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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL. LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
a 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
TO HENRIQUE. 
BY FLORA. 
I K.YOW that brighter eyes are beaming 
Upon thy vision now, 
And richer gems are gleaming 
Upon a fairer brow. 
And wealth and fame around thee 
Have flung their stately pride. 
Yet heavy chains have bound thee 
Unto another’s side. 
Though the golden links were bright. 
And the brow was passing fair 
To thy charmed and dazzled sight, 
Now thy heart is full of care. 
Thou’rt wakened from the fairy dream 
That lured thee from my side, 
And now doth all a mockery seem, 
Thy wealth,—thy beauteous bride. 
I know the ’wildering spell is broken 
And the charm forever o’er, 
But ever with each treasured token 
Cometh memories of yore. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GLIMPSES OF THE PEOPLE 
BY AN EYE-WITNESS. 
WO. 2.—THE MODEL CITIZEW. 
Seneca Digby, Esq., was a model citizen — 
at least so said the u'orld —and we are bound 
to credit that time-honored and indisputable 
authority. Tie was moderator at all town 
meetings, arbitrator in all disputes among his 
neighbors, had been a member of the Legisla 
ture of his native State, had held the office of 
Justice of the Peace for several years, and was 
the man at all meetings, civil and political 
He was also a monied man. lie held shares 
in several railroads, banks and manufactories, 
He lived “ at rust in his possessions in other 
words, on the income of his money, and had, 
therefore, the more time to devote to the “ ad¬ 
vancement of the interests of his country,” as 
he expressed himself in a fine speech on the 
occasion of his being elected representative 
The model citizen, at home and abroad, are 
two very different persons. In the one, he is 
a rigid disciplinarian ; in the other, “ distin¬ 
guished for his generosity, and firm adherence 
to the principles of Right and Justice !” His 
generosity consists in being ever ready to as¬ 
sist in any good public movement, with his 
money as well as his mind. At home, his 
words are few and far between, but ever ex¬ 
actly to the point. A laugh seems a stranger 
to his lips, and if perchance a stray smile steal 
for a moment across his stern features, it is 
like the cold gleams of sunlight that occasion¬ 
ally illumine the ice clad regions of the North. 
Abroad his mingled wit and wisdom are the 
life of public dinners. He is remarkable for 
his condescension toward his inferiors, his easy 
politeness to his equals, and perfect self-pos¬ 
session and independence towards superiors. 
His crowning characteristics are firmnesg and 
self-esteem. Abroad, the first is manifest in 
his unswerving truth and equity where the 
cause of right is at stake. At home, in a will 
whose iron bounds are not to be transgressed 
with impunity; in laying down rules for do¬ 
mestic government, which are never to be set 
aside upon any grounds, he is “ a very patri¬ 
arch in power !” His second prominent trait 
(self-esteem) shows itself, abroad, in the zeal 
and earnestness with which he prosecutes every 
effort for the public good, yet never insensible 
to the good of the greatest number, that being, 
as a witty writer has said, number one. 
At home, his mind is “ the great sun round 
which the lesser planets roll.” Every one says 
his judgment is superior, and he knows it is. 
Fully competent to make laws for himself and 
others, it is not necessary that any of his fam¬ 
ily should think or act for themselves. But, 
unfortunately, his mind is so engrossed with 
“ cares of state,” that he only finds time for 
an occasional glance at home affairs. Then if 
all is not right, like a worthy General who 
once, having animated and encouraged his 
sinking soldiers with a glorious address, re¬ 
tired to the rear, leaving them to “ obey or¬ 
ders.” He speaks of whatever is displeasing, 
(and he is very quick to discover it, though 
never does a word of praise pass his lips,) 
issues his commands, and woe to the unhappy 
culprit who is found wanting in obedience. 
When he crosses the threshold of his home, 
instead of leaving the perplexities of life and 
business behind, and meeting his household 
with a smile, he contracts his bushy brows 
into a still deeper frown, and at the sound of 
his heavy foot-fall, the merry laugh of child¬ 
hood is hushed, and the little forms that a few 
moments before were all life and activity in 
their innocent play, now huddle together in 
some sly corner; and with their little faces 
drawn to an unnatural length in forced serious¬ 
ness, they whisper low and timidly, or softly 
glide on tiptoe from the room, lest “ father’s 
great rough voice ” should startle their little 
ears with “ Children, what’s all that noise 
about?” or give them a fierce glance from 
those stern grey eyes of his. His wife, pale 
and careworn, looks up as he enters, but he 
does not notice her, unless to give some order : 
and with a smothered sigh she resumes her 
work, reflecting, for the hundredth time per¬ 
haps, “ Ah, well! he is busy, thinking about 
some important matter.” He sits down to his 
meals in utter silence, and from long habit the 
rest are silent too. He helps himself and eats> 
never raising his eyes to see whether any one 
else is supplied,—unless, perhaps, the children 
not daring to ask aloud, begin to whisper their 
wants to their mother, then he says—“ Wife 
have you any hearing ? Can’t you attend to 
those children ?” 
His family have little of his society, and 
what they have they cannot enjoy. They sel¬ 
dom go abroad, for though he keeps a car¬ 
riage, it is almost constantly employed in 
“ public service.” He seldom asks his wife to 
go out with him, and when he does, she, as 
well as any one else who goes with him, must 
be ready at precisely the right time,—that is, 
the time which he sets for starting,—else they 
can stay at home. No matter what the rea¬ 
sons for delay may be, it is all the same to 
him, for one of his favorite sayings is, “ Pune 
tually is the soul of business.” 
Though not really a penurious man, he never 
gives his family any money until he is made 
acquainted with the details of the manner in 
which it is to be expended. His wife often 
goes without a great many things which she 
would have if she did not dread to ask him for 
the money. Yet he always expects her to ap 
pear as well in company as other women, and 
finds fault if she does not. Her being tied 
down to the narrow sphere of her domestic 
life, is, to him, no excuse for her not cultiva¬ 
ting her mind and keeping up her knowledge 
of whatever is transpiring around her. If she 
differs from him on any point in which an 
argument has arisen, she is fortunate if he 
does not silence her with some such a remark 
as, “ If I could not talk reason, I would hold 
my tongue.” 
If she calls his attention to any foibles of 
the children, he has no time to investigate 
matters and find the best means of effecting a 
cure, but punishes with the harshest severity 
the most trifling offences, assuring himself that 
he but does his duty. Her gentle spirit cannot 
think such a course the right one, and gradual- 
becomes schooled to the belief that it is 
better for her to conceal than to complain. 
The children, with instinctive wisdom, learn 
this lesson of deception, and though open and 
affectionate towards their mother, come to re¬ 
gard their father with feelings of suspicion and 
aversion. As they grow older, and begin to 
wish to exercise more liberty of thought and 
action, the bonds of such severe parental au¬ 
thority become irksome and galling to their 
sensitive and ambitious natures. Rebellion is 
the natural consequence, and results in an early 
division. The children scatter themselves 
abroad, to find in the bosom of that world to 
which their father has so long been wedded in 
spirit, the sympathy and affection which they 
despair of ever obtaining at their own fireside. 
The wife, long accustomed to yield to her 
husband’s better judgment, (?) jogs on the 
rugged path of life, side by side with him who 
has merged her existence into his own, till 
Death dissolves their union and lays her to rest. 
Time moves on, and the prints of his feet 
begin to be visible in the hoary locks that 
fleck the brow of the model citizen. Weary 
of a public life, longing at last for the quiet 
comforts of a home, he would gladly turn to 
the one of other days, there to find peace .— 
But the fire has gone out, the hearth-stone is 
cold, the household chain is broken—not a link 
left to bind the worn-out heart to love and 
hope. He must pursue the remainder of life's 
journey alone ; but pride is not extinct, and 
he stands before his fellow men with the same 
erect form, the same unblenching eye as of old, 
though deep in the recesses of his bosom a 
still small voice” keeps crying : 
Even as thou sowest, so shall thou reap. If 
thou layest up naught of love in thy youth, how 
canst thou expect happiness in thine age." 
The world hears not that voice,—knows not 
the vain regrets and longings of that lonely 
awakening heart. To it he is still The Model 
Citizen. 
BAD TEMPER, 
Lavater, the famous physiognomist, though 
an enthusiast was a kind man, and his wife 
the-most amiable of women. One day his ser 
vant asked him, after dinner, if she should 
sweep his room. Being in rather an irritable 
mood, he assented pettishly, telling her not to 
touch his books or papers. When the servant 
had been gone some time, he said to his wife 
“ I am afraid she will cause some confusion 
up stairs.” 
In a few moments his wife with the best in 
tention, stole out of the room, and told the ser¬ 
vant to be careful. Lavater met his wife at 
the bottom of the stairs on her return, and ex¬ 
claimed, as though secretly vexed at some¬ 
thing : 
“ Is not my room swept yet ?” 
Without waiting an instant he ran up 
stairs, and, as he entered the room, the girl 
overturned an inkstand, which was standin 
on the shelf. She was much terrified. Lava 
ter called out hastily : 
“ What a stupid beast you are! Have I not 
positively told you to be careful?” 
What followed we will let Lavater tell him 
self. 
“ My wife slowly and timidly followed me 
up stairs. Instead of being ashamed, my an 
ger broke out anew. I took no notice of her 
running to the table, lamenting and moaning 
as if the most important writings had been 
spoiled, though, in reality, the ink had touched 
nothing but a blank sheet and some blotting 
paper. The servant watched an opportunity 
to steal away. My wife approached me with 
timid gentleness. ‘My dear husband,’ said 
she. I stared at her with vexation in my looks. 
She embraced me. I wanted to get out of the 
way. Her face rested for a moment on my 
cheek. At length, with unspeakable tender 
ness, she said, ‘ You will hurt your health, my 
dear.’ I now began to be ashmed. I was si 
lent and at last began to weep. What a mis 
erable slave to my temper I am ! I dare not 
lift up my eyes. I cannot rid myself of that 
painful passion. My wife replied, ‘ consider 
my dear, how r many days and weeks pass 
away without your being overcome by anger. 
I knelt down beside her, and thanked God sin 
cerely for that hour, and for my wife.” 
THE TRUE HOME. 
THE LAUGH OF WOMAN. 
A woman has no natural grace more be¬ 
witching than a sweet laugh. It is like the 
sound of flutes on the water. It leaps from 
her heart in a clear, sparkling rill; and the 
heart that hears it feels as if bathed in the 
cool, exhilarating spring. Have you ever 
pursued an unseen fugitive through trees, led 
on by her fairy laugh, now here, now there, 
now lost, now found ? We have. And we 
are pursuing that wandering voice to this day. 
Sometimes it conies to us in the midst of care, 
sorrow, or irksome business ; and then we 
turn away and listen, and hear it ringing 
through the room like a silver bell, with power 
scare away the ill spirits of the mind. How 
much we owe to that sweet laugh ! It turns 
the prose into poetry, it flings showers of sun¬ 
shine over the darksome wood in which we are 
traveling ; it touches with light even our 
sleep, which is no more the image of death, 
but is consumed with dreams that are the 
shadows of immortality. 
“ Is it wrong to peep in at this window ?’ 
said we as we passed home at night, glancing 
in upon a family circle that we love and that 
loves us. Outside, are holy moonlight and the 
sparkling frost pictures ; the world looks mys¬ 
tic, beautiful, but cold. Inside, there is more 
warmth—a tangible look of comfort. There 
is a shaded lamp burning softly and steadily ; 
the light of the grate is more flickering and 
rich ; and by the aid of both we see a house¬ 
hold group intent upon their evening employ¬ 
ments. The gilded corner of a picture-frame 
glitters here and there, and the binding of 
books, with their titles, glimmer out upon us ; 
lounges and carpet lie drowsing in the warm 
atmosphere. All looks comfortable, plentiful, 
tasteful, home-like. But is this in reality a 
Home? Ah! if we could catch, without 
eaves dropping, the sound of their voices as 
that little group mingle their thoughts in con¬ 
versation, we could soon decide. Tenderness, 
gentleness, repose, content, modulate the tones 
and we know this is a true Home. In the eyes 
of these children shine confidence and trust, 
unshadowed by the memory of the neglect or 
harshness of a darkened hearth. —Sandusky 
Register. 
BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. 
“ There was no end to his delight. The 
little birds warbled and sang, and fluttered and 
hopped about, and the delicate wood flowers 
gave out their odors ; and every sound took 
a sweet odor by the hand, and thus walked 
through the open door of the child’s heart, and 
held a joyous nuptial dance therein. But the 
nightingale sang and the lily of the valley led 
the dance; for the nightingale sang nought 
but of love, and the lily breathed of nought 
but innocence, and he was the bridegroom and 
she was the bride. And the nightingale was 
never weary of repeating the same thing a 
hundred times over, for the spring of love 
which gushed from his heart was ever new, 
and the lily bowed her head bashfully, that no 
one might see her glowing heart. * And yet 
the one lived so solely and entirely in the other, 
that no one could see whether the notes of the 
nightingale were floating lilies, or the lilies 
visible notes, falling like dewdrops from the 
nightingale’s throat.”— Story without an end. 
Truth.— When a man has no design but to 
speak plain truth, he may say a great deal in a 
very narrow compass. 
The Happiest Season.— At a festal party 
of old and young, the question was asked— 
“ Which season of life is the most happy ? ” 
After being freely discussed by the guests, it 
was referred for answer to the host, upon whom 
was the burden of fourscore years. He asked 
if they had noticed a grove of trees before the 
dwelling, and said: 
“ When the Spring comes, and in the soft 
air the buds are breaking on the trees, and 
they are covered with blossoms, 1 think, How 
beautiful is Spring! And when the Summer 
comes, and covers the trees with its heavy fo¬ 
liage, and singing-birds are among the branch¬ 
es, I think, How beautiful is Summer/ When 
Autumn loads them with golden fruit, and 
their leaves bear the gorgeous tints of frost, 
I think, How beautiful is Autumn! And 
when it is sere winter, and there is neither fo¬ 
liage nor fruit, then I look through the leafless 
branches, as 1 never could till now, and see 
the stars shine.” 
Beautiful Sentiment. —A late poem by 
Alice Carey contains the following beautiful 
stanza, which must touch any heart that has 
lost sight of treasured flowers which are bloom¬ 
ing on “ the other side.” 
Even for the (load I will not bind 
My soul to grief.—death cannot long divide ; 
For is it not as if the rose that climbed 
My garden wall had bloomed the other side ? 
ICC 
0 / 
THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 
BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 
Gather him to his grave again, 
And solemnly and softly lay, 
Beneath the verdure of the plain, 
The warrior’s scattered bone3 away. 
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, 
The homage of man’s heart to death ; 
Nor dare to trifle with the mould 
Once hallowed by the Almighty’s breath. 
The soul hath quickened every part— 
That remnant of a martial brow, 
Thoso ribs that held the mighty heart, 
That strong arm—strong no longer now. 
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, 
Of God’s own image, let them rest, 
Till not a trace shall speak of where 
The awful likeness was impressed. 
For he was fresher from the hand 
That formed of earth the human face, 
And to the elements did stand 
In nearer kindred than our race. 
In many a flood to madness tossed, 
In many a storm has been his path ; 
He hid him not from heat or frost, 
But met them, and defied their wrath. 
Then they were kind—the forests here, 
Rivers, and stiller waters paid 
A tribute to the net and spear 
Of the red ruler of the shade. 
Fruits on the woodland branches lay, 
Roots in the shaded soil below, 
The stars looked forth to teach his way, 
The still earth warned him of the foe. 
A noble race 1 but they are gone, 
With their old forests wide and deep, 
And we have built our homes upon 
Fields where their generations sleep. 
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 
Upon their fields our harvest waves, 
Our lovers woo beneath their moon— 
Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves 1 
Written for Moore’s Rnral New-Yorker. 
A BRIEF ESSAY ON LETTER WRITING. 
Epistolary intercourse is, according as it is 
carried on, one of the pleasantest or most irk¬ 
some duties in the world. It is delightful to 
drop in on a friend without the solemn prelude 
of invitation,—to join in the social circle 
where we may permit our minds and hearts to 
relax and expand in the happy consciousness 
of perfect security from invidious remark and 
carping criticism—where we may give the 
reins to the sportiveness of innocent fancy, or 
the enthusiasm of warm-hearted feeling—where 
we may talk sense or nonsense, (I pity those 
who can’t talk nonsense,) without fear of being 
looked into icicles by the coldness of unimag¬ 
inative people, living pieces of clock-work, who 
dare not themselves utter a word, or lift up a 
finger without first weighing the important 
point in the hair-balance of propriety and 
good breeding. 
It is equally delightful to let the pen talk 
freely and unpremeditatedly, and to one by 
whom we are sure of being understood, but a 
formal letter, like a ceremonious morning visit, 
tedious alike to the writer and receiver—for 
the most part spun out of long unmeaning 
phrases, trite observations, and protestations 
of respect and attachment, so far not deceitful 
as they never deceive anybody. Oh, the mis¬ 
ery of having to compose a set, proper, well- 
worded, polite, elegant epistle !—one that must 
have a beginning, a middle, and an end—as 
methodically arranged and portioned out as a 
sermon under three heads, or the three grada¬ 
tions of shade in the school-girl’s first land- 
scare. For our part we would rather be set 
to beat hemp, or weed turnip beds, than to 
write such a letter exactly every month, or 
every fortnight, as if one’s thonghts bubbled 
up to the fountain head at regular periods, a 
pint at a time to be bottled off for immediate 
use. 
Thought!—what has thought to do with 
such correspondence? It murders thought, 
quenches fancy, wastes time, spoils paper, 
wears out pens, and gives no satisfaction.— 
Surely in this age of invention something may 
be struck out to obviate this necessity (if ne¬ 
cessity it be) of so tasking and degrading the 
human intellect. Why could not a sort of 
machine be constructed on the plan of those 
that play sets of tunes, and country dances, to 
indite a catalogue of polite epistles, calcula¬ 
ted for all the ceremonious observances of 
good breeding ? Oh ! the unspeakable relief 
of having only to grind out an answer to one 
of one’s fifty dear friends! Or, suppose there 
could be an epistolary steam engine! Ay, 
that’s the thing!—steam does every thing now- 
days. If some one would set about it, they 
might achieve the greatest work of the age, 
for this would spare mental drudgery, and 
thousands yet unborn would—but hold! I 
am not sure that the female sex in general may 
enter into my views on the subject. Those 
who pique themselves on excelling in “ Velo¬ 
quence du billet," or those fair scriblerinas just 
emancipated from boarding school restraints, 
just beginning to take the refined enjoyment of 
sentimental, confidential, smd-breathing corres¬ 
pondence, from some Angelina Seraphina, 
or Laura Matilda— to indite beautiful little 
notes, with long-tailed letters, sealed with 
sweet mottoes and dainty devices, the whole de¬ 
liciously perfumed with musk and attar-of- 
roses, — young ladies who collect copies of 
erses, keep albums, work little dogs on foot¬ 
stools, and paint flowers without a shadow.— 
Oh, no! The epistolary steam engine would 
never come in vogue with these dear creatures. 
They must enjoy “ the feast of reason, and the 
flow of soul," and they must write ! Ye gods 
how they do write! 
But for another genus of female scribes, who 
groan in spirit at the dire necessity of having 
to hammer out one of those terrible epistles- 
who, having in due form dated the gilt-edged 
sheet which lies outspread before them in 
appalling whiteness, having also felicitously 
achieved the graceful exordium, “ My Dear 
Mrs,” or “ My Dear—” anything else, feel that 
the are in for it, and must say something, that 
must come to nothing—those bricks that must 
be made without straw!—those pages that 
must be filled without words! — aye, with 
words that must be sewed into sentences; 
with sentences that must seem to mean some¬ 
thing, the whole to be tacked together, neatly 
fitted and dove-tailed, so as to form one 
smooth polished surface—what were the la 
bors of Hercules to such a task ? The very 
thought of it puts me into a mental perspira¬ 
tion, and from my inmost soul I compassion¬ 
ate the unfortunate, perhaps even now screwed 
up perpendicular in the seat of torture, having 
in the right hand a patent pen, dipped ever 
and anon into the ink-bottle as if to hook up 
ideas, and under the outspread palm of the 
left hand, a fair sheet of Bath post, on which 
their eyes are fixed with a disconsolate stare of 
perplexity, infinitely touching to the feeling 
mind. In fact in all the agonies of composi¬ 
tion. 0, poor mortal, I do most cordially 
pity you. Have I not endured such horrors, 
which even now make me shudder at the re¬ 
collection? 
But, on the other hand, how refreshing it is 
to receive a simple, earnest, truthful letter, 
full of warm feeling and tender regard—one 
which shows forth a soul as well as a mind.— 
1 hen our hearts go out in sympathy with the 
writer. We recognize in the clear and fervent 
manner, a warmth of soul, a tenderness of feel¬ 
ing, and a simple confidence, that draws out 
from us the purest sentiment of respect. 
Carlos. 
THE PLAGUE OF AN EASTERN SUMMER. 
An Eastern summer is full of wonders, but 
there is, perhaps, nothing about it more awful¬ 
ly appalling than those vast flights of locusts 
which sometimes destroy the vegetation of 
whole kingdoms in a few days, and where they 
found a garden leave a wilderness. I am 
riding along a pleasant hill side—towards the 
end of May. There is a sharp pattering noise, 
like that of April rain in Scotland, falling on 
hard ground. I look attentively towards the 
earth, knowing that it cannot be a shower this 
clear, balmy morning, and I see a countless 
multitude of little black insects no bigger than 
a pin’s head. 
They are hopping and springing about in 
myriads, under my horse’s feet, along the hard, 
stony road, which is quite black with them, 
and far away among the heather, which is 
turned black also. 1 ride miles and miles, yet 
the ground is still darkened with those little 
insects, and the same sharp pattering noise 
continues. They are the young of the locusts 
who left their eggs in the ground last year.— 
They have just come to life. Three days ago 
there was not one to be seen. A little later 
and I am passing through a Greek village. 
The alarm has spread everywhere, and the lat¬ 
ter authorities have bestirred themselves to 
resist their enemies while still weak. Large 
fires are burning by the river side, and im¬ 
mense cauldrons full of boiling water are 
steaming over them. The whole country side 
has been out locust hunting. They have just 
returned with the result of their day’s exertion. 
Twenty-three thousand pounds weight of 
these little insects, each, as I have said, no 
bigger than a pin’s head, have been brought in 
already in one day. They have been caught 
in a surface of less than five square miles. 
There has been no difficulty in catching them. 
Children of six years old can do it as well as 
grown men. A sack and a broom are all that 
is necessary. Place the open sack on the 
ground, and you may sweep it full of locusts 
as fast as you can move your arms. The vil¬ 
lage community pay about a farthing a pound 
for locusts. Some of the hunters have earned 
two or three shillings a day. As the sacks 
are brought in they are thrust into the caul¬ 
drons of boiling water, and boiled each for 
some twenty minutes. They are then emptied 
into the rapid little river swollen by the melt¬ 
ing of mountain snows.— Household Words. 
SPURN NOT YOUR DESTINY. 
Dean, in his “ Ottoman Empire,” says the 
doctrines of Islamism teach that no man may 
be above his destiny; that every one may learn 
a vocation whereby he may earn his bread, if 
predestined to do so. A curious list is given 
in Maradja of the occupations of patriarchs, 
caliphs, and sultans, which commences with 
the first man. Adam tilled the ground ; Noah 
was a carpenter; Abraham a weaver ; David 
made coats of mail; Solomon made baskets of 
the date tree; the Caliph of Omar manufac¬ 
tured skins; Otkman sold eatables; Ali, the 
cousin of the Prophet, hired himself to a mas¬ 
ter for a salary. ’The Ottoman sovereigns did 
not think it beneath them to submit to this 
law, in imitation of so many eminent examples. 
Thus Mohammed II. sold iiowers ; Soliman the 
Great made slippers ; Achmet I. made ebony 
cases and boxes ; Achmet III. excelled in 
writing, and in emblazoning the canonical 
books ; Selim II. printed muslins. 
--- 
Of all the agonies in life, that which is the 
most poignant and harrowing, is the conviction 
that we have been deceived where we placed 
all the trust of lo \e.~r-Bulwer. 
