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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
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THE BELL-BOY. 
The railroad is one of the most gigantic 
enterprises of (he present time—gigantic in 
structure, gigantic in management, gigantic in 
beneficence, and, we might add as a set-off to 
some of its advantages, gigantic in frauds, fail¬ 
ures, false pretences, bankruptcy, pecuniary 
ruin, and human slaughter! Rightly directed, 
it is the physical right-arm of modern civiliza¬ 
tion : wrongly directed, recklessly managed, 
like any other great good, it becomes an un¬ 
mitigated curse! 
Corporations like the New York Central, or 
the Erie Railroad, employ an army of men, 
and an amount of locomotive power, which, if 
combined and acting in one direction, would 
be sufficient to produce an earthquake. One 
who has stood beside a railroad where the 
track crosses a level plain in a long tangential 
and uninterrupted stretch; and observed a train 
drawn by a single engine approach and pass 
at the rate of forty miles an hour, can imagine 
the effect, that would be produced by two or 
three hundred such motors united in one. 
Among the numerous agents and employees 
upon a railroad, from the Superintendent, at 
his three to five thousand dollar salary, down 
through all grades to the flagman at a crossing, 
who receives for his vigilance, or possibly his 
carelessness, twelve to fifteen dollars a month, 
the bell-boy must not be overlooked or forgot- 
teu. lie is an important appendage to every 
fast train, and his ding-dong warning to the 
passer-by, is a necessary element of safety in 
railroad management. He is a small, rough¬ 
looking boy, with an air of self-possession and 
a fearlessness of danger, remarkable in one so 
young; dressed in an old greasy suit, with a 
pair of blue cotton overalls, frequently too 
large by half, enveloping his nether limbs, he 
sits upon a ledge of the cab, which encloses the 
foot-boards for the stoker and the engineer.— 
The huge machine stands just outside the sta¬ 
tion-house, fired-up and ready for a start. The 
press of steam is whizzing through the safety- 
valve, and a dense volume of black smoke is 
pouring out of the smoke-pipe. Hurry, bustle 
and confusion reign around; hackmen scolding, 
runnel’s seizing men by the button, and thrust¬ 
ing bills of “cheap through fares” and “first- 
class hotels” in their faces, unprotected females 
in tribulation looking after divers stray band- 
boxes and paper parcels, luggage-men checking 
and trundling off trunks aud valises, brakemen 
attaching cars and adjusting signal-ropes, with 
a thousand other sights and sounds, making a 
Babel of discord, upon which the bell-boy 
smiles complacently. 
But anon the signal-bell strikes twice, the 
shrill whistle on the locomotive sends forth a 
couple of quick and startling shrieks, huge 
puffs of smoke and steam rush off into the at¬ 
mosphere, as the heavy driving-wheels com¬ 
mence their tireless revolutions, and the long 
train begins very slowly to move forward. The 
bell-boy grasps his rope, “ ding-dong, ding- 
dong—look out. for the engine while the bell 
rings!” sounds in the ears of the crowd, aud 
away goes the train, increasing the rapidity of 
its puffs, until they become blended into one 
continuous rush of steam. But the bell-boy 
keeps up the even measure of his din, whether 
first moving from the station at a creeping 
pace, or dashing at lightning speed across a 
country road. “ Look out for the engine 
while the hell rings!” in great black letters, 
stares the careless wayfarer in the face as he 
approaches the railroad crossiug; a faint, dull 
sound strikes upon his ear, which increases 
from its almost inaudible pulsations into a sul¬ 
len roar; anon he distinguishes the distant 
signal of the bell-boy, who, with measured 
stroke, is playing forever on the same string. 
Whenever and wherever the engine is in loco¬ 
motion,—whether moving forward on the main 
line, or backing down a side track,—whether 
dashing past an obscure road in the midst of a 
forest, or passing at slow rate across the 
crowded street, the unmusical accompaniment 
cf the bell-boy is sure to be heard, lie has 
his functions to perform, as necessary, legally, 
to the movement of a train, as those of the ! 
engineer are physically. The one grasps the 
lever of the throttle-valve, *the other the rope 
of the bell; the one sets the machine in mo¬ 
tion, the other gives warning of the movement; 
the action of the one might crush to death the 
careless wayfarer, that of the other notifies 
him to get out of the way. 
The history of bell-boys is a varied one.— 
This one becomes, perchance, careless of his 
duties, and is superseded. That one rushes to 
his death when the engine comes in collision 
with another of its kind, scattering direful ruin 
all around; he meets his death bravely at his 
post, ringing liis bell to the last. Another 
grows too old, too valuable in service, too ex¬ 
pensive in pay, for a bell-boy, and becomes 
successively a firemau aud then an engineer— 
holding in his hand the lives and safety of 
thousands of his fellow men. The responsible 
duties of an engineer canuot be over-estimated; 
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A SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
BY ROBERT BORNS. 
John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When Nature first began 
To try her canD}' hand, JohD, 
Her master work was man : 
And you, amang them a’ John, 
So trig from top to toe, 
You pro% ed to be no journey-work, 
John Anderson, my jo. 
John Anderson, my jo, John, 
Ye were my first conceit; 
I think nae shame to own, John, 
I lo’ed ye ’ear and late; 
They say ve’re turning auld, John, 
And what though it be so, 
Ye’er aye the same kind man to me, 
John Anderson, my jo. 
John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When first we were acquaint, 
Your locks were like the raven. 
Your bonny brow was brent; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow, 
But blessing on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my jo. 
John Anderson, my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither. 
And many a canty day, John, 
We’ve had wi’ ane auither; 
and those of a bell-boy, in a humbler way, are 
equally important. With the ten thousand 
other employments where the life or death, 
the safety or destruction of others, depends 
upon a faithful discharge of duty, both go in 
as important items to swell the great account 
of human responsibility. 
[Written for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
FLORAL HOROLOGY. 
“ In every copse and sheltered dell, 
Unveiled to the observant eye, 
Are faithful monitors, who tell 
How pass the hours and moments by.” 
Nature in her richness and variety of flow¬ 
ering plants and verdant shrubbery, furnishes 
a simple, yet true system of horology. The 
opening and closing of the rosy petals, in turn, 
mark the passing hours. The violet lingering 
in the dell, the twining jasmine with fragrant 
flowers, the wan primrose, the anemone span¬ 
gling the grove, and all the numerous wild- 
flowers deckiug the vale, are, in their loveliness 
and frailty, emblems of the flight of time. The 
hour-glass, from which continually run the 
sands of life, in early spring-time, is garlanded 
with roses. In the silent, yet certain decay of 
the green-robed children of nature, as well as 
their bursting into life and beauty, the flight of 
the swift wing of time, is as surely marked. 
Linger by the placid stream when the trans¬ 
parent waters flow softly over their tranquil 
bed, aud admire the delicate and fragrant 
water-lily, the young and beautiful nympluea 
of the Grecian Poets. Lightly it rests upon 
the dimpling tide, and the cool wave laves the 
white blossom. Conscious of the presence of 
the first rays of morning, it opens its petals to 
the light. When day declines, and the sun 
sinks iuto the western wave, again they close, 
and the modest flower slumbers in quiet on the 
rocking crest of the liquid surface. The radi¬ 
ated flowers of the llieracium, by their bloom, 
describe the course of time. At certain horn’s 
they are opened, at others closed. The small 
white dowel’s of the Goatisbrse, iu the middle 
of the day close up their cautious petals, re¬ 
treating, as it were, from the noon-tide blaze. 
The Bethlehem Star at the early morning 
hour, when the first rays of the golden orb peer 
over the mountain top, unveils her smiling face. 
But wheu the vesper gales sweep by, aud the 
evening dew begins to fall, she folds those 
petals fair. The humble arenarium, creeping 
along the arid sands, is adorned by tl purple 
star which blushes iu rich bloom. At night it 
reposes in its calyx. The slender Harebell, 
penciled with delicate blue, opens its plaits to 
the meridian sun. But when the night-drops 
sparkle on the green, it conceals its modest face 
within its bosom. The Ohicoriujn, when the 
shrill matin notes of the lark are heard, lifts 
her soft eyes aud marks the time as true as the 
dial. 
Thus, each simple plant and flower which 
border our pathway, indicate how swiftly pass 
the fleeting moments. a. j. k. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we’ll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson, my jo. 
JOHN ANDERSON TO HIS JEAN. 
BY MRS. J. WEBB. 
Air,— John Anderson, my jo. 
Oh, Jean ! it seems but yesterday. 
Since light as any fawn, 
Ye tripped in virgin bashfulness 
Across the flowery lawn; 
And bright your golden hair waved, 
That Time hath strewn wi’ snaw; 
Yet still ye wear youth’s winning smile, 
Though youth’s bright morn’s awa. 
Though your eye be no sae clear, Jean, 
As when in youthful prime, 
Sae sweetly, sae confidingly, 
Its melting glance met mine; 
Though passion’s hour has fled, Jean, 
And cauld our pulses be; 
Your mellowed look o’ kindly love, 
Still gently beams on me. 
And though the grave’s white blossoms, Jean, 
Are scattered on your brow, 
And in life’s glass the ebbing sands 
Are wasted thin and low; 
No change our hearts can know, Jean, 
But, lang as life shall last, 
We’ll gild our hopes o’ future bliss 
Wi’ memories o’ the past. 
JOHN B. GOUGH. 
He is the Paganini of orators. He plays 
only on one string, but one capable of infinite 
responses—the life of a drunkard! O, heavens 
and earth! O, angels, men and devils, what a 
theme! running from the cherub infant, through 
the wasted youth, blasted manhood, days of 
alternate revelry and cursing, a home of unre¬ 
lieved misery, a death of shame and anguish! 
It is thus that Mr. Gough recites, night after 
night. He paces up aud down some twelve or 
twenty feet jfii platform, judiciously cleared for 
him, paces up and down with hands clenched 
as if in agony, or pawing the air to keep off 
ghosts of memory—pouring out words with 
such spontaneity that they sometimes seem to 
tumble over one another, and smother meaning 
in their fall, scarcely stopping at a cheer, nev¬ 
er inviting one. lie tells you with gestures 
even more significant than his passionate and 
sometimes beautiful words, how he went out 
from the home of a poor but pious loving moth¬ 
er, wandered from the straight road, was whip¬ 
ped by demons over an arid desert, fed upon 
the hot sand of his burning thirst, felt a word 
of mercy like cooling water on his tongue, saw 
a rainbow of hope over the abyss of seven 
years of sin, and was restored to strength aud 
purity, if not happiness. When he has told 
this, he can turn to other men, can paint soci¬ 
ety with a vivid pencil, and conduct an argu¬ 
ment with vigor, the more effective because 
tolerant. Sometimes he will introduce an il¬ 
lustration, like that of a boat on the rapids, 
which will hold an audience iu suspense, almost 
of agony; aud force them to seek relief in ap¬ 
propriate tumult.— London Times. 
ELEGANT EXTRACT. 
The grandeur of man’s nature turns to in¬ 
significance all outward distinctions. His pow¬ 
ers of intellect, of conscience, of love, of know¬ 
ing God, of perceiving the beautiful, of acting 
on his own mind, on outward nature, and on 
his fellow-creatures—these are his glorious 
prerogatives. Through the vulgar error of 
undervaluing what is common, we are apt, in¬ 
deed, to pass these by as of but little worth.— 
But as in the outward creation, so in the soul, 
l the common is the most precious. 
’ Science and art may invent splendid modes 
of illuminating the apartments of the opulent; 
but these are all poor aud worthless compared 
with the common light which the sun sends in¬ 
to our windows, which he pours freely, impar¬ 
tially, over hill and valley, which kindles daily 
the eastern and western sky; and so the com¬ 
mon lights of reason, and conscience, and love, 
are of more worth and dignity than the rare 
endowments which give celebrity to a few.— 
Chanr ng. 
Size of the West. —Illinois would make 
forty such States as Bhode Island, Minnesota 
sixty. Missouri is larger than all New Eng¬ 
land. Ohio exceeds either Ireland or Scot¬ 
land, or Portugal, and equals Belgium, Scot¬ 
land, and Switzerland together. Missouri is 
1 more than half as large as Italy, and larger 
j tl; in Denmark lb 11 md, Belgium,and Switzer- 
1 land. Missouri and Illinois are larger than 
; England, Scotland. Ireland, and Wales. 
J Friendship is more linn !y see;. red by lenity 
: towards failings than by alt a. .. nit excel¬ 
lences. The former is valued as kind ess 
: which cannot be claimed, the lane: is exact al 
’ as a payment of a debt to mem 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
Cratts-gMlantic dqmrtks, 
TO COUSIN KATEY. 
Communicated thro’ Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
EPISTLE EIGHTH- 
Strasbourg, June 16th, 1854. 
Dear Cousin Katey: —Some weeks have 
elapsed since the date of my last communica¬ 
tion; my only apology for the neglect is, that 
during all this time I was in Italy, the classic 
land of poetry and song, and was too much 
excited and absorbed by the interesting objects 
that surrounded me — by the majestic ruins, 
with their exhaustless stores of historical asso¬ 
ciations — by the master-pieces of ancient art, 
which still charm the world, though the Greeks 
whose cunning chisel wrought them out, and 
the proud old Romans whose eyes were glad¬ 
dened by their pristine beauty, sleep together 
beneath the dust of ages — by the luxurious 
palaces, which stand with open doors, inviting 
the traveler to enter, and welcoming him to 
their long picture galleries and sumptuous apart¬ 
ments—by the splendid churches, where costly 
decorations, and paintings, and statuary, in the 
most lavish profusion, combine with the im¬ 
posing ceremonies of Catholic worship, with 
the rich vestments of the priests, with the 
wreathing clouds of incense and the swelling 
strains of ravishing music to captivate the 
senses and dazzle the imagination—finally, by 
the delicious climate, the soft balmy air, the 
blue depths of the cloudless sky, and the gor¬ 
geous sunsets, to coine down to anything so 
very prosaic and commonplace as letter writing. 
And here let me tell you, Katey, in strict 
confidence, that all this talk about the blue¬ 
ness of the Italian sky is-humbug, as far 
as Americans are concerned. It may do for 
the English, who, in their foggy isle, scarcely 
know what clear weather is; but we, in our 
new world, when the leafy month of June 
brings back the roses to our gardens, have as 
beautiful a sky as hangs over any part of God’s 
universe. Still, “ Le-beau-ideal dTtalie ” is a 
stereotyped phrase, very convenient to round a 
sentence with, as I occasionally find by experi¬ 
ence, and I would not like to destroy its value. 
But, to return to my apology. There is 
another thing for which Italy is famous, the 
partiality of its inhabitants to the “ Dolce far 
niente.” You may be inclined to the opinion 
that what I took for poetical inspiration was, 
in part , at least, the result of this influence, and 
I do not kuow that I can wholly repel the 
“soft impeachment.” At all events I have 
now escaped from the enchanted ground, and 
am quite prepared to enter again upon the 
realities of this work-a-day life. 
We spent fifteen days in Rome, and every 
hour of that time was busily employed. I will 
not attempt to give you a list of the objects of 
interest that we saw — it would require pages 
to do even this. A slight sketch of one or two 
among the many monuments that still remain 
to mark the ancient grandeur of this fallen city, 
this city which has been so appropriately 
named the “Niobe of nations,” must suffice. 
And first, let us enter the Pantheon, the 
“pride of Rome.” After mounting the steps 
which lead to its stately portico, let us pause 
a moment to admire the double row of massive 
columns with which this part of the building 
is graced. Sixteen in number, more than forty 
feet high, and nearly fifteen in circumference, 
each is formed of a single block of oriental 
granite, with a base and chapiter of white 
marble, beautiful in form aud proportion as 
any that the palmiest days of architecture have 
ever produced. But nearly two thousand 
years’ exposure to the atmosphere has black¬ 
ened and defaced the once polished surface, 
and they now present but a faint image of 
their original beauty. 
Let us pass into the interior. A rotunda > 
whose diameter is precisely the same as its 
height,—simple, unpretending, but so admirably 
proportioned, so suggestive of the harmony of 
nature, that your first impression is that it was 
not made, but grew. You glance around, ob¬ 
serve the altars placed at intervals in the cir¬ 
cumference of the temple, which mark its trans¬ 
fer from the service of heathen divinities to a 
devout, but alas! mistaken worship of the Chris¬ 
tian’s God—your eye falls upon the pavement, 
elaborately wrought in mosaic of the richest 
marbles, aud then, for the first time, you notice 
the absence of conflicting light and shade. 
You become aware that the tranquil, luminous 
atmosphere that surrounds you, and fills the im¬ 
mense space in all its extent like the pervading 
presence of Deity, is heaven’s own light, flow¬ 
ing direct from the ether above, and not ad¬ 
mitted piece-meal through any artificial medi¬ 
um. A circular opening, twenty feet in diame¬ 
ter, in the centre of the dome, affords free 
access to the light and air, aud as you gaze up 
iuto the blue sky you feel the soft breezes of 
an Italian spring fanning your cheek. It is as¬ 
tonishing what an indefinable charm this single 
thing gives to the whole structure. External 
sights, external sounds, are all shut out — the 
curved lines of the architecture, converging to 
a common centre, lead the mind, as by an ir¬ 
resistible fascination, to the pure expanse 
above, and the eye and the thought plunge 
into its depths until they almost reach the open 
portal of heaven. 
Such is the Pantheon, the most perfect in its 
preservation, and, to me, the most impressive of 
any of the ancient monuments. There is a 
unity, a simplicity and a harmony about it 
which none of its imitations possess. Michael 
Angelo is said to have copied from it the 
dome of St. Peter’s, but the proportions are 
changed, and the effect is entirely different. 
The immortal Raphael showed his apprecia¬ 
tion of this fine old temple, by selecting it as 
the place of his tomb, and it is not the least 
among the attractions which cluster around 
this famous locality, that it contains all that 
was mortal of the “ divine painter.” 
The Pantheon is one of the few specimens of 
architecture which remain to us from the time 
of Augustus. Most of the other relics which 
Rome possesses, are of a date posterior to the 
burning of the city under Nero, and all of 
these are, more or less, iu ruins. But the Pan¬ 
theon still rears its majestic dome without a 
flaw or break to mar its fair proportions, tho’ 
the weight of accumulated centuries is press¬ 
ing upon it, centuries of neglect, and even of 
pillage. Successive Popes have plundered its 
decorations to enrich their own constructions. 
Urban VIIIth removed the immense bronze 
bas-relief that adorned the front of its portico, 
aud converted it into the baldequin which now 
canopies the 'high altar of St. Peter’s, and at 
another time the interior of the dome was 
ruthlessly stripped of the bronze plates with 
which it was originally covered. But, so har¬ 
monious is the style of architecture, that the 
absence of ornament is not perceived, or 
rather, it recalls what the poet says of beauty, 
. “ When unadorned, adorned the most.” 
But as you have never had the pleasure of 
seeing this wonderful building, I fear my eulo¬ 
gies of it may become wearisome, and therefore 
I bid you aud the Pantheon 
Good-Bye, Minnie. 
THE LADY’S MAN. 
His face is eternally wreathed w’ith unmean¬ 
ing smiles, and when he addresses a lady it is 
always in strain of absurd nonsense, so that we 
have often been surprised that a lady armed 
with a fau, and so addressed, did not brand the 
animal on the spot. If a lady’s man does, by 
any possibility, possess the least degree of com¬ 
mon sense, he takes especial pains to conceal 
it, for somehow’ or other he has taken it into 
his wise head that empty sentimentality and 
absurd nothings are the only offerings fit for 
the female mind. In order to be true to what 
he conceives to be the entertainment and 
amusement of the ladies, he turns traitor to 
manhood, and so becomes epicene himself 
without a just claim to be classed with either 
the male or female sex. His best qualities are 
those which he possesses in common with cer¬ 
tain kinds of dogs—to fetch and carry. La¬ 
dies who laugh in their sleeves at the fool, may 
not object to the attentions of the servant, and 
so, ont of mere commiseration, may allow him 
to carry a fan, or escort them to the opera, 
when the men of their acquaintance are not ac¬ 
cessible. The lady’s man is sufficiently reward¬ 
ed for attending them through a whole eve¬ 
ning’s entertainment, if they will only drop a 
smile into his hat at parting. With this sub¬ 
stantial blessing he is encouraged to future ex¬ 
ertions in this wide field of masculine ambition. 
If a man’s duty to a lady consists in picking up 
dropped handkerchiefs and fans, or twirling 
her round to giddiness and exhaustion in the 
waltz, we should, perhaps, envy the accomplish¬ 
ment of the mere lady’s man.— JY. O. Delta. 
A CHILD’S INFLUENCE. 
An English lady of respectability resided, 
for a few years after becoming a w’idow r , with 
her little son, in one of the chief cities in Can¬ 
ada. The child had been faithfully instructed 
in the elements of Christian faith. He w’as 
about four years of age, very lovely and prom¬ 
ising, and greatly caressed by the fellow- 
boarders. An elderly gentleman in the family, 
Mr. B., w’as exceedingly fond of him, and in¬ 
vited him one day, upon the removal of the 
cloth after dinner, to remain upon his knee.— 
The ladies had retired, and free conversation 
ensued. The gentleman alluded to was given 
to expressions which ever shock a pious miud. 
“Well, Tommy,” said one at the table, in high 
glee, “what do you think of Mr. B.?” The 
child hesitated for a moment, and then replied, 
“ I think he did not have a good mother; for, 
if he had, he would not use such naughty 
icords .” The gentleman was a Scotchman; 
home and a pious mother rose, in all their 
freshness, to his miud. The effect upon him 
was overpowering; he rose from the table 
without speaking, retired, and was never after¬ 
ward known to make use of similar expressions. 
— Mrs. Whittlesey's Magazine. 
Female Loveliness. —Female loveliness nev¬ 
er appears to so good advantage as when set 
off with simplicity of dress. No artist ever 
decked his angels with towering feathers and 
gaudy jewelry; and our dear human angels, if 
they w’ould make good their title to that name, 
should carefully avoid ornaments which prop- 
perly belong to squaws aud African princes.— 
Those tinselries may serve effect on the stage 
or upon the ball-room floor, but in daily life 
there is no substitute for the charm of sim¬ 
plicity. A vulgar taste is not to be disguised 
by gold and diamonds. 
