MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
up in its purity and depth to dwell with us in Hea¬ 
ven, where the One Great Love, of which it is hut 
a ray, will strengthen it, and it will pass on through 
an endlesB eternity. 
And it is in the eternal home we Bhall find our 
Willie! Little Willie that came to us in our first 
sweet home on earth— the dear home that he had 
made so much dearer: 
“For all unfinished was Love's jewelled ring, 
Till set, with this soft pearl 1” 
Oh, how proud we were of him—William and I— 
our first child, our boy! Once he was so beauti¬ 
ful! This little lock has faded some—his curls 
were brighter even than this. He had his father’s 
eyes—only a deeper, darker bine—with such a 
clearness—you could almost see the spotless soul 
within, as we sometimes fancy when the Bky is 
cloudless, (forgetting we "see through a glass 
darkly” still,) that we can pierce its depths of blue, 
and find the heaven beyond. We might have 
known that he would not bless us long with his 
sweet presence, he was so spiritual even to look at; 
but we were young—the world lay in the glad sun¬ 
light of earthly beauty before us, and the angel of 
Death had never folded his white wings at our 
threshold, and we knew him not We had seen 
the dark shadow thrown over other households, 
and sorrowed with those who told us of their chil¬ 
dren’s having passed on to the silent land, 
“ Where wander all the little feet 
Earth’s darkened homes deplore j" 
yet still, hope was strong within ns, and we never 
thought when onr little one’s arms were thrown 
caressingly around ub, and his bright lips parted 
with a sunny smile, that our child was far too pure 
and innocent for this cold world, and that angels 
soon would still the bird-like music of his voice, 
finding it was meet for heaven; never thought 
when our darling lay bo closely folded to our 
hearts, that it would so soon become one of the 
Father's chosen little ones. We always oalled him 
wee Willie, he was so small — onr first wee white 
blossom. With all our anxious care we could 
never have brought it to perfection here — it was 
too white, too frail for earth. The bright dreams 
in which we had pictured the unfolding of onr 
beautiful bud, could never be realized in thiB 
world; itrequired the milder, softer airs of heaven; 
and there, too, will our dreams be fulfilled. 
Dear little Willie! no wonder onr hearts yearn 
so intensely, even through all this length of years, 
over our little one, 
ing upon them forever. Then visit the desolate 
abodes of mortality, there we behold man in his 
ruins; his once bright form, the tenement of an 
immortal mind, the temple of a godlike and never- 
dying intellect, now mingling with the clods in the 
dread realms of death. Read the epitaph, written 
in “ dull, cold marble”—the last fond tribute of af¬ 
fection—the surviving memento of devoted love. 
Again tread upon the sacred dust once animated 
with celestial fire, and while musingnpon the mel¬ 
ancholy picture of fallen mat, think you, when he 
walked the earth in his glory, was he ever clothed 
with snch a spell or power, as from his Bilent ashes 
springs? 0 there is an eloquence in desolation, as 
it tells ns of departed brightness, and wafns ns of 
transient greatness. There the end of all earthly 
perfection is seen — there the evanescence of hu¬ 
man glory is written, and there the final destiny of 
human greatness is revealed. Cakrie M. P. 
Huron, June, 1857. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILK 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
REMEMBER ME! 
[The accompanying poetry was found among the manu¬ 
scripts of a sister, recently deceased. Thinking it worthy 
of publication in the Rural, I send it for your disposal. 
—D. J. W., Yorkshire, If. I., June, 1857.] 
THE HOURS. 
Rbmbxbku Mb ! That single phrase 
Speaks more than thousand words can tell, 
More of affections wealth conveys, 
When kindred hearts responsive swell, 
Than breathes in passion’s wildest tone, 
Or e’en the eyes mute witohery ; 
I ask hut this when thou art gone, 
This single boon, Remember Me 1 
Remember Me when thou ahalt pray 
That all our sins may be forgiven, 
Our spirits thus together may 
Ascend at that same hour to heaven ; 
And on that day of sacred rest 
When thou in silent fervency 
Shalt bleBS their names that love thee best, 
In that warm prayer, Remember Me ! 
Remember Me when morning breaks 
Thy golden visions bright though vain. 
And ere the noisy world awakes 
To call thee to its haunts again ; 
And when the glorious setting sun 
Sinks silently beneath the sea, 
And thou, day’s busy turmoil done, 
Hast time to love, Remember Me! 
Remember Me when twilight dim 
Darkens thy pathway o'er the lea, 
When hoary ocean's vesper hymn 
Comes with its murmur’d melody, 
When starry sentinels look down 
From their high thrones to watch o’er thee, 
And thou art silent and alone— 
In that still hour Remember Me I 
Remember Me whene'er a flower 
Faint and dlnoolor’d meets thine eye, 
Drooping beneath the wintry shower, 
For iny soke pass that flower not by, 
But take it when Its pallid crest 
Stoops as the cold blast sweeps the lea 
And shelter it within thy breast, 
And dear one, then, Remember Me I 
Assyria, Mich, 1857. J. M, 
BY LOUISA R. WOODWORTH. 
Passing by, on swift wings passing, 
Borne upon the stream of Time, 
Each bright hoar is onward gliding, 
Onward with their silvery chime. 
Happy Hours, 
Shall we, then, their loss repine ? 
Passing by, in vain to ask them 
Why they hurry swiftly on, 
It were all in vain to call them, 
Time waits not, hut soon is gone. 
Fleeting Hours, 
Every moment must he won. 
Some have come announced by sunshine 
Bome upon their fairy wings, 
Like the coming of the spring-time, 
When to light and life it springs. 
Lovely Hours, 
Loveliest of fairy things. 
We would charm their stay forever, 
We would bind with golden chain 
Each fair moment, so that never 
It should pass away again. 
Wingless hours, 
Every moment, then, to claim. 
But perchance, some one in sadness 
On their pinions, shed a tear, 
And they came unlike the gladness 
Of the former happy year. 
Haste, then Hours, 
Linger not so sadly near. 
So afloAt in robes of brightness, 
Or in sorrows dark array, 
Round the heart in wily brightness, 
Hover hours that cannot stay. 
Angel Hours, 
Do thy mission, then away. 
Yorkshire, N. Y., 1856. 
THE COPPEK CENT, 
Cents were coined in England very early, for 
the Colonies. Pennies were issued by Vermont, 
New Jersey, Massachusetts and Connecticut, and 
after 1755 were very common. Cents are now 
found in common circulation with “ authority of 
Connecticut” on those usually dated 1787. A cent, 
with one large and thirteen small stars, surmount¬ 
ed with the words “New Constitution,” "U. 8. 
Liberty and Justice, 1784,” was the first United 
States cent Then came the Washington cent of 
1791-92-93. Quite a variety of cents were iBsned 
daring Washington’s Presidency—one had, “Wash¬ 
ington, President,” with thirteen large links on 
the opposite, another had “Washington” on one 
side, “ U. S. America” and thirteen small links on 
the opposite. A cent was issued in 1787 with 
“ Fugio, mind your business,” &c., on one side, 
thirteen large links and “ we are one” on the op¬ 
posite. About 1772 the French Goddess of Liber¬ 
ty, with neck thrust forward and long hair, was 
issued. The cent of the year 1794 bad on it a 
Liberty Cap and pole, bearing a fine classic face 
with the word “Liberty” over the head. On the 
reverse was ’• U. S. A.” and “One Cent,” sur¬ 
mounted by the Olive wreath, indicating "Peace 
to all the world.” Up to 1808 the faces were all 
turned to the right. The year 1809 indicates the 
year when was issued the penny which is now our 
common cent There were no cents issued in 
1805, partly on account of the Mint being burned 
in that year, and partly on account of the scarcity 
of copper. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE “BTJHAL" AND RLLRAL .LIFE, 
AS VIEWED BY A DENIZEN OF THE METBOFOLIS. 
Rural New-Yobker :— Gratnlation for your 
happy name—I mean the adjective part of it Of 
the olher I have nothingto say, good or bad—only 
I do not say it is bad. Fame to the genius that 
invented or discovered the “Rural” of yonr title! 
A monument to the original constructor of the 
word! Buthe built himself the most splendid and 
enduring one, in the thing itself. He can afford 
to have his own name unknown while this exists 
—that is, if any mortal man did make the word.— 
It rather favors the theory of language, to its very 
words, beiDg a gift direct to men, by their Maker, 
rather than their inventing it. It is certain “God 
the country made.” It is reasonable to fancy that 
only He could fit it with a word so descriptive of 
its beauty, richness and delights, as Rural. The 
philosophy of Sn aks r eare, that “there's nothing 
in a name,” certainly “losee, discountenanced,and 
like error shows,” confronted by this test. You 
might be the same “rose” yon are “by any other 
name;” bnt (and no disparagement to yonr sub¬ 
stantial qualities) would not “ smell as sweet ”_ 
would not be so redolent of all that is leafy, flow¬ 
ery, delicious—that makes Nature beautiful, vital 
and delighting. 
True, the good name must have the befitting 
good substance for its basis, otherwise it falls 
through—a tub that has no bottom of its own._ 
The rose does smell sweeter with its own name; 
yet its name put upon anything else would not 
make it a rose,but a disgrace—not to the true 
TWILIGHT REVERIES 
“No, no, dear, grandpapa can’t let you have 
that,” I heard my husband say as I stepped out into 
our cottage porch one summer evening, and I con¬ 
fess I looked in astonishment to find what it could 
be, that he was unwilling to give the little blue- 
eyed pleader at his feet. I paused—as I caught 
sight of a small locket, that baby May’s eager little 
hands were reaching for, and the tears would 
come, when after gaining her promise “not to 
touch,” grandpapa lifted her to his knee, and gently 
opened it It did not seem much—to some it would 
have been only a little golden curl of soft, silky 
hail - — but to us it teas everything — “ all we bad left 
of our little one,” as he said, brushing his hand 
hastily across his eyes, and bidding May “ hand it 
very carefully to grandmamma, and then come 
with him for a walk.” He went in through the 
open doorway for his hat, and May stood half won¬ 
dering at my side, as if rather unwilling to give 
up the plaything that shone so brightly, till I took 
it from her with a kiss, saying, yes, it is all we have 
left of our little baby — “ our angel baby,” William 
echoed in my ear as he came through the porch, 
and then turning with his customary “God bless 
yon, wife,” added with a quiet smile, “ we shall soon 
be with him now,” and taking the child’s small 
hand in his, passed through the wicket into the 
pleasant fields that led to the river side. 
And I sat in the summer twilight watching 
them. The old man, (for he is an old man now— 
strange as it seems,) and the young child of three 
bright and happy Springs— Our May Blossom—we 
call her—though she was named for me—it seems 
so right, coming as she did amid its earliest flowers, 
and she the sweetest, purest of them alk 
“We shall be with him soon,” I murmured, as a 
curve in the winding meadow hid them from mv 
God has blessed ub with other 
children, whose lives are spared to us still, the joy 
and comfort of our old age, but none ever took his 
place—our only little one in heaven—our “ angel 
baby,” as William says. And soon we are going to 
meet him together. 
Ever since the night my husband came from that 
silent room, and told me the angels had been there 
and the little spirit had gone home—ever since I 
bent over his crib in the early morning, and saw 
i”—that our 
NEW ENGLAND CHARACTER, 
But what has the Union ever done? Some 
claim that she is the mother of commerce. I 
doubt it. I question whether the genius and 
energy of the Yankee race are not the parent of 
commerce and the fountain of wealth, much more 
than the Union. That race, in Holland, first crea¬ 
ted a country, and then, standing on pileB, called 
modern commerce into being. That race, in Eng¬ 
land, with territory just wide enough to keep its 
Eastern and Western harbors apart, monopolized 
for centuries the trade of the world, and annexed 
continents only as treasure-houses wherein to 
gamer its wealth. Who shall say that the same 
blood, with only New England l’or its auoliorage, 
could not drag the wealth of the West into its har- 
borB? Who shall say that the fertile lands of Vir¬ 
ginia and the Mississippi enriched her because 
they willed to do bo, and not because they were 
compelled? As long as New England is made of 
granite and the nerves of her sons of steel, she 
will be, as Bhe always has been, the brain of North 
America, united or disunited; and harnessing the 
elements, steam and lightning, to her car of con¬ 
quest, she will double the worth of every prairie 
acre by her skill, cover ocean with her canvas, 
and gather the wealth of the western hemisphere 
into her harbors.— Wendell Phillips. 
that God bad given “ His beloved sleep 1 
little blossom was folded up in all its whiteness, 
and that he had taken it to kimself, knowing that 
“of such is the Kingdom of Heaven,” we could but 
remember that all must become “as the little 
child,” we even as our own, ere we could follow its 
little spirit through the ruby gates of the Eternal 
City. 
And we are almost there! Every day 
every 
calm twilight hour like this, brings ub nearer and 
nearer to the journey’s close. This little locket 
has been like a talisman through life, for bow could 
we, remembering we had a child in heaven, do 
aught that was unworthy of the dear right we 
olaim, of being its father—mother? 
Wee Willie! little white blossom that God’s love 
has cared for, and unfolded leaf after leaf of its 
purity in toe home of the angels!—we shall be 
with him soon now; be with the little spirit of our 
child that awaits us upon the peaceful shores of 
the better land! God’s mercy is indeed great, 
that causes the best gift in the morning of onr ex¬ 
istence to become also bis richest blessing in the 
eventide of life.— Boston Evening Gazette. 
rose 
but to itself. And the substance must be seen and 
handled, experimentally tested, to make sure that 
it is genuine, true to its name, since misnomers are 
so common. So, the “ Rural Neu>- Yorker,” as ad¬ 
vertised in some of our city papers, passed through 
the ear and imagination as a charming name, 
musical as bird-notes and picturesque as a June 
landscape—and no more, till some of my “ Rural” 
cousins, a little proud of their paper, I surmise, as 
well as generous and pitiful to their kinsman 
dwelling in this peopled Saharab, sent me the sub¬ 
stantive itself. This gave practical effect to the 
charming name, so that I walked among yonr or¬ 
chards, yonr meadows and your pastures, with the 
cows and oxen and sheep and horses; looked into 
your neat, quiet, dwellings, with their sweet dairy 
cellars, your out-door gardens, yonr grand barns 
with the poultry-yards; wandered among yonr 
grain-fields and “went gipsying” over your plains 
and hills, through yonr vallies, along your crystal 
streams, and among your "wild old woods”—bear¬ 
ing the lowing of cattle, bleating of sheep, singing 
of birds and chatter of squirrels, free live birds 
and squirrels—everything free. Anytbing impris¬ 
oned there, it were not Rural. Serfdom or slavery 
would nu-mralize the “ Genesee Country” itself.— 
One clink of the chain or crack of tbewbip would 
scare away the Rural Genius as effectually as the 
Bliakc of Anthony' Blekcker’b auction hammer 
in the Exchange, Wall street, knocking the whole 
territory at one blow off into 100 by 25 feet city 
lots, every one to have its complement of build¬ 
ings spring up on it the next moment by the rub¬ 
bing of a great enterprise-lamp so ranch more 
mighty than the Arabian’s! 
And I beard, too, the voices of your plowmen 
driving their teams a-fleld, and the singing of your 
milk-maids—and of your poets. I mean all who 
furnish your origiual verse. Most, of them seem to 
be what some, ungrammatically, unphilosophical- 
ly and unmannerly, might denominate poeteim— 
as if their Muse were feminine. Well, true it is, if 
universal usage, since a muse was heard of, is cor¬ 
rect, for by this the muse 1 h ever feminine—that of 
the man-poet’s equally with that of the woman- 
poet’s. And if the muse isn't, the poetry, pray 
whai is the muse aud whai poetry ? 8o, then, if 
any of the muse-people are poetesses, they all arc. 
If they say this old universal usage Is an unfound¬ 
ed conceit, without meaning, then let’s bring out 
Borne muse-specimens on each side aud see if some 
are feminine while others are masculine, and 
which is which. AgaiuBt Joanna Bailie, Felecia 
Remans, Hannah More and Elizabeth Bowrlog, set 
forth, say, Win. Cowpcr, Jolin KeatB, Wm. Words¬ 
worth, Alfred Tennyson, the husband of the "An¬ 
gel of the Household,’’ Win. Bryant, John Whittier 
and Henry Longfellow. The cause needs no law- 
For Moore's Ratal New-Yorker 
ELOQUENCE OF DESOLATION. 
It is a peculiar attribute of the human mind to 
revere the past above the present or the future. 
We may exult over the pleasures of to-day, for they 
are all that we can really call our own; we may 
look forward with glowing hopes to scenes veiled 
by the curtain of futurity, for it is there alone we 
can behold happiness without misery, and joy 
without grief; but it is only those events dimmed 
by the shadows of the past, and faintly seen through 
the vista of many years, that wo cherish with a 
devotion equal to adoration. TbuB we love and 
venerate the objects of the past; true there is a 
charm in present glory, bnt there is a more touch¬ 
ing picture in glory faded. There is a grandeur 
in actual greatness, bnt there is a greater eloqaence 
in its desolation. 
There is a beauty in the first and early smile of 
Spring, when the snowy flake is melted, the glitter¬ 
ing icicle dissolved, and all nature revived at her 
refreshing touch. The fields resume their wonted 
gaiety, the (lowers bloom forth with new-born 
beauty, and tbe trees, with their crested foliage, 
put on their former brightness. But when the 
Bummer’s gale has lied, and Autumn’s chilly breath 
has blown their beauty to the ground, when the 
flowers have lost their brightness and the fields 
their fragrance, in snch a moment the rustling of 
the fallen leaves, tbe last faint effulgence of the 
blighted flowers—emblems of hopes departed and 
joys forever gone,— have a tone of eloquence 
deeper, though sad and mournful, than Spring 
with its varied delights. And who would not leave 
the splendor of living objects to view the fading 
relics of ancient greatness? Who would not turn 
from the stately and magnificent mansions of the 
living to gaze upon the broken arches and crum¬ 
bling columns of a once gorgeous palace, or look 
upon the forsaken castles, and desolated temples 
of a once glorious city? When wo have become 
indifferent to the bright scenes that surround us— 
when the song of mirth is dull and the voice of 
gladness can no longer lure, we are wont to wan¬ 
der with melancholy pleasure among the mournful 
ruins of the past. 
There is an eloquence, too, iu the desolations of 
tbe tomb. It comes from the silent abodes of the 
departed, though their voice is mute and their lips 
are closed forever. We feel it as we view the 
mouldering urn and the lonely sepulchre, where 
rises the lettered stone or sculptured monument to 
tell where the great and renowned of earth re¬ 
pose. It comeg, too, from the more humble tombs 
of those Imaged in memory’s sacred tablet, where 
far beneath the grassy turf lie faded and withered 
all that was bright and lovely. There Is eloquence 
there, though the shades of forgetfulness are clos- 
Returning Answers.— Hear the story of the 
child which went forth into the mountain ravine. 
While the child wandered there, he called aloud to 
break tke loneliness, and heard a voice which 
called to him in the same tone. He called again, 
and, as he thought, the voice again mocked him. 
Flushed with anger, he rushed to find the boy who 
had insulted him, but could find none. He then 
called to him in anger, and with all abusive epi¬ 
thets—all of which were l'aithfnlly returned to him. 
Choking with rage, the child ran to his mother 
and complained that a boy in the woods had 
abused and insulted him with many vile words.— 
But the mother took her child by the hand and 
said: “My child, these names were but the echoes 
of thine own voice. Whatever thou didst call was 
returned to thee from the hill aide. Hadst thou 
called out pleasant words, pleasant words had re¬ 
turned to thee. Let this be tby lesson through 
life, The world will be echo of thine own spirit. 
Treat thy fellows with unkindness, and they will 
answer with unkindness; with love, and thou shalt 
have love. Send forth sunshine from thy spirit, 
and thou shalt never have a clouded day; carry 
about thee a vindictive spirit, and even in the 
flowers shall lark curses. Thou shalt receive ever 
what thou givest, and that alone.” “Always,” 
said the speaker, “is that child in the mountain 
pasBeB—and every man and woman is that child.” 
FAST MEN 
The vicious die early. They fall like shadows, 
or tumble like wrecks and ruins into the grave— 
often whilo quite young — almost always before 
forty. The wicked “livetb not half his days.”— 
The world at once ratifies the truth and assigns 
the reason, by describing the dissolute ub “ fast 
men,” that is, they live fast, they spend their 
twelve hours in six, getting through the whole be¬ 
fore the meridian, and dropping out of sight and 
into darkness, whilo others are in the glow and 
glory of life—" Their sun is down while it is yet 
day.” Aud they might have helped it. Many a 
one dies long before be need. l r our men of 
genius, like Burns and Byron, to whom, when dis¬ 
sipated and profligate, thirty-seven is so fatal; and 
your obscure and nameless “ wandering stars,” 
who waste their youth in libertine indulgence — 
they cannot live long. They must die early.— 
They put on |he steam till they blow up the boiler. 
They run at such a rate, that the fire goes out, for 
want of fuel. The machinery is destroyed by reck¬ 
less speed and rapid wear. Nothing can save 
them. Their physical system oannot Btand the 
strain they put it to; while the state of their 
minds is often such, that the soul would eat the 
Bubstance of the most robust body, and make for 
itself a way of escape from tbe incessant hell of 
its own thoughts.— T. Binney. 
The Mother,— Despise not thy mother when 
she is old. Age may wear and waste a mother’s 
beauty, strength, limbs, senses, and estate; but her 
relation as a mother is as the sun when It goes 
forth in his might, for it is always in the meridian, 
and knowing no evening. The person may be 
grey-beaded, but her motherly relation is ever in 
its flourish. It may be autumn, yes, winter, with 
a woman, but with the mother, as mother, it is al¬ 
ways spring. 
Alas, how little do we appreciate a mother’s 
tenderness while living! How heedless are we in 
youth of all her anxieties and kindness! But, 
when she is dead aud gone—when the cares and 
coldness of the world come withering to our heart 
—when we experience how hard it is to find true 
sympathy—how few love us for ourselves—how 
few will befriend ns in misfortune? Then it is 
that we think of the mother wo have lost. 
Nothing ever grows old in memory; the little 
boy that died, so long ago, is an eternal child; and 
even as he crept over the threshhold of God’s 
gates ajar, at the beckoning of tho Lord, so ever 
iu the heart his parting look, with heaven shining 
full upon his brow: the beauty that the heart grew 
warm beholding, In life’s forenoon, when dews 
were on tbe world, and played the tvuant with 
some angel, remains untouched by time, even as 
the unrent sky that let the wanderer in.— Chicago 
Journal. 
WiT and Wisdom. — A celebrated divine, who 
was remarkable, in the first period of his ministry, 
for a boisterous mode of preaching, suddenly 
adopted a mild and dispassionate style. One of 
his brethren inquired what induced him to make 
the change? He was answered — “When 1 was 
young I thought it was the thunder that killed tho 
people; but when I grew wiser, I discovered that 
it was the lightning; so I determined to thunder 
less and lighten more in future.” 
The pitying tears, and fond smiles of women, 
are like the showers and sunshine of spring .—Jean 
V l WW , uVWWW , u , WWW , V , U , WWWW l u , UVWV , u , WWW , V , U'WW'VVWUW l V l u l U l U l WWU/^ , U l UMJ^/ , ilVWW'u , b l WWVWW l «'u l ^iU l il l u , b , WW'uVli» l u , u l li l W'<('u , u , UWW'u , i<IWWU^I l >/ , uVWWW'u l ll'U l UU l >J l U l i» l WWW l V , U l l<''> , 'V wv "' 
