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1 MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER s AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. . ~7\ 
\ CONDUCTED BY ‘AZILE. 
" Written for Moore** Rural New-Yorker. 
TO MY MOTHER ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
A SONNET. — BY C. A. H. 
Awakr my Muse ! and tune thy alumb’rlag lyre, 
The praises of Material Love to sing ; 
Anti whero Affection rears her altar Are, 
The holy Incense of devotion bring. 
Maternal Love ! to thee we early cling 
For all that can sustain, revivo or bless ; 
Through time unchanged we find thoo still a spring, 
An ever-living fount of tenderness. 
When the world has taught us sill its story 
Of disappointment, suffering and scorn,— 
And all it3 guttering pride and glory, 
Of their false brightness have boon rudely shorn, 
Back, through time’s vista how our hearts will rove, 
To life’s f esh spring-time and Maternal Love. 
[Written Expressly for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HUMBLE EFFORTS. 
How my heart beat and my hand trembled, 
as I wrote the letter applying for that little 
country school! 
IIow much depended upon the success of 
my application ! The small — nay, I might 
Bay now, the paltry—sum I should receive for 
my services, to how many purposes was it to be 
applied ! It would enable me to go to school 
the following winler ; it would buy books for 
the children to study at home ; it would clothe 
us all so comfortably next winter. Really, 1 
now see that I must have fancied that a miracle 
was to bo wrought upon my purse, rendering 
i s contents unfailing as tho meal and oil of 
the poor widow in the Scriptures! 
My labors to obtain an education seemed 
not in vain. It was wisely done, when 1 arose 
early in the morning and sat late at night over 
my shoe-bindings, that I might pay my school- 
tuition—repeating over my lessons as I pur¬ 
sued my work. 
ThiB is no fancy-sketch! It is, indeed, a 
plain, unvarnished tale of truth! 
Those were days of poverty; but I may 
truly add, of pleasure also. The labor of the 
hands seems not so heavy when the heart is 
directed to a good object. And was not mine 
one? Ily cultivating my mind, I was obtain¬ 
ing means to render assistance to the younger 
members of our family. I should not see 
them grow up in ignorance as well as poverty. 
My little brothers should go to school, and my 
sister—my darling, only sister—bless me, how 
my imagination darted into the future, and 
painted her there an ornament to society, as 
well as a blessing to her family,—which last, 
indeed, she now was. 
My pet scheme was to make her a music- 
teacher ! Nature designed her for one, I said 
to myself, when listening to her sweet voice, 
as she sang some simple home-song to the 
little ones. I shut my eyes to keep the pleas¬ 
ing vision in, or, more truly, perhaps, to keep 
the reality shut out, and saw her seated at her 
piano, which I, in my fancied abundance and 
liberality, had provided for her. Her little 
brown fingers, which fancy bleached to lily 
whiteness, were flying gracefully over the keys. 
I heard the sweet voice of the singer above the 
tones of the instrument. I declare, my eyes 
were full of tears of joy;—and it was but a 
day-dream—a castle in the air—to be demol¬ 
ished as soon as built. 
Dicky was at my elbow asking if my letter 
was ready for the Post-Office. Dear, good 
Dicky —I had charged him again and again to 
come for my letter in time, llis little bare 
feet had tripped so lightly across the floor, I 
had not heard him enter. There he stood, 
punctual to the moment. Rut I sat with the 
ink dried in my pen, indulging a vision instead 
of finishing my momentous letter. 1 hurriedly 
completed it—sealed and addressed it with 
care, and Dicky scampered away with it, sat¬ 
isfied that his mission was of great importance. 
I think it was the first letter I had ever sent 
to the Post-Ofiice. Letter-writing was a luxury 
which I could not then indulge. Nay, what 
occasion had I for writing letters ; I had very 
tew acquaintances in our town, and I knew no 
other place. And if I did not think 
“Tho visual Hue that girt mo round 
The world’s extreme,” 
1 had little idea of anything beyond. Tho 
few lessons I had learned of worldly wisdom 
had been lessons of sorrow too. Can many 
sa^ otherwise ? 
Dicky wits not long in returning—he came 
back disappointed-^-he was too late for the 
mail. My letter must lie in the office a week : 
before it could be sent away. Ilow long that : 
week seemed to me, and another must pass, 
and perhaps another, before I could receive a 
reply. 
But, happily, I had no time to indulge in ’ 
idle saduess. 1 bound shoes as usual, I assist¬ 
ed my mother about the house, and, when i 
doing so, endeavored to encourage in her mind < 
a hope of better days to come. I taught > 
Maggie arithmetic, and heard my little broth- ! 
era read ; and felt a happiness 1 cannot express 1 1 
when I saw their anxiety to improve. How j 1 
much there was to be done! What a work j' 
had 1 to perform ! I thanked God from my j 
inmost soul, that he had given me the desire, j f 
at least, to accomplish it. I \ 
1 looked upon my pale, wearied mother, upon : i 
my four little brothers,—the youngest quite a j r 
baby yet ,—bo puny and sickly, too—upon my 
# healthy, happy-looking Maggie; I thought of 
my father's grave, with no stone to mark the 
place where the poor man rested from hia la- 
bors. I banished self away, and thinking only 
of those so dear to me, I prayed God to make 
my ability equal my desire to aid them. 
I did not tell my mother what I had done. 
She would grieve to part with me, I knew, 
though for a little while. But then she would 
be pleased if I could obtain so respectable a 
position as teacher of a small country school. 
She would g’adly give me permission to go 
where I could benefit myself and family most! 
If I succeeded in obtaining the situation, I 
could surprise her with the good news; if I 
failed, the disappointment was my own—she 
would not be troubled with it. 
> Dick alone knew my secret. He was to in¬ 
quire for a letter at the office, a3 he passed on 
I his way home from his work; for even little 
Dick contributed his mite toward the support 
of the family. He earned a few shillings a 
d, week by piling stones in a cooper’s yard. 
-le Faithful Dicky! how often he came home 
sad and disappointed, long before it was really 
of time tor the letter to arrive. His impatience 
ht was so great he could scarcely bide the time, 
or And when our mother questioned him if any- 
be thing unpleasant had occurred, how heroically 
ol he tried to laugh, as he shook his curly head 
or and assured her that the day had been a very 
be bright and happy one to him. Then he would 
1 dart a triumphant look at me, to show how 
; ’o safe my secret was wi!h him. 
What a happy home it was, after all!— 
Thank God, poverty cannot exclude happiness 
from a dwelling. 
At night, when we gathered around the 
c fable upon which burned our fallow candle, 
bow bright and cheerful the little room ap- 
’ peared. There sat our patient mother, sewing 
r " industriously, that she might obtain a shelter 
for her children,— Maggie by my side reciting a 
lesson to me, while I was binding shoes,— 
t Dicky, a little tired, perhaps, from his day's 
a bor, but so cheeri ill-looking still, studying a 
j lon g column in the spelling-book,—F anny and 
Nathan playing “jack-straws” on a darkish 
corner of the table,—and baby Fred in his 
£ C1{ul; e, sleeping in forgetfulness of pain that 
tormented him awake! 
)C 
^ My dear old home 1 if I ever forget thee, 
y ma . v my right hand forget her cunning. Let 
w m y tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if 
( ] 1 remember thee not in my prosperity. Dick 
a brought the letter at last. I knew he had it 
t whcn be missed in spelling, and told me he 
would sit up late with me and study his lesson 
more. Our gentle mother sighed, and feared 
^ that her son was becoming careless. He 
, bravely bore the blame, but promised that it 
q should not occur again. They left us alone at 
5 _ l asfc 1 “ Have you got it, Dick 1 have you got 
p ^•” I questioned him with eagerness—trem- 
, r bling all over with anxiety and joy ! 
(] « Of course,” whispered he, “ why did I miss? 
e Only that I might sit here alone with you.” 
y “Read it, sister, read it quick,” said the 
^ anxious little fellow, producing the long-de- 
e sired letter. I broke it open hastily, and by 
8 intuition, rather than reading, became ac- 
a quainted with its contents. The letters danced 
[. before my eyes,—my head seemed bursting,—I 
could scarcely suppress a groan. The place 
r was refused me ! These feelings were but mo- 
j menfary. I summoned back my strength, and 
0 striving to make my voice sound calm and 
0 bind as usual, I told Dicky tho result of the 
I correspondence. If my letter had reached 
| t them a day sooner, they would have given me 
e tlic place. So one of the trustees wrote. 
J “ If it had only been ready in time—only 
f ready when I came for it,” said he, striving to 
j stifle the sobs that would burst forth. 
“ L alone, am to b’ame, Dicky. I did not 
have my letter ready when you came,” said I. 
j. “ I ou were faithful in performing your part. 
^ I am to b'atnc myself alone.” 
t “ °b, I did not mean that; I did not mean 
. to blame you, sister, but is not it too bad. 
) Such a nice place, and so much money too. 
But now you must keep on binding those 
heavy shoes, and mother says it is killing you.” 
I tried to comfort him, and laughed,—sadly 
; enough I know,—but still I laughed, that he 
i should think me so fragile as to be destroyed 
’ by a little work. I could not quiet him—he 
sobbed as though his heart would break, until 
s I said, “ I can stay at home all summer, Dicky, ' 
! now.” And then he smiled through his tears, 
; and said, “ Mother must be right when she , 
, says whatever happens is for the best. How < 
bad it would be to have you gone. Who 1 
would hear our lessons, and make mother well 1 
when she gits sick, or who could quiet Freddy j 
when he is in pain, half as well as you 1” 
He kissed nte t hen and went to bed, telling 
me that he should lay awake all night , to ihink ( 
of something else that I might do beside bind- s 
ing slices. r 
Dear child, when 1 looked in his room before * 
| retiring to rest, myself, I found him fast asleep, J 
| his usual smile playing upon his features, and 
j no trace of disappointment there ! j v 
I icad that night the ninety-first Psalm, and \ a 
j fe’t comforted ; and after praying that God : a 
j would strengthen me to bear the disappoint- j 
; meats that I must meet in life, I lay down to • v 
i rest by Maggie. B. Lou. ! f: 
>v “ SHE MAKES HOME HAPPY.” 
of ^ _ - 
1C “ Sho always made home happy,” was the 
expressive sentence which a friend recently ap- 
1 pended to an obituary notice. 
‘7 It is woman’s highest and most, peculiar pre- 
ie rogative, whether mother, daughter, sister, or 
wile, to make home happy. The husband who 
e is blessed with such a wife, has a prize and a 
home above all price. The children of such 
a mother will rise up and call her blessed.— 
The benedictions ot the poor and needy are 
a largely bestowed upon her for her beneficent 
,). acts. Such a woman, whether maiden, or wife 
• 0 and mother, never thinks of the question of 
|, “ Woman’s Rights,” popularly so called, but 
with shame and humiliation. Such women are 
I fully persuaded that, if they would make the 
I world happier, they must first make home bap- 
ie py. And this would be impossible if they 
were required to mingle at the polls, in Legis- 
lative bodies, to serve as jury-women, as con¬ 
stables, highway-surveyors, Ac., Ac.—offices 
II whose duties require much absence from home, 
le The highest praise that can possibly be be- 
’t stowed on woman, is, that “ She always makes 
a home happy.” Who that visits these occa¬ 
sional oases along life’s chequered course does 
not deeply regret that the number of such 
e homes is not greatly augmented in view of such 
y b'essed fruits of domestic joy and peace and 
e happiness on earth,—making the family on 
} earth a sweet foretaste of the future condition 
of the pure in heart. 
The mother who has educated and trained 
y her daughters for such a mission, has secured 
d a greater name, and has done the world a bet- 
y ter service, than all the blue stocking pedants 
j and “ Woman’s Rights” advocates that have 
ever lived. Blessed is the woman that has the 
art and heart to make home happy, and thrice 
blest is he who has such a wife, for she will do 
- him good all the days of her life. 
MATERNAL TENDERNESS-—GOOD SENSE. 
, These qnalities are not peculiar to any era, 
j but there are many striking examples in that 
which has passed. The following letter (found 
l in an old newspaper) from the then late Ern- 
r press Queen of Hungary, Ac., to the King of 
i France when Dauphin, was written in the 
_ year 1770. The reader may think it a curios¬ 
ity, independent of the names and circumstan- 
k ces of the parties. It is an admirable pro- 
* duction : 
i “ Your consort, my dear Dauphin, has just 
i taken leave of me. As she was"my delight, I 
g hope she will be your happiness. I have train- 
t ed her up in full confidence that she would one 
day share in your fortuue. I have inspired 
her with love to your person and duty to your 
:, will; with tenderness to soften your cares, and 
t with the desire of seeking every occasion of 
f pleasing you. I have earnestly recommended 
. to her most serious thoughts a fervent devotion 
" to the King of Kings, under a firm persuasion 
L that those who neglect their duty towards him, 
3 in whose hands are the sceptres of kings, can 
i never promote the true interest of the people 
j over whom they are allotted to govern. Be 
5 mindful, I say, my dear Dauphin of your duty 
' to; God, and repeat the same to the Princess, 
L my daughter. Be mindful of the good people 
^ over whom, whenever it happens, you will gov- 
t ern too soon. Reverence the King, your 
. grandfather; be good, as he is good ; and ren¬ 
der yourselves accessible to those who labor 
> under misfortunes. It is impossible, in carry¬ 
ing yourselves in this manner, but that you 
must share in the general happiuess. My 
i daughter will love you ; I am sure she will, 
. because I know the inward sentiments of her 
r heart; but the more I make myself answera¬ 
ble tor her love and endearments, the greater 
, reason I have to expect that you will preserve 
for her an inviolable affection. Farewell, my 
dear Dauphin; be happy; my eyes overflow 
with tears.” 
BY AND BYE. 
There is music enough in there three words 
: for the burden of a song. There is a hope 
1 wrapped up in them, and an articulate beat of 
■ a human heart. 
By and bye. We heard it as long ago as 
. we can remember, when we made brie' but 
perilous journeys from chair to tab’e. and from 
1 table to chair again. We heard it the other 
day, when two parted that had been “loving 
, in their lives,” one to California, the other to 
her lonely home. 
Everybody says it, some time or other. The 
boy whispers it to himself, when he dreams of 
exchanging the stubbed little shoes for boots 
like a man. The man murmurs it—when in 
life's middle watch lie sees his plans halt-finish¬ 
ed- and his hopes, yet in bud, waving in a cold, 
late spring. The old says it when he thinks of 
putting off the mortal for the immortal, to¬ 
day for to-morrow. The weary watcher for 
the morning, whiles away the dark hours with 
“ by and bye—by and bye.” 
Sometimes it sounds like a song; sometimes 
there is a sigh or a sob in it. What wouldn’t 
the world give to find it in the almanac—set 
down somewhere, no matter if in the dead of 
December—to know it would surely come._ 
But, fairy-like as it is, flitting like a star beam 
over the dewy shadows of the years, nobody 
can spare it—and when we look buck upon the 
many times those words have begii'ed us, the 
memory of that silver by and bye, is like the 
sunrise of Ossian, “ pleasant but mournful to 
the soul.”— Tribune. 
The Highest Purity.— Blessed is the mem¬ 
ory of those who have kept themselves un¬ 
spotted from the world !—yet more b'e^ed and 
more dear the memory of those who have kept 
themselves unspotted in tho world! — Mrs. 
Jameson. 
| Habit in a child is at first like a spider’s 
; web ; if neglected, it bee ones like a thread or j 
| a twine, next a cord or a rope, finally a cable ; , 
; and then who can break it? 
€\mt 
O/ttlY* 
We mav live without a brother, but not 
[ without a friend. Jn older to de.enc a good 
I friend, we must become one. 
HASTY WORDS. 
How much brighter and happier would the world bo, If 
tho moral contained in tho following poetic sermon on 
“ Ha^ty Words, ” could always bo romomborod and 
hooded :— 
Full of 4 a word that lightly loaves tho tonguo, 
Another’s broast unconsciously has wrung ; 
And were the wound but present to tho oyo, 
Wo’d mourn the pain that solace might defy. 
Was It a taunt—perhaps a thoughtless jest? 
As idle ripple on the vacant breast? 
But thy shafts may yield a venomed death, 
What need, to speed thorn, but a little breath. 
Wo toy with hearts, as if tho thousand chorda 
That vibrate to the touch of hasty words, 
Could jar our discords all the live long day, 
Nor any tension cause them to give way. 
Oh, strike th 8 m gently 1 every human breast 
Is by a secret load of grief oppre-t; 
Forbear to add a note of timeless woe, 
Whore discords ever are so prone to flow. 
Written for Moore’* Rural Now-Yorker. 
GENEROSITY. 
Mrs. Swisshelm’s philosophy of disinterest¬ 
edness, namely, that the labors and so-called 
sacrifices of the philanthropist arc in fact as 
necessary to hina and as much a gratilica^on 
of self as are the indulgences of him in whom 
animal nature predominates, needs only to be 
presented to command willing assent. It is 
not, however, to be presumed that the lady se¬ 
riously means to be understood a 3 referring the 
efforts of the former to the same motive that 
governs the latter, for there is this important 
difference which justifies us in distinguishing 
the disposition of the one as generous or benev¬ 
olent, and the other as selfi-h, that while each 
is true to his own nature, the thoughts and ex¬ 
ertions of the former rest on others, those of 
the latter centre on himself-—this acts from 
and for himse’f, that from, himself and for 
others—the self-seeker has for his object the 
agreeable sensations he hopes may follow the 
deed to the performance of which supposed in¬ 
terest impels him, the other, though experi 
encing a purer and far more enduring pleasure, 
never enters into a calculation of personal con¬ 
sequences but studies the happiness and well¬ 
being of humanity, for [humanity’s sake alone. 
This carelessness of self, and consideration ol 
others, when it ha3 for its special object the 
alleviation of want and suffering, we call be¬ 
nevolence ; when it manifests itself in habitual 
giving without particular regard to the neces¬ 
sities of those it favors, but from a pure desire 
to afford enjoyment, takes the name of gen¬ 
erosity. 
Real generosity, then, consists not merely in 
giving, but in giving cheerfully and with earn¬ 
est good will. A person of sensibility will 
accept with hesitation, needed aid from one 
who imparts grudgingly and makes the recipi¬ 
ent feel that he has, by bestowing something, 
reduced himself in proportion to the amount of 
the gift conferred. There is no genuine liber¬ 
ality, no generosity deserving the name, that 
bestows more anxious thought on that it parts 
with, or feels more impoverished by resigning 
a portion of its goods to another, than the 
right hand suffers in transferring its contents 
to its fellow. *■ 
As it costs us much less effort to overlook 
the faults of charitable people, than of such as 
can make no allowance for others short-com¬ 
ings, so it is much easier to be what we call 
generous toward the open-handed, than toward 
those who never give without calculating ac¬ 
curately the chances of obtaining an equivalent 
or perhaps something more in return. So, it' 
we defect ourselves criticizing as somewhat too 
matter-of course, the manner in which a favor 
is received, and perhaps indulging a certain 
feeling of dissatisfaction at having conferred 
benefits where so little gratitude was offered in 
return, we may well consider whether it was 
not selfishness rather thau generosity or benev¬ 
olence, that prompted our late act. 
Generosity is not exhausted in giving. The 
receiver often feels a greater degree of it than 
the giver; ir ha did not, the offered gift would 
be rejected. Did he suspect, what is too often 
true, that the rich present is tendered merely 
in repayment of obligations, it would lose all 
value and become worthless in his sight. The 
generous receiver too, if thoughtful of the pro¬ 
prieties of the occasion, refrains from over-bur¬ 
dening the giver with thanks ; for, crediting 
the donor with real disinterestedness, he feels 
that too much gratitude cheapens the gift, by 
the huge disproportion thereby displayed be¬ 
tween it and the sentiment it inspires; which 
latter, the one who bestows the gift is made to 
feel lays him under obligation, and perhaps 
shames him that he did not give something of 
even greater worth. Gifts are to be valued, 
not according to their money prices but in 
proportion to the feeling that prompted the 
giver. The poorest present in the market may 
lie made to convey the richest burden of love 
to the recipient. 
Generosity in its truest, most enlarged sense, 
may be, perhaps not unaptly, termed a kind 
of high justice. He who gave to the eleventh- 
hour man a penny fqr his services, surely 
wronged, not those who had borne the heat i 
and burden of the day, but meted out the lat- : 
ter slric justice, and to the former, in consider- ! 
ation of his necessities, something more.— 
Those grumblers typified a large class at the 
present day, who though laboring zealously 
and faithfully while the work is in progress, at 
its completion assert the claims of prior devo¬ 
tion, and with ill-grace admit to an equal share 
with themselves, in tho distribution of the hon¬ 
ors attending Bueceas, those who. come later but 
with no less sincerity to the service. a. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1855. 
For Moore * Rural Neir-Yoiker. 
A FOG AMONG THE HILLS. 
Several times during the present winter 
the mercury ha3 marked the thermometer 
twenty degrees below zero. Tho pure cold¬ 
ness which reigned, however, was such as gave 
a new and delightful action to the blood, and 
an energy of spirit which warmer climates 
know not. Christmas passed as ail days must, 
and alone in my room I sat writing. Looking 
up through the window I saw the full moon iu 
all its splendor, seeming to be gazing on me 
with much satisfaction, yet calling me forth 
to behold its starry kingdom as it can be seen 
only among these hills—so clear, so brilliant, 
so countless. The mountain on the west stood 
dark and mysterious, only relieved of its shadi¬ 
ness— aye, and fearfulness—by its thick, win¬ 
try vestment. Like the winding sheet, the 
deep snow enveloped nature. I went forth to 
enjoy the hour; when one of the most beauti¬ 
ful scenes that eye ever beheld—T care not of 
Alpine or Italian memory—wa 3 below, above, 
around me. Above, night wore her richest 
crown. Below, rising slowly above the river 
bed, came the mist in fleecy whiteness, and 
stretching itself away and around it hid the 
flowing waters, it encircled the lighted dwell¬ 
ings, and climbed like a spirit of life the neigh¬ 
boring hills, until the whole plain or valley 
was encompassed by a sea of vapor. Not a 
sound could be heard, except of the distant 
water all, which came faintly and musically 
through the deep, dense fog like tones from the 
spirit land. 
The village I knew was below me—but how 
could I ieel that in that dark and seemingly 
boundless abyss there was motion or life? ]\ o, 
even terra firma faded from my fancy, and a'l 
below was bottomless—a blank. I realized 
nothingness. But obeying the royal words of 
the past, “ look alo t,” I turned my eyes to the 
summits of the hills, and saw with delight the 
radiance of the moon g'ance along the while 
vesture, while the mountain trees reared their 
defiant forms above vapor, earth and snow._ 
Some lofty rocks, like huge pillars of ancient 
magnificence and ruin, stood gloomy and fear¬ 
ful like stern night sentinels. 
It has been said the world “ hangs on noth¬ 
ing.” No one could wish a better example or 
conception of that idea, thau he might here 
receive, where those hilly peaks stood so mas¬ 
sive and firm, yet seemingly baseless, resting 
like “ the fabric of a vision.” Above, the 
moon, circled by the mystic storm-ring, threw 
o'er all a deep and me low paleness. The fcg 
rolled on—it capped the peaks—it moved dark¬ 
ly in the distance, formed in clouds and mount¬ 
ed toward the moon—in five minutes all was 
darkness—and the fog was gone. 
Vermont, 1856. MELVIN. 
AN INNOVATION. 
A correspondent at Bucharest writes : — 
“ On Friday last an incident occurred at the 
opera here which had excited considerable sen¬ 
sation, and is the talk of the town. Oiner 
Pasha made his appearance in his box, accom¬ 
panied by the wife of his nephew, Tefwik Bey. 
The lady was completely unveiled, and sat thus 
listening to the music with the most perfect 
composure. This is, I believe, the first in¬ 
stance on record in which the wife of a Mus¬ 
sulman has displayed her features before men, 
and above all before giaours, and is conse¬ 
quently a tremendous innovation, of which I 
am very anxious to see the result. It displays 
great courage on the part of Omer Pasha, but 
will, I am certain, when the news reaches 
Gonstantinople, excite the fiercest ire among 
the old Turks. Mussar Pasha came into ihe 
box soon a'ter, and entered into conversation 
with Madame, and while this wa 3 going on 
Ismail Pasha (not he of Kalafat) arrived, and 
took his place on the opposite side of the 
house. Glancing across, he saluted Omer 
Pasha, but ou seeing the lady, suddenly became 
deadly pale, remained motionless for two or 
three minutes, and then rose up, saluted again, 
left the box, and returned no more. On t! e 
same evening Mussar Pasha distributed tick¬ 
ets to twelve English, twelve French, twelve 
Wallachian, and twelve Turkish soldiers, who 
took their places in the stalls and enjoyed the 
spectac'e highly, to the great rage of the Aus¬ 
trian officers, who complained bitterly of it the 
next day.” 
A Certainty. —Whenever you hear a man 
who rises to speak in a public assembly, say 
that he is called upon altogether unexpected y, 
that lie is entirely unprepared, but that having 
been urged to make some remarks, he wiil ad¬ 
dress a tew words, a few words only, to the 
vast or rc-pectable assemblage present, expres¬ 
sive in the briefest poss ble manner of his views 
of the subject before the meeting—when you 
hear a man de’iver an exordium to this effect, 
take up your hat and depart as quickly as 
possible, or make up your mind to lie bored 
l>v a regular set speech, which will last from one 
hour to three, according to the strength of the 
lungs of the orator thus ca”ed upon. When 
a man rises, if he has anything to say, ! c 
ought to say it without preface or excuse. If 
he really has nothing to say, common honesty 
requires him to sit down. 
