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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
i$nlkiu0tts. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New- Sforker.] 
LAMENTATIONS. 
There arc who weep, as weeps an April sky. 
Propping a few bright tears, each with a ray 
Of Heavens own sunshine in them, and the cloud, 
Light-winged flits by, and leaves no shade to mark 
Where passed the gloom; but lo 1 the jsun undimmed, 
Kisses the tear drops from the opening leaves, 
And life starts fresh, and beauty is more fair 
That it hath wept. 
There are who weep in passion, 
When passion bursts as tempests through the sky, 
Mark thou the brow of gloom and flashing eye, 
And angry words, that grate, as grate harsh sounds. 
0 it is then that angels weep, if ere 
An angels eye is dimmed, and fiends rejoice, 
To see such tempests sweep the human breast; 
And tears, Heaven’s gift, which fall like gentle dew 
Upon the gentle soul, down hurled by breath 
Of guilty passions fierce, drop cold and hard 
Like hailstones on the shrinking ground. 
And yet there are sad hearts 
Who weep as though to cherish their own sadness, 
And for fear the sunshine may peer through 
Lock their own shadows close within their breasts. 
Their tear drops fall, as falls the autumn rain 
With measured pattering on the cottage roof. 
Their gloom is like the gloom of storms, whose shroud 
Of dripping mists, for long and weary hours 
Shuts out the light of Heaven. 
Uniondale, Susquehannah, Co., Pa., 1854^ 
[Translated from the German for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE THREE MAXIMS. 
A rich gardener went one day into his 
garden with a cheerful and happy mind. As 
he was walking up and down the garden, he 
suddenly perceived a bird caught in a net He 
immediately took possession of the tiny crea¬ 
ture, and was not a little surprised to hear it 
talk as follows: 
“Set me at liberty, good man! What ad¬ 
vantage would arise to you, if you should shut 
me ^ip in a cage? I have no gofgeous plum¬ 
age to delight your eye, nor can I sing, as 
other birds do, to please your ear. Thus you 
cannot in any way amuse yourself with me. 
And as to my being useful for food, you see 
that I am by far too small to satiate you.— 
But if you will release me, I will teach you 
three wise rules that will be useful to you all 
your life.” 
The gardener scrutinized the little bird, and 
said: “If you do not sing, you certainly can¬ 
not delight me. But let me hear thy wisdom, 
and if it will instruct me, I will release you.” 
Thereupon the little bird said: “Do not be 
grieved at things that are past Covet not 
that which you cannot obtain. Believe not 
what is impossible.” 
Then said the gardener: “ You have.iudeed, 
instructed me; your words are wise; there, 
take your liberty,” and with these words he 
released the bird, and was reflecting on the 
three maxims, when he heard a twittering like 
laughter from the branches above his head. 
He looked up and saw the bird he had just re¬ 
leased. “ Ah, do you laugh so joyfully?” he 
said. 
“Yes, at the liberty which I so easily gain¬ 
ed, and I laugh still more at the folly of man 
who ventures to affirm that he surpasses all 
creatures in cunning. If you had been more 
prudent, you would have been a fortunate man 
now, and there would have been none richer 
than you.” 
“How were this possible?” asked the gar¬ 
dener, astonished. 
“ If you had kept me, instead of setting me 
at liberty; for I carry in my body a diamond 
as large as a hen’s egg.” 
When the gardener heard this, he stood as 
if thunderstruck. Despair seized upon him ? 
and after he had recovered a little, he began 
thus, with flattering words: “You fancy your¬ 
self happy, because you are at liberty; but 
behold! the summer is passing away, aud win¬ 
ter, with its howling storms, will soon be here. 
The brooks will be frozen, and you will not 
find a drop of water to quench your thirst, nor 
a grain upon the fields to satisfy your hunger 
The biting frost of winter will kill you. But 
if you will come in my house, I will furnish for 
you a w’arm apartment where every comfort 
will be provided for you. Come down, and 
you will be convinced that you will fare bet¬ 
ter under my roof than under the free sky.” 
Thus spoke the master of the garden. But 
the little bird laughed still louder, and aggra¬ 
vated the grief of the gardener. At length 
it said: “ Behold, you gave me liberty for the 
sake of the wise maxims which I taught you, 
aud you are so silly as not to take them to 
heart You thought me, indeed, worthy to be 
released for those maxims, and yet you have in 
a fejv moments forgotten them. ‘ Do not be 
grieved at things that are past,’ and you are 
grieved because you set me free. * Do not 
covet what you cannot obtain,’ and you desire 
that I should go voluntarily into prison, when 
my whole life consists of liberty without which 
I could not live. 4 Do not believe what is im¬ 
possible,’ and you believe that I possess a dia¬ 
mond of the size of a heu’s egg, when I my¬ 
self aiu scarcely half as big as a hen’s egg. 
0 folly, thy name is man!” s. t. 
THE LIFETIME OF MAN. 
When the world was created, and all crea¬ 
tures assembled to have their lifetime appoint¬ 
ed, the ass first advanced and asked how long 
he would have to live? 
“Thirty years,” replied Nature; “will that 
be agreeable to thee?” 
“Alas!” answered the ass, “it is a long 
while. Remember what a wearisome existence 
will be mine; from morning until night I shall 
have to bear heavy burdens, dragging corn 
sacks to the mill, that others may eat bread, 
while I shall have no encouragement, nor be 
refreshed by anything, but blows and kicks.— 
give but a portion of that time I pray!” 
Nature was moved with compassion, and 
presented but eighteen years. The ass went 
away comforted, and the dog came forward. 
“ How long dost thou require to live?” ask¬ 
ed Nature. “Thirty years were too many for 
the ass, but wilt thou be contented with 
them ?” «■ 
“ Is it thy will that I should?” replied the 
dog. 
“Think how much I shall have to run 
about; my feet will not last for so long a time, 
and when I shall have lost my voice for bark¬ 
ing, and my teeth for biting, what else shall I 
be fit for but to lie in the corner and growl?” 
Nature thought he was right, and gave twelve 
years. 
The ape then appeared. 
“ Thou wilt doubtless, willingly live the 
thirty years,” said Nature; “ thou wilt not have 
to labor as the ass and the dog. Life will be 
pleasant to thee.” 
“Ah no!” cried he, “ so it may seem to oth¬ 
ers, but it will not be! Should puddings ever 
rain down, I shall excite laughter by my 
grimaces, and then be rewarded with a sour 
apple. How often sorrow lies concealed be¬ 
hind a jest! I shall not be able to endure for 
thirty years.” 
Nature was gracious, and he received but 
ten. 
At last came man, healthy and strong, and 
asked the measure of his days. 
“ Will thirty years content thee?” 
“How short a time!” exclaimed man.— 
‘•When I shall have built my house and kin¬ 
dled a fire on my own hearth—when the trees 
I shall have planted are about to bloom and 
bear fruit—when life shall seem to me most 
desirable, I shall die. 0 Nature grant me a 
longer period.” 
“Thou shalthave the eighteen years of the 
ass besides.” 
“ That is not enough,” replied man. 
“Take likewise the twelve years of the dog.” 
“It is not yet sufficient,” reiterated man; 
“give me more.” 
“ I give thee, then, the ten years of the ape; 
in vain wilt thou claim more.” 
Man departed unsatisfied. 
Thus man lives seventy years. The first 
thirty are his human years, and pass swiftly by. 
He is then healthy and happy. He labors 
cheerfully, and rejoices in his existence. The 
eighteen of the ass come next, burden upon 
burden is heaped upon him, he carries the 
corn that is to feed others; blows and kicks 
are the rewards of his faithful service. The 
twelve years of the dog follow, and he loses 
his teeth, and lies down in the corner and 
growls. When these are gone, the ape’s ten 
years form the conclusion. Then man, weak 
and silly, becomes the sport of children.— 
Translated from the German. 
WIVES AND CARPETS. 
In the selection of a carpet you should al¬ 
ways prefer one with small figures, because the 
two webs of which the fabrics consist are al¬ 
ways more close interwoven than in carpeting 
where large figures are wrought. There is a 
great deal of true philosophy in this that will 
apply to matters widely different from the se¬ 
lection of carpets. A man commits a sad mis¬ 
take who selects a wife that cuts too large a 
figure on the green carpet of life—in other 
words, makes much display. The attractions 
fade out—the web of life becomes worn aud 
weak, and all the gay figures that seemed so 
charming at first, disappear like Summer 
flowers in Autumn. Many a man has made 
flimsy linsey-woolsey of himself by striving to 
weave too large a figure, and finds himself 
worn out, used up, and like an old carpet, 
hanging on the fence before he has lived out 
half his alloted days of usefulness. Many a 
man wears out like a carpet that is never 
swept, by the dust of indolence. Like that 
same carpet, he needs shaking or whipping— 
he needs activity, something to think of—some¬ 
thing to do. Look out then for the large fig¬ 
ures, and there are those now stowed away in 
the garret of the world, awaiting their final 
consignment to the cellar, who, had they prac¬ 
tised this bit of carpet philosophy, would to¬ 
day be firm and bright as a Brussels fresh 
from the loom, and everybody exclaiming, “ It 
is wonderful how well they do!” 
A Short Sermon on Manliness. —Learn 
from the earliest days to inure your principles 
against the peril of ridicule; you can no more 
exercise your reason if you live in the constant 
dread of laughter, than you can enjoy your 
life if you are in constant dread of death." If 
you think it right to differ from the times, and 
to make a point of morals, do it, however an¬ 
tiquated, however pedantic, it may appear; 
do it not for insolence, but seriously — as a 
man who wore a soul of his own in his bosom, 
and did not wait till it was breathed into him 
by the breath of fashion. 
Take the hand of the friendless. Smile on 
the sad and dejected. Sympathize with those 
in trouble. Strive everywhere to diffuse 
around you sunshine and joy. If you do this, 
■you will be sure to be beloved. 
A gentleman in conversation with Mr. John 
Wesley, once used the expression Vox populi, 
vox Dei. He at once replied, “No, it cannot 
be the voice of God; for it was vox populi that 
cried out, ‘Crucify him, crucify him!”’ 
Safe’ Jeprtewnt. 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
THE FATHER’S RETURN. 
’Tis evening now, his work is done : 
His hours of toil are o’er; 
With weary limbs, but cheerful heart, 
He seeks his cottage door. 
His wife and children meet him there. 
With faces beaming bright; 
And he forgets his labor past, 
As day forgets the night. 
In humble garb, yet neat array, 
The evening meal is spread; 
Around the board the children sit, 
Their father at the head, 
And now from out the father’s heart, 
Ascends a prayer of love 
To him, whose mercy showers down 
Such blessings from above. 
djtistks, 
TO COUSIN KATEY. 
Communicated thro’ Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
EPISTLE TENTH. 
_ 
Unsuccessful attempts to quit Rome —Imaginary visit to 
the Bridge of St. Angelo — Adrian’s Tomb — Eronze 
Angel-passage from the Vatican to the Castle of St. An¬ 
gelo — Beman's Statues — The Tiber — Place of St. Peter 
— Colonnades — Facade — Plan of Michael Angelo_ 
Obelisk — Fountains — Queen Christine’s mistake — Ap¬ 
pearance of the Place of St. Peter on Easter Sunday — 
Promises of amendment. 
Rome, August, 1854. 
Dear Katey :—When I closed my last let¬ 
ter, I fully intended it should be my farewell to 
Rome, and the present communication be de¬ 
voted to rehearsing the delights of Naples, but 
I find my thoughts still cling to the imperial 
city. As I take my pen and seat myself in my 
quiet room, the image of Rome, solemn and 
majestic, rises before me, and other scenes 
which I would fain retrace, fade and disappear 
at the sight. My fancies, cousin Katey, must 
e’en have their way, at least when I am writ¬ 
ing to you, so come with me again to Rome, 
and let us see where the truants will lead us. 
Ah, it is upon the Bridge of St. Angelo that 
we are to take our position. Not a bad choice, 
Katey, for the massive bridge with the marble 
figures which decorate its balustrades, and the 
imposing tomb of Adrian, now the Castle of 
St. Angelo, which rises upon the other side of 
the ’Fiber, are not the least interesting among 
the many monuments of Rome. Both date 
back to the time of Adrian, about 120 years 
after Christ. The tomb, as you see, is a round 
tower, something in the style of that of Cecilia 
Metella, but much larger and. stronger. It 
was first converted into a fortress by the Goths, 
and in this character has passed through many 
hands. Crescentins, Aruagi.t de Brescia, 
Rif.nzi, those triends of Roman liberty, have 
here successively defended themselves in the 
tomb of an Lmperor, and it is now garrisoned 
by French soldiers. The name of St. Angelo 
was given to it on account of the bronze figure 
of St. Michael, placed by Benoit XIYth on 
the summit of the edifice. You observe the 
angel is represented, sword in hand, trampling 
the dragon under foot Apropos of this figure, 
an anecdote is related of a French officer who 
commanded this fortress during one of the 
Italian wars. When summoned by the Nea¬ 
politan troops to surrender, he answered,_ 
“ Not till the bronze angel sheathes his sword !” 
A covered passage, more than half a mile 
in length, and supported by arcades, connects 
the Castle of St. Angelo with the Palace of 
the Vatican, and by this means the “Father 
of the Faithful” is enabled to withdraw to a 
place of safety when his children become 
turbulent and and uuruly. Could Adrian’s 
great shade revisit the earth, I fancy he would 
be not a little surprised to find the only trace 
of his power to be his tomb, and that despoiled 
of its name, transformed into a fortress for 
foreign troops, and occasionally serving as an 
asylum to the pontiff of a religion which he 
despised. 
But you have gazed long enough at the 
Castle; let us advauce upon the bridge and 
examine that. This, as 1 have already told 
you, was also built by Adrian, to enable him 
to visit his magnificent mausoleum, and to 
pass to the gardens of Domitian, much fre¬ 
quented by him, which were upon the further 
side of the Tiber. Several Popes have, at dif¬ 
ferent epochs, embellished aud improved it.— 
At the entrance we find the never-failing statues 
of Peter and Paul, which meet one’s eyes at 
every turn in Rome, and along the sides are 
distributed eight angels, bearing the instru¬ 
ments of the Passion. These are the work of 
Bernin, and furnish a good illustration of the 
style of this sculptor. Observe the affected 
attitudes, the graceful grief almost ludicrous, 
were it not associated with a subject too 
sacred for mirth. Not very suggestive, this, 
of the noble calmuess and dignified simplicity 
which characterize the antique masterpieces. 
Glancing over the balustrades, we see the 
<‘Yellow Tiber,” an insignificant stream, it 
must be confessed, compared with our noble 
Hudson or majestic Missouri. One is almost 
forced to believe that it has diminished in vol¬ 
ume since the days when the old Latin poets 
celebrated its beauties, for it is now but a 
turbid rivulet, upon which a school-boy would 
not fear to venture himself. Shakspeare, who 
represented Cassius as having rescued Caesar 
from its angry waves, would not have consid¬ 
ered it a very remarkable exploit, could he 
have seen the famous river in its present con¬ 
dition. 
We should here enter upon the avenue 
leading to St. Peters, had the magnificent plan 
of Michael Angelo been carried out, for he 
proposed to extend the columns which precede 
it thus far. But succeeding generations have 
curtailed the gigantic proportions of his design, 
and we must pass through a street of some 
length before we reach the noble structure 
which has been named the eighth wonder of 
the world. Here we are, at length, at the foot 
of the Place of St. Peter, and let us pause 
awhile and study the lout ensemble of the view. 
Before us stretches an oblong space nearly 
2,000 feet long by G0(Q broad, the ground 
ascending with a gentle slope to the magnifi¬ 
cent flight of marble steps which conducts to 
the portico of the church. Along the sides 
extend two semicircular colonnades, each com¬ 
posed of four rows of massive pillars, which, 
after reaching a certain distance from the 
church, turn at right angles, and are continued 
in straight lines until they meet the vestibule 
at either end. Upon these colonnades are 
placed no less than 176 statues of saints and 
popes, each ten feet in height, and, filling the 
space between their extremities rises the facade 
of St Peters, surmounted by thirteen figures 
still more colossal in their proportions. This 
facade is certainly unworthy of the position it 
occupies. It is too broken — too confused — 
there is not the simple grandeur and unity 
about it which the ancients wrought into the 
very structure of their works, and a still more 
serious objection is that it injures the effect of 
the dome by hiding the entablature on which 
it rests, and thus diminishing its apparent 
height. Michael Angelo’s intention was to 
precede the church by an open portico, similar 
to that of the Pantheon, and it seems much to 
be regretted that his idea was not followed in 
this, as well as in some other particulars. 
But to return to the Place. Do you ob¬ 
serve the obelisk which rises in the centre of 
the oval formed by the colonnades? It is 
eighty feet in height, although it scarcely seems 
elevated in comparison with the enormous 
structure before which it is placed,—was orig¬ 
inally brought from Egypt to adorn the baths 
of Caligula, and his dedication of it to 
Augula and Tiberius is still distinctly visible. 
It k the only one among the many obelisks at 
Rome, which has never been thrown down, 
but still remains in all its integrity as it issued 
from the hands of its Egyptian fabricators. 
But I see your attention is entirely absorb¬ 
ed by the magnificent fountains which are 
placed on either side the obelisk, midway be¬ 
tween it and the encircling colonnades. You 
may well admire them, for they are really most 
beautiful. The numerous jets of water, so 
light and airy that in a sunny day a thousand 
raiubows dance upon them, from a pyramid 
ten feet high, and the basin into which they 
fall, more than fifty feet in circumference, is 
hollowed from a single block of oriental 
granite. These fountains are kept constantly 
playing, and there is something very touching 
in this juxtaposition of the most graceful or¬ 
naments which nature furnishes and the proud¬ 
est works of art. The eye, when weary of 
gazing upon the massive colonnades, upon the 
lofty facade, with the colossal statues which 
crown it, or upon the lone obelisk which raises 
its mysterious finger in the center of the place, 
turns for repose and recreation to the beautiful 
sparkling curves of the fountain, and the gen¬ 
tle murmur of the falling water lulls the soul 
into a sad but pleasant revery. Queen Chris¬ 
tine, on her first visit to St. Peter’s, very inno¬ 
cently imagined the fountains were made to 
play in her honor, and, after admiring them a 
short time, requested they might be stopped, 
that so much water might not be wasted to no 
purpose. 
One of the most impressive scenes I ever 
witnessed, was this same Place of St Peter on 
Easter Sunday, at the moment the Pope pro¬ 
nounced his benediction. Just imagine it 
Katey, not almost deserted, as at present, but 
filled to overflowing with a dense mass of hu¬ 
manity, troops in brilliant military costume 
drawn up at the lower extremity, the roofs of 
these stately colonnades thronged with specta¬ 
tors, and the Pope, borne in his chair of state, 
advancing upon the balcony which you see 
above the principal entrance to St Peter’s, and 
bestowing a solemn blessing upon the gathered 
multitude. Then, too, in the eveuing of that 
day, it seemed like a fairy scene to behold the 
curves of the colonnades and every arch and 
line in the lofty facade glittering with light, 
first pale and silvery like the moonbeams,— 
then, as the stroke of nine pealed forth upon 
the night-air, changing, as if by magic, to a 
blaze of veritable flame. 
Were you here in proper person, dear Ka- 
tky, I fancy you would hardly be willing to 
turn back without entering the church; but’ 
as you only see through my eyes, or rather my 
i pen, you are as completely in my power as 
ever was any poor subject in that of a travel¬ 
ing magnetiser, and I shall not hesitate to use 
my authority; for, between you and me, I 
have quite a spice of tyranny in my composi¬ 
tion. Besides, my conscience rather reproach¬ 
es me for indulging in all those rhapsodies 
about temples, ruins and churches. It is de- 
cidedlyjstepping out of “ woman’s sphere,” and 
who knows what disastrous effects it may have 
upon you? Should your mind become so oc¬ 
cupied with the monuments of Rome as to fail 
in the composition of one of your husband’s 
favorite dishes, I could never forgive myself 
for having been the cause of such a domestic 
catastrophe. I am really ashamed when I 
think of my last letters—not a word about 
the fashions, methods of cookery, or any of the 
subjects peculiarly appropriated to the fair 
sex, but filled with descriptions of tombs and 
what not, for all the world as if they were 
written to be published, instead of being ad¬ 
dressed to the dear cousin Katey who was the 
playmate of my romping childhood, and is the 
confidential friend of my riper years. 
To tell the truth, my Italian trip and the 
excitement which accompanied it produced a 
kind of brain fever, from which I am just be¬ 
ginning to recover. By dint of hearing the 
names of great men constantly repeated, of 
wandering daily and hourly through places 
consecrated by genius, or illustrated by fame, 
I at length reached the conclusion that I, too, 
like the unfortunate Mrs. Dombey, must “make 
an effort.” But the enthusiasm is passing 
away; I find myself somewhat fatigued with 
my exertions, and am quite ready to subside 
into the simple gossiping Cousin Minnie of 
yore,—in which very proper state of mind I 
bid you adieu. Minnie. 
MANNERS. 
Good manners add lusture to virtue. Their 
object is to oblige, and pay proper attention to 
others. In order, therefore, to inspire children 
with such disposition, we should endeavor early 
to infuse the spirit of that precept—“Honor 
all men;” and teach them that kindness and 
civility are due to all: that a haughty, positive, 
contemptuous manner is not only ill-bred, but 
unchristain: and especially to be avoided in 
our behavior to servants, or those in inferior 
stations in life. To these they should never be 
suffered to behave with haughtiness, nor even to 
speak with a commanding tone of voice; as it 
will have a direct tendency to cherish pride and 
self-importance. 
It is also necessary to guard children against 
vulgar habits, as loud talking or laughing.— 
Whispering in company does not comport with 
good manners, and mimickry is the favorite 
amusement of low minds. Speaking when it 
interrupts reading or conversation, and the 
habit of contradicting others, are improper, 
and should be checked. 
At meals, children of suitable age should be 
admitted to the table with the family, when 
convenient This privilege will improve their 
manners and tend to prevent bashfulness and 
awkwardness.— J. Mott. 
Dmrtjr.—drain mtir ©ajr. 
Have the courage to cut the most agreeable 
acquaintance you have, when you are convinced 
he lacks principle; a friend should bear with a 
friend’s infirmities, but not with his vices. 
Have the courage to show your respect for 
honesty, in whatever guise it appears, and your 
contempt for dishonesty and duplicity by 
whomsoever exhibited. 
Have the courage to prefer comfort and 
propriety, to fashion in all things. 
Have the courage to acknowledge your ig¬ 
norance, rather than seek for knowledge under 
false pretences. 
Have the courage in providing an entertain¬ 
ment for your friends, not to exceed your 
means. 
Have the courage to obey your Maker at 
the risk of being ridiculed by man. 
“ Gentlemen never swear.” So said Wash¬ 
ington, who, we believe, never allowed profane 
swearing while in command of the army of the 
revolution. 
Somebody says a wife should be like roast 
lamb—tender and nicely dressed. Somebody 
else wickedly adds—“ and without sauce.” 
A certain Secretary of State being asked 
why he did not promote merit, aptly replied, 
“ Because merit did not promote me.” 
A person who undertakes to raise himself 
by scandalizing others, might as well sit down 
in a wheel-barrow and wheel himself. 
Conversation should be pleasant without 
scurrility, witty without affectation, learned 
without pedantry, novel without falsehood.” 
Correction does much, but encouragement 
does more. Encouragement after censure, is 
as the sun after a shower. 
Men of the noblest disposition think them¬ 
selves happiest when others share their happi¬ 
ness with them. 
Get justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, 
and live contentedly. 
Many are great because their associates are 
small. 
Preserving the health by too strict a regi- 
imen, is a wearisome malady. 
The loquacity of fools is a lecture to the 
wise. 
Prosperity is no just scale; adversity is the 
only true balance to weigh a friend. 
