MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
They are stimulated to duty by alternate frowns 
and smiles, threats or promises, and the envied 
sum of five or six dollars a month, with the privi¬ 
lege of subsisting on the cold Boup and fragments 
left at their master’s table. But not untrequently 
might the self-styled lords and nobles well covet 
the patience, honesty and sobriety of their 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WE ARE ALL DREAMERS, 
The mind of man is so constituted that it seeks 
enjoyment in an ideal rather than a world of re¬ 
ality, All are prone to build “caBtles in the air.” 
And this is well, for were the privilege denied, 
earth would lose full many of its charms. Ah yes! 
from the cradle to the grave we are all dreamers. 
The child, as ho chases the butterfly from flower 
to flower, or wends his way to school, dreams of 
the time when he will be a man and fitted to min¬ 
gle in the world’s fierce strife. The Btudeut, as he 
pores over the works of ancient and modem lore 
or exhausts the energies of his mind in deep math¬ 
ematical reasoning, fondly dreams of the period 
when he shall wear the unfading laurels of fame 
upon his brow. When cares and troubles near 
overcome the man of business, he is soothed by 
the hope that in old age he will realize the fruit 
of his many labors. Dreams of gold flit before 
the bold adventurer who leaves his home and 
friends for the Til Dorado of former times, or even 
for our Western wilds. The Christian, whe-n he 
bears the pains and troubles of this world, dreams 
of a home of rest at God's right hand. Thus are 
we all dreamers; but how often do our visions 
fade into the thin vapor of disappointment. The 
youth, instead of finding manhood the season of 
perfect happiness, sighs for the former pleasant 
hours of childhood. Visions of gold may dissolve 
into mere bubbles. Then why spend life in mere 
earthly dreamings. Is there nothing more sub¬ 
stantial upon which to build our hopes? Metbinks 
I read the answer on each fleeting clond. The 
Christian dreamer will wake to a glorious reality 
in Heaven. Amelia. 
Cayuga, N. Y., 1867. 
CONDUCTED BY A.Z1LE. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE DEAD SOLDIER, 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE INEBRIATE’S BRIDE. 
vassals. 
The people in the streets are always merry, and 
their merriment increases as the evening advances; 
yet the listener within is happily disappointed in 
not being alarmed by the cry of the victim of the 
assassin or debauchee. It is said by those who 
have long resided in Florence that a female, young 
or old, can pass the streets at any hour of night 
without fear of insult. The priests are cheerful 
and social, and very obliging to strangers. They 
take great pains to show visitors the wonders of 
art and the symbols and relics of their religion, to 
which they seem wholly devoted. 
There are four bridges that cross the river Arno 
within the oity. It did not seem possible that so 
small a stream had ever been fed so fast by moun¬ 
tain torrents as, in a lew hours, to carry down its 
tide bridges and buildings similar to those that 
span its low surface. On one bridge are lowdwell- 
ing houses. The oldest bridge, Ponte Vecchio, is 
a street of jewelry and other shops. Above these is 
a gallery leading from the Pith Palace to the Roy¬ 
al Gallery. While standing upon the most wester¬ 
ly bridge, I heard the tragic taleof May-day, 1304. 
The day was then, as now, welcomed by festivals, 
shows and gala-parties, each company endeavoring 
to excel every other in magic invention and par¬ 
ade. At that time one company gave notice that 
all who wished to bear news from the other world 
must come very early to Ponte alia Carraia. The 
show was npon the river, and represented the in¬ 
fernal regions a3 vividly pictured by their own 
Dante. This dreadful spectacle drew such a great 
crown upon the bridge, that it fell, and nearly all 
were drowned or ii jured, so that almost every fam¬ 
ily in Florence was in mourning by the awful ca¬ 
lamity. 
The moat fashionable drive is just beyond the 
city along the Arno, to the Gascon, or Grand 
Duke’s farm-house. It is called the “ Hyde Park' 1 
of Florence. Here, every day, and especially Sun¬ 
day afternoons, is a city turn-out of splendid 
equipages. Those who seek notice among the 
FROM THU GERMAN 
‘Twas the hour of the bridal;—all blooming and fair 
Stood the bride, in the flush of her loveliness there, 
As the wealth of her heart’s pure affection was given 
To the loved, and the vow was recorded in heaven. 
Ohl sweet was the rapture that thrilled through his breast 
Aa the small, trembling hand to his bosom he pressed; 
And proud was the glance of his eloquent eye, 
O'er cheek, lip and brow, the rich blood mantled high. 
He vowed to defend her, in honor and truth; 
To love her in age as he loved her in youth; 
And he breathed the fond promise, with joy in his heart, 
That only stem Death from that loved one should part. 
Ahl could he have seen, as he knelt by her side, 
The anguish awaiting his beautiful bride, 
lie had turned, in dismay, from the dread future years, , 
And shrouded the bridal in darkness and tears. 
But he thought not of sorrow, his heart knew no fear; 
He had sipped the red wine, but 'ttoas only to cheer, 
And the future looked smiling and gay as the morn, 
Adorned with life’s rose, but concealed was each thorn. 
I saw them again when the banquet was o'er. 
And I knew, by the flush that his countenance wore, 
That the tempter was there in this hour of his joy: 
He had larked in the cup to allure and destroy. 
Then I turned from that bridal, 
He sleeps! The hour of mortal pain 
And warrior pride alike are past. 
His blood is mingling with the rain, 
His cheeks are withering in the blast. 
This mom there was a bright hue there, 
The flash of i-ourugo stern and high; 
The Bt-eel has drained its current clear. 
The storm has bleached its gallant dye. 
This morn these icy hands were warm, 
That lid, halt showing the glazed ball, 
Was life—thou chill and clay-faced form. 
Is this the one we loved?—this all? 
Woman, away, and weep no more, 
Can the dead give you love for love?— 
Can the grave hear? His course was o’er, 
The spirit’s winged its way above. 
Wilt thou for dust and ashes weep? 
Away: thy husband lies not here, 
Look to yon heaven! If love is deep 
On earth—'fcis tentold deeper there. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1857. W. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MEMORY. 
so joyons and gay, 
And I wept as in sadness I hastened away, 
For I thought of Hope’s roses, so fragrant and fair, 
And I knew that the touch of the spoiler teas there, 
In the hour of twilight, when the hum of labor 
ceases—when nature demands a leave of absence 
from the “stern realities oi life” — when our 
thoughts long for the purer joys of the Divinity 
within, and our souls seek for the shadows of the 
beautiful that linger in the past—with what gentle¬ 
ness does the baud of memory smooth the brow of 
care, or cheer the wearied heart with the sunlight 
of remembered love. 
Sometimes disappointment weighs heavily upon 
onr hearts and binds with chains of grief onr 
lightest hopes. Bonds and mortgages and vacil¬ 
lating six per cents lead ns wearily through the 
intricacies of business, and gain, from behind the 
secret covers of an interest table, mocks at our 
pursuit of his treasures. Or we have wandered 
throngh the reaims of pleasure—have sailed o’er 
her enchanted seas—listened to the 
Again I beheld them,—oh! pale was the brow 
Of the beautiful bride, and her idol lay low: 
He had sipped the red wine 'till it maddened his brain, 
And he bowed to its thraldom, and sought it again. 
And the love that had blessed him in life’s early day, 
He had cast, in its beauty aud freshness, away: 
Aye, laughed as the tear-drop, unbidden, would start 
From the depths of her broken and desolate heart. 
And was it for this that he led her away 
From her own happy home-, on that glad bridal day; 
Ah! little she thought, as she stood by his side, 
That ’twas to become an Inebriate's Bride, 
Yet, with woman's devotion, she dung to him still, 
Her love all unchanging through darkness aud ill; 
But the rose left her cheek, and the lustre her eye; 
And they gathered around, for they knew she must die. 
And she faded from earth, and they laid her to rest, 
And lightly they pressed the green turf o'er her breast, 
Rejoicing to think that no ill could betide. 
Or sorrow reach more the Inebriate’s Bride. 
Oh! touch not the wine when ’tis red in bow), 
’Tie a foe in diegmee—it will ruin thy soul; 
AU too late thou may’s! start in keen anguish to find 
Thai it leaveth the sling of the adder behind. 
Middleport, N. Y., 1857. Emma, 
An oak tree for two hundred years grows soli¬ 
tary. It is bitterly handled by frosts; it is wrest¬ 
led with by ambitious winds, determined to give 
it a downfall; it holds faBt and grows, seemingly 
alone. What is the use of all this sturdiness, this 
strength, to itself ? Why am I to stand here, of no 
use? My roots are anchored in rifts of rocks. No 
herds can lie down under my shadow. I am far 
above singing birds, that seldom come to rest 
among my leaves. I am set as a mark for storms, 
that bend aud tear me. My fruit is serviceable for 
uo appetite. It had been better for me to have 
been a mushroom, gathered in the morning for 
some poor man's table, than to be a hundred 
oak—good for nothing. While he yet spake 
the axe was hewing its base. It died in sad 
Baying, as it fell—“ Many ages for nothing hi 
lived.” 
The axe completed its work. By and by the 
trunk and rootforin the knees to some stately ship, 
bearing the country's flag around the world; other 
parla from keel and ribs of merchantmen, and hav¬ 
ing defied mountain storms, it now equally resists 
the thunder of the waves, nod the murky threatof 
scowling hurricanes. Other parts are laid into 
waiuBcoating, or carved into frames for noble pic¬ 
tures, or fashioned into chairs that embosom the 
weakness of age. Thus the tree in dying came not 
to its end, bnt to its beginning of life. It voy¬ 
aged the world. It grew to posts of temples and 
dwellings. 
It held npon its surface the soft feet of children, 
and tottering, frail patriarchs. It rocked in the 
cradle, aud swayed the crippled limbs of age by 
the chimney corner, and heard secure within the 
roar of those old unwearied tempests that once 
surged about its mountain life. Thus after its 
growth, its long usefulness, its cruel prostration, 
it became universally useful, and did by its death 
what it could never do by its life. For so long as 
we could well understand the “count" of his 
love when he said, “that is one ot our household. 
We have two children and the flower, and so, there 
are five of ns!” 
Somebody says that flowers are the smiles of 
Deity. In olden times, that flower would have been 
-year I worshiped as a very God. 
When they furrow the earth till it puts on the 
subdued Bmile of the matron; when the wild flow¬ 
ers and the old trails are “ turned under,” by the 
glittering share, they are “ breaking up.” 
When the rivers, glazed by the cunning band of 
Winter, burst their crystal setting, and roll a tur¬ 
bulent tide, they stand npon its banks and say, 
“breaking up.” 
When a frame that has borne itself erect amid 
many a winter, begins to tremble and to bend, and 
“ they that look out of the windows” begin to grow 
dim, and “the daughters of mnsio : 
low, then the world says, 
songs of joy 
1 and mirth—and forgetting the past and the future 
in the tinted hueB of the bright present, Bailed on 
and on until our barques have been wrecked upon 
the rocks of unsatisfied desire. 
Or we have cherished a dream of happiness an- 
til the hand of fate has broken the spell and left 
nothing but the saddened thought of a waking 
reality. If so, sit thee down in the calm twilight 
The sun has “sunk beneath the waves,” and the 
hills have returned his last lingering gaze. A few 
clouds move quietly across the sky, as if seeking 
a place of repose; yet they move as if by invisible 
machinery, for scarcely a breath of air is felt upon 
the lace of earth. The distant woods grow mystic 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BY MRS. L. W. BROWN. 
No. IV.—A ViBit to Florence. 
It was one of the loveliest, days of Italian Au- 
tum, when we passed through the arched gateway 
and beyond the crowded streets to the hill where 
stand the Franciscan Church and Convent of San 
Miniato. Ladies are never allowed to enter the 
conveuls of the monks. While waiting without, 
I ascended the high wall which nearly surrounds 
these castc-U ted buildings, raised by Michael 
Angelo in the middle ages, aa means of defence. 
Onr own Wyoming ana Genesee valleys, in the rich 
summer and ante inn time, awaken deep admiration 
and inspire poetic feeling; but they never seemed 
such a picture of paradise rb was presented in one 
view of sky, distant mountains, vine-clad hills, 
the city of Florence with its domes and towers, and 
the smiling valley of the winding Arno on that 
fair day. Heavy stone bullets are e till lying at the 
base of the Campanile, shot against it by the be¬ 
siegers in the city. The woolen niattrasse6 which 
1L Angelo suspended from the tower saved the 
whole building from destruction. On the right, is 
seen the residence or villa of Galileo. The tower 
of his observatory still points to the sky, where his 
entranced vision beheld wondere which were far 
above the comprehension of his age. To look up¬ 
on the spot where one, immortal for his discove¬ 
ries, yet so shamefully persecuted and abused, 
lived and died, is worth a visit to Florence. 
On our return we visited the “Poggio Imperiale.” 
The road to this Royal Palace extends over two 
miles between lofty arched cypresses. The pal¬ 
ace, unlike most others, has no prison-like appear¬ 
ance. It was built in 1C 22 by the Dnchess of 
Austria. It is said to contain seven hundred 
rooms, many of which are adorned with royal or- 
of a church in Europe. From Santa Maria Novel¬ 
la I went to the great Cathedral, “marble-oased, 
dating trom the thirteenth century, and yet incom¬ 
plete,”—to the Baptistry, wJihits unrivalled bronze 
doors, twenty years in execution, a pictorial histo¬ 
ry of the whole Bi le,—to San Lorenzo, with its 
Medicean Chapel, filled with oenotaphs of the 
richest gems and pearls, and its celebrated statues 
of Michael Angelo— to Santa Croces, the “West¬ 
minster A libey” and the “ Pantheon” of Florence, 
—and to others not touch less noted. Jn each, 
forgetting the rest, I felt had been gathered all the 
emblems of religjnu and departed glory and re¬ 
finements of art of a whole kingdom. In all I 
stood silent, gazing above, around and beneath.— 
I had no language to express my thoughts and 
feeliDgs then, and I will not attempt to describe 
what I saw in the churches and galleries of art in 
the well-remembered city of Florence. 
The love of Florence grows surpassingly npon a 
stranger. I left, like many others, after a too brief 
fteecn, ana me tan pine, nave merged in a com¬ 
mon brotherhood of mystery. The green fields 
grow dim. The scattered trees that rise here and 
there upon the pasture slopes appear like grim 
giants in a dream, and you gaze at the long rows 
of poplars and up into their tops with feelingB of 
repeot. if not with veneration. At length the land¬ 
scape fades in the distance, and the fleeting clouds, 
the dim woods, the green fields, the quiet lake and 
the mountain high have gone away in shadowy 
forms, and you are alone. Alone! Ah, no! Al¬ 
though a chair is vacant, a book unopened, sharp 
nnstrung, or a lute unswept, yet yousre not alone, 
In this still hour memories, of the living time fall 
around you. “ The words of love oft spoken,” the 
familiar tones of a voice, a look of kindness of 
are getting 
“breaking up—break¬ 
ing up.” 
When the home, hallowed by memories, is dis¬ 
mantled; when the Are goes oat upon the hearth, 
and the clock runs down; when the old arm chair 
is vacant, and the shrine of all huuiau affection is 
tenantless, then once more they say, “ breaking-up 
—breaking up.” 
Sad words they are, unheard in Eden, unknown 
in Heaven. 
To one visiting, after long years of absence, the 
village he left in childhood, everything seems to 
have grown little with years; its old, magnificent 
proportions have dwindled away; the long drawn 
avenue of other days, appears to have been shut 
together like a telesoope, and the village shrunk 
in its valley, like a dried filbert in the shell. 
The village “creek”—for what old hamlet was 
without it?—is Btrangely narrowed, and he won¬ 
ders if the world has indeed grown so very old, 
that its veins are running dry; and he fanciea they 
have been “setting” the world over in “minion,” 
that Nature stereotyped in great pica, and so now 
there is a pocket edition of the village and vale. 
Life is no wild and restless wandering, but like 
the shining of a star; and even as the stars of the 
night that is passed, lend a ray to the glory of the 
day that, is shining, bo did God design that the mild¬ 
er, softer influence of woman Bhould run like 
threads of gold, in broidered beauty, through the 
coarser fabric of the wear of the world. Influen¬ 
ces, that, like the dew, mako no loud music as they 
fall, bnt wake around ns,even as the flowers, sweet 
thoughts of gentleness and love; influences, that 
whether we believe or doubt, like spirits, “do 
walk the earth, both when we wake and when we 
sleep.” 
It is a rare art to set back the great old dock of 
time, and be a child once more. Imagination can 
easily see the child a man, but how hard for it to 
see the man a child; and he who has learned to 
glide back into (hat rosy time when he did not 
know that thorns were under the roses, or that 
clouds would ever return after the rain; when he 
thought a tear could no more stain a cheek, than 
a drop of rain, a flower; when he fancied life had 
no disguises and hope no blight at all, has come as 
near as anybody in the world, to discovering the 
Northwest Passage to Paradise. 
It is far easier for a mother to enter the king¬ 
dom of heaven than it is for the rest of the world; 
she fancies Hhe is leading the children when the 
children are leading her, and they keep her indeed 
where the river is narrowest aud the air Is the 
clearest. Bo it is no wonder she bo often lets go, 
her clasp upon the little lingers she is holding, and 
goes over to the Neighbors’, and the children fol¬ 
low, like Iambs to the fold, for we think it ought 
somewhere to he written: “where the mother is, 
there will the cbiluren he, also.” 
“Died poor!” As If anybody could die rioh, and 
in that act of dying, did not lose the grasp upon 
title-deed and bond, and go away a pauper, out of 
time. No gold, no jewels, uo lands or tenements- 
oi me worm upon her. Blie UoeB not receive any And yet men have been buried by Charity's hand> 
satisfaction from the applause which she glveB who did die rioh; died worth a thousand thoughts 
horse)t, but from the admiration which she raises of beauty, a thousand pleasant memories, and a 
in others.— Addison. thousand hones restored. 
EVERETT ON MT. WASHINGTON, 
Corruption is the Asiatic cholera which passes 
over republics and leaves them weak, making them 
an easy prey to a military despot. The incorrupti¬ 
bility of the people is the only safeguard against 
the overthrow of the government. It is notenough 
to stand and cry out against corruption when it 
comes. Demosthenes did inis, and yet Athens 
fell; Cicero did it, and yet Roman liberty fell It 
was done under the Stuarts, and under both the 
Napoleons, and corruption and tyranny triumphed. 
The morality of a people is a thing of slow growth, 
requiring patient culture aud eternal vigilance in 
every household. The family is the only sure nur¬ 
sery of virtue. Even religion muBt go there, if it 
would achieve its greatest work. Oar homes must 
be more sacredly guarded. We must, in our fam¬ 
ilies, as well as elsewhere, recede from the frail 
mortality of the times, and go hack in our domes¬ 
tic discipline to the stricter morality and con¬ 
scientiousness of our fathers, or a 6till greater 
harvest of corruption awaits ua. 
corn worm, win ever sit. ny tne side of memory 
and live over again the pleasant scenes of the 
Sandgate, Ben. Co., Vt, 1857. 
The gates of the city are shut every evening 
after sundown, and only opened to strangers and 
strollers at a fixed t oil. The streets are paved with 
flat stones smooth as a floor, and kept very clean 
by men who go about with donkey carts gathering 
up every particle of rubbish. No particular trade 
seems to take the lead in Florence. The shops are 
filled with varieties, and much of the custom is 
from visitors. In the forenoon the streets and 
market squares are thronged with business people 
from the country, in their peculiar costumes. It 
is very amusing to see their supplies and watch 
their bargains. On Sunday morning, below my 
window, was a hay market. A dozen donkeys with 
loads of poor hay strapped to their backs stood 
waiting for some man or woman to relieve them 
of their burden. Others brought supplies of bread 
and vegetables. Fresh flowers are a staple article 
of trade, and are very beautiful Cocoons are also 
brought in from the country and sold by peasants. 
In the afternoon the scene is entirely changed._ 
Then there is a grand display 0 f wealth and fashion; 
the streets are full of richly dressed people, fine 
horBea and carriages, most of which are attended 
by servants in livery or footmen. These robust 
men, in gay regimentals, appear most graoionsly 
devoted to the high calling of opening gates and 
doors, or holding caneB, parasols, and prayer hooks. 
Wait.—O f course it is very hard to wait No 
matter whether you have to wait in certainty or in 
doubt; whether for the fulfillment of a promise, or 
the arrival of a “ship-load of money,” waiting is 
tedious, and one feels that patience is a virtue.— 
Young Hopeful cannot wait for dinner, aDd spoils 
his appetite and digestion with apples and bread 
and butter. Older grown, he cannot wait for his 
majority, and borrows. Tell people to wait, and 
they answer that life is all waiting, and they have 
waited long enough, aud waiting makes fools. Y’et 
waiting is the school of moral strength. The 
grandest achievements have to be waited for.— 
Small minds are always fizzing and leaking; so 
when the time comes, they are found either stale 
or empty.—London Times. 
morning. 
A wave of day from out the sea of night 
Breaks in the East, and bathes the silent world 
With its pure flood, like a bright flag unfurl’d 
By God's right hand, iriumphaut in the might 
That out of darkness doth create the light; 
Bringeth good out of evil, and doth make 
All things work kindly Tor lira children’s sake, 
And turneth wrong and gin to shameful flight* 
Arise, my son), and plunge thy leprosy 
In this Bethosdn, while the waters move 
And sparkle like an angel's countenance, 
And come forth pure to meet thy Father's eye, 
That sbineth on thee like a sea of love; 
Arise, and see thy rich inheritance. 
Woman, as well 
as man, must be true to her nature and calling.— 
She mast not be superficial and frivolous. She 
must not, in this corrupting and sensual age, leave 
her children at large, while she is fluttering in her 
Bilks to attract pnb’ic admiration. Whenmother6 
forget their maternal duties, and cease to instil 
early, with Bible in hand, the principles of purity, 
virtue, honor and patriotism into the minds of 
their sons, in order to prepare them to serve and 
adorn their country, as did the mothers of onr 
revolutionary worthies, then the days of the Re¬ 
public are numbered.— Rev. Dr. Rears. 
Habit.—H abit eats bo deeply into man’s human¬ 
ity, that, instead of constituting no more than his 
Becond nature, it expels the first, usurping the 
sovereignty. Onr mind may turn our eyes so long 
in the same direction, that never again can we 
look quite straight. Thoughts, passions, affections, 
are domesticated by custom, till, like a barn door 
fowl, they will always eat their meat from the Bame 
platter, and Bleep upon the same roost. 
Just aB old marbles are exquisitely clouded and 
colored sometimes, by the filtered tints of forgot¬ 
ten flowers that have perished upon their rocky 
bedB, so, many stern natures have been made 
beautiful by the blossoming fancies that have died 
unheeded in their bosoms. 
Rich and poor live in like abundance; the 
former in wealth, the latter in hope. 
Love takes deepest root In the steadiest mind 
