played 
the flickering glow of the burning lava.— 
The column of smoke and flame was still 
hurled upward, and tho tree, after standing 
about ten minutes—a new and awful revel¬ 
ation of tho active forces of Nature—grad¬ 
ually rose and spread, lost its form, and 
slowly moved by a light wind, (the first that 
disturbed tho dead calm of the day.) bent 
over to the eastward. Wo resumed our 
course. The vast belt of smoke arched 
over tho strait, here about twenty miles 
wide, and sank toward the distant Calabrian 
shore. As we drove under it, for some 
miles of our way, tho sun was -totally ob¬ 
scured, and the sky presented tho singular 
spectacle of two hemispheres of clear bluo, 
with a broad belt of darkness drawn between 
them. There was a hot sulphurous vapor 
in the air, and show -rs of white ashes fell 
from timo to time. We were distant about 
fifteon miles in a straight line, from the 
crater, but the air was so clear, even under 
tho shadow of tho smoke, that I could dis¬ 
tinctly trace the downward movement of 
the rivers of lava. 
This was tho eruption, at last, to which 
all tho phenomena of the morning had been 
only preparatory. For tho first time in ten 
years tho depths of Etna had been stirred, 
and I thanked God for my detention at 
Malta, and tho singular hazard of travel 
which had brought me here, to his very 
base, to witness a scene, the impression of 
which I shall never lose, to my dying day. 
Although tho eruption may continue and 
the mountain pour forth fiercer fires 
and broader tides of lava, I cannot but 
think that the first upheaval, which lets out 
the long imprisoned forces, will not be 
equaled in grandeur by any later spectacle. 
After passing Taormina, our road led us 
under tho hills of the coast, and although I 
occasionally caught glimpses of Etna, and 
saw reflection of fires from tho lava which 
was filling up his savage ravines, the smoke 
at last encircled his waist, and he was then 
shut out of sight by the intervening moun¬ 
tains. We lost a bolt in a deep valley open¬ 
ing on the sea, and during our stoppage I 
could still hear the groans of the Mountain, 
though farther off, and less painful to the 
ear. As evening came on, tho beautiful 
hills of Calabria, with white towns and vil¬ 
lages on their sides, gleamed in the purple 
light ot the setting sun. Wo drove round 
headland after headland, till the strait 
opened and we looked over tho harbor of 
Messina to Capo Faro, and tho distant is¬ 
lands of tho Tyrrhene Sea.—A’. Y. Tribune. 
SELF-EDUCATION. 
The education , moral and intellectual , of 
every individual must be chiefly his own work. 
There is a prevailing and a fatal mistake on 
this subject. It seems to be supposed that 
if a young man be sent first to grammar 
school and then to college, ho must of course 
become a scholar; and the pupil himself is 
apt to imagine ho is to become the mere 
passive recipient of instruction, as he is of 
tho light and atmosphere which surround 
him. But this dream of indolence must be 
dissipated, and you must bo awakened to 
the important truth, that, if you aspire to 
excellence, you must become active and vig¬ 
orous co-operators with your teachers, and 
work out your own distinction with an ar¬ 
dor that cannot be quenched, a perseverence 
that considers nothing done while anything 
yet remains to be done. 
Rely upon it that the ancients were right. 
Quis que sure forlvnee faber —both in morals 
and intellect, we give tho final shade to our 
own characters, and thus become empi ati- 
cally, the architects of our own fortunes.— 
How else should it happen, gentlemen, that 
young men who have had precisely the same 
opportunities, should bo continually pre¬ 
senting us with different results, and rush¬ 
ing to such opposite destinies ? Difference 
of talent will not solve it, because that dif¬ 
ference is very often in favor of the disap¬ 
pointed candidate. You shall see issuing 
from tho walls of the same school — nav, 
sometimes from the bosom of the same fam¬ 
ily—two young men, of whom the one shall 
be admitted to be a genius of high order, 
tho other scarcely above the point of medi¬ 
ocrity ; vet, you shall seo the genius perish¬ 
ing in poverty, obscurity and wretchedness; 
while on the other hand, you shall observe 
the mediocre plodding his slow but sure wav 
up tho hill of life, gaining steadfast footing 
at every step, and mounting at length to 
eminence and distinction, an ornament to 
his family, a blessing to his country. 
Now, whoso work is this ? Manifestly 
their own. They are tho architects of their 
own fortunes. The host seminary of learn¬ 
ing that can open its portals to you, can do 
no more than afford to you the opportunity 
of instruction ; but it must depend at least 
on yourselves, whether you are instructed or 
not, or to what point you will push your in¬ 
struction. And of this be assured—I speak 
from observation, a certain truth ; there is 
no excellence without great labor. It is the 
fact of Fate from which no power of genius 
can absolve you. Genius unexerted, is like 
a poor moth that flutters around a candle 
till it scorches itself to death. If genius be 
desirable at all, it is only of that great and 
magnanimous kind, which like the condor of 
South America, pitches from tho summit of 
Chimborazo above the clouds, and sustains 
itself at pleasure in that ompyrical region, 
with an energy rather invigorated than 
weakened by the effort, it is this capacity 
for high and long continued exertion—this 
careering and wide-sweeping comprehension 
of mind—and those long reaches of thought 
that 
Pluck bright liouor from flip pale faced moon, 
Or drive into tho bottom of the deep. 
Where fathomed line could never touch the ground, 
And drag up drowned honor by the locks. 
This is the prowess, and these tho hardy 
achievements which are to enrol your names 
among the great men of the earth. 
But how are you to gain the nerve and 
the courage for enterprises of this pith and 
moment ? I will tell you—as Milo obtained 
that hoc signo vinces ; for this must be your 
work, not that of your teachers. Bo you 
not wanting to yourselves, and you wilfac¬ 
complish all that your parents, friends and 
country have a right to expect.— Wirt. 
Finished Lathes. —I have observed that 
most ladies who have had what is consider¬ 
ed as an education, have no idea of an edu¬ 
cation through life. Having attained a cer¬ 
tain measure of accomplishment, knowledge, 
manners, &c., they consider themselves as 
made up. and so take their station ; they are 
pictures which, being quite finished, are now 
put in a frame—a gilded one if possible— 
and hung up in permanence of beauty ! per¬ 
manence. that is to s-iy. till Old Time with 
his rude and dirty fingers, soil the charming 
colors. 
Into JDtpartmmt 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE MAIDEN’S DREAM, 
O, it was a glorious vision 
That hail blessed the maiden’s sight, 
Making this diin vale of shadows 
Seem a paradise i f light. 
’Tvvas a dream of waking glqry, 
Of the sweet and heavenly bliss, 
Which that fair young girl was seeking. 
In a dreary world like ibis. 
Joy had ail her steps attended. 
Through her childhood’s happy days, 
Fancied sorrows all were gilded 
By that visions glorious rays; 
And the heart so lightly bouuding 
In her free and joyous breast, 
Never dreamed a weight of anguish 
All too soon would there be pressed. 
She had dreamed of earthly Friendship, 
Of its thrilling, magic power, 
Ah ! she knew not that a false one 
Could destroy it in an hour; 
That deceit in one we’ve trusted, 
Fills the heart with grief and pain, 
Turns its first bright hopes to ashes 
Ne’er to be revived again. 
And that vision bright had whispered 
To her childish heart, of Love, 
But she never dreamed that anguish 
Even this to her might prove; 
Blighted hopes and crushed affections 
Never to her vision came, 
Dreamed she not fond hopes must ever 
Writhe in their own altar flame. 
But the maiden now is waking. 
For the years have vanished fast. 
Sixteen bright and joyous summers 
Now are numbered wi lt the past; 
She has tasted Love and Friendship, 
Both have raukled in her heart, 
And her tears are sadly falling 
As her youthful dreams depart. Jenny. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LEAVES FROM AUNT PHEBE’S PORTFOLIO. 
BY A FARMER’S WIFE. 
No. 2.—Letter from a “Prose Farmer’s” 
Daughter. 
Mr. Moore : —Here I find a letter from 
the only daughter of one of the “ Prose 
Farmers.” To allow your readers to judge 
how far the daughters of common farmers 
at tho present time can sympathize with the 
writer. I have transcribed Martha’s letter 
verbatim. A Farmer’s Wife. 
Dear Aunt Piiebe :—I suppose you will 
not deny me the use of that endearing epi¬ 
thet. as it belongs to you by virtue of that 
sympathy and advice you are always pre¬ 
pared to bestow on those who need them. 
You are aware that my dear mother died 
while wo children were yet young—yes, 
died a martyr to her unromitted toil in as¬ 
sisting my father to become an independent 
farmer. Yet what did it avail ? 
At tho timo of this sad event, I was about 
eight years old, with two brothers older 
than myself, and one younger. I inherited 
feeble health from my mother, but this my 
father could never realize, excepting when 
! was prostrrted by sickness, as was fre¬ 
quently the case; then ho would watch by 
me day and night with tho tendorest care. 
At all other times ho was stern and exact¬ 
ing, always demanding an unfailing por- 
tormanco of tho labor imposed on mo by 
himself or his house-keeper for the time 
being. Sometimes I wished I could always 
bo sick enough to take medicine, for then 
my child-heart fancied my father would 
always love me. I often heard people say 
that childhood was tho happiest soason of 
life; this I could not believo. if it was indeed 
true, I wished I could die then. IIow did I 
envy thoso children who enjoyed a father’s 
caresses, free from that fear I experienced. 
Unfortunately for me, my father always 
thought that boys should bo bettor educated 
and have a greater share of the property 
than girls, as tho former earned moro for 
their parents, and would have to support 
families themselves; whereas the latter 
needed little knowledge besides that of 
housekeeping. Often have I wished I did 
not love books so well, as that love often 
led mo into tho neglect of commands that 
were held as inviolate as the laws of the 
Medes and Persians; and every deviation 
from tho letter of tho command involved a 
sure punishment. Yet I could not forbear 
almost tho only pleasure and enjoyment I 
had. How did my little heart rebel, when 
the housekeeper kept me from school to 
perform any domestic duty, when at best, 
wo had but six months schooling in a year. 
At fifteen, I was considered by my father, 
competent to manage tho household affairs 
I bv hiring some of tho hoavy work done—as 
tor any deficiency in knowledge of my du¬ 
ties, such a thought would have been an 
affront to common sense, in the minds of 
my father and brothers. They did not seo 
the scalding tears that were shed over the 
collars and bosoms I was trying my best to 
iron well, only to see them east aside on 
Sunday morning, as unfit to wear, because 
they were badly ironed. I ,really believe 
farmer’s sons who only dress up on Sundays 
are more particular about the looks of their 
clothes than village or city boys, who dress 
more every day. My father and brothers 
loved me, and did not like to pain my feel¬ 
ings, but whoever saw a man whose brow 
would not darken on his sister or even 
his wife, if she did not iron his collars and 
bosoms nicely, or a missing button escaped 
her notice or memory ? 
My brothers had certain privileges by 
which they could earn money, and procuro 
decent clothing, and each in turn had his 
year’s schooling at a neighboring Academy; 
but the money procured for tho butter and 
cheese I made, and for tho chickens and 
turkeys I reared, was all necessary to defray 
household expenses. As I seldom went 
out, I needed few clothes ; I never had time 
to visit, or oven to attend church more than 
half the day on a Sabbath, and my father 
never noticed a person’s dress, so that if I 
wore the same bonnet three or four years, 
ho did not see but it looked well enough. 
My younger brother, I was always ex¬ 
pected to clothe out of the elder boys’ cast 
off apparrel, and many a night after exer¬ 
cising my ingenuity in fashioning a garment 
for him or myself long after others slept, 
have I been in my dreams transformed into 
a dress-maker or tailoress, and fancied it so 
easy a thing to make a garment fit, and 
awakened to porplexities that beset older 
and wiser persons than myself. But Hope, 
that 
“ Springs eternal in the hitman breast,” 
is largely developed in my brain, and con¬ 
stantly whispered of a better time coming. 
When I became a woman in years, as cir¬ 
cumstances had long since made mo appear 
in conduct, other young men besides my 
brothers sought my acquaintance, but my 
own timidity and tho frowns of guardians 
repelled tho slightest advances that might 
in tho end deprive them of my services, and 
when my father called me Mattie, and said 
he could not spare me to keep house for 
any one else, and when my brothers were 
pleased with my efforts, I was quite satis¬ 
fied with losing my own identity, and living 
for them alone. 
But tho timo has arrived when I feel that 
my future may not bo under their guidance. 
I have learned that there is a love that is 
dearer than that of father or brothers, and 
trust it may not be so exacting. It is in 
relation to this subject that I now seek your 
kind advice, as I know my past life has had 
your sympathy. 
My eldest brother is established in a 
neighboring city — the second brother is 
soon to be married, and is to live at home 
and manage and share the farm with tho 
youngest. 
Now I want your advice on a point of tho 
utmost consequence to myself, and perhaps 
to another. Shall I reject as noble and true 
a heart as ever boat in tho breast of man, 
because its possessor is a farmer? Must I, 
becauso ho tills the earth, encounter such 
toil, such unappreciated feeling and want of 
sympathy as has lain many a wife in an 
early grave ? This incessant toil, toiling 
to lay up a few dollars and cents, destroys a 
man’s sympathies and unfits him for family 
endearments, and social enjoyments. My 
heart longs for a congenial heart, and com¬ 
panionship with one whose mind is cultiva¬ 
ted, and is willing to bear with my ignorance, 
teach me and provide moans for my self- 
culture. Such an one I believe Edwin 
Sumner to bo, but he is a farmer, and when 
he becomes settled on a farm, will ho thiuk 
his wife has any rights and privileges be¬ 
yond a hired domestic ? Will lie not be¬ 
come so absorbed in the cultivation of his 
farm, and tho improvement of his cattle 
and horses, that ho will forget that his wife 
and children need cultivation and improve¬ 
ment ? Experience and observation has 
made me cautious, and I feel that I had 
better suffer in my own feelings alone bv 
rejecting him, than to involve others dearer 
than life, in the consequences of such a 
life as many farmers’ wives are compelled 
to endure. 
I am twenty-two years of age, and feel 
competent to settle tho question of my fu¬ 
ture happiness, without appealing to those 
who know so little of me as my father and 
brothers; therefore I turn to you for that 
advice which will havo its due influence in 
the decision I am about to make. I ack¬ 
nowledge, candidly, that my heart prompts 
me to give the desired affirmative, but he is 
a fanner. Please write soon, and kindly 
aid Your friend, Martha. 
Under a date five years later than the 
above was written, Aunt Phobe has made 
the following note: 
“ I ascertained that Edwin Sumner was 
all Martha believed him to be, and above all , 
had always been kind and considerate to wards 
his mother and sisters. I of course, advised 
her to accept him, which she did, and I am 
pleased to say they are happy in their rela¬ 
tions, as all refined and cultivated farmers 
should bo.” 
For every month a woman spends in the 
marriage state between seventeen and twen¬ 
ty-one years of age, a year will be taken 
from the duration of her beauty and person¬ 
al attractiveness. 
