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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
one blessing, midst her tears, of the grateful 
mother npon her devoted girl, for a life-time of 
6elfish, purse-proud happiness iu inglorious ease. 
‘•There Is # joy in worth, 
A high, mysterious, soul pervading charm ; 
Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm. 
Mocks at the idle shadowy ilia of earth ; 
Amid the gloom is bright and tranquil in the storm." 
Honeoye, N. Y, 1857. M. M. M. 
For Moore’s Enrol New-Yorker. 
THE LITTLE FROCK. 
There is a great deal of humbug and shame¬ 
faced deceit in the world now-a-days, and we have 
been not a little amused by the pretensions made 
to rank and title by some whose ancestry were not 
unwilling to own that they earned their daily 
bread by “the sweat ot their brow.” Those who 
aB3nnie for themselves a superiority of station 
over their fellows, are generally descended from 
parents who claimed oo pro-eminence for their 
high birth or degree. By fortune favored, they 
have been placed in a position in life to command 
respect—for their money, and believing gold to be 
the title to aristocracy, they assume a haughty 
demeanor, and say to the less fortunate, " I am 
holier than thou.'’ Strange, that those who, in 
their younger days, were wont to associate with 
the offspring of “oommou people,” should arro¬ 
gate to themselves superiority over the honest 
mechanic and laborer—the very support of our 
country. The nobleman is to be distiugalshed 
by his manners, and not by thu amount of his 
Not a dress, but a frock, for it was made long 
time ago, when dresses were unknown. Neither is 
it a white robe, long enough to “reach to the floor,” 
and so completely swaddling the tinny form it 
contained, that ’fcwas almost impossible to find its 
'‘tiny wee foolies,"— but a Lilt.lt frock, the whole 
ol it, waist and sleeves, scarcely longer than your 
arm—pretty, bright-colored, twilled chintz. To¬ 
day I fonnd it in a chest of clothing and valuable 
relics, that once belonged to a dear departed 
Mother. How I gazed on the little, old fashioned 
relic of days gone by,—turning it over and over¬ 
looking at the puffed waist and sleeves,—short, 
hands, and bindings,—the puffs and ruffles, 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
LINES. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
NOT ALONE. 
by buffs w. smith 
Morning dawns with golden brightness. 
Silvery dew-drops brightly blaze;— 
Softly floats the bird’s sweet music, 
In melodious songs of praise. 
Gent!®, lovely, calm the morning; 
P-ac6ful. silent and serene;— 
Nature welcomes thee with pleasure, 
With thy pute and lovely sheen. 
Pleasant sunlight,—fair, sweet flowers. 
Tokens of Our Father's love; — 
Let thy presence e’er b» with ns, 
Teaching us of God above- 
Bedford, Ohio, 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
COUNTENANCES, 
Midnight watches rone d me keeping, 
Nightly dews are o’er me weeping, 
Zephyrs moan: 
Silence reigns o'er vale and hill. 
Every living voice is still, 
O’er me comes a secret chill— 
I'm alone! 
AE alonel I pause to listen, 
While the stare look down and glisten 
One by one; 
Nature’s strains that sweetly flow, 
Gentle breezes as ihey blow. 
Whisper to me, soft ami low, 
“Not alone.' 
Not alone, is round me sighing, 
While my heart the sound replying. 
All must own- 
Mem’ry’s voices greet my ear, 
Yolo s that 1 used to hear 
Seem to murmur, sweet and clear, 
“Not alone.” 
Not alone!" now sweeter pealing 
Is the sound, like angel's breathing 
In its tone: 
Loved ones’ forms now seem to be 
Ever watching over me, 
Loved ones lhat l used to see,— 
Pm not alone. 
Not alone: the Spirit ever 
Silent speake, yet ce&seth never 
From His Throne. 
Be that Heavenly voice my guide, 
Be that Spirit at my Bide, 
Then whatever may betide. 
. I'm not alone. 
Nunda, N. Y., 1857. 
A panorama, constantly changing in its scenes 
and almost endless in its extent, daily passes 
before ns. We look and wonder as the scenes Hit 
by, and are gone—perhaps forever. There is 
every kind of face and form, of light and shade.— 
A merry countenance shines out upon ns amid 
strange surroundings. Care-worn, selfish faces are 
about it,—so dark it is strange they do not quench 
all the light and sunshine of that merry heart— 
but it bids all care depart and smiles on. It is 
gone. We saw it for a moment only, but it has 
given rise to many pleasant thoughts, and we bless 
the heart of ono whose presence is a light and 
joy to the stranger hearts about him. 
The moving canvasB brings before us another 
face. The gloomy brow, the Bcornfnl lip, the 
flashing eye, dark, hateful linesof passion, remind 
us of the troubled waters which neither rest nor 
purify themselves by their tumultuous motion.— 
We shudder as we look on the dark repelling 
countenance, and wonder how that which God 
created fair and pleasant to look upon can be 
marred by passion. 
Another, a face which moves both onr admira¬ 
tion and onr pity, has taken its place. A child’s 
face, possessed by one ol manly years, We admire 
the parity and gentleness ol the expression; but 
we miss the energy and decision which should 
characterize one who has the heart to appreciate 
all that is pure, beautiful and good. Dark fore¬ 
shadowings of a stormy future, when strength and 
firmness will be needed in the busy scenes of life, 
and when delightful day-dieams and noble aspira¬ 
tions cannot take the place of the decided manly 
action which Gon will call lor, move us to pity. 
But this, like the others, has gone, and a 
despairing, troubled face looks at ub through the 
shadowy light. A face which speaks to us of weary 
hours—of life a burden—of tossings upon the 
dark sea of doubt and fear—of the want of that 
hope which is as “ an anchor to the soul, sure and 
steadfast.” 
Misanthropic faces look ont with black malig¬ 
nity and smile scornfully upon the unappreciative 
crowd. 
narrow 
—then the fine, even stiches caught my eye, so 
many, and yet very true,—every seam and gather 
I closely examined. All showed that it was done 
by a neat and careful hand; but whose fingers 
took these countless stitches, and laid these numer¬ 
ous plaits? None but those of a gentle Mother! 
Oh ! the thousand sad recollections memory re¬ 
calls at the mention of holy name— Mother, —and 
the silent tear-drop unbidden flows, with the 
thonght of that precious being, whose form was 
long years ago laid in the silent tomb. 
Imagination carries me back, and I seem to 
see that dear loved one, with her Boft brown hair, 
smoothly folded from her pare white brow—and 
the mild bine eye sparkles with renewed luster, 
as with true motherly fondness she watches her 
darling child, as its little feet toddle over the floor, 
—its tiny hands are held up to her for support,— 
its merry laugh and wild crow of delight, as the 
feat is accomplished, are silvery echoes of music, 
fillingher heart with joy as she clasps the precious 
darling in her arms, thanking God for her treasure. 
Could that fond Mother have looked into the 
fttture, and known how soon she most yield her 
life to the Great Giver, would not her joy have 
turned to Badness, could she have seen the long 
years of lonely misery and suffering, portioned for 
that little child ? 
But weary years have passed since that fond 
Moiher was carried from out her home, to the 
quiet church yard, and the flowers of many springs 
have blossomed, amid the beautiful green moss 
covering that cherished resting place,—and the 
gentle flowing brook, stills murmurs its low, sad 
requiem,—the same breezes wave the rose-tree, 
and sway the tall heavy grass,—the same bright 
sky shines a bove that sacred spot,—bat the child 
who stood by the side of that open grave, with 
breaking heart, wondering why “Mamma ” was put 
in the cold ground, has long since ceased to wear 
the little frock ; the little feet which toddled over 
the smooth floor, have trod in “ slippery places, 
and wandered in strange paths,”—the walk of life 
has been dark and rugged; sorrow and anguish 
have been heaped upon that sad heart, and bitterly 
it felt its loneliness without a Mother's breast on 
which to pillow the aching head. No cheering 
smiles or words to comfort ; no Mother’s hand to 
lead aright. Bat the memory ot that sainted 
Mother’s love has been the never-failing guiding 
star to noble duties, and the firm conviction that 
although an angel in Heaven, she is still the 
guardian of her lone earth-child, —ever watching 
and assisting,—has led to a perfect trust in the 
Father of the Fatherless, and a hope for rest in 
the final home of the Orphan. l. d. l. 
Rocky Retreat, R. I., 1857. 
GOOD ADVICE. 
lx reading authors, when yon And 
Bright passages that strike your mind, 
And which, pethaps, yon may have reason 
To think of at another season, 
Be not contented with the sight, 
But take them down in black and white ; 
Such a respeot la wisely shown, 
To make another's sense one's own 
In conversation, when you meet 
With persons cheerful and discreet. 
That apeak or quote in prose or rhyme. 
Things facetious, or sublime, 
Observe wbat passes, and anon, 
When yon come home, think thereupon ; 
Write what occurs, 'orget It not— 
A good thing saved’s a good thing got. 
[Note* and Queries. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
WEALTH OF THE UNFORTUNATE 
Lyra 
There is much beauty in that calm, soothing 
philosophy, which sees good in everything—which 
finds no position so deplorable as not to possess 
some advantage. And this philosophy la not less 
practical than l-eantiful; for it oomes down to 
everyday trials and deprivations, never treading 
the mazy labyrinths of the speculative and unreaL 
Thus it becomes a sunbeam, lighting np the gloom 
beneath impending clouds of human trouble, open¬ 
ing long, cheering vistas through mists of per¬ 
plexity to green fields and sonDy vales beyond. Out 
of this genial philosophy have sprung the maxims 
“Make a virtue of necessity,” “No loss without 
some gain,” &c,, while under its teaching was it 
that Trnnyson, in his Princess says: 
-“lhold 
That it becomes no man to nurse despair, 
But in tbs teeth of clenched antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die.” 
Lot glory like a halo of light encircle the namea 
of liberty’s heroes, and the martyrs of sacred truth. 
Let the memory of those towering, daring minds 
which have illuminated the dark regions of the Past 
with the bright and Abundant scintillations of their 
own brilliant intellects, be ever green and fresh; 
but let the hearts’ purest, fondest emotions of sym¬ 
pathy be kindled for the unfortunate, yet fortunate 
possessors of this Heaven-given philosophy. 
No one will deny that the reign of sorrow on 
earth is sad and tearful; but in this habit of look¬ 
ing only on the bright side, lies hidden the secret 
of much joy. By this habitude of mind, all cir¬ 
cumstances have charms. There’s a pale, ema¬ 
ciated girl, with care-worn cheeks, thread-bare 
garments and languid eye, yet fall of love. She 
She has a mother, 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
“Elsie! Elsie!” “Yes, Mother, here I am,’» 
and the little girl left her seat on the door-step, 
and came and stood by her Mother's side. “ See, 
Elsie, I have filled this little basket with things 
which sick Eunice needs, and T want you to carry 
them to her. There, it is ready now, and here is 
yonr bonnet,” said the good woman, bending to 
kiss her daughter. The child took fbe basket and 
ran down the steps with a light heart. She stop¬ 
ped for her little playmate, Saba W-, and to¬ 
gether they hastened to the miserable hovel where 
the sufferer lay. As they approached the door, 
they drew nearer each other, half-afraid to enter, 
for within they caught a glimpse of drunken 
Georg b, the husband of poor Euniob. Bnt Elsie’s 
moral courage would not allow her to turn back 
with her errand of mercy undone, so she stepped 
across the threshold, just as the reeling man, nu- 
able longer to withstand the stupefying effects of 
the liquor, sank with an oath to the floor. She 
went to the side of the bed, and gently asked the 
invalid if she was not better, “Better! Oh, no, 
no 1” moaned the woman, clasping her hands with 
a sadden effort. “ Mother sent me,” continued the 
little girl, “ with these nice things for you.” 
“Your Mother?” said the woman, “she is an 
angel. And, child, may you never leave that 
Mother’s arms to become the wife of a drunkard. 
Never, never, marry a man who loves the wine- 
cnp.” She spoke so earnestly, and there was such 
a wild light in her eyes, that Elsie was half- 
frightened, and began rapidly to removethe things 
from the basket to a table which stood near; but 
the sick woman said she need not stay for that, 
her daughter would be in soon. She comprehend¬ 
ed the child's feeling, and knew she wished to go. 
As she passed out, Elsie looked once more at the 
prostrate figure on the floor, then hurried on. 
“It is dreadful,—I shall never forget it,” she 
said, as she rejoined Sara. They walked along 
silently for a little while; at last Elsie said, “don’t 
yon feel very bad sometimes because yonr brother 
drinks ?” 
“Why, Charlie don’t drink,” said Sara. 
“Oh! yes he does; when I was at yonr house 
last night, yonr Mother gave him some wine,— 
don’t you remember? You drank some too.” 
“Well, we all drink wine, but then Charlie will 
never be a drunkard 
“ How can you tell?” persisted Elsie. “ Mother 
says George was once a very nice man, and his 
only fault was wine-drinking. I wish you would 
ask your brother not to drink aDy more.” 
“Hush!” said Sara, “there he is.” They had 
reached the gate at Sara’s home, and Charlie 
sat reading by an open window. Elsie looked on 
his fine intellectual face, his beautiful dark curling 
hair, and wondered if they really could ever be- 
come as loathsome as those of the drunkard she 
had just seen. Then, with a sudden, childish im¬ 
pulse, she sprang past, her playmate, through the 
open door, and stood by the Bide of the young 
man. He lifted his eyes from his book, and rested 
them on the child. She had never seemed beautiful 
to him before, but now there was a spiritual light 
playing over her earnest face, and she looked 
angelically fair. She laid one hand pleadingly on 
his arm, then in a low, tremulous tone, said to 
him, “please never drink any more," 
“Why, child, what do you mean?” said the 
astonished young man. 
Elsie’s tears were falling fast now, but she suc¬ 
ceeded in answering him. “If you drink wine 
now, I am so afraid that by and by yon will be like 
drunken George.” 
Charlie paused for a moment, then, taking the 
little girl’s hand very tenderly in bis, he said:— 
“ I do promise you Elsie, never to drink another 
drop of wine. May God help me keep my promise;” 
then hurriedly left the room. 
Was not that a time to be remembered? Have 
not the angels registered as holy, the hour wherein 
that young, weak child stood so beseechingly by 
the side of that noble man, and by her gentle 
prayer won him from the eternal ruin into which 
he seemed about to plunge? 
This was years ago. Elsie Is a woman now, and 
has given “her hand with her heart in it,” to 
Charlie W-, who well deserves her, for he has 
never drauk any more wine. k. e. 
Stout’s Grove, Ill., 1857. 
Angel faces, pure and holy, appear in the 
changing scene looking upon us with pitying eyes 
and beckoning us to come with them up higher.— 
Faces, too, which speak of noble aims ia life, and 
hearts strong to dare and do for the right. 
Oberlln, Ohio, 1857- .'hankie Lissted. 
WANTED 
Oh, the grave! It buries every error, covers 
every defect, extinguishes every resentment From 
its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regretB 
and tender recollections. Who can look down 
upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a 
compunctuons throb, that even he should have 
warred against the mere handfnl of earth that lies 
mouldering before him? But the grave of those 
he loved, wbat a place for meditation! There it is 
that we call up, in long review, the whole history 
of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand enter¬ 
tainments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in 
the daily intercourse of intimacy. 
lives, reader, not Dvr from you. 
old, infirm, almost helpless. Stitches, ceaseless 
stitches at late hours by a miserable light for the 
last few months, have been their only support! — 
Now memory, which should only cheer the young 
and innocent, harrows them with the light of other 
and better days; sore want and ghastly starvation 
stare them rudely in the face, while expectation 
pictures the unknown future with horrid, chilling 
visions. Truly unenviable, yet touchingly painful 
their condition. Driven to it by no crime, the 
victims of misfortune, not of vice—who, fortune- 
favored, can possess riches such as exist in that 
girl’s silent reflections and purposes, os she muses 
with tears eveD, as the consciousness of having 
struggled nobly, though ineffectually with Poverty 
— earth’s crushing misery swells her bosom and 
she thinks, how, for the world, she would not re¬ 
linquish the precious task of nursing that dear old 
mother. Oh, there is more of virtuous happiness 
in hovels than men dream ot. 
I know a youth—the world calls him poor. Yet 
is he rich in character, in aspirations, and in hopes. 
What though he is obliged to educate himself 
alone! His attainments are all the more surpris¬ 
ing and praiseworthy. True he mourns as he toils, 
ug a heap of old rags, one reason why tuey do not grow more rupiuij m 
i the tinder box. Then grace and knowledge, is not, that they are ever 
ts hopes; how. though, hearing, and never meditating on what they hear— 
lolling everything that ever running from meeting to meeting, and never 
be wedded to one of the at home. Js there not great danger that" home" 
re, and fly away on trans- influences will lose their charm, when we come 
upon some Alpine tree, there only to eat and sleep, offering indeed the 
imong the green leaves, morning and evening prayer, but never sitting 
ihness and beauty, took- down with the household in the sweet commuuion 
'ul vale. Then the steel and precious instruction, that were always found 
for centuries it lay In in the olden times, when, both on the Sabbath and 
, until man with his un- during the week, families had some "Evenings at 
• the dark depths, and home.”— Mirror. 
No longer be at peace.”-♦*-#-- 
l the fiery furnace, wbat A RECIPE FOR HAPPINESS. 
Aye, go to the grave of buried love and medi¬ 
tate! There settle the account with thy con¬ 
science, for every past endearment unregarded, of 
that departed being, who never, never can return, 
to be Bootbed by contrition! If thou art a child, 
and has ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a fur¬ 
row to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; 
if thou art a husband, and hast caused the fond 
bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy 
arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy 
troth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged 
in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that gener¬ 
ously confided iu thee; if thou art a lover, and 
hast ever given one unmerited pang to the true 
heart that now lies cold beneath thy feet; then be 
sure that every unkind look, every ungracious 
actioD, will come thronging back upon the memo¬ 
ry and knocking dolefully at tby soul; then be 
sure thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant 
on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and 
pour the unavailing tear, mere deep, more bitter, 
because unheard and unavailing.— tt'as/imgio/i 
Irving. 
It is simply, when yon rise in the morning, to 
form a resolution to make the day a happy one to 
a fellow creature. It is easily done—a left-off gar¬ 
ment, to tho man who needs it; a kind word to the 
sorrowful; an encouraging expression to the stri- 
ving—trifieB, in themselves, light as air—will do 
it, at least for the twenty-four hours; and if you 
are young, depeud upon it, it will tell when you 
are old; and if you are old, rest assured it will 
send you gently and happily down the stream ol 
time to eternity. Look at the result:—You send 
one person—only one, happily through the day; 
that is, three hundred and sixty-five in the coarse 
of the year—and supposing you livo forty years 
only, after you commence this course, you have 
mado fourteen thousand six hundred human be¬ 
ings happy, at all events, for a time. Now, worthy 
reader, is this not. simple? and ia it not worth ac¬ 
complishing? We do not often indulge in a moral 
dose—but this iB so small a pill, that one needs no 
red currant jelly to disguise its flavor, and requires 
to be taken but once In a day, that we feel war¬ 
ranted In proscribing it. It is most excellent for 
digestion, and u producer of pleasant slumber. 
mirror in whose face the lady contemplates her 
charms; of the microscope and the telescope, by 
which the invisible are brought to sight, and the 
distant drawn near; of the prism by which New¬ 
ton analysed tho rays of light; anil of tho photo¬ 
graphic camera iu which tho sun prints with his 
own rays the pictures of his own adorning. And 
then both flint and steel might relate their adven¬ 
tures in the battle-field, whither they had gone 
together, and of lights they had eCOD, in which 
man struck down his fellow-wan, and like a fiend 
had revelled in his brother’s blood. Thus, oven 
from the cold hearts of flint und steel, man might 
learn a lesson, which should make him blush at 
the “glory of war;” and tho proud, who despise 
the teachings of small thingB, might learn to ap¬ 
preciate tho truths that are linked to the story of 
a “Tinder box.” —The Ilf asm Why. 
Recognition in Heaven.—I must confess, as 
the experience of my own soul, that the expecta¬ 
tion of loving my friends in heaven, principally 
kindles my love to them while on earth. If I 
thought I Bbould never know, and consequently 
never love them after this life, I should number 
them with temporal things, and love them as such; 
bnt I now delightfully oonverso with my pious 
friends in a firm persuasion that I shall converse 
with them for ever; and 1 take comfort in those 
that are dead, or absent, believing that I shall 
shortly meet them in heaven and love them with 
a heavenly love.— Baxter. 
The sonl, considered abstractedly from its pas¬ 
sion, is of a remiss auil sedentary nature, slow in 
its resolves, and languishing in its executions.— 
The URB, therefore, of the paHsious, is to stir it up, 
and to put it upon action, and awaken the under¬ 
standing, to enforce the will, and to make the whole 
man more vigorous and attentive in tho prosecu¬ 
tion of his designs. 
The SniERBS of the Sexes.— All circumstan¬ 
ces well examined, there can be no doubt 1 ’iovi- 
dencc has willed that man should be the head of 
the human race, even as women is its heart; that 
he should be its strength, as she is its solace; that 
he should be its wisdom, as Bhe is Its grace; that 
he should be its mind, its impetus, and its courage, 
as she ia its sentiment, its charm, and its consola¬ 
tion .—Sir T. Towel! liu-xlon. 
The Goods of Life. —Speaking of these, Sir 
William Temple says, “The greatest pleasure of 
life is love; the greatest treasure is contentment; 
the greatest possession is health; the greatest 
ease ia sleep; and the greatest medicine a true 
friend.” 
Be Kind. — Hard words are like hail-stoneB in 
summer, beating down and destroying what they 
would nourish were they melted into drops. 
Sanctified alfllctioua are spiritual promotions. 
