MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
lisccUancfftfs. 
[Written for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
MY MOTHER. 
BY ROBERT P. KNOWLES. 
My heart oft turns to thee, 
My dear beloved mothers 
Th.v image, dwells in me, 
Anil leaves room for none other. 
Like some serencr lakes, 
That duplicate the heaven, 
M v soul a gtory takes, 
From thy example given. 
When sorrow bathes in grief 
My heart, that trusted strangers. 
Thy memory gives relief, 
And wards dlf all the dangers. 
And when in seeming beauty, 
Vice paints the guilt of men, 
I learn from thee my duty, 
And then am strong again! 
Wilson Collegiate Ingtitue, 1854. 
[Written for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
RECOGNITION. 
Notwithstanding the continual, and, no 
doubt, in the main, honestly-meant judgments 
passing on the comparative worth or worth¬ 
lessness of dilferent individuals, it may safely 
be questioned whether human discernment ev¬ 
er assigned to mortal his rightful place in the 
scale of moral desert. The causes of this 
universal misapprehension are various, not the 
least of which is the studied concealment of 
self or of qualities actually possessed, and the 
affectation of foreign ones practised to a great¬ 
er or loss degree by nearly or quite every son 
and daughter of Adam, for the purpose of ap¬ 
pearing something other and better, or, for a 
momentary whim, worse, than they really are. 
From this cause, it frequently appears that 
when called on to render a verdict in a case of 
character and disposition of our oldest, most 
familiar friends, with the best intention in the 
world to do exact justice, we find ourselves 
strangely puzzled and embarrassed by innu¬ 
merable contradictions—unable to give more 
than a very general estimate at best, and often 
obliged to modify and make exceptions to that 
till the force of the original statement is well- 
nigh destroyed. Much of the difficulty we 
experience in character-analysis, must, no 
doubt, be attributed to our own lack of vision, 
and consequent inability to penetrate and 
make allowance for those worse than physical 
impediments of speech and action, by which 
even the most honest, straight-forward souls 
find tiiemv.Yuea hindered in their attempts at 
revelation, and forced to set themselves nglit 
by blundering, painful explanations. 
This want of human appreciation is one of 
the keenest miseries the sensitive soul suffers, 
and one for which philosophy has never found 
satisfactory compensation. In vain it points 
to the compassionate eye and the pitying ear 
of Supreme Intelligence; consolingly whispers 
that there the longings, the struggles, the aspi¬ 
rations, unacknowledged by man, find indulg¬ 
ent audience and willing sympathy. The feel¬ 
ing of comparative isolation between us and 
the Divine presence, offers but a far-off repose. 
To our gross materiality, the seeming closer 
connection between ourselves and those bodily 
near us presents a ready refuge. Not for an 
abstraction can we forego the pleasure of 
troops of friends and the enjoyment of their 
good opinion. No, cost what it may, we must 
ding to the tangible, the palpable, though by 
this too earnest earthward seeking, we be com¬ 
paratively estranged from communion with the 
oniy source whence we can expect true, entire 
recognition. This low approbativeness—this 
thirst for immediate (in the vulgar, unspiritual 
sense of near) apprehension may serve to part¬ 
ly explain the inferior lives led by scores of 
highly-gifted men and women, who, feeling 
cold and insulated in the sparsely-populated 
mountain region Nature assigned them for a 
habitation, in despair of raising to their height 
a sufficient number to form a congenial neigh¬ 
borhood, let themselves down to the level of 
common-place existence, and, for the sake of 
companionship, consent to accept the frivolous 
aims aud unworthy ambition by which the 
rest of us are governed. An Esau-bargain 
this. No man can afford to conform down¬ 
ward; so doing, ho brings himself into false re¬ 
lations where lie hoped to establish a closer 
union. Visions of the belter life to which he 
was born, haunt him reproacbingly to the end 
of his days; but if he have somewhat better 
than we possess, let him impart it with gener¬ 
ous confidence; if we accept it, he enriches 
himself as well us us; if not, let him wisely 
keep it for a better comfort than it can pur¬ 
chase in a market too poor to furnish its 
equivalent. 
It is a great mistake in men commencing 
life on their own account, to deal much in ex¬ 
planation. The practice involves sad waste of 
time and resources, and nothing is gained by it. 
If you have acted honestly and from well-con¬ 
sidered motives, aud with a view to practical 
benefits, and not merely because it was your 
whim to do so and so, the truthful will as soon 
recognize your good intention in the simple 
act, that can speak for itself, as in a labored 
vindication, and you can afford to be misjudg¬ 
ed by selfish, sneering skeptics; if you have 
not, an oily tongue and plausible words only 
add to the disgrace of the original falsehood. 
Indeed, this perverse world is growing some¬ 
what incredulous as to the necessity or the fact 
of much special self-interpretation by single- 
minded men; by implication, those who in¬ 
dulge in it expose themselves to the danger of 
being set down as false and hypocritical; and, 
if conspicuous in their several callings, they do 
much towards bringing the whole craft to 
which they belong under censure. Witness 
the popular judgment of a class of public 
men, the genius of certain of whose leading 
members has been singularly industrious, if 
not happy, in this department. It sometimes 
happens in social life that we are in ha!^earn¬ 
est taxed with coldness and indifference by 
those toward whom we feel great good will 
and even warm affection, but because we are 
undemonstrative, fail to be fally understood by 
them. This complaint proceeds most fre¬ 
quently from the warm-hearted, who, I must 
believe, are oftenest troubled with jealousy; 
but they are no better satisfied, and perhaps 
finally lose all confidence, if, in obedience to 
their demand for increased profession of friend¬ 
ship, we attempt to establish a permanent good 
understanding on the basis of what they must 
soon detect to be forced show and reluctant 
(because, with many, love feels profaned by 
announcing itself in words) avowal. After 
EARLY DECAY OF AMERICAN WOMEN. 
Mrs. H. B. Stowe, in her recent book of 
travels in Europe, makes the following sensible 
remarks about the comparative beauty of the 
women of England and America: 
A lady asked me the other evening, what I 
thought of the beauty of the ladies of the 
English aristocracy; she was a Scotch lady, 
by the by, so that, the question was certainly a 
fair one. I replied that certainly report had 
not exaggerated their charms. Then came a 
home question—how the ladies of England 
eonipared with those of America? “Now for 
it, patriotism,” said I to myself, and invoking to 
my aid certain fair saints of my own country, 
whose faces I distinctly remembered, I assured 
her that I had never seen more beautiful wo¬ 
men than I had in America. Grieved was I 
to add, “but your ladies keep their beauty 
much later and longer.” This fact stares one 
in the face of every company; one meets ladies 
past fifty, glowing, radiant, and blooming, with 
a freshness of complexion and fullness of out¬ 
line refreshing to contemplate. What can be 
the reason? Tell us, Muses and Graces, what 
can it be? Is it the conservative power of 
sea-fog and coal smoke, the same which keep 
the turf green, and make the ivy and holly 
flourish? IIow comes it that our married 
ladies dwindle, fade and grow thin, that their 
noses incline to sharpness, and their elbows to 
angularity, just at the time of life when their 
island sisters round out into a comfortable and 
becoming amplitude and fullness? If it is the 
coal and sea-fog, why, then, I am afraid we 
shall never come up with them? 
But perhaps there may be other causes why 
a country which starts some of the most beau- 
these really valuable friends are lost beyond j tifnl g irl s in the world, produces so few beauti- 
J 1 ful women. Have not our close stove-heated 
rooms something to do with it? Above all, 
recovery, what would we not give to restore 
the old relations—solid esteem, partially con¬ 
cealed by constitutional reserve on our pait, 
and equal substance, set off by greater show of 
friendship on theirs—and leave time to acquit 
us of their unjust charge. But no; if they 
have through ardor been unreasonable, exact¬ 
ing, we have been artificial, which is far worse, 
and deserve to lose them. Let us profit by 
the lesson. a. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1854. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY. 
It is night! The weary traveler has found 
shelter for another night; the whistling plow- 
boy, having carefully cared for his horses, has 
sought a bed of repose, and sleep has quietly 
closed his weary eyes; the shout of merry chil¬ 
dren is silenced as each curly head is deposited 
on its pillow of down; and the careful farmer 
after seeing that his house and barns are secure, 
has at length retired. All is now still aud si¬ 
lent as ttte grave. 
The “ Queen of Night ” is slowly, yet grace¬ 
fully wending her way through her accustomed 
path, lighted by ten thousand glittering stars; 
though not so brilliant and dazzling as the 
“ orb of day,” yet so softly falls her light upon 
this darkened earth, it seems far more beautiful 
and sublime than the blazing splendor of the 
noonday sun. And each little star, as we sit 
silently gazing at it, seems to imprint upon our 
hearts (with the pen of imagination) beautiful 
thoughts. On such a night as this I would sit 
alone, to study and meditate upon the beauties 
of nature. Her works are innumerable and 
full of wisdom. She visits the most sacred 
places of the earth carrying in her hand the 
wand of beauty and loveliness; aud I imagine 
she loves to linger in some secluded nook, aud 
there combine all her energies in giving to the 
pluee a wild and romantic appearance. She 
speaks to us through the rushing winds, as 
they sweep mournfully through the neighboring 
forest, and her voice is heard in the murmuring 
rivulet, that winds its way through the dark re¬ 
cesses of yonder vale. 
These are sounds which fall pleasantly upon 
the ear. There is heartfelt music wafted on 
each passing breeze, which none can hear but 
those that love the holy hours of midnight.— 
Night is the time for meditation. It is then 
our thoughts come to us, clear as the noonday 
sun, for true it is that “ night uuto night shew- 
eth knowledge.” m. j. s. 
Spenceri;ort, N. Y., Oct., 1854. 
The Swearer Rebuked. —On a certain oc¬ 
casion, General Washington invited a number 
of his fellow officers to dine with him. While 
at the table, one of them uttered an oath.— 
The general dropped his knife and fork in a 
moment, and in his deep undertone and char¬ 
acteristic dignity and deliberation, said, “ I 
thought that we all supposed ourselves to be 
gentlemen lie then resumed his knife aud 
fork, and went on as before. The remark 
struck like an electric shock, aud, as was intend¬ 
ed, did execution, as his remarks, iu such cases, 
were very apt to do. No person swore at the 
table after that And alter dinner the officer 
referred to remarked to his companion, that if 
the general had struck him over the head 
with his sword, he coxdd have borne it; but 
the home thrust which he gave him was too 
much. It was too much for a gentleman .— 
And it is hoped that it will be too much for 
any one, and every one who pretends to be a 
gentleman .—D r. EtLwards. 
has not our climate, with its alternate extremes 
of heat and cold, a tendency to induce habits 
of indolence. Climate, certainly, has a great 
deal to do with it. ; ours is evidently more try¬ 
ing and more exhausting, and because it is so, 
we should not pile upon its back errors of 
dress and diet which are avoided by our neigh¬ 
bors. They keep their beauty because they 
keep their health. It has been as remarkable 
to me as anything, since I have been here, that 
I do not constantly, as at home, hear one and 
another spoken of as in miserable health, very 
delicate, &c. Health seems to be the rule and 
not the exception. For my part, I must say, 
the most favorable omen I know of for female 
beauty in America, is the multiplication of 
water-cure establishments, where our ladies, if 
they get nothing else, do gain some ideas as to 
the necessity of fresh air, regular exercise, 
simple diet, and the laws of hygiene in general. 
HINTS TO POETS. 
Unanimity. —“We must be uuauimous,”said 
Hancock, on the occasion of signing the Declar¬ 
ation of Independency “ there must be no pull¬ 
ing different ways.” “ Yes,” answered Frank¬ 
lin, “we-must all hang together, or most as¬ 
suredly we shall all hang separately .” 
We are overwhelmed with poetry. Either 
the drouth has not touched the Castalian fount, 
or the autumnal rains have swollen it Much 
of the poetry that comes into our hands is 
written upon such delfeatp prtper, and with 
such elegant pefarnanship, aud is accompanied 
with such modest notes from virgin authors, 
that we are at our wits’ end to know what to 
do with it. How' can we decline publishing 
what has been prepared with so much pains, 
and is proffered with such delicate considera¬ 
tion? In order to recover our judgment suffi¬ 
ciently to decide upon the quires of elegant 
rhyme-paper before us, we beg that the Muses 
will be more sparing of their favors fur at 
least tw'o months to come. And for the guid¬ 
ance of those who meditate such favors for us 
in the future, we beg leave to submit the fol¬ 
lowing hints: 
1. Do not take a rhyming dictionary and se¬ 
lect a row of words, and then prefix syllables 
to make out the requisite number of feet.— 
Poetry constructed upon that principle usually 
requires to be read backwards. 
2. Do not take a foot rule and measure off 
inflated prose into blank verse. This is apt to 
confuse the reader as to the proper use of 
capitals and the pauses of the sentence. 
3. Never send us anything “upon the re¬ 
commendation of judicious friends, who desire 
to see it in print” 
4. After composing, lay aside your piece 
until the intoxication of the first inspiration 
has subsided. Keep it a month and then read 
it over. 
5. Do not be mortified if your piece is not 
pnblished; but take it for granted that you 
would be more mortified if it was.— Indepen¬ 
dent. 
BY AND BY. 
There is music enough iu these three w r ords 
for the burden of a song. There is a hope 
wrapped up in them, aud an articulate beat of 
a human heart 
By and by: We heard it as Jong ago as we 
can remember, when we made brief but peril¬ 
ous journeys from chair to table, and from ta¬ 
ble to chair again. AVe heard it the other day, 
when two parted that had been “ loving iu 
their lives,” one to California, the other to her 
lonely home. 
Everybody says it—some time or other.— 
The boy whispers it to himself, when he dreams 
of exchanging the stubbed little shoes for 
boots like a man. The man murmurs it—when 
iu life’s middle watch he sees his plans half fin¬ 
ished, and his hopes, yet in bud, waving in a 
cold, late spring. The old says it when he 
thinks of putting off the mortal for the immor¬ 
tal, to-day for to-morrow. The weary watcher 
for the morning, whiles away the dark horn’s 
with “ by and by—by and by.” 
Sometimes it sounds like a song; sometimes 
there is a sigh or a sob in it. What would’nt 
the world give to find it in the almanac—set 
down some where, no matter if iu the dead of 
December—to know it would surely come.— 
But, fairy-like as it is flitting like a star-beam 
over the dewy shadows of the years, nobody 
cau spare it—and when we look back upon 
the many times those words have beguiled us, 
the memory of that silver by and by, is like 
the sunrise of Ossian, “ pleasant but mournful 
to the soul.”— Tribune. 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE LAUREL WREATH. 
BY MRS. JK.\., 1 
A maiijex knelt at the shrine of Fame, 
A in Uden young and fair, 
With a blushing cheek, and a starry eye, 
And a wealth of raven hair. 
“Give me some laurel leaves,” she prayed, 
“To twine in the wreath I wear.” 
Then a voic" came forth from the temple old, 
A voic, both deep and dread ; 
Speaking in hollo'.v mocking tones 
Like the voices of the dead. 
“The laurel leaves are thine, sweet maid. 
To garland thy fair young head.” 
The maiden laughed in her girlish glee, 
As she loosened her fairy crown, 
And under the shade of the temple dim, 
All joyously sat her clown. 
Striving to fasten the laurel leaves 
On the rose-stem’s ehining brown. 
But a cloud came over her sunny brow, 
As she wearily toiled in vain, 
And her tear-drops glittered amid the flowers 
Like the sparkling summer rain. 
“ I cannot fasten these leaves,” she sobbed, 
“ In my roses’ blushing chain.” 
Then again the sound of that mighty voice 
Came forth from the deepening shade, 
Bearing a message of fearful truth, 
To the heart of the trembling maid, 
“ ’Tis folly to gather these laurel leaves 
With the flowerets of peace to braid. 
Seek ye the thorns in the roses’ home 
When the tree-tops gently bow, 
With them ye may fasten the lautel leaves. 
In a garland rouud your brow. 
Then trample beneath you in the dust 
The flowerets that bind it now.” 
Trembling and pale, the maiden gazed 
On the rose-.vreath in her hand; 
Then wound it amid her shining curls 
Aod fastened its dew-gemmed band, 
And she flung the laurel leaves away. 
As she fled from that fearful laud. 
“OUR CHARLIE IS GONE!” 
But a few months since, a dear sister’s home 
was gladdened by the birth of a child — a 
bright-eyed, active, and beautiful boy, who 
with added cares, brought many an added joy 
to his mother’s heart. His father, too, rejoiced 
that a son was given uuto him, aud the thought 
of the claims which this new-born immortal 
had upon him, gave new energy to his deter¬ 
mination to fulfil manfully the work of life, so 
as to bear and leave a name which any son 
should remember lovingly as well as proudly. 
But a few weeks ago we were all gathered at 
the “ old homestead,” once more. Little Char¬ 
lie was there, his first and last visit to his 
grand-parents, and the dear place where his 
mother had spent all the sunny years of girl¬ 
hood. They were there, however, preparatory 
to their departure for a distant State, to find 
for themselves a new home among strangers. 
In a few days they were gone, but that infant 
as well as its mother, left tearful hearts behind. 
It is hard parting, even for a few years, with 
friends we iove, or with a child who has won 
our heart by his innocent love for us. 
But a few days ago, and we heard from 
them,— all were well, the journey bad been a 
pleasant one, they had met with kindness every¬ 
where, and would soou be settled in a thriving 
town not fur from the mighty Mississippi. The 
father had gone in advance, to complete some 
preparations for their reception. Little Char¬ 
lie was well, and all their anticipations were of 
happiness. All this, but a few days ago. 
But a feiv hours ago, a sad message came; 
it said,—“Our Charlie is gone I” 0, how 
must the lonely mother have felt when, after 
all w r as over, she met her husband—who could 
not come in time to see his darling laid to 
sleep under the fresh turf—and must say to 
him, “Our Charlie is gone ! Gone from our 
embrace, summoned home to the Kingdom 
above ! Gone, where little Carlton went be¬ 
fore !” A mother’s heart alone can tell the 
anguish of that hour. A father alone can im¬ 
agine the bitterness of that moment’s sudden 
pang. But a Christian life prepares—if any¬ 
thing can prepare—the soul for the saddest 
bereavement, and it is good to say with the 
whole heart, “Thy will be done.” . This truth 
is taught by a severe, yet geutle and loving 
Father. 
But a little while, at the longest, and the 
parted shall meet again. But a little while O, 
sorrowing mother, and you need mourn no 
more. O, in the presence of Death, how Time 
and its interests dwindle into insignificance, aud 
Eternity surrounds and enthralls the soul. 
Here we are now, but we know' not how soon 
the summons shall come to call us where “ Our 
Charlie is gone.”—n. 
WELL DONE, GIRL! 
One Sunday evening, not many nights ago, 
the Rev. Mr. Thompson performed a marriage 
ceremony at the Tabernacle—both parties said 
Yes at the proper time, and the reverend gen¬ 
tleman said Amen. 
“ L want you to perform the same thing for 
me, ’ said a well-dressed, youngish man to Mr. 
Thompson. 
“When?” 
“ Now—right off to-night.” 
“ Can’t you put it off a little? It will make 
it rather late.” 
“No—the lady says now or never, and I am 
very anxious. Will you go?” 
“ Yes; where is it?” 
“ Close by—only a few steps west of the 
Park. We are all ready, and will only detain 
you a few minutes on your way home.” 
p u" - 'S' went place, which was a re- 
rp .cane v -•■'■I'Lrur house, and everything 
evinced decorum. iiieiauy, ,„ no> , J h 
neatly dressed, and altogether a desiraoiF r ^„Y’ 
ner for the gentleman—was presented, and a 
short prayer, as usual upon such occasions, of¬ 
fered, and then hands joined. 
“ You, with a full sense of the obligations 
you assume, do promise, here in the presence 
of God and these witnesses, that you will take 
this woman, whose right hand you clasp in 
yours, to be your lawful, wedded wife, and as 
such you will iove and cherish her forever.” 
“I do.” 
“ And you. Miss, on your part, will you take 
this man to be your lawful, wedded husband?” 
“NO!” 
We have heard in times past, when showers 
were fashionable, some pretty heavy claps of 
thunder; but none that ever rattled about the 
tympanum of the bridegroom was quite so loud 
as that stunning little monosyllable. 
“No, I never will!” said she most emphati¬ 
cally, and walked away to her seat, leaving her 
atmost-husband looking and probably feeling 
just the least trifle in the world foolish. 
Mr. Thompson remonstrated—not to induce 
her to change that No for Yes, but for trifling 
with him iu the solemn duty of his calling, and 
asked for an explanation. 
“ I meant no disrespect to you, sir, or to tri¬ 
fle with your duty, or the' ceremony you 
were called upon to perform; but I had no other 
way to vindicate my character. I came to the 
city a poor sewing girl. I worked for this man. 
He made proposals of marriage to me, but from 
other circumstances I doubted his f incerity, and 
left his employment and went back to the 
country for a while. When I returned I found 
the door of my former boarding-house closed 
against me, and this lady, whom f had esteemed 
us a kind friend, cold and quite indisposed to 
renew my acquaintance, and I insisted upon 
knowing the reason. I learned that this man 
had blackened my character, denied his propo¬ 
sals of marriage, and said I was—no matter 
what. I said to the lady, ‘ let me come back, 
and I will prove my innocence. Will you be¬ 
lieve what I say if he will marry me?’ 
‘“Yes; I certainly will, and so will all who 
know you.’ 
I renewed the acquaintance, he renewed his 
proposals—I accepted, and said ‘Yes, the min¬ 
ister at once.’ He slandered me—I deceived 
him. I proved my words true, and his false. 
It was the only way a poor, helpless girl had 
to avenge herself upon a man who had proved 
himself unworthy to be her husband. It was 
only, at the right time, to say one word—one 
little word. I have said it. I hope it will be 
a lesson to men, an example to other girls, and 
that in m any other and different circumstances 
they will learn to say ‘No.’” 
“ If I was angry, for a single moment," said 
Mr. Thompson, “ I carried none of it over the 
threshold. It was a severe lesson, but well ap¬ 
plied. I went home pondering on the value of 
the word—No.”— JY. Y. Tribune. 
HOME INFLUENCE. 
Love and Friendship. —Love seizes on us 
suddenly, without giving warning, and our dis¬ 
position or our weakness favors the surprise; 
one look, one glance from the fair fixes aud de¬ 
termines us. Friendship, on the contrary, is a 
long time in forming; it is of slow growth, 
through many trials and months of familiarity. 
If you are disquieted at anything, you 
should consider with yourself is the thing of 
that worth, that for it I should so disturb my¬ 
self, and lose my peace and tranquillity? 
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching. 
All thy restless yearnings it would still; 
Leaf, and flower, and laden bee are preaching, 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 
Truly has it been said, that “our duties are 
like the circles of a whirlpool, aud the inner¬ 
most includes home.” A modern writer has 
designated home “heaven’s fallen sister;” and a 
melancholy truth lies shrouded in those few 
words. Our home influence is not a passing, 
but an abiding one; and all-powerful for good 
or evil, for peace or strife, for happiness or 
misery. Each separate Christian home has 
been linked to a central sun, around which re¬ 
volves a happy and united band of warm, lov¬ 
ing hearts, acting, thinking, rejoicing, and sor¬ 
rowing together. Which member of the fam¬ 
ily group can say, I have no influence? What 
sorrow, or what happiness, lies in the power of 
each ! 
“ A lighted lamp,” writes M’Cheyne, “ is a 
very small thing, aud it burns calmly and with¬ 
out noise, yet it giveth light to all who are 
within the house.” And so there is a quiet 
influence, which, like the flame of a scented 
lamp, tills many a home with light and fra¬ 
grance. Such an influence has been beauti¬ 
fully compared to “ a carpet, soft and deep, 
which, while it diffuses a look of ample com¬ 
fort, deadens many a creaking sound. It is the 
curtain which, from many a beloved form, 
wards oft’ at once the summer’s glow and the 
winter’s wind. It is the pillow on which sick¬ 
ness lays its head, and forgets half its misery.” 
This influence falls as the refreshing dew, the 
invigorating sunbeam, the fertilizing shower, 
shining on ail with the mild lustre of moon¬ 
light, and harmonizing in one soft tint many of 
the discordant hues of a family picture. 
A Nutshell of Truth —Here is a brief 
paragraph into which a big heap of truth is 
squeezed:—-Did you ever scratch the end of 
a piece of timber slightly elevated, with a pin? 
Though scarcely heard at one end, it was dis¬ 
tinctly hoard at the other. Just so it is with 
any merit, excellence, or good work. It will 
be sooner heard of, and applauded, and re¬ 
warded on the oilier side of the globe, than 
by your immediate acquaintances.” 
