MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
ed to the dust, despoiled of its relics, and val¬ 
ued by its possessors only as a means of ex¬ 
tracting money from the curious traveler, 
preaches eloquently the futility of such at¬ 
tempts. And what more enduring foundation 
has national pride? Could the race of heroes 
buried here be restored to life,—could they 
see their very tombs overgrown by the vine 
and inhabited by peasants,—could they glance 
around upon this city of ruins, and mark the 
changes which time has wrought, would they 
not exclaim in sorrow and amazement, “ And 
is this Rome, that sat upon her seven hills, and 
from her throne of beauty ruled the world?” 
But other sights awaited us, and casting off 
our sombre mood, we emerged from the close, 
damp atmosphere of these gloomy vaults, into 
the warm sunshine, and were soon rolling again 
along the Appian way. We passed beneath 
the arch of Drusus, then out the city gate. 
Upon each side we beheld a constant succes¬ 
sion of ruins, sarcophagi, fragments of columns, 
mutilated statues, &c., most of them found 
upon or near the very places where they now 
He, and forming a museum of Roman antiquities 
more impressive than could be one contained 
within the four walls of any hall, however vast. 
These objects are all numbered, and a certain 
degree of care is taken of their preservation 
and arrangement by government. We rode 
slowly along, passed on our right the church 
of St Sebastian, with its immense catacombs, 
stretching away for miles beneath the soil, 
stopped to examine the temple and circus of 
Romulus, —the latter in a state of almost per¬ 
fect preservation, though fifteen centuries have 
elapsed since its erection,—and finally reached 
the tomb of Cecilia Meteli.a, the most 
unique and imposing of any of the monuments 
which exist upon the Appian way. 
It is a large, round tower, its walls pierced 
; by no aperture except the strong, arched door 
breath! But though by their subtle schemes 
they may acquire the object of their aim, yet 
ephemeral existence, 
Ay,’ tistrue! “There can be no compan¬ 
ionship for loneliness of heart.” Friends are 
round me, the kind and true. Smiles greet, 
and kind words welcome me at the social circle; 
but I heed them not; my heart is buried in 
the past. I am alone! I smile, but ’tis a 
feigned one. Joy has no place in my heart; 
Grief holds its revels there. How changed 
I am ! 
When a child, none was happier than I. I 
gathered flowers and chased the butterflies; 
but the flowers have withered, and the butter¬ 
flies flown. Darkness is on my path; the one 
who made life to me all sunshine lies’neath the 
sod; the lark sings above his grave, and the 
pale primrose mingles its fragrance with the 
evening air. 
Oh! that I had been near him, when the 
wing of the Dark Angel swept past, and the 
dews of Night gathered on his brow! 
But the deep, blue ocean rolled between us. 
To-day, the funeral of a babe passed my win¬ 
dow ; a smile came to my lips, and I said, sweet 
child! thou hast escaped the storms of life, 
and gone to mingle with the band of white¬ 
winged worshipers round the throne. God 
pity the heart-broken mother! How she will 
miss the voice of her child, and the eloquent 
language of its violet eye ! In this solemn 
twilight hour, comes a form of manly grace 
and dignity. “ I cannot make him dead!” I 
see the high, expansive forehead, whereon are 
written high and holy thoughts; the love in 
those deep eyes; and hear the voice, which 
ne’er to mine replied, but in tones of kindly 
cheer. 
I bear about with me a haunted heart But 
hark! I hear a low, sweet voice, murmuring, 
“There smiles a baud, where sorrow breathes 
not in the air— 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
Over the seas and the graves it lies. 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done, 
And joy reigns alone as the lonely sun.” 
their fame has only an 
and like the corscations of the flashing mete¬ 
or, it may dazzle the eye for a time with its de¬ 
ceitful brightness, and then expire in darkness 
and oblivion; while honest fame, like the pure, 
unchanging star, shines serenely on, growing 
brighter with the lapse of time, and shedding 
a halo of immortal glcryj and beauty around 
the memory of its possessor. But the sweet 
consciousness that ever attends the faithful 
discharge of duty, the approbation of the wise 
and good, and the pure smiles of an approving 
conscience, are a nobler and sweeter reward, 
than all the empty honors and gaudy pageant- 
17 of popular favor, purchased at the price of 
virtue. The love of popularity exists among 
all classes of society, from the lowest depths of 
barbarism to the highest stages of civilization, 
and this desire is proportionally elevated and - 
ennobled, as the faculties of the mind are de¬ 
veloped, and its aspirations become more re¬ 
fined and exalted. The ardent thirst for fame 
is only a delusive phantom, luring the ambi¬ 
tious mind with its artful wiles, only the more 
perfectly to complete the destruction of all that 
once was 
iCrHT-A POEM. 
Examination of Clover Street Seminary, 
April 14ih, 1854. 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
K’.ead a’ 
DAILY DUTIES, 
Ottr daily paths! with thorns or flowers 
We can at will bestrew them, 
What bliss would gild the passing hours, 
If we but rightly knew them. 
The way of life is rough at best; 
But briers yield to roses, 
So that which leads to joy and rest, 
The hardest path discloses. 
The weeds that oft we cast away, 
Their simple beauty scorning, 
Would form a wreath of purest ray, 
And prove the best adorning. 
So in our daily paths, ’twere well 
To call each gift a treasure, 
However slight, where love can dwell 
' With life-renewing pleasure! 
BY MISS ELIZABETH CRIPPEJf, 
Lo! when through chaos’ penetrating gloom 
Appeared a ray of silver light, 
It shrank as one who opes a tomb— 
Paused a moment, then passed from sight. 
Yet not in vain,— for thousands more 
In quick succession faintly glare, 
Were gathered from their misty forms, 
When, lo ! a brilliant gem was there. 
Soon in the placid vault of heaven 
The bright and beauteous orb was placed, 
Whose tap’ring beams through darkness passed 
With beauties more than man could trace : 
Earth,— in whose breast no seed was sown, 
(And much it seemed a desert waste,) 
No emerald carpet there had grown 
To mark it as a dwelling-place, — 
Conceived, and from her cold, dark bosom rose 
The fragrant leaf and blushing flower. 
That slumbered there in sweet repose 
Full many a long and silent hour. 
The Grass, the foremost in the lengthy train, 
Bathed in the crystal dews of early morn. 
From dark terraqueous depths innocuous came — 
It knew not how, or by what force was drawn. 
Next in the train, with timid tread, 
The Violet stepped, so beautiful and fair! 
Gracef’lly it drooped its modest head, 
Its form was scarce sustained by balmy air; 
Soon a deep’ning glow sullused its cheek, 
A velvet garb its leaves assume — 
Thus the modest flower which nothing seeks, 
The richest, brightest rays illume. 
Then came the Kose, with proud and lofty mien, 
Its perfume scait'ring on each passing gale: 
Who’d ever in a flower more beauty seen. 
Or thought that earth could rear it in her breast ? 
It came — it saw — it blushed a crimson hue, 
When in the glitt’ring rank its place it took; 
It seemed to say, “ I am beauty too 1” 
And at the Violet cast a haughty look. 
Last, not least, of all this Alexandrian train 
Which came to greet the new-born sun, 
With smiles, and tears, and happy strain, 
Was tli’ modest Lily’s lingering tone — 
With bowed head and stainless robe 
It waited silently its due reward; 
All Nature's motion seemed to cease 1 
What charm was there its beauty could increase? 
A golden beam on airy pinions bright, 
Fell hke a lute whose leading chord is gone, 
Upon that flower whose charms made darkness light- 
Her light was Nature’s, kept for her alone. 
At length, as though a purer, holier thought 
Had tuned the harp in strains more rare, 
The Light replied, “ My charms to thee are nought - 
No Titian hue thy magic beauty can compare — 
Thou slialt among thy sister-flowers abide, 
Till the voice of Time shall cease to be,— 
A queen in all their feasts preside, 
Emblem of Hope and Purity ! ” 
Then as the ceaseless trav'ler passed along 
Through Eden’s cool and shady bower, 
Or by some pearly stream whose quiet song 
Was changed by every passing shower, 
It paused awhile, then with renewed strength 
Along the dusky labyrinth it ran — 
Hush! listen! silence breaks at length,— 
It penetrates the soul of man. 
€un-%tlmtk 
TO COUSIN KATEY. 
Communicated thro’ Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
EPISTLE NINTH- 
Strasbourg, July 8th, 1854. 
Dear Katey: —One of the most delightful 
excursions we made while in Rome, was upon 
the Appian way, that venerable thoroughfare, 
itself a relic of no ordinary interest, and flank¬ 
ed on both sides, for miles in extent, with ruins 
of every description. Conspicuous among 
these constructions, are the monuments for the 
dead. The old Romans, men of iron mold, 
whose swords awed nations into trembling sub¬ 
mission, did not affect green, quiet cemeteries, 
far removed from the haunts of busy life.— 
Rome had no Greenwood, no Mount Auburn 
i for her illustrious dead. Her warriors and 
statesmen died as they had lived, amid the din 
and bustle of military and political achieve¬ 
ments, and their tombs, decorated with all the 
magnificence that wealth and pride could de¬ 
vise, were the ornaments of the stateliest ave¬ 
nue that led to the imperial city’s gates.— 
With a touch of the same superstition that 
causes the Indian to deposit by the side of his 
lifeless brother the bow and arrows which he 
fancies will still serve him in the happy hunting 
grounds where he now wanders, the Roman’s 
funereal urn was placed where his ashes might 
be stirred by the tread of pompous proces¬ 
sions, and the roll of stately chariots, and, 
more than all, where the lofty monumental 
pile might bear witness to the splendor and 
power which had surrounded his life. We 
pure and virtuous in the heart. Bet¬ 
ter live and die in obscurity, than thus pervert 
the noble faculties of the soul, and purchase 
distinction at the infinite sacrifice of virtue and 
sacred honor. Henry Olay, though gifted 
with a massive intellect, surpassing powers of 
eloquence and unrivaled statesmanship, was 
not a popular man; the reason for which was 
based upon the uncompromising fearlessness 
with which he ever defended the principles of 
truth, regardless of consequences. While the 
surges of political corruption were rolling an- 
grilp around him, we beheld him like another 
Apollo, firm as a rock, amid the raging ele¬ 
ments, unyielding and unwavering in every 
thing that involved a principle, or the exercise 
of duty, repelling the artful wiles of his adver¬ 
saries, while the poisonous shafts of treachery 
and disunion fell harmless at his feet. It was 
a feeling of satisfaction in view of his past life, 
that prompted this—one of America’s greatest 
statesmen — to utter, in his dying moments, 
that noble declaration, worthy to be engraved 
in characters of gold on the tablet of every 
heart,—“ I had rather he right than be Pres¬ 
ident.” 
Were this the universal motto, how changed 
would be the aspect of the world! Virtue 
would no longer be degraded to gratify the 
ambitious desires of popularity, honor no more 
be stained with the breath of corruption, and 
the furious blasts of popularity no longer des¬ 
olate the purity of the mind, and wither the 
flowers of truth aud affection, or strew them on 
the ground to die. The world would rise from 
its darkness, and shake from itself the mantle 
of corruption that envelops it; peace, prosperi¬ 
ty, and happiness, ^vould dawn with transcen- 
dant brightness on the glory of nations, and 
shed a pure lustre o’er the beauties of a lovely 
world. D. B. A. 
Southport, 1S54. 
CARRYING BUNDLES. 
Many people have a contemptible fear of be- 
ng seen to carry a bundle, however small, hav- 
ng the absurd idea that there i 3 a social de¬ 
gradation in the act. The most trifling as 
well as weighty packages must be sent to them, 
no matter to how much inconvenience of oth¬ 
ers. This arises from a low kind of pride.— 
There is a pride that is higher; that arises from 
a consciousness of there being something in 
the individual not to be affeoted by such acci¬ 
dents; worth and weight of character. This 
latter pride was exhibited by the American 
son of Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte, while he 
was in college at Cambridge. He was one 
day carrying to his room a broom he had just 
purchased, when he met a friend, who noticing 
the broom with surprise, exclaimed, “ Why did 
you not have it sent home?” “I am not 
ashamed to carry home anything that belongs 
to me,” was the sensible reply of young Bona¬ 
parte. Very different pride was this from that 
of a young lady whom we know, who always 
gave her mother all the bundles to carry when 
they went out together, because she thought it 
vulgar to be seen with one herself. 
wife of Crassus. A large marble urn of 
beautiful workmanship, was found near by, 
and now graces one of the museums of Rome, 
but other trace of the occupant of this enor¬ 
mous structure there was none. The monu¬ 
ment which pride or affection reared, still 
stands firm, but the ashes it was designed to 
guard are scattered to the four winds of heaven. 
We entered the tomb, looked down into its 
subterranean vault, and up at the broken roof. 
Wild flowers and vines festooned the opening, 
and through it the bright sunbeams poured 
down into this deserted dwelling of the dead. 
The contrast was vivid between the aspect of 
nature, clad in all the beauty and freshness of 
spring, rejoicing in eternal youth, and the des¬ 
olation and decay stamped upon this monu¬ 
ment of human pride and power. In return¬ 
ing, we diverged from the Appian way, and 
visited the famous Valley of Egeria, and the 
sacred grove where Numa retired to converse 
with the friendly nymph. The grove and 
fountain still remain,—the former frequented 
by cows, who find it a very agreeable prome¬ 
nade, judging from the numerous paths worn 
by their feet which traverse it in every direc¬ 
tion; the latter, a favorite resort for washer¬ 
women, of whom several were at work in close 
proximity to the reclining marble statue which 
adorns the spot. We drank of the fountain, 
and found the water remarkably warm and 
insipid, as it invariably is in all famous springs, 
so far as my experience extends, and, I assure 
you, Katey, my opportunities for judging have 
not been very limited, for I have drunk of not 
less than half a dozen miraculous springs 
which Rome possesses, dating back to the 
times of Peter aud Paul, to say nothing of 
the lake of A vermis, and other classic locali¬ 
ties which shall be mentioned hereafter. 
At present, I spare you anything further, 
unless it be an item of news, which illustrates 
most strikingly the utilitarian tendencies of 
the age. The Appian way is about to be 
converted into a diligence route, and is being 
MacAdamized for this purpose. Those who 
are obliged to travel over it, will, no doubt, 
find the change an improvement, for those 
portions of the old Roman pavement which 
still exist, have little besides their antiquity to 
recommend them; but when the stone-breakers 
approach the city, and commence operations 
among the tombs which stand like sentinels 
guarding the passage, I can fancy the very 
dust of those heroes of the olden time quiver- 
ing with indignation. So wags the world at 
‘ present. We show but little respect to th e 
ones of our ancestors when they stand in the 
-ay of modern improvements, and what can 
the old Romans expect who have been dead 
i and buried a thousand years and more? 
Your affectionate Minnie. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
Extravagance. —There is not a country in 
the world where the peopleware becoming so 
extravagant in the mode o| dressing and living 
as in the United States. It is one of the worst 
signs of the times. The habits of the mush¬ 
room aristocracy are really disgusting. How 
ludicrous it looks to see boys sporting dia¬ 
monds by the thousand dollars’ worth at a 
time, whose fathers were accustomed to wheel¬ 
barrows, aud whose children are pretty certain 
to be in the work-house. And girls—silly, 
simpering things, weighed down with jewels 
and bracelets — whose mothers broke their 
backs at the washing-tubs, scouring floors aud 
picking oakum. The real, substantial aristoc¬ 
racy never indulge in such fopperies and fool¬ 
eries. 
“ O breath of public praise, 
Short lived and vain; oft gained without desert, 
As often lost.” 
The love of fame and popularity, is one 
of the strongest passions that rage in the hu¬ 
man heart, and one, perhaps, the most danger¬ 
ous, if uncontrolled in its operations; yet if 
prompted by pure and virtuous motives, it is 
one of the noblest aspirations of the soul.— 
Springing up as it does in early life, it grows 
in the fruitful soil of the heart, with that exu¬ 
berant rankness and vigor, so emblematic of 
its hollowness and corruption, till it withers 
every flower of virtue, and desolates the purity 
of the heart Like the poisonous Simoom of 
the desert, sweeping over the burning sands 
and fertile plains, it withers, desolates, and de¬ 
stroys—it breathes its noxious influence over 
the mind till every principle of honor is cor¬ 
rupted, and virtue is basely sacrificed at the 
hollow shrine of depraved ambition’s god. 
The love of immortality and renown, is an 
inherent principle of our being, implanted in 
the human breast by the All-wise Creator on 
WAYSIDE THOUGHTS, 
“ Y es, I’m coming,” rang out the silver voice 
of a child, through the half-opened door of a 
house on our street, as we were passing the 
other day. YVe saw no one, but the sweet 
musical tones still lingered in our ears as we 
passed on, and we thought to ourself, yes, my 
child, you are “ coming.” Coming from the 
guileless sunny flower garden of childhood’s 
glory, and beauty, and joy, into a woi^d of 
thorns, and sin, and suffering—from the sweet 
harmony of infantile melody and gladness, into 
a world of harsh discords, and human deformi¬ 
ty—coming from the warm lips and kindly 
embraces, aud gentle words of a mother’s love, 
into air made poisonous by the breath of the 
slanderer’s lungs—a world full of rude jostlings 
—where the traveler need be firm in nerve, and 
strong in sinew, or he is pushed aside, or 
trampled uuder foot—a world full of cursing 
aud bitterness, that almost turns to gall the 
few cups of Eden’s nectar still kept pure from 
the effects of the fall. Coming from the sweet 
peace of your loved heaven of home, into a 
“strange land,” where there are backbiting, and 
envyiugs, and falsehoods — man striving to 
overreach his neighbor—yes, neighbor, whom 
he daily greets with a smile and profession of 
friendship—all hurrying, running, snatching, 
clutching after yellow gold; crazed with its 
serpent charm, forgetting the very ties of na¬ 
ture, and locking up forever all its kindly sym¬ 
pathies. Coming alas! to be avaricious, and 
vain and cold-hearted as the rest of mankind; 
and coming too, into the same narrow home to 
which we all hasten. 
Ah! sweet child, may your “coming” be 
such, that when your hour is come, and the an- 
! g Is beckon you away, you may look up with 
and exclaim again: “ Yes, I’m coming.”— 
| M ; :h. Expositor. 
Life. —AYe bring into the world with us a 
poor, needy, uncertain life, short at the longest 
and unquiet at the best. All the imagination 
of the witty and wise has been perpetually 
busied to find out the way how to revive it 
with pleasures, or relieve it with diversions— 
how to compose it with ease, and settle it with 
safety. To some of these ends have been em¬ 
ployed the institutions of lawgivers, the rea¬ 
sonings of philosophers the inventions of poets, 
the pains of laboring, the extravagances of vo¬ 
luptuous men. All the world is perpetuallv at 
work about nothing else, but only that our 
poor mortal lives may pass the easier and hap¬ 
pier for that little time we possess them, or 
else end the better when we lose them. 
Human Life. —Ah ! this beautiful world. 
Indeed, I know not what to think of it. Some¬ 
times it is all gladness aud sunshine, and heav¬ 
en is not far off; and then it changes suddenly, 
and it is dark and sorrowful, and the clouds 
shut out the sky. In the lives of the saddest 
of us, there are bright days like this, when we 
feel as if we could take this great world in our 
arms. Then come the gloomy hours, when 
the tire will neither burn iu our hearts or on 
our hearths, aud all without and within is dis¬ 
mal, cold, and dark. Believe, every heart has 
its secret sorrows, which the world knows not; 
and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is 
only sad.— Longfellow. 
near the Family monument, and here were gath¬ 
ered the relics collected from the funeral pile 
of the slave, enclosed in earthen pots, and 
placed in little niches, several rows of which 
encircle the wall. This Columbarium was dis¬ 
covered in 1830, and is quite perfect. Many 
of the pots are half filled with fragments of 
bones, and the inscriptions upon the niches are 
still legible. These give simply the title and 
occupation, with an epithet of endearment 
sometimes attached to the name of a favorite 
servant. 
Thus we passed, within a few paces, from 
the tomb of the noble Roman to that of the 
humble slave,—gazed upon the massive sarco¬ 
phagus of the former, and the simple urn of 
the latter, aud what a world A em. ?- is 
crowded upou the mind at the sight! Alas! 
for human pride, which seeks to perpetuate ns 
memory by m an men: ^enshable as the ashes 
they era >se. The tomb of the Scipios, level- 
Margaret Fuller beautifully says:—“It is 
a marvel whence this perfect flower (the water 
lily) derives its loveliness aud perfume, spring¬ 
ing as it does from the black mud over which 
the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel 
and speckled frog, aud the mud turtle, which 
continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the 
very same black mud out of which the yellow 
lily sucks its obscene life and noisome odor. 
Thus we see, too, in the world, that some per¬ 
sons assimilate only what is ugly and evil from 
the same moral circumstances which supply 
good aud beautiful results—the fragrance of 
celestial flowers—to the daily life of others.” 
i jOok Up. —“Look up,” shouted the captain 
oi a ship to his boy, as he grew dizzy while 
gazing down from the topmast. “Lookup!” 
The boy looked up, and returned in safety. 
Man — woman, look up, and you will succeed. 
Never look down and despair. Leave dangers 
uncared for, and push on. If you falter, you 
lose. “Look up! Do right, aud trust in God.” 
Be slow in choosing a friend, and slower to 
change him; courteous to all; inlimate with 
few: slight no man for poverty, nor esteem any 
one for his wealth. 
