<|/'|/ I UVW'U'I 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
vernation, a whole oorapauy engaged in criticising 
a now piece of music, a new picture, or dctatiiug 
a long list of domestic grievances and mishaps, 
possibly interesting to the actors, but not at all so 
to the company. 
I can endure a conversation of books and au 
thors, because if all cannot talk fluently on that, 
eulject, they can listen interestedly, and rcspecia 
bly. Yet I must confess tIsitt-, to see a company 
deliberately sitting down to talk of literature for 
a whole evening, seems altogether too much like 
“ Linked sweetness long drawn out," 
to suit me. 
I am tol J they have in New York a kind of asso¬ 
ciation called “ Caudle Partie, —for what reason I 
know not—which are attended by none but women. 
What they do there is said to be kept a profound 
mystery and causes much conjecture, and I am no 
wiser than other outsiders on this point, but if 
they only talk off their household gossip so as to 
be ready to talk sense when they go into mixed 
company it must be a great blessing. Why can 
there not be a kind of professional Caudle Party 
devised so that those of each profession might 
prepare themselves to be more pleasing in public? 
Now, Mr. Editor, I write without the least sploe 
of malice,and hope you will take this matter in hand 
and stir up the people—for you know how to do it 
—so as to make them adopt the good old chatty, 
cosy parties where the conversation skims from 
one subject to another without lingering long 
enough upon any to exhaust the stock of us poor 
fellows who are not so fortunate as to know every¬ 
thing of every business. Cato. 
Rochester, ft. Y., 1857. 
TRENTON PALLS 
The water-falls of New York are among those 
of its natural curiosities which distinguish it 
from all the other States of our Union. Besides 
the cataract of Niagara, there are falls in the Gen¬ 
esee river at Rochester and Portage, which are 
much visited by travelers; and in the West Cana¬ 
da Creek, eleven miles morth-west of Utica, which 
are noted as a place of Bummer resort. Trenton 
Falls is tho name of a small village containing 
one of tho beat hotels in the State, which is well 
filled during the summer season with health and 
pleasure seekers. Though not a pretentious place, 
the scenery aronnd is remarkable interesting and 
romantic. There are six fulls within a course of 
two miles, with an aggregate descent of three hun¬ 
dred anl twelve feet The creek flows through a 
narrow ravine, between perpendicular walls of fine 
compact limestone, wh)cly|{jrRbie places are 
nearly one hundred an^ofty ffctLigb. These 
cascades sie more roa»rkahj» foexhe wildness 
aud variety of scene?* th&qJfor tib# volume of 
water which they pretot-*gbt of the 
principal fall is estimatelyi&kjpndred feet_ 
The line of the Utica and^River railroad 
passes near the village. 
Amorig the “adventures,” which are of daily 
occurrence at places where fashionable ladies and 
gentlemen congregate, with the expectation of 
being and doing the exquisite in the matter of po¬ 
liteness, the following account of a recent “hap¬ 
penstance” at Trenton Falls, communicated by the 
correspondent of the New York News, will do to 
put on record: 
“ For nearly a quarter of a mile, the foot-path is 
river. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILK, 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
CHIDE NOT. 
THOU ART GROWING OLD, MY MOTHER. 
Cams not a heart that's light. 
Nor never a heart that’s gay; 
For the spring of life go bright, 
Will too soon glide away. 
What were the fair and smiling earth? 
With no gay spirits hounding; 
Frown not; but echo bark the mirth, 
Of a tnerry langh resounding. 
Hearts that are light to-day, 
To-morrow may make sad; 
Then never chide the gay, 
But with them, too, be glad. 
For sorrow will cast its Bhade 
Full *oon, on that smiling face, 
And the brightest eye will fade, 
And time its furrows trace. 
Then chide not the joyous heart, 
Be it happy while it may, 
And no saddening tone import, 
To cloud its Bunny way; 
But in the solemn hour of night. 
When you breathe to heaven a prayer, 
Pray Gon, that hearts now glad and light, 
May never, never bow with core. 
Hill Farm, Mich., 1857. Tilda, 
Thou art growing old, my mother, 
And thy brow is marked with care, 
All furrowed is thine aged cheek, 
Once beautiful and lair. 
Thy soft brown locks are sadly changed, 
Chill frosts have settled there, 
And touched -with many a freezing kiss, 
Thy gentle flowing hair. 
Thou art growing old, my mother. 
As I catch the half-drawn sigh, 
Well I know that tears of sorrow 
Have bedimmed thy melting eye 
But with gentle light it beameth, 
Beatnetb on me even yet, 
With a love that never changeth 
Till the sun of life is set 
Thou art growing old, my mother, 
Many of our household band 
Have before tbee, journeyed onward. 
To a iar off better land!" 
But thy voice in tender accents, 
Still is falling on my ear, 
Sweetly brightening my pathway, 
Which, without thee, were so drear. 
Thou art growing old, my mother. 
And around thy youngest born. 
Shadows gather—darkly gather— 
Even in life's early morn 
But the blessed Savior sparclh 
Thee, still to protect thy child, 
While the storms of Borrow hover, 
Hover o'er me dark and wild. 
Thou art growing old, my mother, 
Soon I feel that thou wilt rest 
In the “ land of the hereafter," 
Id the regions of the blest. 
Who will love me, then, my mother. 
When the last life-cord is riven? 
Let us pray that both together 
God will take us safe to Heaven. 
Eds. Rural 
autumn she passed away. Just a little before sbe 
died, her baptism of suffering ceased forever, and 
the meek spirit went gladly np to the land of love. 
The grass is very green over her grave now, and 
when you are Bad and weary with the greatsorrows 
that come to every heart, you go there and think 
long of the gentle one who sleeps beneath its turf. 
There come to you then sweet visions of heaven 
withiis shining streets and glittering walls; you 
remember there is no night there, no fading flow¬ 
ers nor failing leaves, no pale ana wasted forms, 
and not a grave in ell that beautiful land; but the 
redeemed are there, with white robes aud crowns 
of gold—there is a soft flowing river, and the tree 
of life with its healing leaves is ever fresh and 
green upon its banks. In such moments as these 
For Moore'* Rural Now-Yorker. 
A WALK IN THE WOODS. 
upon the wall of the rock, high above the 
and for a considerable distance is not more than 
a foot in width. Just at this narrow paFs, as I 
turned a projecting rock, a party of four young 
ladies came sailing down in full front view. They 
were fashionably dressrd, and, I miy say, <?r pan- 
sively— (spell the last word with ano)—and pretty, 
of course. What the dftice was to be done?— 
When you are in doubt about an egg, throw it 
away—but it is not so easy ro dispose of your car¬ 
cass in every tight place you happen to get,— 
Somebody must turn back, and, as 1 had traveled 
nearly the whole path, I put my wits to work for 
an expedient. There is inspiration in a pretty 
foot — a thought bad struck me, und no sooner 
thought than done, down went 1 Excelsior,’ flat as 
a groundling, length wibo in the path; and, oue by 
one, the fair damsels walked over, dry shod,— 
Don’t ask me to describe my 'feelings’ while un¬ 
dergoing tbe process. I held my breath and went 
it blind— but I’ll bet my hoad that one pair of those 
feet has left impressions that will take something be¬ 
tides the washerwoman to eradicate” 
Thhre is pleasure in the p»th]e=* woodi. 
•Btron. 
Nothing can be more delightful to a person, of 
contemplative mind, than to wander amid Nature’s 
temples. Now the many vines, which have fan¬ 
tastically twisted theme-dves among the trees, ob¬ 
struct him in his way, and then, with unbounded 
delight, he pauses to gaze on the many beauties 
by which he is surrounded. Here he sees the 
tender sapling; there, the mighty oak; while the 
tall pine trees lift their stately heads, as if to bid 
defiance to the clouds. Under his feet is spread 
a carpet of green, intermingled with flowers, which 
fill the air with their sweet odors, and, as some 
have loved to imagine, which contain the written 
thoughts of angels or spirits of the departed, who 
have often mingled with us in our daily sports, 
and sat with us by our warm flrestde<. Anon his 
ears are filled with the melodious notes of a thou¬ 
sand warblers, which would almost, lead him to 
imagine the spirits of another land were hovering 
near, or that he had nnconsciously stepped within 
the preeints of the clime of tho visionary, and 
that the sprites, in their invisible 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BOCHESTEB LADIES’ INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL. 
The LadieBof the “Roohe6ter Industrial School” 
desire to call the attention of the public generally 
to the urgent wants of this institution. 
The object of tbiB charity is to provide instruc¬ 
tion and work for the idle and wa : dering children 
whose liveB are spent in the streets—who are the 
unfortunate subjects of poverty and parental im 
providence. The success which has attended the 
efforts to improve the minds, morals and habits of 
these children, is the strongest plea to enlist pub 
lie sympathy in support of this enterprise, and a 
visitation of the Bcbool is therefore respectfully 
solicited, that benevolent persons may become 
fully satisfied in regard to the importance and 
utility of Buch an institution. 
In consequence of business reverses, the funds 
relied on for the immediate wants of the school 
have been unexpectedly reduced, so that a special 
and prompt contribution will be necessary to en¬ 
sure its continuance. Donations in money, cloth¬ 
ing and provisions, are respectfully and earnestly 
solicited. Many articles which it wonld be nune. 
cessary to specify would be acceptable, reference 
being bad to the daily wants of a family of severity 
children. 
To our country friends especially we wonld ex¬ 
tend this appL 1, believing that there are many 
who would glat Jy improve such an opportunity to 
make an offering from their well-filled storehouses 
to the poor. We would remind them that the ob¬ 
ject of this oharity is to raise from ignorance and 
degradation those who, by no fault of their own 
are the most unfortunate of any class in the com¬ 
munity. A large proportion of these children, if 
left to themselves, are inevitably doomed to igno¬ 
rance, vice and ruin. The Industrial School pro¬ 
vides food and clothing as well as instruction for 
tbe children, and thus secures their success in the 
higher objects of the institution. 
The economy and feasibility of such an enter¬ 
prise has been demonstrated by abundant expe¬ 
rience, bat as it. is wholly dependent on public 
charity it is necessary to appeal to tbe sympathy 
of those who consider it a privilege and a duty to 
do good as they have opportunity. 
Rochester, Sept. 28, 1857. 
For Moors'# Rural New-Yorker 
THE DEAD BABY. 
Sweet, precious onel who can gaze unmoved 
on thy little form, as it lies in its placid beauty in 
the tiny coffin? Loving hands have wreathed thy 
marble brow with flowers, (fit emblem of thy inno- 
cency,) and folded thy hands meekly upon thy 
quiet breast Aud now weeping friends are taking 
their last sad look, ere thou art hidden from their 
sight beneath tbe cold earth. No more shall they 
lino mu >io *.f n.urry laugl., ut listen to 
thy loving words. Yet, bereaved oneB, grieve not 
as those who have no hope. Your child at.il! lives 
—lives in the paradise ot God. True you cannot 
see the golden crown which adorns her brow, or 
catch the notes of her angel-song; but there, amid 
the ransomed of vhe Lord, arrayed in robes of 
righteousness, purchased and redeemed by Christ, 
himself, free irom pain and sorrow; still lives yonr 
preoious one. 
Mourn not then, but rather humbly thank your 
God that it has graciously pleased Him to trans¬ 
plant that little flower into his own heavenly gar¬ 
den. J). F. 
Truxton, N. Y., Sept., 1857. 
cars, were rega¬ 
ling him with tbe most enrapturing sounds that 
they, sweeping their tiny fingers o'er tbe mellow 
harp, conld produce. 
At. such a time, all perplexing cares are banish¬ 
ed, the mind is left free to wander from the present 
to the future, and here, methinks, it would be dif¬ 
ficult to dre-am of aught but coming felicity. The 
mind of the Christian would be drawn from “ Na¬ 
ture up to Nature’s Gon.” Yes, he could look 
round all these beauties, and exclaim— “My 
Father made them all,” and feel the assurance in 
his heart that there is laid up for him a crown of 
blissful immortality in a land far brighter and 
more beautiful than aught w< can imagine or con¬ 
ceive. Thus the beantles of a “ pathless wood,” 
seen through the medium of a grateful heart, will 
lead one to find “ tongues in trees,” books in vines, 
sermons in flowers, aad God in everything. 
Grinnel!, Iowa, 1857. Emma. 
Nothing in this vast creation is ever lost. In¬ 
dividuals may be losers through carelessness, but 
to the world at large no created substance can be 
lost. One combination of things is often changed 
into another, but no ingredient is ever ntterly de¬ 
stroyed, for at this moment the created universe 
docs not contain one particle of matter more, nor 
one particle less, than belonged to it that day it 
came fresh from the creating hand of Him who 
made all things very good. Never did a sunbeam 
shine in vain, and therefore no sunbeam that ever 
streaked this world with light could be finally lost 
Yet the sunbeam, lovely as it is, had its grave, and 
thcie sometimes for unnumbered ages it haB slept 
in undisturbed repose. Wbat is coal but latent 
sunbeams, wbich need only to be ignited to 6tart 
out again into active life? The sun, when many 
thousand years younger than he is now, cast forth 
his radiant beams on the surface of the world, and 
noble trees of ferns end other acrogens started at 
his bidding into vigorous life; they lived, died, 
and an erwent changes which made them coal— 
yes, coal! and the old sun, he did it all. These 
sunbeams Lave long been buried in tbe foini of 
coal; and though by ignition their resurrection- 
life is but a dim shadow of their early brightness, 
tney are yet sunbeams. We have nothing but sun¬ 
light in summer or in winter, think or talk os wo 
may. The fire on our hearths, the gas in our 
tubes, the oil in our lamps, and tbe candles on our 
tables, are all the products of the sunbeam. We 
kindle them, and in the very act raise the suubeam 
from itB grave, and send ft forth to run perobance 
a long cycle of changes ere again it rests in Buch 
a place as that we have dragged it from. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
SUNRISE. 
For Moore'B Rural New-Yorker 
HOME, HOPE AND HEAVEN. 
Truly has one said, “ that three of the sweetest 
words in the English language, are Home, Hope 
and Heaven,” and particularly in the last two is 
there untold beauty. A blessed thing it is to have 
an earthly home, a quiet, sheltered spot, where the 
birds sing tbeir joyous songs in the grand old 
trees, and the flowers, kissed by the sunlight, never 
cease to bloom, from the first warm days of Spring 
until the chill frosts of Autumn gather their 
charmB—a home where the loved ones are gathered 
with their sweet smiles and gentle words,—from 
which the great world with its sorrows and temp¬ 
tations is shat in. 
Bat ah! how many have had such a home, that 
have it not now, nor ever will again on earth. The 
Angel of Death hovered over it, and one after 
another of the family circle drooped beneath the 
shadow of his wing, and went np to join the re¬ 
deemed in heaven. Time wrought its changes, and 
the old homestead is desolate, forsaken, now. The 
patbB around the door Btone are overgrown wilh 
grass, for tbe feet that daily pressed them have 
long trod the streets of the New Jerusalem; stran¬ 
gers gather the fruit from the orchard trees, for 
the hands that planted them have eince plucked 
toils from needless ease. Many without labor 
would live by their own lips only, but they break 
for want of Btock. 
That man who from small beginnings has de¬ 
servedly raised himself to the highest stations 
may not always find that fall satisfaction in the 
possession of his object that be anticipated in tbe 
pursuit of it; but although the individual may be 
disappointed, the community at large are bene¬ 
fited—first, by bis exertions, and secondly, by his 
example. 
Though an honorable title may be conveyed to 
posterity, yet the ennobling qualities, which are 
the soul of greatness, are a sort of incommunica¬ 
ble perfection, and cannot be transferred. Indeed, 
if a man could bequeath his virtues by will and 
settle his sense of learning upon his heirs, as cer¬ 
tainly as he can his lands, a brave ancestor would 
be a mighty privilege. 
Three are two kinds of envy. In the base mind 
it degenerates into downright hatred of a superior, 
with a desire to deprive him of what tbe envious 
one cannot possess; while in a noble soul it goes 
no farther than emulation or a deBire to equal or 
sarpass the person In question. Oh, how subtle 
and almost imperceptible the difference between 
the seed of one’s virtues and vices. 
Thkrk is a young lady living in Saratoga, who 
has visited the grave of a sister every morning for 
three years. A more touching sight we have sel¬ 
dom seen in this inconstant and forgetful world, 
than this devout maiden kneeling to place flowers 
upon the green coverlid of a aister’B 
I am no advocate for meanness of private habi¬ 
tation. I would fain introduce into it all magnifi¬ 
cence, care and beauty, where they are possible; 
but I would not have useless expense in unnoticed 
fineries or formalities; ooruicings of ceilings and 
grainings of doorp, aud fringing of curtains, and 
thousands of such things which have beoome 
foolishly and apathetically habitual — things, on 
whose common appliance hang whole trades, to 
wbloh there never belonged the blessings of givirg 
one ray of pleasure, or of becoming of tho re¬ 
motest or most contemptible use — things which 
cause half the expense of life, and destroy more 
than half its comfort, manliness, respectability, 
freshness and comfort. 
I speak fr m experience; I know wbat it is to 
live in a cottage with u deal floor and roof, and a 
hearth of mica slate; and I know it to be in many 
respects healthier and happier than living between 
a Turkey carpet and a gilded ceiling, beside a 
steel grate und polished fender. I do not say that 
such things have not their place and propriety; 
hat I B.*y this emphatically, thut a tenth part of 
the expense whioh is sacrificed in domestic vani¬ 
ties, if not absolutely aud meauiuglessy lost in 
domestic comforts and incumbrances, would, if 
collectively offered and wisely employed, build a 
marble church for every town in England; sueh a 
church as it should be a joy and blessing even to 
pass near in onr daily ways and walks, and as it 
wonld briugtlie light into tbe eyes to see from afar, 
lifting its height above the purple crowd of hum¬ 
bler roofs.— Ruskin. 
me aa vantage inns garneo, me exclusive party was 
broken up and the suhject changed. I have many 
times been annoyed iu the same way, not only by 
conversation upon music, but upon other subjects 
equally unsuitad to a mixed company, such as 
politics among meD, and house keeping, or other 
kindred subjects by tbe ladies. 
I have been thus minute in my account of *his 
particular evening, because it set me thinking 
upon the many cases of this kind which ooonr, 
and their hearing. Now I grunt it may have in¬ 
creased the happiness of those engaged in It, but 
it was the means of making two miserable for tho 
same length of time, and my friend, I am sure, 
suflered more than conld havo been balanced by 
the happiness of five or six of the others. It may 
beBaid, however, that if it wub a source of pleas¬ 
ure to several to con verse in this way, that pleas¬ 
ure would more than counterbalance tbe pain it 
caused one or two, but I maintain that as all expe¬ 
rience pleasure in a general conversation the 
transition is all the more painful to those who are 
obliged to keep silence when any such subject as 
that referred to is introduced. If we seek compa¬ 
ny from a desire for rational enjoyment and im¬ 
provement, why should we destroy all the charm 
thereof by making it a vehielo for political or 
technical discussions, which can be carried on by 
but few at a time, and are Bure to break up all con¬ 
versation. 
There should be places provided for the escape 
of all such ideas which may be entertained where 
they can harm no one. None of us, when invited 
to a house, like to refuse, neither do wc care to 
have all our enjoyment Bpoiled by finding, instead 
of a pleasant Bocial party, and cosy, chatty, con- 
It is wonderful how eheap happiness used to he. 
It used to grow lu tbe field; we have found it 
there, but not lately. It lay about, like the sun¬ 
shine, within arm's length of everybody. Rome- 
tinies five speckled eggs in a grassy niBt constitu¬ 
ted it; sometimes beautiful blue ones iu the lilacs. 
It used to swim in the brooks, and turn up its 
silvery and mottled hides, like a polished little sa¬ 
bre, sprinkled with the color of fame, which is 
generally supposed to be crimson. 
Wc have found it, many a time, beside a mossy 
stone when it looked very much like a first spring 
flower; we have seen it coming down in the snow; 
and heard it descending In the rain. 
What a world of it used to be crowded into a 
Saturday afternoon! An old newspaper, with ce¬ 
dar ribs, a tail like three bashaws, and a penny’s 
fruit from tbe tree of life fairer than any of earth. 
But can any changes take from ns the solace of 
hope? Can any sorrow, however heart-crushing 
it may be, take from God's beloved the sweet rest 
of heaven? No, no, the afflicted; tho sorrowing, 
may hope still; and (or the tempted, the tried, and 
the weary of earth, are the mansions of heaven 
prepared. 
Were it possible to let out hope from every hu¬ 
man heart, then would tbe moral sunlight of the 
world be turned into the blackness of despair for¬ 
ever. The mariner on the great ocean when the 
elements are warring in anger, aud his ship trem¬ 
bles like the merest toy upon the billows, hoping 
to meet the loving wife who is watching for him 
“ narrow bed,” 
and to repeat her morning prayers, where none 
but God can hear them. There iB a fanaticism of 
the affections, which one cannot but reverence; 
and the scene we have alluded to makes the love 
of woman holy, even to those whose skepticism 
has become chronic. 
Humanity is a grnco that adornB and beautifies 
every other grace; without it, the most splendid 
natural and acquired acquisitions lose half their 
charm. 
Never contract friendship with a man who is no 
better than thyself. 
