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MOORE’S RURA1 NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JUNE 20. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOME YEARNINGS. 
BY IDA MOORE. 
"There is aflresldein a Ihr-offland liy which, could I but 
warm my cold and weary feet to night, I would lie down and 
Bleep such a Bleep as Gon giveth his beloved." 
Glortoub skies gleam bright above me, 
'Mid lair scenes my footsteps stray, 
All the Orient's famed enchantments 
Tempt me longer here to Btay. 
Songs the bulbnl singeth thrill me, 
Perfumed breezes fan my brow. 
But in vain all things delightful 
Woo my absent spirit now. 
All my thoughts are sadly turning 
To a dearer far-off laud. 
And my lonely heart is yearning 
For a brother’s clasping hand. 
In my dreams I see dear faces 
Glen wing from some reachless Bpot, 
Forms of loved ones flit before me, 
But I wake to find them not. 
And my soul la daily haunted 
By the tones of voices low, 
Blending with the cherished mem’ries, 
Mem'riejs sweet of long ago. 
Could, to-night my feet so weary 
Warm beside a mother's hearth, 
There would sorely beat no fonder, 
Happier heart than mine on earth. 
Could my head rest on the pillow 
Which a dear one's hand hath pressed, 
With such si ep as our “God giveth 
His beloved," I'd be blest. 
Home, thy voices dear are calling 
Over mountain, valley, sea, 
And I gladly wait the morning 
1 shall haste with joy to thee. 
Westfield, N. Y., 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
AUNT MARY’S STORY, 
AS RELATED TO THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 
BY EMILY 0. HUNTINGTON. 
Aunt Mary lived away in the country with 
grandfather, and Uncle Beth took care of the farm. 
I’ll tell you how I came to go there. 
My little bahy brother was very sick, and poor 
mamma had to nurBe him night aud day. Eddie 
and I were home from school, for it was Christmas 
holydays at Newton — and I suppose we made a 
deal of noise racing about the house. One day 
when the Doctor came to see baby and found us 
playing in the hall, he said to mamma, “You must 
send those children away, Mrs. Newell; it will 
never do to have such a noise here.” So, when 
papa came home to dinner there was a long talk in 
the parlor, and then he called us out of the nursery 
and told us we were to go to Aunt Mart’s for a 
visit. We were glad enough to hear that, aud 
Eddie clapped his hands for joy, but papa looked 
very grave, and kisaccl ua boih before he went 
away. We were to go in the stage the next morn¬ 
ing, and before night we packed up oar choicest 
playthings, while mamma got our clothes ready.— 
We did not sleep much that night, but lay awake 
thinking and talking of the fine times we should 
have on the farm. 
Next morning we were ready half an hour before 
the Btage time, running, in onr impatience, from 
window to door, and saying twenty times we 
thought the stage never would come. It appeared 
at last, lumbering along the road, and then papa 
took us by the hand and led us in to kiss the sick 
baby before we went. I can remember now the 
strange feeling that crept over me as we saw little 
brother lying on a pillow upon mamma’s lap. His 
cheeks were white and wasted, and his large, blue 
eyes half closed, while his tiny fingers were locked 
tightly together. I hid my face on mamma’s shoul¬ 
der and cried, but Eddie softly stroked the trans¬ 
parent cheek and said, "Good bye, little Charlie 
— Eddie’ll come back and play with you when you 
get welL” I saw mamma shudder and bend down 
quickly over the baby, but then papa took us from 
the room and we little thought what wub in her 
mind. “May,” said Eddie, when we were well 
on our way, “what if little brother should die while 
we are gone and be put in the ground like Mrs. 
Webster’s baby.” The thought seemed never to 
have struck him before, and for a time we were 
both sad and silent; but the many sights in view 
of the coach windows soon drew our attention. I 
cannot tell you of all the wonders we saw curing 
that long ride, but by the time we reached the farm 
house we were thoroughly tired. 
Aunt Mary gave us a warm welcome, and in a 
short time we were seated with the family at the 
supper table. Eddie, perched in Cousin Frank’s 
cast-off high ohair, rolled his black eyes in delight 
over the brim of a large tin dipper of new milk, 
provided for his especial benefit. I remember how 
they all laughed when Eddie at last paused to take 
breath, and still tightly clasping bis dipper, asked 
earnestly, “Aunt Mary, is this cows’ milk?” The 
poor child was Badly discomposed by the burst of 
merriment that followed his query, and not to be 
satisfied so, repeated, “ Is it cows’ milk, Uncle? — 
did you milk it in a pail, or did the man bring it?” 
Older heads than Eddie’s have made the nicer 
distinction since then, hut with him the only differ¬ 
ence waB plenty in one case, and restriction in the 
other. 
It seemed strange not to have mamma to put us 
to bed, but Aunt Mary came to hear us Bay our 
prayers, and Eddie added to his usual form the 
fervent petition —" and please God make little 
brother get well, and not die and he put in the 
ground.” 
The next day was Christmas, a great day for us 
children; for we were to have a little parly in the 
evening, and Aunt Mary had made us the largest 
and nicest of Christmas cakes for the occasion. 
Then there were such stores of nuts to crack, such 
baskets of rosy apples, and nicely popped corn,— 
no feast was ever .equal to that. How impatient 
we were for evening to come, and how many times 
we stole slyly into the pantry to peep at the tempt¬ 
ing array of good things. When at last the time 
did come, what rejoicing there was, what chatter¬ 
ing and laughing and games of “ blind man’s buff,” 
“hide the handkerchief,” and everything else that 
our young heads could conjure up. Never were 
nuts cracked and apples eaten with better relish, 
but after supper there were to be no more games, 
for Aunt At ary had promised us a story. When all 
were quietly seated, Aunt Mary began: aud this, 
as nearly as I can remember, was the story: 
“ You know, children,’’ she said, "the reason we 
celebrate Christmas; who tan tell me who it was that 
was born on that day ?” Eddie sat on the floor before 
the tire, with both arms round old Tiger’s shaggy 
neck; he heard the question, however, aud answer¬ 
ed promptly —" 1 know, Aunt Mary, il was Sa7ita 
Claus.” Aunt Mary tried to look very sober, but 
it was no use — so the older children laughed, and 
we young ones laughed because they did — while 
Eddie, with a defiant look, sat twisting his fat 
hands into Tiger’s long hair. After a while we 
were still again, and Aunt Mary went on to tell 
her story, but she asked no more questions about 
Christmas, 
“ Away by the edge of the woods which you can 
see across the river, once stood an old log school 
house where I used to go to school with my broth¬ 
ers and sisters. The old house has been pulled down 
for many years, but you can still see some traces of 
it, and I never pass it without thinking of the 
happy hours I have spent within its walla. There 
were no houses then within half a mile of it, and 
some of the children had to walk more than twice 
that distance to sohool, so of course we all used to 
bring our dinners and spend the noon at the school 
bouse. We all liked this much, for in summer 
there were berries and flowers to hunt in the woods 
and on the bill sides, and sometimes we would go 
down to the river and wade in the shallow water 
near the shore. Then in winter we wonld roast 
apples by the fire, or make the very roof shake with 
our shouts aud noisy games. But I have one mem¬ 
ory of the old school house that is a very sad one, 
and I will telJ you about it that you may learn a 
lesson from it. 
“ When I was about ten years old I was entrusted 
with the care of my little sister Carrie, who was 
only five, a gentle, timid little creature. How 
many times my mother enjoined me before we 
left home for school to lead her carefully, and on 
no account to take her near the river. Iproraised 
strict obedience, and felt no small degree of pride 
as I led the little creature for the first time into the 
sohool room. How proud I was when the girls all 
praised her sweet blue eyes and shining curls, and 
it really seemed a pleasure to give up some accus¬ 
tomed romps for her sake. After a few days the 
novelty of the thing began to wear off, and then I 
found it very tiresome to stay at the house with 
Carrie while the rest were having such fine sport 
in the woods, or by the river. I was strong and 
active and never tired of sport, and when I found 
my little sister was goiDg to keep me from it, I 
grew cross and impatient towards her. One morn¬ 
ing I wanted very much to get to school in time 
for play before the hour for study, and if I had been 
alone would soon have tripped over the ground, 
but Carrie could not run. I pulled her impa¬ 
tiently along, till at last the child was tired out 
and began to cry. I remember calling her a little 
torment, and telling ber Bbe spoiled all my fun — 
and when at last we reached the school house and 
found it too late for play, I was more out of humor 
than ever. 
« That noon some of the girls asked me to go to 
the river with them to get pebbles for onr play¬ 
houses, and when I mentioned C.irri3 they pro¬ 
posed that she should be left -it rh<* seV.^i i~,„ a o. , 
I turned doubtfully towards her, and asked if she 
SjjfiitB fpismlaiiy. 
Btay with Carrie,—Carrie's afraidAll our per¬ 
suasions and threats only made her sob more piti- 
fally, and cling the closer to me. Finally, I said, 
* well, if there is do other way I must take the cross 
little thing with me, I suppose, or stay here all the 
noon.—and that I won't do.' So with many fears 
aa I remembered my mother’s commands, I went 
to the river with the rest, leading Cakrik by the 
hand, 
"When we reached the banka I seated ber by a 
large rock to amuse herself with the flowers, while 
we were looking for pebbles. Soon, in my eager¬ 
ness to find the brightest and smoothest, I forgot 
to watch Carrie, and it was not until some one 
proposed to return to the school house that I no¬ 
ticed she had left the rock. In great fear I glanced 
quickly around, calling her at the top of my voice. 
No one answered. A moment afterwards we all 
saw her standing upon a high bank that hung over 
the water, one little hand filled with bright crim¬ 
son blossomB,aud the other stretched out to grasp 
a cluster that grew still nearer the edge. In anoth¬ 
er moment the shelving bank broke beneath her 
feet, and little Carrie was in the river, f did not 
scream then; I was faint and dizzy with horror, 
yet I rushed quickly to the spot. What could I 
’do? The water was very deep there, and the over¬ 
hanging bank left no foothold below. One of the 
older girls ran instantly towards a distant field 
where a man was working, to get help. I bent 
over the bank; 1 saw my little sister rise to the 
surface, then slowly sink down again; would the 
man get there in time to save her? ‘ Oh, darling 
little Carrie,’ I groaned, 'what shall I do?’ At 
that instant the man arrived almost breathless; be 
paused for an instant, drew one deep breath and 
plunged in the river. When he rose he was grasp¬ 
ing Carrie by her clothes, and in a moment more 
she was lying on the green turf, white and cold.— 
The man lifted her in his arms, and wirii the water 
dripping from her golden hair, her still face up¬ 
turned to the sky, and her hands still clasping the 
blossoms, Bhe was carried to the nearest house. 
“For hours, I know not how many, they chafed 
her cold limbs and tried vainly to restore her, 
while I stoodby in agony, thinkingliow I hod killed 
my little sister by my disobedience. How the harsh 
words I had spoken that day to her came back to 
me and stung me!—I thought there was no more 
joy for me in all the world. But God was merciful, 
and at last Carrie opened her blue eyes with a 
faintshudder and called for me. Ob, how I sprang 
to her side, and kissed her pale face. But sbe did 
not know me, and through all the long fever into 
which she was thrown, she would call for me and 
beg me not to leave her alone. It was more than 
I could bear to hear that pleading voice, ‘Please 
Mary don't go away — Carrie's afraid My kind 
mother never uttered a word of reproach; she saw 
I was learning a lesson never to bo forgotten, and 
it was only when Carrie could once more clasp 
her arms around my neck, and call me 1 deur sister,' 
that she endeavored to impress the warning upon 
my mind. Carrie is a woman now, and has chil¬ 
dren of ber own, but I never see her without thank¬ 
ing God that I was not her murderer.” 
Aunt Mary had finished her story, and for a few 
moments no one spoke. Then I ventured to ask, 
"Aunt Mary, was Carrie my mamma?” "Yes, 
May,” she answered; “Little Carrie is your own 
dear mother.” "Oh, May, said Eddie, with his 
black eyes full of tears, "aint you glad she didn't 
ijrowii: cause then we shouldn’t have had any 
mamma?” 
Some other time 1 may tell you how wo went 
with grandpa for a sleigh-ride —how we built a 
snow honse in the orchard, and caught a little gray 
rabbit under the wall; hut for the present, children, 
I must bid you Good Night. 
Oberlin, Ohio, 1867. 
WHAT MAKES A MAN? 
Not numerous years, nor lengthened life, 
Not pretty children and a wife : 
Not pins and canes and fancy rings, 
Nor any such life© mimpery things ; 
Not pipe, cigar nor bottled wine, 
Nor liberty with kings to dine ; 
Not coat nor boots, nor yet a hat, 
A dandy rest or trim cravat; 
Not houses, land or golden ore, 
Norall the world's wealth laid in store ; 
Not Air., Rev, Sir nor Squire, 
With titles that the memory tire ; 
Not ancestry, traced back to Will, 
Who went from Normandy to kill; 
Not Latin, Greek nor Hebrew lore, 
Nor thousands volumes rumbled o’er ; 
Not judge’s robe, nor mayor's mace : 
Nor crowns that deck the royal race ; 
These all united never can 
Avail to make a single man. 
A truthful soul, a loving mind. 
Full of affection lor its kind: 
A spirit firm, erect and free, 
That never basely bends a knee ; 
That will not bear a feather’s weight 
Of slavery's chain, for small or great; 
That truly speaks from God within, 
And never makes a league with sin ; 
That snaps the fetters despots make, 
And loves the truth for its own sake ; 
That worships God, and Him, alone, 
And bows nowhere but at His throne ; 
That trembles at no tyrant’s nod ; 
A soul that fears no odb but God ; 
And thus can smile at curse or ban : — 
That is the soul that makes a man. 
-- 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
INFLUENCE AND CHARACTER. 
It is a very trite saying that "no person is bo 
humble as to be without influence,” yet a correct 
estimate of that influence by others is very rai , c ) 
aud still less frequent la a correct idea formed by 
an individual of the power he exerts upon those 
by whom he is surrounded. As physical power is 
increased by active energy and continued exer¬ 
tion, so are mental, moral and social power. He 
therefore who regards life as something higher 
and nobler than a mere embodiment of appetites 
and passions, feels impelled by the strongest mo¬ 
tives to diligent exertionfor the attainment of that 
knowledge which, in the highest sense, is power— 
soul wealth. He must alternately delve in the 
mines of thought and buffet the waves of passion 
and prejudice, if he would bring to the world's in¬ 
tellectual marts the pure gold of truth or the 
priceless gems of principle, or treasure them up 
to meet hi9 own mental and moral wants. They lie 
bedded in the quartz of hoary traditional error, or 
scattered in the shifting sands of false appearances, 
plausible theories and popular sophistries;. Scarce 
a day passes without bringing the occasion or ne¬ 
cessity for the activity and akill of the earnest, 
honest mind. Error put forth in the garb of truth, 
or truth draped in the weeds of error, are con¬ 
stantly presented to onr observation No charac¬ 
ter so'spotless ns not to be darkly clouded by the 
selfish and the desigring— do truth so grand or so 
uviy as not to have its counterfeit, and no error so 
base as not often to assume the form and the beauty 
of an angel of light 
That every person finds his or her own level in 
the world is also a saying very common, at least 
with the fortunate, yet n true estimate of character 
is perhaps rarer than that of influence. The bil¬ 
lows and tides of the ocean bear only the froth and 
foam on their surface, while the priceless wealth 
of pearls aud gems is garnered far down in its 
pure and quiet waterB. 
“ Thu waters nre calm and still below, 
For the winds and waves are absent there, 
And its gems are bright na the stars that glow 
In the motionless fields of upper air." 
So in the great ocean of humanity— 
While some are rich in all indulgent earth. 
And all-propitious Heaven can daily give, 
Favored alike by incidents of birth 
And fortune's lavish smiles, favored to live 
In luxury of life, tho' poor in thought, 
Are rich in friends and rich in learning bought, 
All ready made aud taoght for gold the way 
Deftly the wily showman’s art to play. 
And euger congregations wistful gaze 
Willi grave old Senators In mute sui pease. 
Reporters state and wait In black amaze 
Of sounding wordB and pompous ignorance 
In pulpit and the forum their displays, 
Whence men of earnest thought and sterling sense 
By license thus to bold presumption given, 
And social tyranny are basely driven. 
Others tho' poor fn gold are rich in thought, 
Tho' doomed to daily toil they give to high emprise 
The precionB hours when all ia hushed, aud naught 
Can mar tbeir commune wilh the Just, the wise 
Of olden time. They scan those pages fraught 
With more thau mortal wisdom, aud arise 
To mute companionship of soul with Him 
Who inspired the exulting song of seraphim. 
They neither think, nor toil, nor strive for fame, 
Their lives to careful study consecrate, 
They keep forever bright the sacred flame 
Which doth expand and purify and elevate 
With thoughts far-reaching and with noble aim, 
With patient effort, action well defined, 
They form tho character and mould the state, 
By giving shade and color to the common kind. 
CassopoliB, Mich., 1857. H. B. D. 
—-♦--*- 
Family Likenesses. — Southey, in a letter to 
Sir Egerton Brydges, says: — "Did you ever ob¬ 
serve how remarkably old age brings outl'ami'y 
likenesses, which, having been kept as it were ia 
abeyance while the pasBionH and business of tho 
world engrossed the parties, come forth again in 
age (aa in infancy) the features settling into their 
primary characters before dissolution? I have 
eeen some affecting instances of this: a brother 
and sister, than whom no two persons in middle 
life could have been more unlike in countenance 
or in character, becoming like us twins at last.— 
1 now see my father's lineaments in the looking- 
glass, where they never used to appear.” 
If you would have your son be something in 
the world, teach him to depend on himself. Let 
him learn that it is by close, strenuous personal 
application that be must, rise — that he must, in 
short, make himself, and be tho architect of his 
own fortune. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WATCHING THE WRONG WHEEL. 
One pleasant day, not long since, friend Ned 
and I determined to leave onr business awhile— ’ 
bid dull care away, and take a drive into the 1 
country. We procured an elegant equipage, and i 
were about starting, when our friend, to whom the 
“establishment” belonged, remarked—“one of the 
wheels is loose, and may come off.’’ " Never fear,” 
said I, without looking to see which wheel was 
loose, or whether there was, in reality, any danger 
—“if it should chance to come off, we can easily 
put a rail under and drive oil” We called to see 
a nufftber of old schoolmates, and it was near 
night when we started homeward. On wo went, 
tbe shades gathering darker and darker. At last 
Ned glanced over the side of the carriage, and 
lo 1 “the wheel was coming off” Ned was sure of 
it. Accordingly, he alighted to walk by the side 
of the carriage, and give me the intimation when 
the catastrophe should occur, and, if possible, pre¬ 
vent any Berious damage. But, astonishing, the 
wheel did not come oil; and Ned walked slowly 
into town, for wo hardly permitted the horse to 
move. Meanwhile, our friend, alarmed at the de¬ 
lay, came to meet us. “What is the trouble,” be 
inquired. “ One of tbe front wheels is almost off,” 
answered Ned. Upon hearing this, our good 
friend burst into a hearty laugh, and informed ns 
we bad watched the wrong wheel, it being one of 
the hind wheels that was not iu good rnnning 
order. 
Ned was chagrined enough, but I (as I am 
wont) set myself to moralizing immediately. How 
many people are there who spend their whole lives 
in watching the wrong wheel. I knew a parent 
who had a darling child. Not a wish was denied, 
every whim was gratified. He grew to be a youth 
—gold was given him to speud without restraint, 
and ere long the wealth of the fond father was 
squandered atthe gaming table and midnight revel 
When I heard the sentence of an imprisonment of 
years pronounced upon him, aud saw the tears of 
the hoary-headed parent, I could not but think— 
that lather has been watching the wrong wbeeL I 
remembered a mother who had an only daughter. 
The little girl waa pretty — the mother told her 
she was beautiful, and thuB tbe flame of vanity was 
kindled. All the gaudy attire that the limited 
means of her fond parent could procure, was pro¬ 
vided—gold sparkled upon her person, and bril¬ 
liants nestled in her dark hair. Tho young lady 
became fashion’s most zealous votary, and when 
I listened to the heartless epithets she bestowed 
upon her parent who had loved so blindly, I 
thought that mother had watched the wrong wheel. 
If she, with the foud gushings of a mothers love, 
had but striven to adorn the mind of her child 
with beauty; perhaps, in after life, the tottering 
mother would not have been left without the pale 
of affection, and spurned as a menial in her daugh¬ 
ter’s affluent home. A. t. r. 
Sandy Creek, N. Y. 1857. 
--».■»■- 
YOUNG MEN. 
There is no moral object so beautiful to me as 
a conscientious young man. I watch him as I do 
a star in heaven: clouds may be before him, but 
we know that his light is behind him, and will 
beam forth again; the blaze of others’ popularity 
outshines him, but we know that, though unseen, he 
illuminates LIb own true sphere. He resists temp¬ 
tation, not without a struggle, for this is not vir¬ 
tue; hut he resists and conquers: he bears the 
sarcasm of the profligate, and it stings him — for 
that is a trait of virtue — but heals with his own 
pure touch. He heeds not the watchword of 
fashion, if it leads to sin: the atheist—who says, 
not only in his heart, but with his lips, there is no 
God—controls him not; he sees the hand of a creat¬ 
ing God, and rejoices in it 
Woman is sheltered by fond arms and loving 
counsel; old age is protected by its experience, 
and manhood by its strength; but the young man 
stands amid the temptations of the world like a 
self-balanced tower. Happy he who seeks and 
gains the prop of morality. 
Onward, then, conscientious youth — raise thy 
standard, and nerve thyself for goodness- If God 
haB given thee intellectual power, awake in that 
cause; never let it be said of thee, he helped to 
swell the river of sin by pouriug Lis influence into 
its channels. If thou art feeble in mental strength, 
throw not that drop into a polluted current*— 
Awake, arise, young man! assume the beautiful 
garb of virtue! It is difficult to be pure and holy. 
Put on thy strength, then. Let truth be the lady 
of thy love—defend her.— Selected. 
MONEY. 
Money is a queer institution. It buys proven¬ 
der, satisfies justice, and heals wounded honor.— 
Everything resolves itself into cash, from stock 
jobbing to building churches. Childhood craves 
pennies; youth aspires to dimes; manhood is 
swayed by the mighty dollar. The blacksmith 
swings the sledge, the lawyer pleads for his client, 
and the judge decides the question of life and 
death for his salary. Money makes the man; 
therefore, the man mast make money, if he would 
be respected by fools; for tbe eye of tbe world 
looks through golden spectacles. It buys Brussels 
carpets, lace curtains, gilded cornices and rich 
furniture, and builds marble mftDBioua. It drives 
ub to church iu splendid equipages and pays the 
rent of the best pew. It buys silks and jewelry 
for my lady —it commauda the respect of gaping 
crowds and insures obsequious attention. It ena¬ 
bles us to be charitable, to Bend bibles to the 
heathen, and relieve domestic indigence. It gilds 
the nigged scenes of life an d spreads over the 
rugged path of existence a velvet carpet soft to 
our tread; tho rude scenes of turmoil are encased 
in a gilt frame. It bids care vanish, soothes tbe 
anguish of the bed of sickness, stops short of 
nothing save the grim destroyer, whose relentless 
hand spares none, but levels all mortal distinction, 
aud teaches poor, weak humanity that, it is but 
dust. Thus wealth pauses ou the briuk of eter¬ 
nity; the beggar and the millionaire rest side by 
sie'e beneath the sod, to rise in equality to answer 
the fiial summons. 
-*—♦- 
Bk Kind. —Hard words are like hailstones in 
summer beating down and destroying what they 
would nourish were they melted into drops. 
THADDEUS KOSCIUSKO. 
During tbe American struggle for independence, 
Washington was greatly embarrassed by the arri¬ 
val ol foreign officers, who expected nothing less 
thau one of the highest posts in the army, and 
frequently, when accepted, proved unworthy of 
the stations assigned to them. Experience of this 
kiud led Washington to be exceedingly cautious 
iu receiving foreign officers into the service. At 
this period, Kosciusko presented himself to WaBh- 
iugtOD, fortified by a letter from Franklin. The 
first interview between the gallant and generous 
Pole aud tbe no less generous Washington, is thus 
described in the third volume of Washington Irv¬ 
ing’s Washington, just issued from the press: 
“ What do you seek here?” inquired the Com- 
mauder iu-Chief. 
“ To fight for American independence.” 
“What can you do?” 
" Try me.” 
Washington was pleased with the curt yet com¬ 
prehensive reply, and with his chivalrous air and 
spirit* and at once received him into his family as 
an aide-de-camp. His subsequent noble and gal¬ 
lant career, as an officer in the American service, 
is well known, and has inseparably joined his name 
with that noble struggle to which we owe our pres¬ 
ent exalted rank as a nation. 
For a number of years a suit has been in pro 
gross in tbe courts of the District of Columbia, 
prosecuted by bis collateral, heirs, to recover the 
property left by hint at his decease in this country, 
which now amounts to upwards of fifty thousand 
dollars. We believe that a final decision haabeen 
rendered, establishing the relationship of the 
claimants and the validity of their claim. 
SIMPLICITY OF ENGLISH DRESS. 
In the families of the nobility and gentry of 
England, possessing an annual income which of 
itself would be an ample fortune, there is greater 
economy of dress, and more simplicity in the 
furnishing of the dwelling, than there is in the 
houses of our citizens, who are barely able to sup¬ 
port the daily wants of their families by the closest 
attention to their business. A friend ot oars, who 
sojourned, not long since, several months in the 
vicinity of the wealthy landed aristocracy of Eng¬ 
land, whose ample rent rolls wonld have warranted 
a high style of fashion, was surprised at the sim¬ 
plicity of maimers practised. 
Servants were much more numerous than with 
us, hut the ladies made more account of one silk 
dresB, than would be thought here of a dozen. 
They were generally clothed in good substantial 
stuffs, and a display of fine clothing and jewelry 
was reserved for great occasions. The furniture 
of mansions, instead of being turned out of doors 
every few years for new and more fashionable 
styles, was the Bame which the ancestors of tho 
families for several generations bad possessed, 
substantial, aud iu excellent preservation, but 
plain, without any pretention to elegance. Even 
the carpets on many suites of parlors had been on 
the floors for fifty years, and were expected to do 
service for another halt' century. With us, how 
different ia tho state of things. We are wasting au 
amount of wealth in tins country, on show and 
fashion, which, if rightly applied, would renova; 
the condition Of the whole population of the 
world, and Christianize, civilize and educate all 
mankind.— Selected. 
CiyiLITY IS A FORTUNE. 
Civility is a fortune itself) for a courteous man 
always succeeds well in life, and that even when 
persona of ability sometimes fail. The famous 
Duke of Marlborough is a case in point. It was 
Bftid of him by one contemporary, that his agreea¬ 
ble manners often converted an enemy into a 
friend; and by another, that it was more pleasing 
to be denied a favor by his grace, than to receive 
one from other men. The graoious manner of 
Charles James Fox preserved him from personal 
dislike, even at a time when he was politically the 
most unpopular man iu the kingdom. The history 
of the country is fall of such examples of success 
obtained by civility. Tbe experience of every 
man furnishes, if we but recall the past, frequent 
instances where conciliatory manners have made 
the fortunes of physicians, lawyers, divines, poli¬ 
ticians, merchants, aud, indeed, individuals of all 
pursuits. In being introduced to a stranger, hil 
affability, or the reverse, creates inslanlHneouslF 
a prepossession in hia behalf, or awakens nnco/i- 
sciously a prejudice against him. To men, civility 
is, in fact, what beauty is to a woman; it is a 
general passport to favor, a letter of recommenda¬ 
tion, written In language that every stranger un¬ 
derstands. The best of men have often Injured 
themselves by irritability and consequent rude¬ 
ness, as tho greatest scoundrels have frequently 
succeeded by their plausible manners. Of two 
men, equal in all other respects, the courteous ons 
has twice the chance for fortune. 
-■>»»■ 
The Fate of a Flirt. — It is very rarely, ifr 
deed, that a confirmed flirt gets married. Ninel" 
nine out of every hundred old maids may attribue 
their ancient loneliness to juvenile levity. It £ 
very certain that few men moke a selection fro® 
ball-rooms or any other place of gaiety, and js 
few are influenced by what may be called showiJK 
of in tho streets, or any other allurements of dreK 
Our conviction is, ninety-nine hundredths of all 
the finery with which women decorate and load 
their persons, go for nothing so fair as husband- 
catching is concerned. Where and bow, then, ip 
men find tbeir wives? In the quiet homes of tb'fr 
parents or guardians — at the fireside where tie 
domestic graces and feelings are alone demon¬ 
strated. These are tho charms which most surely 
attract the high as well as hnmble. Against tlic-so 
all the finery and airs in tho world Bink into ius'g" 
nificance. 
—---*-»-►-- 
Life is a picnic, which would be all the mere 
agreeable, if we could only agree beforehand to 
the share each of us was to take in the entertain¬ 
ment. As it is, for the want of a better under¬ 
standing, a degree of insipid sameness often arises I 
when, upon stock being taken of the eompan/, it 1 
is found out that every one present has brougit a I 
a call's bead! 
Every heart has a secret drawer, the spriig °f, 
which is only known the owner. 
