188 
MOORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
JUNE 5 
• TUB GOLDEN SUNSET, 
BT UXNRT WARDHWORTH L0N8FKM.0W. 
Tint golden sea it* mirror spreads 
Beneath the goldea skies, 
And but a narrow »trip between 
0f land and shadow lies. 
The cloud-like rocks, the ro«k-like clouds, 
Dissolved in glory float, 
And, midway of the radiant flood, 
Hangs silently the boat. 
The sea is but another sky. 
The sky a sea as well, 
And which is earth, and which the heaven* 
The eye ean scarcely tell. 
So when for us life’s evening hour 
Soft-fading shall descend, 
May glory, born of earth and heaven. 
The earth and heavens blend; 
Flooded with peace the spirit float. 
With silent rapture glow, 
Till where earth ends and heaven begins 
The soul shall scarcely know. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
DIAMONDS. 
BY MRS. MARY J. HOI.MKS. 
“Tjik boys mustn’t look at the girls, and the girls 
must look on their books,” was said at least a 
dozen times by the village school-master, on that 
stormy morning, when Cora Blanchard and I— 
she in her brother’s boots, and I in my father’s 
socks—waded through drift after drift of Bnow, to 
the old brown sehool-honse at the foot of the long, 
steep hill. 
We were the only girls who had dared to brave 
that wintry'storm, and we felt amply repaid for 
our trouble when we saw how much attention we 
received from the ten tall hoys who had come — 
some for fun — some because they saw Cora 
Blanchard go by, and one, Walter Beaumont, 
because he did not wish to lose the lesson of the 
day. Our teacher, Mr. Grannis, was fitting him 
for College, and every moment was precious to the 
white-browed, intellectual student, who was quite 
a lion among us girls, partly because he was older, 
and partly because he never noticed us as much as 
did the other boys. On this occasion, however, he 
was quite "attentive to Cora, at least, pulling off 
her boots, removing her hood, and brushing the 
large snow flakes from her soft wavy hair, while 
her dark brown eyes smiled gratefully upon him, 
as he gave her his warm seat by the stove. 
That morning Cora [wrote to me slily on her 
Blate:— “I don’t care if mother does say Walter 
Beaumont is poor as poverty —I like him best of 
anybody in the world,—don’t you? ” 
I thought of the big red apple in my pocket, and 
of the hoy who had so carefully shaken the snow 
from off my father’s'socks, and answered, “ No,”— 
thinking, the while, thatl should say yes, if Walter 
had ever treated me as he did my playmate and 
friend Cora Blanchard. She was a beautiful 
young girl, a favorite with all, and possessing, as 
it seemed, but one glaring fault,—a proneness to 
estimate people for their wealth rather than their 
worth. This in a rcasure was the result of her 
home training, for her family, though far from be¬ 
ing rich, were very aristocratic, and strove to 
keep their children as much as possible from asso¬ 
ciating with the “ vulgar herd,” as they styled the 
laboring class of the community. In her secret 
heart'CoRA had long cherished a preference for 
Walter, though never, until the morning of which I 
write, had it been so openly avowed. And Walter, 
too, while knowing how far above him she was in 
point of position, had dared to dream of a time 
when a bright haired woman, with a face much 
like that of the girlish Cora, would gladden his 
some, wherever it might be. 
That noon, as we sat around the glowing stove, 
we played as children will, and it came my turn to 
“ answer truly whom I intended to marry.” With¬ 
out a thought of the big apple, the snowy socks, or 
of any one in particular, I replied unhesitatingly,— 
“ The one I love best,” and the question passed on 
to Cora, who was sitting by the side of Walter 
Beaumont, lie had not joined in our sport, hut 
now his eye left his hook and rested upon Cora 
with an expression half fearful, half expectant 
She, too, glanced at him, and as if the spirit of 
prophecy were upon her, she said ,—“I shall not 
marry the one I love the best, but the one who has 
the most money, and can give me the handsomest 
diamonds. Sister Fanny has a magnificent set, and 
she looks so beautifully when she wears them.” 
Instantly there fell a shadow on Walter Beau¬ 
mont’s face, and his eye returned again to the 
Latin lettered page. But his thoughts were not of 
what was written there; he was thinking of the 
humble cottage on the borders of the wood, of the 
rag-carpet on the oaken floor, of the plain old- 
fashioned furniture, and of the gentle, loving woman 
who called him “her hoy,” and that spot her 
home. There were no diamonds there,—no money, 
—and Cora, if for these she married, would never 
be his wife. Early and late he toiled and studied, 
wearing his thread-bare coat and coarse brown 
pants—for an education, such as he must have, 
admitted of no useless expenditure, and the costly 
gems which Cora craved were not his to give. In 
the pure, unselfish love springing up for her within 
his heart, there were diamonds of imperishable 
value, and these, together with the name he woirld 
make for himself, he would offer her, hut nothing 
more, and for many weeks there was a shadow on 
his brow, though he was kind and considerate to 
her as of old. 
As the spring and summer glided by, however, 
there came a change, and when, in the autumn, he 
left onr village for New HaveD, there was a happy, 
joyous look upon his face, while a tress of Cora’s 
silken hair was lying next his heart Every week 
he wrote to her, and Cora answered, always show¬ 
ing to me what she had written, but never a word 
of his. “ There was too much love,” she said, “too 
much good advice in his letters for me to see,” 
and thus the time passed on, until Walter, who 
had entered the junior class, was graduated with 
honor, and was about to commence a theological 
course at Andover, for he had made the ministry 
his elioice. He was twenty-one now, and Cora 
was sixteen. Wondronsly beautiful was she to 
look upon, with her fair young face, her soft brown 
eyes, and wavy hair. And Walter Beaumont 
loved her devotedly, believing, too, that she in turn 
loved him, for one summer afternoon, in the green 
old woods which skirted the little village, she had 
sat by his side, and with the sunbeams glancing 
down upon her through the overhanging boughs, 
she had told him so, and promised some day to be 
his wife. Still, she would not hear of a positive 
engagement,—both should be free to change their 
mind if they wished, she said, and with this Wal¬ 
ter was satisfied. 
“ I have no diamonds to give yon, darling,” be 
said, drawing her close to him, and Cora, knowing 
to what he referred, answered that “ his love was 
dearer to her than all the world besides.” Alas, 
that woman should he so fickle! 
The same train which carried Walter away, 
brought Mrs. Blanchard a letter from her daugh¬ 
ter, a dashing, fashionable woman, who lived in 
the city, and who wished to bring her sister Cora 
“ out ” the coming winter. “ She is old enough 
now,” she wrote, “ to be looking for a husband, and 
of course she’ll never do anything in that by-place.” 
This proposition, which accorded exactly with 
Mrs. Blanchard’s wishes, was joyfully acceded to 
by Cora, who, while anticipating the pleasure 
which awaited her, had yet no thought of proving 
false to Walter, and in the letter which she wrote 
informing him of her plan, she assured him of 
her unchanging fidelity, little dreaming that the 
promise thus made would so soon be broken!— 
Petted, caressed, flattered and admired, as she was 
in the circle of her sister’s friends, how could she 
help growing worldly and vain, or avoid contrast¬ 
ing the plain, unassuming Walter, with the polish¬ 
ed and gayly dressed butterflies who thronged Mrs. 
Burton’s drawing-room. When the summer came 
again she did not return to us as we had expected, 
hut we heard of her at Saratoga, and Newport, the 
admired of all admirers, while one it was said, a 
man of high position and untold wealth, bid fair to 
win the beauteous belle. Meantime her letters to 
Walter grew short and far between, ceasing at 
length altogether, and one day during the second 
winter of her residence in the city, I received from 
her a package containing his miniature, the books 
he had given her, and the letters he had written. 
These she wished me to give him when next I saw 
him, bidding me tell him to think no more of one 
who was not worthy of him. 
“To he plain, Lottie,” she wrote, “I’m engaged, 
and though Mr. Douglass is not a bit like Walter, 
he has a great deal of money, drives splendid 
horses, and I reckon we shall get on well enough. 
I wish, though, he was not quite so old. You’ll be 
shocked to hear that he is almost fifty, though he 
looks about forty! I know I don’t like him as well 
as I did Walter, hut after seeing as much of the 
world as I have, I could not settle down into the 
wife of a poor minister. I am not good enough, 
and you must tell him so. I hope he won’t feel 
badly,—poor Walter. I’ve kept the lock of his 
hair. I couldn’t part with that; hut, of course, Mr. 
Douglass will never see it His hair is grey !— 
Good-bye.” 
This was what she wrote, and when I heard, from 
her again she was Cora Douglass, and her feet 
were treading the shores of the old world, whither 
she had gone on a bridal tour. 
In the solitude of his chamber, the yonng student 
learned the sad news from a paragraph in a city 
paper, and bowing his head upon the table he strove 
to articulate,—“ It is well,” but the flesh was weak, 
warring with the spirit, and the heart which Cora 
Blanchard had cruelly trampled down, clung to 
her still with a death-like fondness, and following 
her even across the waste of waters, cried out,— 
“How can I give her up!” But when he rememh 
ered, as he ere long did, that ’twas a sin to love her 
now, he buried his face in his hands, and calling 
on God to help him in this his hour of need, wept 
such tears as never again would fall for Cora 
Blanchard. 
The roses in our garden were faded, and the 
leaves of autumn were piled upon the ground, 
ere he came to his home again, and I had an oppor¬ 
tunity of presenting him with the package which 
many months before had been committed to my 
care. His face was very pale, and his voice 
trembled as he asked me,—“Where is she now?” 
“ In Italy,” I answered, adding that “ her husband 
was said to he very wealthy.” 
Bowing mechanically, he walked away, and a 
year and a half went by ere I saw him again.— 
Then he came among us as our minister. The old, 
white-haired pastor, who for so long had told ns of 
the Good Shepherd and the better land, was sleep¬ 
ing at last in the quiet grave-yard, and the people 
had chosen young Walter Beaumont to fill his 
place. He was a splendid-looking man, tall, erect, 
and finely formed, with a most winning manner, 
and a face which betokened intellect pf the highest 
order. We were proud of him, all of us, proud of 
our clergyman, who on the third Sabbath in June 
was to be ordained in the old brick church, before 
whose altar he had years ago been baptized, a 
smiling infant. 
On the Thursday afternoon preceding the ordi¬ 
nation, a large traveling carriage, covered with 
dust and laden with trunks, passed slowly through 
our village, attracting much attention. Seated 
within it was a portly, grey-haired man, resting 
his chin upon a gold-headed cane, and looking 
curiously out at the people in the street, who stared 
as curiously at him. Directly opposite him, and 
languidly reclining upon the soft cushions, was a 
white, proud-faced lady, who evidently felt no 
interest in what was passing around her, for her 
eye3 were cast down, and her thoughts seemed 
bnsy elsewhere. I was sitting at my chamber 
window, g37.ing out upon them, and just as they 
drew near the gate, the lady raised her eyes,—the 
soft, brown eyes, which once had won the love of 
Walter Beaumont, and in which there was now 
an nnmistakeable look of anguish, as if the long 
eye-laslies, drooping so wearily upon the colorless 
cheek, were constantly forcing back the hidden 
tears. And this was Cora Douglass, comeback 
to us again from her travels in a foreign land!— 
She knew me in a moment, and in her face there 
was much of her olden look as, bending forward, 
she smiled a greeting, and waved towards me her 
white, jeweled hand, on which the diamnnds flashed 
brightly in the sunlight. 
The next morning we met, but not in the presence 
of the old man, her husband. Down in the leafy 
woods, about a quarter of a mile from Mrs. Beau¬ 
mont’s cottage, was a running brook and a mossy 
hank, overshadon^ed by the sycamore and elrn.— 
This, in the days gone by, had been our favorite re¬ 
sort Here had we built our play-house, washing 
our hits of broken china in the rippling stream— 
here had we watched the little fishes as they darted 
in and out of the deeper eddies—here had we 
conned our daily tasks—here had she listened to 
a tale of love, the memory of which seemed but a 
mocking dream, and here, as I faintly hoped, I 
found her. With a half-joyful, half-moaning cry, 
she threw her arms around my neck and I could 
feel her tears dropping upon my face as she whis¬ 
pered, “ Oh, Lottie, Lottie, we have met again by 
the dear old brook.” 
For a few moments she sobbed as if her heart 
would break, then suddenly drying her tears, she 
assumed a calm, cold, dignified manner, such as I 
had never seen in Cora Blanchard. Very com¬ 
posedly she questioned me of what I had done da¬ 
ring her absence, telling me, too, of her travels, of 
the people she had seen and the places she had 
visited, but never a word Eaid she of him she called 
her husband. From the bank where we sat the vil¬ 
lage graveyard was discernible, with its marble 
gleaming through the treep, and at last, as her eye 
wandered in that direction, she said:—“Have any 
of onr villagers died? Mother’s letters were never 
very definite?” 
“Yes,” I answered, “Our minister, Mr. Sumner 
died two months ago.” 
“Who takes his place?” she asked, and, as if a 
suspicion of the truth were flashing upon her, her 
eyes turned towards me with an eager, startled 
glance. 
“Walter Beaumont. He is to he ordained next 
Sabbath and you are just in time,” I replied, re¬ 
gretting my words the next instant, for never saw 
I so fearful a look of anguish as that which swept 
over her face and was succeeded by a cold, hard, 
defiant expression, scarcely less painful to witness. 
She would have questioned me of him, I think, 
had not an approaching footstep caught onr ear, 
sending a crimson flush to Cora’s hitherto marble 
cheek and producing on me a most unpleasant sen¬ 
sation, for I knew that the grey-haired man, now 
within a few paces of tiff, was he who called that 
young creature his wife. Golden was the chain by 
which he had hound her and every link was set 
with diamonds and costly stones, but it had rusted 
and eaten to her very heart’s core, for the most 
precious gem of all was missing from that chain,— 
love for her husband, who, fortunately for his own 
peace of mind, was too conceited to dream how lit¬ 
tle she cared for him. Be was not handsome and 
still many would have called him a fine-looking, 
middle-aged man, tliouyh there was something 
disagreeable in his tliinwompressed lips and in¬ 
tensely black eyes,—the Tne betokening a violent 
temper and the other an indomitable will. Tome 
he was exceedingly poli^^. rather too much so for 
my perfect ease, while to a ids Cora he tried to he 
very affectionate. 
Beating himself at her side, and throwing his 
arm around her, he called her “ a little truant,” and 
asked “ why she had run away from him.” 
Half pettishly she answered, “ Because I like 
sometimes to be alone;” then rising up and turning 
towards me she asked if “the water still ran over 
the old mill dam in the west woods just as it 
used to do,” saying if it did, she wished to see it. 
“You can’t go,” she continued, addressing her hus¬ 
band, “ for it is more than a mile, over fences and 
plowed fields.” 
This was sufficient, for Mr. Douglass was very 
fastidious in all matters pertaining to his dress and 
had no fancy for soiling his white pants, or patent 
leathers. So Cora and I set off together, while he 
walked slowly back to the village. Scarcely was 
he out of sight, however, when, seating herself be¬ 
neath a tree, and throwing her flat upon the ground, 
Cora announced her intention of not going any 
farther. 
“ I only wished to be alone. I breathe so much 
better,” she said, and when I looked inquiringly at 
her, she continued, “Never marry a man for his 
wealth, Lottie, unless yon wish to become as hard, 
as wicked and unhappy as I am. John Douglass 
is worth more than half a million, and yet I would 
give it all if I were now the same little girl who, 
six years ago, waded with you through the snow 
drifts to school on that stormy day. Do you re¬ 
member what we played that noon and my foolish 
remark that I would marry for money and diamonds! 
Woe is me, I’ve won them both!” and her tears fell 
fast on the sparkling gems, which covered her 
Blender fingers. 
Just then I saw in the distance a yonng man 
whom I knew to be Walter Beaumont. He seem¬ 
ed to be approaching ns and when Cora became 
aware of that, she started up and grasping my arm 
hurried away, saying, as she cast backward a fear¬ 
ful glance, “ I would rather die than meet him now. 
I am not prepared.” 
For the remainder of the way we walked on in 
silence, until we reached her mother’s gate, where 
we found her husband waiting for her. Bidding 
me good morning she followed him slowly up the 
graveled walk and I saw her no more until the fol¬ 
lowing Sabbath. It was a gloriously beautiful 
morning, and at an early hour the old brick church 
was filled to overflowing, for Walter had many 
friends and they came together gladly to see him 
made a minister of God. During the first part of 
the service he was very pale and his eye wandered 
often towards the large, square pew where sat a 
portly man and a beautiful yonng woman, richly 
attired in satin and jewels. It had cost her a strug¬ 
gle to be there, but she felt that she must look 
again on one whom she had loved so much and so 
deeply wronged. So she came and the sight of 
him standing there in his early manhood, his soft 
brown hair clustering about his brow and his calm, 
pale face wearing an expression almost angelic, 
was more than she could bear, and leaning forward 
she kept her countenance concealed from view un¬ 
til the ceremony was ended, and Walter’s clear, 
musical voice announced the closing hymn. Then 
she raised her head and her face, seen through the 
folds of her costly veil, looked haggard and ghast¬ 
ly, as if a fierce storm of passion had swept over 
her. By the door she paused, and when the newly 
ordained clergyman passed out, she offered him her 
hand, the hand, which, when he held it last, was 
pledged to him. There were diamonds on it now,— 
diamonds of value rare, hut their brightness was 
hateful to that wretched woman, for she knew at 
what a fearful price they had been bought 
They did not meet again and only once more 
did Walter see her; then, from onr door, he look¬ 
ed out upon her as with her husband she dashed by 
on horseback, her long cloth skirt almost sweeping 
the ground and the plumeB of her velvet cap 
waving in the air. 
“Mrs. Douglass is a fine rider,” was all Walter 
said, and the tone of his voice indicated that she 
was becoming to him an object of indifference.— 
Desperately had he fought with his affection for 
her, winning the victory at last and now the love 
he once had felt was slowly and surely dying out.— 
The next week, tired of our dull village life, Cora 
left us, going to Nahant, where she spent most of 
the summer, and when in the winter we heard from 
her again, she was a widow,—the sole heir of her 
husband, who had died suddenly, and generously 
left her that for which she married him—his money. 
“Will Walter Beaumont marry Cora now?”— 
I bad asked myself many a time, without, however, 
arriving at any definite conclusion, when a little 
more than a year succeeding Mr. Douglass’ death, 
she wrote, begging me to come to her, as she was 
very lonely, and the presence of an old friend 
would do her good. I complied with her request 
and within a few days was an inmate of her luxu¬ 
rious home, where everything indicated the wealth 
of its possessor. And Cora, though robed in 
deepest black, was more like herself, more like the 
Cora of other days than I had seen her before, 
since her marriage. Of her husband she spoke 
freely and always with respect, saying he had been 
kinder far to her than she had deserved. Of Wal¬ 
ter, too, she talked, appearing much gratified when 
I told her how he was loved and appreciated by his 
people. 
One morning when we sat together in her little 
sewing room, she said, “I have done what you, 
perhaps, will consider a very unwomanly act. I 
have written to Walter Beaumont. Look,” and 
she placed in my hand a letter, which she bade me 
read. It was a wild, strange thing, telling him of 
the anguish she had endured, of the tears she had 
shed, of the love which through all she had cher¬ 
ished for him, and begging of him to forgive her 
if possible and be to her again what he had been 
years ago. She was not worthy of him, Bhe said, 
but he could make her better, and in language the 
most touching, she besought of him not to cast her 
off, or despise her because she had stepped so far 
aside from womanly delicacy as to write to him 
this letter. “I will not insult you,” she wrote in 
conclusion, “ by telling yon of the money for which 
I sold myself, hut it is mine now, lawfully mine, and 
most gladly would I share it with you.” 
“You will not send him this?” I said. “You can¬ 
not he in earnest?” f 
But she was determined, and lest her resolution 
should give way she rang the bell, ordering the 
servant who appeared to take it at once to the of¬ 
fice. He obeyed and during the day she was unu¬ 
sually gay, singing snatches of old songs, and 
playing several lively airs upon her piano, which 
for months, had stood unopened and untouched.— 
That evening as the sun went down and the full 
moon rose over the city, she asked me to walk with 
her and we, erelong, found ourselves several streets 
distant from that in which she lived. Groups of 
people were entering a church near by, and from a 
remark which we overheard, we learned that there 
was to he a wedding. 
« Let us go in,” she said, “ It may he some one I 
know,” and entering together, we took our seats 
just in front of the altar. 
Scarcely were we seated when a rustling of satin 
announced the approach of the bridal party, and 
in a moment they appeared moving slowly up the 
aisle. My first attention was directed towards the 
bride, a beautiful young creature, with a fair sweet 
face and curls of golden hair falling over her 
white, uncovered neck. 
“Isn’t she lovely?” I whispered; but Cora did 
not hear me. 
With her hands locked tightly together, her lips 
firmly compressed and her cheeks of an ashen hue, 
she was gazing fixedly at the bridegroom, on whom 
I, too, now looked, starting quickly, for it was our 
minister, Walter Beaumont! The words were 
few which made them one, Walter and the yonng 
girl at his side, and when the ceremony was over, 
Cora arose and leaning heavily upon my arm, went 
out into the open air, and on through street after 
street, until her home was reached. Then, without 
a word we parted, I going to my room while she ; 
through the live-long night, paced up and down 
the long parlors where no eye could witness the 
working of the mighty sorrow which had come 
upon her. 
The next morning she was calm,—hut very, very 
pale, saying not a word of last night’s adventure- 
Neither did she speak of it for several days and 
then she said rather abrubtly, “ I would give all I 
possess if I had never sent that letter. The morti¬ 
fication is harder to bear even than Walter’s loss. 
But he will not tell of it, I’m sure. He is too good, 
_too noble,” and tears, the first she had shed since 
that night, rained through her thin, white fingers. 
It came at last, a letter bearing Walter’s super¬ 
scription, and with trembling hands she opened it, 
finding as she had expected, his wedding card, 
while on a tiny sheet was written, “ God pity you, 
Cora, even as I do. Walter.” 
“Walter, Walter,” she whispered, and her 
quivering lips touched once the loved name which 
she was never heard to breathe again. 
From that day Cora Douglass faded, and when 
the autumnal days were come and the distant hills 
were bathed in the hazy October light, she died. 
But not in the noisy city, for she had asked to be 
taken home, and in the pleasant room where we 
had often sat together, she hade me her last good¬ 
bye. They buried her on the Sabbath and Wal¬ 
ter’s voice was sad and low as with Cora’s coffin 
at his feet, he preached from the words, “I am the 
Resurrection and the Life.” His young wife, too, 
wept over the early dead, who had well nigh been 
her rival, and whose beautiful face were a calm, 
peaceful smile, as if she were at rest. 
There was a will, they said, and in it Walter 
was generously remembered, while to his wife was 
given an ivory box containing Cora’s diamonds ,— 
necklace, bracelets, pin and ear-rings, all were 
there,—and Walter, as he looked upon them, drew 
nearer to him his fair girl wife, who bat for these, 
might not, perchance, have been to him what she 
was,—his dearest earthly treasure. 
Brockport, N. Y., 1858. 
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fore been offered on tins Continent Pupils enjoy superior advantages 
in many respects, being under the supervision of Teachers who have 
spent several years with the best masters, and graduated with the 
highest honors. Terms for 1858, commence as follows: 
March 3d, June 2d, Sept. 1 si, Dec. 1 st Pupils can enter at any time 
during the term. Pupils can be accommodated in the family of the 
Principal, at the rate of $60 per Term—including board, tuition, use 
of piano, washing, fuel and light For further particulars, and all 
necessary information, address Miss C. G. SCOTT, Principal. 
Kushville, Yates Co.. N. Y. 1858. 437cowtf 
REVOLUTION IN SEED SOWING. 
RING’S PATENT BROADCAST SEED - SOWER. 
Manufactured and Sold at Hallock’s Ag’l Ware¬ 
house and Seed Store, Rochester, N. YT 
rpilis is the simplest and best machine ever invented for sowing 
JL seed broadcast It doe* it* work as well, if not better than Ihe 
most experienced can do it by hand, and one man with this sower 
will do as mneb work a* three men by hand, or with three drills 
which require teams to operate them. It sows a space from 30 to 60 
feet wide, according to the weight of grain, BDd as fast as a person 
con walk comfortably. Every one who sees it work is delighted with 
it It wilt sow all kinds of grain, from peas to clover and timothy.— 
It is very simple in construction, not liable to get out of order and 
easily repaired by any common tin-Binith. It iH warranted to operate 
as represented, to the satis'action of tlie purchaser, or returnable and 
the money refunded The price is only $7 at the Store, or packed and 
delivered at any Express or Railroad Office in Rochester, from which 
it can be safely forwarded to an, part of the country. 
13/" Rights of territory in Western New I ork, by Towns or Coun¬ 
ties, also for sale For further particulars, address 
E. D. HALLOCK, Ag’t, Rochester, N. Y. 
Rochester, May 15,1858. _437 
E W VO R K WIRE RAILI N G C O. 
COMPOSITE IRON RAILING 
(SECURKD BY LETTERS PATENT) 
Is the strongest 
IRON FENCE 
Made of wrought iron. It* durability is equivalent to its strength ; its 
beauty show* for itself; and as to price, it is CHEAPER THAN 
ANY IRON RAILING MANUFACTURED. 
Wc are prepared to furnish all Rtyles of 
WIRE AND CAST-IRON RAILINGS, Ac, 
IRON GRATER 
VERANDAHS, 
FARM FENCER 
IRON BEDSTEADS, 
IKON FURNITURE, 
IRON FOUNDRY WORK. 
Tlie public is respectfully informed that we are the only persons 
legally authorised to sell 
WICK ERSH AM'S 
FOLDING IRON BEDSTEADS. 
Catalogues, containing several hundred designs of Iron Work, fur¬ 
nished on application. HUTCHINSON A WIOKEKSHAM, 
437 No 312 Broadway, New York. 
KETCHUM’S 
COMBINED HARVESTER FOR 1858, 
"WIT H A REEL! 
T HE IMPROVEMENTS ON THIS CELEBRATED MACHINE 
for 1868 will render it the most desirable machine ever ottered to 
the public. Among these improvements are the following: 
lbL—An expanding Keel, very simple, and Ingeniously arranged 
so as to be readily attached, and is propelled by the main shaft. 
2 d.—A new, strong and well-braced guard, which will not clog. 
3d—An adjustable Roller with a lever, by which the driver while 
in his seat can elevate tlie finger-liar and hold It in any desired posi¬ 
tion, for transportation, to pass over obstructions, and to aid in back¬ 
ing or turning comers. ... 
4th.—A Roller in the outer shoe, on which the finger-bar rests, 
which obviates all side draft and very muck lessens the direct draft 
The simple mowers have wrought-iron frame*, with all of the 
other improvement* except a Reel. With these improvements the 
draft of the Kktchum Machine is as light as any machine known, 
Olid by the test with tlie Dynamometer at Syracuse, by tlie U. S. Ag. 
Society last July, the draft of the Reaper was more than one-quarter 
less than any other of the 13 Reapers on trial This result is obtained 
by enlarging the main wheel for Reaping, which lessens the motion of 
the knives and tlie actual draft of the machine fully one-quarter. 
The vert best materixl is used throughout, and no pains or 
money are spared to make the Kktchum Machine what the 
farmer needs. . 
Sample machines can be seen at all the principal places, and per¬ 
sons are invited to examine them before buying any other—remember¬ 
ing that the best is always the cheapest. 
Buffalo, N. V., (near N. Y. Central ( 
Depot, on Chicago St,) April, 1858.» R. K HOWARD. 
LYON'S 
COPPER LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR. 
PATENTED JULT 1 1, 1852. 
rpHE SUBSCRIBERS, successors to Brittain A Edmonds, are 
JL Proprietors of this Patent for the ten Western counties of New 
York, the States of Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa, Ken¬ 
tucky, Tennessee, and Minnesota Territory. 
They are manufacturers of these celebrated Conductor*, and are 
K d to furnish them with tlie appropriate apparatus, to all pill tit. 
the right to territory, in any quantity, and on short notice. 
The rods are put up in cases convenient for transportation, with the 
full complement of fixtures Inclosed Each case contains twenty-five 
Conductors; each Conductor comprises forty feet of copper, one 
electro-plated or gilded branch point, seven insulators, and fastening* 
They are furnished to agent* by the case ; with the exclusive rigot 
to dispose of them te be used in certain described territory, on vei 7 
advantageous terms. 
Applications for Agency, orders for stock or models, and all commu¬ 
nications relating to this business will receive immediate attention, If 
addressed to BRITTAIN A MARSH, 
404tf Loekport, Niagara Co, N. Y. 
I3t" Circulars sent on application. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
the leading weekly 
Agricultural, Literary and Family Newspaper, 
IS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY 
BY D. ». T. HOOKE, ROCHEBTEH, N. V. 
Office, Union Buildings, Opposite tlie Court House. 
TERMS, IN ADVANCE: 
Two Dollars a Year— $1 for six months. To Clubs and 
Agents as follows:—Three Copies one year, for $5; Six Copies (and 
one to Agent or getter np of Club,) for $10; Ten Copies (and one to 
Agent,) for $16, and any additional number at the same rate, ($1,50 per 
copy.) As we are obliged to pre-pay the American postago on paper* 
sent to the British Provtacea, onr Canadian agents and friends must 
add 12% cents per copy to the club rates for the Rural The lowest 
price of copies sent to Europe, Ac, 1* $2 50,— Including postage. 
Advertising — Brief and appropriate advertisements will be 
inserted at 25 cents a Hue, each insertion, payable in advance. Our 
rule Is to give no advertisement, unless very brief, more than tour con 
secutive insertions. Patent Medicines, Ac, are not advertised In tb* 
Rural on any condition*. 
PUBLISHER'S SPECIAL NOTICES. 
Clubbing wrrn the Magazinbs, AC.—We will send the Kcf-AI 
Niw-Yokxer for 1858, and a yeariy copy of either The Atlantic, 
Harper's, Godet/s, Graham's, or any other $3 magazine, for $4. 7 « 
Rural and either The Horticudurist, Hooey’s Magazine, Arina s 
Mageatne, ex any other $2 magaehie for $8. 
f-y Additions to Clubs are now in order. Any persou having 
sent in a etab of « to 1* can add ene, two, five, or more, at the lowest 
club price—$1,50 per copy. 
fy Ant person so disposed can act aB local agent for the RURAL 
without certificate, and each and all who volunteer in the good cause 
will not only receive premiums, but their aid will be appreciated- 
t3T 8nbecriber* wishing their papers changed from one i' 081 '®®* 
to another, Bbonld be particular in spoeifying the offices at which t 1 
