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176 
MOOJIE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
m iort-jfolk 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
THE WIFE’S REPLY. 
Tiiou askest me what offerings bright 
From climes beyoml the sea 
Thou maye-st collect with loving pride, 
To lavish upon me? 
I seek not oostly gems to grace 
My brow ; thou say’st ’tis fair— 
And if it bo, why, love should I 
Thy glance with jewels snare ? 
Why speakest thou of Orient pearls 
To lay upon my breast? 
I have a treasure dearer far, 
And fitter thero to rest. 
Thy child and mine my bosom claim3, 
Thereon repose to seek, 
And all the pearls the ocean hides 
Are worthless near his cheek. 
And when upon his face I gaze. 
With rapture there I see 
What pearls or diamonds could not yield, 
A likeness, love, of thee. 
Speak then no more of things like these . 
When thou com’st home again, 
The joy of seeing thee will make 
All other treasures vain. 
But if thou wouldst that joy inorease, 
I’H gladly tell thee how— 
Bring, bring me back thy heart again 
As much my own as now. 
[Chamber's Jonrnal. 
TRANS - ATLANTIC EPISTLES, 
TO COUSIN KATEY. 
CosniOTiaATED through Moorr'8 Rural Nbw-Yorker. 
NEW SERIES-EPISTLE TENTH. 
Departure from Paris—Journey to Havre—Embarkation 
at Southampton—Return voyage. 
Dear Katey :—The pleasant weather with 
which we were favored during most of our 
stay in Paris, had entirely disappeared before 
we left, and it was in the midst of a driving 
snow-storm that we turned our backs upon 
the gay capital, and commenced our journey 
to Havre. Under such circumstances you can 
not expect me to have much to say of the 
beauty of the scenery, or the other themes up¬ 
on which travelers are wont to enlarge. To 
tell the truth, I was very glad to throw my¬ 
self back in my seat, and enjoy a few hours 
rest from the wearisome round of sight-seeiDg 
which had occupied every moment of the time 
for so many weeks. The thought that Paris 
was “ done up,” and that we were actually en 
route for home, lulled me into a state of re¬ 
pose from which I did not arouse until we 
reached Havre. After a delay of a few hours 
we were on board the little steamer which was 
to convey us to Southampton, and making our 
way across the channel. This usually restless 
body of water was remarkably quiet, so that 
we enjoyed a comfortable night’s rest, and 
found ourselves, on awaking in the morniog, 
already arrived. The Washington, the steam¬ 
er in which we had taken passage for New 
York, was not to leave Southampton till the 
next day, and we improved our last day on shore 
in looking about the town a little, and in do¬ 
ing justice to the good English fare with which 
our host regaled us. I am fully convinced, 
Cousin Katey, that the roast beef acd plum 
puddiDg of old England deserve their reputa¬ 
tion, and the memory of that Southampton 
dinner has clung to me most pertinaciously 
throughout the passage, rendering the ship 
fare less palatable than it might otherwise 
have been. 
The Washington put out to sea the 28th of 
March, at two o'clock in the afternoon, hav¬ 
ing nearly three hundred souls on board.— 
Two individuals, one a colored, the other a 
white man, had secreted themselves in the hold 
in order to get a free passage, and only made 
their appearance when we were fairly under 
weigh. They were at once set to work, 
obliged to perform the most menial and disa¬ 
greeable services of the ship, and have been the 
subjects of not a few practical jokes on the 
part of the sailors. The colored man was 
promoted after a few days to aid in the cook¬ 
ing department, and I heard him express his 
ambitions aspirations on that occasion in the 
following terms “ Oh yes! I have been cook 
already, and I probably shall be cook again, 
and —steward too.’” The latter office was evi¬ 
dently the point in which ail his earthly 
hopes and aspirations centred. 
The Washington is a slow boat, requiring 
fourteen days to make the trip in favorable 
weather, and sixteen or seventeen when the 
winds are contrary. But if she is slow she is 
also sure, the officers conducting her with a 
great deal of caution and circumspection. 
They have probably learned some lessons of 
wisdom from the disasters which befel the 
Humboldt and the Franklin, vessels belonging 
to the same line, and also from the sad late of 
the Arctic. I embarked with fear and trem¬ 
bling, for, after the terrible accidents which 
have occurred so frequently during the time 
we have been in Europe, I really felt that a 
voyage across was about the most dangerous 
thing a person could undertake. But my 
fears were very much dissipated after I had 
leisure to observe the care and prudence dis 
played in the management of the ship, and 
they have only returned at rare intervals 
throughout the voyage. Another foe, more 
tangible and persevering, with which 1 have 
had to contend, has been sea-sickness. 1 have 
not suffered as much in this respect as upon 
my first voyage, but old Ocean and 1 are not 
yet on terms of perfect friendship. It is not 
so much real sickness that I experience as a 
general feeling of disgust, a loathing of the 
sight of food, a dislike for the persons and 
things which surround me, and, what is worst 
of all. this dislike extends even to myself, a 
circumstance, which you can easily imagine, 
is productive of no little discomfort to a per¬ 
son accustomed to being on pretty good terms 
with his own individuality. We have had an 
almost uninterrupted succession of head winds, 
not strong enough to rise into the sublime or 
terrific, but sufficiently so to retard our pro¬ 
gress essentially, and detract very much from 
its comfort Some of the passengers, who 
are making their first voyage, have suffered 
exceedingly from sea-sickness; several ladies 
have scarcely been on deck during the whole 
passage. 
We are now, April 12th, in sight of laud, 
coasting along Long Island. We have, as 
usual, the wind directly ahead, and the great 
question which occupies the minds of the pas 
sengers is, shall we arrive in time to go on 
shore to-night ? Unfortunately, the majority 
of those best informed maintain the negative. 
But to-morrow morning, at farthest, we shall 
quit our prison, and exchange its discomforts 
for the warm greetings and cordial welcome 
of friends and relatives. Our hearts go out in 
gratitude to the kind Providence which has 
preserved us through all our wanderings, and 
is now bringing ns, after the lapse of eighteen 
months, to our native shores again. 
I shall despatch this letter from New York, 
where we stop for a few days, and then, adieu 
to letter writing. I shall hope to see you soon 
face to face, and continue the subjects of these 
hasty letters in many a long chat, or cosy 
Cboitf: IJltscellaitD. 
For Mcore*« R»r*i New-Yorker. 
JUNE. 
BY II. I*. SPENCER. 
Grkbx are the fields and balmy are the airs, 
That ’mongthe waving blades and blossoms play, 
For now lias gone the fickle-hearted May, 
And June, sweet June, the (lower-decked scepter bears; 
Her stop is light, her cheek is like the rose, 
Her breath is sweeter far than mountain dew, 
Her sougs float by on every breeze that blows,— 
She scatters blossoms bright the valley through. 
And on the hitl-eides, goms of every hue. 
I mind me of the days departed long,— 
The sweet June-days of my existence here; 
When ad the hours flew by with mirth and song, 
And o’er my heart she reignod the live-long year. 
THE OLD EVENINGS. 
BY CHARLES SWAIN. 
tete-atete. 
Minnie. 
A WELL ORDERED HOME, 
These words are a “home thrust’ to many, 
in practical lessons ot wisdom, the relations 
of husband and wife, parents and children, and 
brothers and sisters, are all embraced within 
their meaning. To the husband, lot e, kind¬ 
ness, honesty, sincerity and forbearauce towards 
the chosen partner of his life, are essential.— 
To the wife, a loving heart, a cheerful home, 
“ bright fires instead of black stoves,” smiles 
of welcome, devotion and obedience, mutual 
forbearance, mutual interests, a cultivation ot 
mutual tastes, pursuits and studies, a love of 
the beautiful and true. To parents, fixed rules 
of government for children, founded on justice 
and mercy, whose fruit is love, recognizing and 
strictly observing the rights of the child, as 
scrupulously as they demand obedience; to cul¬ 
tivate order and system in all things, and a 
taste for the useful and beautiful, insteud of 
follies and frivolities—all these are equally es¬ 
sential. 
Provide amusements for children, if you 
would keep them from seeking it away from 
home. 
Make the house cheerful, and happy, and 
desirable, if you would have it irresistible to 
the members of it. Discard the austerity and 
cold stiffness of formality, but observe all the 
true and genuine politeness of honesty, hearty ^ 
humanity, which teaches us to “ do unto oth¬ 
ers as we would that others should do unto 
us,” and “ love one another.” Such a home 
should every Christian family be. Then the 
seed of piety, honesty, uprightness, cheerful¬ 
ness, and elevated happiness, sown and nurtur¬ 
ed in the home, would spring up and grow and 
multiply, as ihe different members of these 
families radiated to all points of the compass, 
like a halo of glory, and “ peace on cartli and 
good will to man” would be the glorious re¬ 
sult. 
1 wander’d by the old house, 
But others now live there ; 
I thought about the old times, 
And all we used to share. 
How happy ’twas our wont to meet. 
When friends came frank and free, 
Ah ! when shall we such faces greet 
As once we used to see 
In those old merry evenings, 
Those pleasant friendly evenings 
Beneath the old roof-tree ? 
But what though we’d the old house, 
We still would lack old cheer ; 
The old friends in the old house 
Were all that made it dear ! 
And these are (led, or changed, or dead, 
And never more may wo 
Revive the music of their tread— 
Thejoys that used to he 
In those old friendly evenings, 
Those long-departed evenings, 
Beneath the old roof-tree ! 
Written for the Rural New-Yorkor 
THE AFFLICTION OE CHILDHOOD. 
BY ANDREW J. ENSIGN. 
THE ALMOND BLOSSOM. 
‘ Dear mother,” said a little girl, as they 
were walking together in the gaideti, why 
do you have so lew of those beautiful double 
almonds in the garden? You have hardly a 
bed where there is not a tuft ol violets, and 
they are so much plainer ! What can be the 
reason?” , 
« My dear,” said the mother, “ gather me a 
bunch of each. Then I will tell you why I 
prefer the humble violet.” 
The little girl ran off and soon returned 
with a fine bunch of the beautiful almond and 
a few violets. 
“ Smell them, my dear,” said her mother, 
“ and try which is the sweetest.” 
The child smelled again and again, and 
could scarcely believe herself that the lovely 
almond had no scent, while the plain \iolet 
had a delightful odor. 
“Well, my child, which is the sweetest?” 
“ Oh, dear mother, it is the little violet!” 
“ Well, you know now, my child, why I 
prefer the plain violet to the beautiful almond. 
Beauty without fragrance, in flowers, is, in 
my opinion, something like beauty without 
gentleness and good temper in little girls. 
When any of those people who speak with¬ 
out reflection, and may say to you, “ What 
charming blue eyes 1 What beautiful curls ! 
What a fine complexion!” without knowing 
whether you have any good qualities, and 
without thinking of your defects and failings, 
with some of which everybody is born, re¬ 
member then, my little girl, the almond blos¬ 
som ; and remember also, when your affec¬ 
tionate mother may not be there to tell you, 
that beauty without gentleness and good tem¬ 
per, is worthless. 
It was June, bridal June, w r hose brow is 
ever entwined with fillets of (lowers and wreath¬ 
ed with garlands in which the myrtle and rose 
leaf safely blend. Gently beauty rested upon 
the earth as dawn upon the waters. Through 
the universe of Nature, pervaded harmony aud 
hope. The sky, up in its deep blue vaults, 
echoed aud re-echoed the glorious anthems of 
eternity, and mirrored back to earth the re¬ 
splendent majesty of Divine Tower aud Good¬ 
ness. From every creature arose the notes of 
gladness and the songs of praise, and filling the 
soul with deep emotions of graudeur aud grat¬ 
itude, rolled onward to the throne of God. 
And Summer, so glad aud so gay, the symbol 
of increasing strength growing out from the 
freshness of youth, sported in the suushine, the 
laughing rills aud sweet roses of June. From 
sylvau shades aud woody bowers, the warblings 
of many a feathered songster trilled melodious¬ 
ly out. And again, from the hillside came 
floating on the breeze the notes of a rustic 
ree j_now wild aud gay—now sad and plain¬ 
tive, as the shepherd’s heart is moved to mirth 
or turned to sorrow. There is but one song, 
one prolonged, eternal anthem that swells 
through the great heart of the universe and 
rises in solemn diapason to the concave of 
heaven. It wells forth from the bosom of the 
glad earth—from beings the highest and the 
lowest—from the flowing fountains and cata¬ 
racts moaning in deep thunder-tones, and for¬ 
ever hymning the rapturous and resistless 
chorus of nature—from the simplest flower 
and the nodding pine—from the heart of child¬ 
hood aud the aspiring soul of man. 
Time has swept away, yet the impressions 
made, fifteen years since, upon the mind of 
early childhood, are still as fresh aud vivid as 
when, on the morning of bridal June—when 
all was joyous and full of life, my young heart 
beat high with excitement, and wild ecstacy 
fanned the central fires of existence. Life, 
which to me had been a period of uninterrupted 
pleasure, a sky always radiant with loveliness 
and over whose cerulean surface no dark cloud 
lowered, was soon to be fretted with storms, 
to be overcast with gloom surcharged with 
grief and woe. My feelings were to expe¬ 
rience a deep and terrific revulsion. The foun¬ 
tains of sorrow were to be opened and the 
waters of affliction to gush tumultuously forth 
and drown my soul with anguish. 
Though distant is that period, and around it 
hangs the frosts of many winters, yet the sun¬ 
shine ©f summer gleams upon the icy columns 
of time and melts the crystal fabric into the 
delight of remembrance. But it is not the 
laughing voice of running waters, the gay 
music of birds, the golden rays of the sun rest¬ 
ing effulgently on the earth, or the flowers 
adorning with rich beauty the ground, as the 
stars be-gem the heavens of night—that wheels 
back the cycles of years and recalls vividly to 
mind the incidents of that day, burned into the 
very tablet of memory,—no, but that which is 
deeper than all else beside—a feeling strong 
and fervent twined around the spiritual life and 
swallowing up every other emotion in its in¬ 
tensity arid power. And though the recollec¬ 
tion of them, as they come thronging up, may 
be sad, nevertheless it is soothing. 
Float onward, ye mists and shadows, aud 
yield up to memory the realities of other days. 
Cloud, that has so long veiled the past—so 
I had a brother, a uoble, generous boy—at 
once a guide, companion, friend. Around his 
ample brow seemed to gleam a tiara of light in 
token of intellectual grandeur. Even now, 
when imagination traces on the retina of the 
soul the image of the beloved one, out of the 
deep darkness comes a ray which lights up 
with a sheen of beauty that intellect prema¬ 
turely great. But the loDging spirit could 
not be confined to the earthly temple, and ever 
was it striving to burst the barriers that bouud 
it. How his great heart vibrated in unison 
with my own, and anticipated my every want. 
He was three years my senior, being nine, 
and I a trifle, more or less, than six. And 
though so young, his frank and manly dignity, 
his sweet and amiable disposition, made a deep 
impression on my mind which will abide with 
me to the close of life. Yes, to thee, noble 
and generous brother, I attribute whatever of 
good in this life I may resemble. If in my 
own mind there has been manifested any wor¬ 
thy qualities,—if the intellect, freed from pas¬ 
sion aud sense, has occasionally seemed to catch 
a glimpse through the open vistas of truth,— 
if my soul has ever glowed with warm and 
generous impulses, all is due to th.ee, kind com 
panion of my infant hours, thou who wast too 
pure for earth, and formed t,o sLine a seraph 
in heaven. 
It was on this summer morning that my 
brother aud I went to visit an aged relative 
residing not far distant from our* dwelling.— 
Having passed the day pleasantly, an old 
servant of the family, ever iudulgent, espe¬ 
cially to us hi3 favorite.3, came to conduct us 
home, a mile distant. The sun was near set¬ 
ting when we started homeward. As children 
with light and joyous hearts, we loved to lin 
ger by the way, and indulge iu the exuberan¬ 
cy of our feelings. It was nightfall ere we 
reached the house, and already the anxiety of 
our mother was awakened at our prolonged 
absence. Well did she know the delicate con¬ 
stitution of my idolized brother—the frail, 
slender thread on which wa3 suspended his ex¬ 
istence. Fair aud fatal was that day—lovely 
and joyous in its dawu—terrible in its close 
—gloomy in its final results. YY e, the mem¬ 
bers of the family, separated that evening 
with the sweet good night, and retired to rest 
filled with pleasure and contentmeut. Little 
did we dream of the danger near, of the awful 
burden of grief that was to overwhelm us.— 
the future appeared spanned with the bow of 
hope, and illuminated with the light of love. 
But, oh, solemn mockery ! how soon wa3 the 
source of gladness to be sealed for me—how 
soon a happy household wa3 to be stricken, 
how soon the family circle was to be bereft of 
its most cherished member! 
During the night my brother had been vio 
fently attacked with a fever, and ere the morn¬ 
ing’s dawn his young brain throbbed wildly 
with delirium. The eye usually so mild, was 
now restless and glaring. The hectic flush 
crimsoned his cheek, and frenzied words fell 
from his lips. How terrible was the agony 
of that feeble frame, and yet how meek and 
patient was that noble spirit. Quickly did 
the disease do its work—fiercely raged the 
burning fever; for on the second morning, at 
sunrise, my brother was no more—his soul 
had winged itself from earth to heaven. 
In the village church-yard the lifeless form 
of the sleeper was laid to rest. A secluded 
spot had beeu selected, and beneath the shade 
of a venerable tree the grave was made. The 
hand of affection ha3 planted on this sacred 
spot flowers and evergreens. Here on this 
mound, hallowed by feelings the dearest and 
tenderest, may be seen in early spring, crocuses 
and roses, emblems of the frailty of human 
life. Once each year, on the same day of bri 
dal June, I go and stand beside this tomb of 
my earliest friend—my only and long-lamented 
brother. And then at the close of day, when 
the last rays of the setting sun are lingering 
on the earth, beneath the branches of that 
weeping willow, as the wind mournfully sighs 
through the opening boughs, I bow my head 
on the grassy tomb, and pray for peace and 
happiness, such as his whose form moulders 
beneath. Thus do I cherish the memory of 
the dead, enshrined forever in my heart, and 
strive to awaken in me feelings of pure and 
fervent devotion. 
Nun da Literary Institute, 1805. 
VERY. 
Did you ever know a more well-worn word 
than this, in your life ? And yet it holds its 
own wonderfully. It keeps together its four 
constituents, as though they were “ all oak.” 
But like an old quarter, it doesn’t pass for 
as much as it meed to do ; the pillars are worn 
off; so there goes twenty per cent, in a twink¬ 
ling. 
Of old Roman origin, it once meant real 
and true ; now it mean nothing of the sort, 
and to two “ bare uses has it come at, Lust.”— 
And the first is, for chinking, and the second, 
as the name of a great passion—a powerful 
weakness. 
A man abuses you through thi-ee mortal 
pages of foolscap, and concludes with a “ very 
respectfully,” just as though he was Damon 
and you Pythias. Another writes something 
that will alienate a friend, or wound a heart, 
or blight a hope, and puts the finishii g touch 
to his abomination with a “very sincerely” or 
a “ very faithfully.” Perhaps a writer has no 
heart at all, and wouldn't risk the value of a 
brass button upon your temporal salvation ; 
and he is sure to be “yours very cordially.” 
Not satisfied with assuring you that he has a 
heart—he must have a heart very —that is, 
that curious organ “to a degree.” 
One meets you that has not set eyes on you 
for five years, nor thought of you in sixty 
calendar months. He is not only glad to sec 
you—that will not do at all; he is “very glad;” 
has thought of you, not often, but “ very of¬ 
ten ;” hopes to meet you, not soon, but “ very 
soou,” aud so you part—he with his verys,and 
you with yours, for ten to one you do the same 
thing by the very next man you meet. 
It is never rainy, but it is very rainy. Is 
she beautiful? Very. And he noble? Y r ery. 
And so, this devoted word is reduced to a 
paltry chinking — employed, like Caesar’s dust, 
to “ patch a wall.” 
Then again, “ very” christens a passion.— 
The ruling rage of the time is “ very.” Eve¬ 
ry thing must be very—-very something— inten¬ 
sified, aggravated very. If a man is ill, he gels 
no sympathy, unless there is a very in the 
case ; nothing short of being very ill, will an¬ 
swer at all. If a man is very rich, he is re¬ 
spected ; when very rich, envied and admired; 
but it 13 only your very rich mau that is pos 
tively adored. 
And so it goes—every body on the 'qui 
vive for a very.— [Chicago Journal. 
Lady Blesbington once wrote “ I feel 
I am growing old, for the want of somebody 
I ta I tagged - U» horizon of .inwove 
vital air in loving words.” 
- — o o 
! away and disclose the events of a passing hour ! 
Every grain of sand goes to make a heap 
A gold digger takes the smallest nuggets, and 
is not fool euough to throw them away because 
he hopes to find a huge lump sometime. So, 
in acquiring knowledge we should never de¬ 
spise an opportunity, however unpromising.— 
If there is a moment’s leisure, spend it over a 
good or instructive talking with the first you 
meet. 
Truk joy is a sincere and sober emotion 
and they arc miserably out who take laughing 
for rejoicing; the seat of it is within, and 
there is no cheerfulness like the resolutions of 
a brave mind. — Seneca. 
THE ORIGIN OF .JEALOUSY. 
When Adam and Eve were iu Paradise, 
they were for some time a most happy couple. 
Adam was in the habit of going every eveu- 
ing to Heaven to pray. The devil, who had 
studied the female mind, and knew its weak 
points, thought that the introduction of jeal¬ 
ousy might be a good foundation whereon to 
build some mischief. So he went to Eve, and 
after propitiating her by well-timed flattery, 
he inquired after Adam. Eve replied by in¬ 
forming him where her husband was gone — 
At this the devil smiled incredulously, but said 
nothing; and even when our first mother 
pressed him to tell her the meaning of his smile, 
refused to answer for a time, feigning that he 
would not hurt her feelings or injure the rep¬ 
utation of her friend. This conduct was only 
additional evidence of his profound acquain¬ 
tance with the weaknesses of the female heart, 
for by so acting he wrought strongly on her 
curiosity as well as her suspicion, till at last, 
having worked her up to a state of mind ca- 
pable of receiving any lies he might choose to 
tell her, he informed her, with every appear¬ 
ance of sorrow, that Adam was deceiving her, 
and pajing his addresses to another lady. At 
this Eve laughed scornfully, saying— 
“ How can ibis be, for l kuow there is no 
woman created but myself? 
The devil again smiled, with an expression 
of pity. 
“Alas! poor thing!” said he, “if I show 
you another woman, will that undeceive you ?” 
She assented, and ho showed her a mirror I 
Eve was, of course, completely deceived, 
though she thought herself undeceived ! 
INALIENABLE -RIGHTS OF AMERICANS. 
TaE following are not enumerated iu the 
Declaration of Independence: 
To know any trade or business without ap¬ 
prenticeship or experience. 
To marry without any regard to fortune 
state of health, position or opinion of parents 
or frie ds. 
To have wife and children dependent on the 
contingencies of business, and in case of Rud- 
den death, leave them wholly uuprovided for. 
To put off upon hireling strangers, the lit 
erary, moral and religious education of chil¬ 
dren. 
To teach children no good trade, hoping 
they will have, when they grow up wit 
enough to live on the industry of other people. 
To enjoy the general sympathy wheu made 
bankrupt by reckless speculations. 
To cheat the Government if possible. 
To hold office without being competent to 
discharge its duties. 
To build houses with nine and six inch walls, 
and to go to the funerals of tenants, firemen 
and others, killed by their fall, weeping over 
the mysterious dispensations of Providence. 
To build up cities and towns without parks 
and calling pestilence a visitation of God. 
It is by no means easy for people to under¬ 
stand one another, even with the best will and 
intentions ; but to these must be added ill-will, 
that disturbs everything. 
Hr is rich whose income is more than his 
expenses, and he is poor whose expenses ex¬ 
ceed his income. 
Ask a woman to do you a service, and she 
considers how she can best accomplish what 
you wish. Ask a man, and he considers how 
lie can best make you appreciate his intention 
to serve you. 
Solitary th night corrodes the mind, if it 
be not blended with social activity ; and so 
cial activity produces a restless craving for 
excitement, if it be not blended with solitary 
thought 
All is~b u tJip-wLsdom that wants experi 
ence. 
i i 
