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MOORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
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CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
THE EVENING HEARTH-STONE. 
Gladly now wa gather round it, 
For the toiling day is done, 
And the gray and solemn twilight 
Follows down the golden sun ; 
Shadows lengthen on the pavement, 
Stalk like giants through the gloom, 
Wander past tho dusky casement, 
Creep around the Are lit room : 
Draw the curtains — clo m the shuttar3 — 
Place the slippers by the Are — 
Though the rude wind loudly mutter3, 
What care wa for wind-3prito’3 ire? 
What oare we for outward soeming— 
Fickle fortune's frown or smile, 
If around ns love b beaming, 
Love can human ills beguile. 
’Neath the cottage roof and palaco. 
From the peasant to the king, 
All are quaffing from life’s chalica 
Bubbles that enchantment bring : 
Grates are glowing — music Aowing 
From those lips wo lovo tho best; 
Oh, the joy, the blisg of knowing 
There aro hearts on which to rest. 
Hearts that throb with eager gladness — 
Hearts that echo to our own — 
With which care and haunting sadnos3 
Mingle ne’er in look or tone : 
Care may tread the halls of daylight—• 
Sadness haunt the midnight hour— 
But tho weird and witching twilight 
Brings the glowing hearthstone’s dower : 
Altar of our holioit feelings — 
Childhood’s well-remembered shrine; 
Spirit-yearnings, soul-revealings, 
Wreaths immortal round thee twine. 
HOLIDAY - REVERIES. 
The season of holidays and joyous festivi¬ 
ties is with us once again. Youthful hearts 
beat high with happiness in the realization of 
anticipated pleasure, and merriment and hilar¬ 
ity pervade many home-circles throughout the 
land. School tasks are exchanged for sportive 
scenes of recreation, and the absent student has 
returned to join the happy group around the 
parental hearth-stone. Gay parties meet at 
festive boards, or in the social ride, and merry 
tones of silvery voices mingle with the sleigh- 
bells’ chime. 
Bright eyes glisten with unwonted lustre, 
scanning o’er new gala-robes for coming fetes, 
and eager, beaming faces bend o’er Christmas 
and New Year Gifts. Many little hands now 
clasp and own toys or books long wished for, 
and prattling tongues enthusiastically praise 
the generous donors. Tiny feet go pattering 
round the live-long day, with tread so full of 
joy (what sweeter music to a parent's ear?) 
arranging and disposing their treasured stores 
in every fanciful design, their hearts filled to 
the brim and gushing o’er with happiness. 
Who is there that is not more than ten-fold 
repaid for the expenditure in holiday offerings 
in witnessing the warm delight and glad sur¬ 
prise of the recipients? What heart but 
echoes to their gladness? How small a sum 
contributes largely to the pleasure of these little 
ones ; and are not occasions of doing so among 
the brightest spots in our pilgrimage, — the 
oases in our desert? Who doth not rejoice at 
the coming of the merry Christmas-time ? 
But there are those who look not forward to 
these festal days with eagerness. They bring 
to the poor no visions of tables spread with 
rich and tempting viands, of gay apparel and 
merry-makings, no anticipation of amusements 
or exemption from labor. They bring to their 
childhood no golden dreams of choice and 
mysterious gifts from Santa Claus. The cold, 
bleak winds whistle through their dilapidated 
tenements, and they draw more closely around 
them their thin garments. There is no coal 
blazing in the grate for them, no cheerful eve¬ 
ning fireside to gather around. Ah, no! these 
anniversary days of mirth and feasting to our 
Bural readers, bring only thoughts of cold and 
want to them. 
Let us not, in the joyousness of our own 
entertainments,—in the exhuberance of our 
spirits, and our efforts to make our own homes 
attractive,— forget the destitute, their empty 
store-rooms and cheerless hearths. .If out of 
our abundance we make but one desolate heart 
happy, it will add sweetness to our slumbers 
and peacefulness to our waking horn’s. 
In the midst of the gayety attending these 
annual celebrations our minds cannot be as 
wholly diverted as to make us forget that each 
return of them is bringing us nearer to their 
close forever. How short the space that inter¬ 
venes between them now 1 In childhood’s 
hours it seemed an age ere Christmas morn 
would dawn with its accustomed cheer, but now 
Time's hurried flight presses us onward to our 
journey’s end. And in its passage how many 
that wc have known and loved have fallen by 
the wayside! How many hearts since the last 
“ New Year” have mourned some broken tie 
—how many missed the companion of their 
travels, and had to journey on through tangled 
paths alone! How many forms that mingled 
in the joyous circles then, now lie in calm re¬ 
pose beneath the snow.cliffs. But such is hu¬ 
man life, and, knowing how these things are, 
all that remains for us is to improve and enjoy 
the moments given us, and endeavor to promote 
the happiness of those left to sojourn with us. 
It should enforce upon us the necessity of well 
doing, and virtuous acts. Aeile. 
TRANS-ATLANTIC EPISTLES, 
TO COUSIN KATEY. 
Communicated thsocgh Mookk’s Rural Nsw-Yorksk. 
NEW SERIES-EPISTLE FIRST. 
Sight Seeing in Dresden — Ficture Gallery—Raphael’s Ma¬ 
donna, di San Sisto — Holbein’s Madonna —‘‘ La Notts, ’’— 
Respect with which the Gallery has boon treated—Green 
Vault—Jewels. 
Dear Katey :—The first few days of our 
sojourn in Dresden have been devoted to 
“doing up the sights.” They are abundant, 
and, besides those common to every city, there 
are some which possess a peculiar interest, and 
are worthy of careful examination. Fore¬ 
most among these stands the Picture Gallery, 
the best collection of paintings in Germany, 
and one of the finest in the world. It em¬ 
brace sail the different schools, and contains 
good examples of most of them. In this re¬ 
spect it differs from many galleries which are 
chiefly devoted to the productions of some 
particular schools, while others are very poorly 
represented. Tho Dresden Gallery, notwith¬ 
standing its position in the heart of Germany, 
is especially rich in the works of famous 
Italian masters. The gem of the collection i3 
a Madonna by Raphael, called the “ Madonna 
di San Sisto,” and one of the finest productions 
which have come from the hand of the “divine 
painter.” It represents, on one side and in the 
lower part of the picture, Pope Sextus kneel¬ 
ing, and gazing with the most profound awe 
upon the figure of the Virgin, who is floating 
upon the cloud3 with the infant Saviour in her 
arms. Opposite to the Pope is St. Barbara, 
also kneeling, but with the head turned a little 
to one side, and the eyes cast down. Below 
these figures, and quite at the bottom of the 
picture, are two angelic children, their eyes 
turned upward to the central group, and the 
expression of their countenances a happy com¬ 
bination of perfect innocence with the most far 
reaching intelligence. The arrangement of the 
picture is, as you see, simple in the extreme, 
but the master’s hand is visible in every touch 
and line. It is one of those rare paintings 
which one can examine for hours without be¬ 
coming weary, for every moment reveals new 
beauties. The face of the Madonna is very 
fascinating; at first, it merely strikes you as 
being very sweet and spiritual, but as you 
continue to gaze, you discover an abstraction 
in it, an earnest, half-troubled look, as if she, 
who the Scriptures tell us “ pondered all these 
things in heart,” were meditating the mysteries 
of the Incarnation and the plan of Redemption 
—those mysteries beyond mortal ken—or as if 
her mother’s eye already perceived, dimly 
shadowed forth in the future, the sufferings 
which await the God child who nestles in 
her bosom. The expression of the latter is 
very singular. The hair is somewhat dishev¬ 
eled, the mouth tightly closed, with the lips a 
little pressed up, and a wild, half-frightened 
look about the eyes, which, together with the 
shrinking attitude in which he seems to seek 
protection in his mother’s arms, are more sug¬ 
gestive of the timidity and helplessness of child¬ 
hood, than of that calm consciousness of 
divinity with which some painters clothe the 
youthful Jesus. Altogether the picture pleases 
me better than anything I have yet seen from 
Raphael. His famous Transfiguration may 
be more grand, but is certainly not more 
beautiful. 
Holbein, the younger, has also a Madonna 
here, which is a master-piece of its kind. He, 
like most of the painters of the Dutch School, 
represents the mother of Christ with golden 
hair, and an excessively high, somewhat reced¬ 
ing, forehead. Raphael, on the contrary, and 
the other Italian masters, paint her with dark 
hair, and a forehead moderately developed— 
rather broad than high. Each school follows 
the prevailing type of beauty in their respective 
countries, and, on the same principle doubtless, 
in the famous shrine of Loretto.the Virgin and 
child are both represented with the features and 
complexion of a negro. 
There is also a far-famed picture by Cor¬ 
reggio here, known by the name of “La Notte,” 
(the night.) It represents the infant Saviour 
laid in the manger. A supernatural light 
streams from his person, and illumines the 
whole scene. On one side is the company of 
shepherds, and near them stands a worn ‘.n 
veiling her eyes with her hand, as if to shade 
them from the excessive brightness. Overhead 
is a group of angels, and far off in the distance 
morning is just breaking ou the horizon. The 
picture is complicated, but all the different 
parts combine to produce perfect unity of effect. 
The centre of attraction and interest is the 
divine child, and the ecstatic face of his virgin 
mother, who bends over him undazzled by the 
radiance which blinds or startles all beside. 
The conception is exceedingly poetical and 
well carried out. 
But time would fail me, and patience would 
fail you, Cousin Katey, if I should attempt to 
enumerate the treasures wliich this Gallery 
possesses, the Titians, the Rubens, the Van 
Dycks, the Rembrandts, the Teniers, &c., &c. 
Well, let them rest, or else come and see them 
yourself, for pictures were made to be looked 
at, not to be described. One thing, however, 
en passant. This Gallery has had the rare 
good fortune to be treated with reverence by 
every hostile hand. “ Frederick the Great 
bombarded Dresden, battered down its church¬ 
es, laid its streets in ruins, but ordered his 
cannons and mortars to keep clear of the 
Picture Gallery. He entered as a conqueror, 
•levied the taxes, administered the government, 
and, with an affectation of humility, asked per¬ 
mission of the captive electress to visit the 
Gallery as a stranger. Napoleon’s policy, 
too, led him to. treat Saxony with much con¬ 
sideration, and he was the guardian angel of 
the pictures. Not one of them made the 
journey to Paris.” 
Another collection visited by travelers with 
much interest is called the “ Green Vault” It 
consists of all kinds of rare and costly objects, 
such as jewels, carvings in the precious metals, 
mosaics, gold and silver plate, &c., &c., ar¬ 
ranged in eight apartments, situated in the 
basement story of the palace, each succeeding 
one more splendid than its predecessors, till at 
last the spectator stands bewildered, doubting 
whether what he sees is reality, or an enchant¬ 
ment produced by some modern Aladdin’s 
lamp. Such collections arc by no means un¬ 
common ; almost every European capital can 
boast something of the kind, but this so far 
surpasses any we have yet seen in richness and 
extent that no comparison can be instituted 
between them. The Saxon princes were for¬ 
merly among tho richest in Europe; they were 
also constant patrons of the fine arts. These 
two circumstances in part account for the rich¬ 
ness of this collection, but there is still a third 
which has also had its influence. Saxony pos¬ 
sesses an impregnable stronghold in Konig- 
stein. At the first intimation or suspicion of 
danger, the treasures of the Green Vault are at 
once transferred to this place of safety, and 
thus they have hitherto escaped the pillage 
which has so much detracted from the value 
and beauty of other similar collections. They 
were removed tthere during the insurrection of 
1848, and the King himself passed some time 
in the fortress before it was considered safe for 
him to return to his capital. I wish, Katey, 
you could see the last room of this same Green 
Vault, with the magnificent sets of jewels ar¬ 
ranged in cases around the walls. It is perfectly 
dazzling—the far-farmed regalia of England are 
nothing in comparison. Sapphires, emeralds, 
rubies, pearls, and a collection of diamonds the 
most splendid, taken as a whole, of any that 
exists! One stone, considered the most re¬ 
markable of all, is a green brilliant weighing 
ICO grains, 40 carats. They are beautiful 
things to look at, but the utilitarian ideas of a 
matter-of-fact American are somewhat shocked 
at the thought of so many millions of dollars 
lying idle, serving only to gratify the curiosity 
of some hundreds or thousands of travelers 
yearly, and to foster the pride of the sovereigns 
of a country about one-eighth the size of our 
own State. Why, a Yankee speculator would 
make a railroad round the earth with them, or 
perhaps a telegraph to the moon. Minnie. 
[The conclusion of above letter will be given in our next.] 
Love for Parents. —Many years ago there 
was a dreadful eruption of Mount Etna, which 
obliged the inhabitants of the surrounding 
country to run in every direction for safety. 
Amid the hurry and cjnfusion of this scene, 
every one carrying away what he thought most 
precious, two sous, in the midst of their anxiety 
for the preservation of their money and goods, 
recollected their father and mother, who being 
both very old, were not able to save themselves 
by flight, 
“ Where,” said the generous youths, “ shall 
we find a more precious treasure than our pa¬ 
rents?” This said, one took his father on his 
shoulder, and the other his mother, and so 
made their way through surrounding smoke 
and flames. 
They were rewarded by the respect and af¬ 
fection of their neighbors, by the thankfulness 
and tears of their parents, and by their own 
subsequent prosperity and happiness.— Selected. 
Woman. —A woman should be amiable, be¬ 
nevolent, charitable, domestic, economical, for¬ 
giving, generous, honest, industrious, judicious, 
kind, loving, modest, neat, obedient, pleasant, 
quiet, reflecting, sober, tender, urbane, virtuous, 
wise, x-emplary, yielding, zealous, &c. Man, 
ditto. 
A woman should not be artful, bold, cross, 
deceitful, envious, fretful, groveling, hollow- 
hearted, idle, jadish, knavish, lazy, morose, non¬ 
sensical, officious, prudish, quarrelsome, rant¬ 
ing, snappish, talkative, unreasonable, vain, 
wrangling, x-travagant, or yawning. Man, 
ditto.— Selected. 
We have scarce ever met with a sweeter 
voice given to the lessons Nature teaches, than 
hat in which Gerald Massey has uttered the 
following: 
The leaf-tongues of the forest, the flower-lips of the sod ; 
Tho happy birds that hymn tlioir rapture in tho ear of 
God, 
The summer wind that bringeth music over land and sea 
Have each a voice that singeth this sweet song of songs 
to me : 
This world is full of beauty, like other worlds above, 
And, if wo did our duty, it might bo full of lovo. 
-- -- 
It is common to speak of these whom a flirt 
has jilted, as her victims. This is a grave 
error. Her real victim is the man whom she 
accepts. This reminds us of a simile we saw 
somewhere :—“A coquette is a rose from whom 
every lover plucks a leaf—the thorn remains j 
for her future husband.”— Selected. 
AN ACROSTIC. 
INSCRIBED TO THE READERS OF THE RTT RAT. . 
BY n. N. F. LEWIS. 
Muse, ancient empross, liail 1 attend awhile ! 
Oh from thy august throne, vouchsafe a smile I 
On loftier subjects than our chosen theme, 
Resplendent smiles of Genius never boam. 
Each bay-crowned poet of the olden timo, 
Some humbler theme selected for his rhyme,— 
Romance in war, or chivalry, or love,— 
Unmindful, we, for worthier motives move. 
Roll back tho curtain from departed time, 
And view our day, in contrast so sublime ; 
Lo. pomp and pageant wa-. ambition's food, 
Now aspirations rise ® innor good,— 
Each earnest mortal, striving, day by day 
With patient progress in his upward way,— 
Yon glorious goal the acme of his aim, 
On that proud height to find a genuine fame. 
Read tho established precept of tho earth, 
Knowledge, true Potence, Goodness only Worth ! 
Eternal Truth—Tho legions of mankind 
Rise up to hail the epoch of the Mind. 
Rochester, N. Y., Doc., 1854. 
A REMINISCENCE; 
OH, FIVE TEARS OF “RURAL” LIFE. 
It is now five full years since I introduced 
your readers to my good Uncle and his family. 
It was on the occasion of the issue of the first 
number of the Rural. Perhaps some of its 
present readers will remember my short letter, 
and have not forgotten my Uncle Benjamin : 
and his wife, and my Cousin Mary. Time, 
however, has brought little change to the old 
people; my Uncle comes in after his night 
chores are done, hangs up his hat upon the 
same old peg, pulls off his boots and puts on 
his slippers, and takes his great arm chair into 
the same corner. My Aunt sits as she did 
then, at the table, darning stockings, just as 
we found her five years ago. The only change 
I noticed on my first arrival the other day, was 
in my Uncle’s slippers, for, some how or other, 
he managed to stick out his foot in such a way 
that I could not help but see a very pretty 
embroidered slipper had taken the place of the 
old slip-shod shoe he used to wear. My heart 
told me whom that had come from, and whose 
fingers had made every stitch worth more than 
bright gold to the dear, good old man. My 
Aunt, too, was slightly changed, but it was 
in the more tasty appearance of her neat 
white cap. 
Time’s flight is so noiseless that the quiet, 
well-to-do farmer takes but little heed of him, 
and upon no class of men are his foot-prints so 
faint. It seemed then but as yesterday the last 
time I had sat in this snug, cozy room, with 
the same Inmates as were now present. 
But there had been a change, for my Cousin 
Mary had grown to be a woman. The light of 
her cheerful countenance’illumined the whole 
house, and kept the frosts of age from gather¬ 
ing around the hearts of her parents. When 
we last parted, she was but seventeen. Stran¬ 
ger, if I loved then, do you wonder that now I 
idolize her, when all the charms of her mind 
and person are fully developed ? But all my 
Happiness may be 
“ Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 
But turn to ashes on the lips.” 
However, at twenty-four, Hope wears a much 
greener wreath than at fifty. We shall see. 
“ So, White, you are back again,” said my 
Uncle, very deliberately tearing the wrapper 
off the newspaper that the boy had just brought 
in from the Post Office, and adjusting his 
spectacles. 
“ Yes, Uncle, I am back again, and it seems 
a long, long time since I left.” 
“ Ah, boy — two years — no great things.” 
“Why, Benjamin,” said my Aunt — draw¬ 
ing a long yarn very deliberately through the 
heel of the stocking she was running —“why, 
Benjamin, it’s pretty near four years since 
White went off.” 
“Its five years, Pa,” said Cousin Mary, 
looking up rather timidly from her work. 
There's a great deal in a look sometimes. 
“Well, I declare I don’t know but I’m 
wrong ; that sorrel colt can’t be but four years 
old.” 
I could not exactly see what the sorrel colt’s 
age had to do with me or my going away. 
Just then Mr. Smith, the man who gets up the 
club, came in. 
“ Smith, I am glad to see you,” said my 
Uncle. “We are in a dispute about a matter 
that you can help us about — I know I am 
right, or at least I am quite sure.” 
“ Well, what’s the trouble?” 
“Why, Whits says it is five years since he 
was here, I say it’s two, Mother says about 
four, and Mary says five.” 
“You are wrong, Mr. Oldfield. Don’t 
you remember our reading something he wrote 
for the Rural in its first number, while at 
your house, in this very room, and laughing at 
the idea that he should make it appear in that 
number as though he had seen it in your hands. 
Here you see, Yol. 5, No. 52.” 
“ Ah, yes—you are right, Smith, I do re¬ 
member it. You ungrateful rascal”—and my 
Uncle shook his big fist at me, with a most 
ludicrous attempt to look serious — “you 
ought to be ashamed of putting your poor old 
Uncle and Aunt into print.” 
“ So I would be if they were not the best 
Uncle and Aunt I ever had.” 
“ Mr. Oldfield, I have come to see whether j 
you will take the Rural again ; the year is up, 
you know, with this number.” 
“ Of course we will,” said all in a breath. 
“ It’s a capital paper, for it pays such premi¬ 
ums,” says Smith. 
“ It has such good recipes,” said my Aunt. 
“ And such good stories, as well as the gen¬ 
eral intelligence of the day, and poetry,” said 
Cousin Mary. 
“ It is an excellent paper, Smith. I like it 
because it has the honesty and courage to 
knock into the humbugs so heartily. Why it 
hasn’t even advertised a single patent medicine, 
and but one or two Insurance Companies. 
| What luck are you having with your club.” 
“First rate—I am going to compete for one 
of the best premiums. It is really curious to 
see how the circulation has increased in this 
town. The first year, do all I could, I only 
got up five subscribers. The next year ten, 
and now I am over one hundred and fifty, and 
more to come.” 
“I find,” said I, “it has become a decided 
favorite, for the very reason that it has taken a 
1 high stand in morals, and in all the essential 
requirements of a real family paper.” 
“ Yes,” said Mary, who had just glanced 
over the last page, “ and here's a verse in a very 
pretty piece of poetry, that gives my idea of it 
to perfection.” 
“Well, read it,” said all of us. 
“No, let White,” handing the paper to me, 
and pointing to the verse. I read— 
“ What has for all its chosen theme, 
Domestic peace and lover’s dream, 
Makes Matron’s duties lightsomo seem, 1 
Contentment o’er the hearth-stone boam ? 
The Rural.’' 
Perhaps sometime I will tell you how I felt 
when I read the second line. 
W. Klovek. 
•THE REST LEAF OF A DIABY, 
Life is made up of a series of events which, 
sjfgly, are apparently of little consequence, but 
taken collectively exercise a controling influ¬ 
ence upon our whole character, and make us 
what we are. A faithful record of those 
events as they occur, with an occasional re¬ 
view, reflects our true character, and enables 
ns to detect those defects which prevents our 
commanding in society a station of respectar- 
bility and influence. 
The true value of a diary is often much de¬ 
preciated by its untruthfulness and omission of 
events, the memory of which we do not wish to 
perpetuate. The remembrance of the past may 
bring sorrow to the mind, though at the same 
time necessary to our future happiness and 
well being. The shipwrecked mariner remem¬ 
bers with pain the sad event; yet the rock 
upon which his bark went to pieces is noted 
for the future safety of himself and others.— 
The practice of noting only those incidents 
which reflect credit upon ourselves, and flatter 
our vanity, causes us to place a false estimate 
upon our true character, and deceives us in re¬ 
gard to our true standing in society. We 
should “ see ourselves as others see us.” This 
requires a record of our vices, our faults, our 
follies, with as much faithfulness as those inci¬ 
dents reflecting the better qualities of our na¬ 
ture. We may be mistaken in regard to the 
motives of others; but in regard to our own 
motives there can be no mistake. Duty to 
ourselves requires us to note and perpetuate our 
misdeeds, without the slightest coloring or de¬ 
viation from truth—to cultivate a disposition 
to be suitably affected by a knowledge of our 
transgressions—to allow past experience to serve 
as a beacon-light to turn our steps from evil, 
and direct them in the paths of virtue and 
peace. Though we ourselves may shrink from 
the task of thus faithfully chronicling upon the 
pages of our diary the every, act of our lives, 
both good and evil, yet such a record will be 
kept. 
Habit is formed by a frequent repetition of 
certain acts,—by a record of those acts we 
may more readily see the tendency, and thus 
prevent the formation, of sinful habits. Sin¬ 
gle sins are apt to be considered of little con¬ 
sequence aiid are passed over; but if noted and 
seen collectively, the mind is excited to reflec¬ 
tion. A thorough knowledge of ourselves is 
highly necessary, and to acquire this knowledge 
every event of our lives should be duly noted. 
In prosperity, in adversity, in all the ever- 
changing scenes of life, the natural workings 
of the mind should be observed. The first im¬ 
pulses, the involuntary thought, the hasty con¬ 
clusion, indicate the habitual bias of the mind, 
and betray the weak points in our character. 
H. G. E. 
Unity in Variety. —Nature has not cho¬ 
sen to put the best wine into one jar. It is 
placed in many vessels. We must search thro’ 
a city to find all the faculties that constitute a 
man. A French writer has said that it takes 
one thousand seven hundred or one thousand 
eight hundred men to make a complete man. 
The sea educates one class, the mountain one, 
Europe one, and America another, the whole 
constituting the symmetry of the race, and the 
result is a secured soul.— Emerson. 
Warns as a white sail on the dusky sea, 
When half the horizon’s clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
Is Hopa’s last gleam in man’s extremity. 
I,><«w»n,)■>„»,. .. „ .. ----- --- ---~~~ 
