MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
NOV. 14 
CONDUCTED 
AZJLK. 
For Moore's Rutnl New-Yorker. 
THE HOPE OF THE HEART. 
Leaf bv leaf the flowers fail, 
Drop by drop the rivulets dry, 
Blighted by the Frost King pale. 
Summer beauties Cade and die. 
But the flowers will bloom again, 
And the rivulets gush anew, 
In the Springtide sun and rain, 
And the Summer’s gentle dew. 
So in hours of deepest gloom, 
When the springs of gladness fail. 
And the flowers iij their bloom, 
Droop like maidens wan and pale, 
We shall find some hope that lies 
Like a silent germ apart, 
Hidden from the world’s cold eyes, 
In the garden of the heart 
Some glad hope to jtiy is wed. 
That will bloom afresh and new, 
When sorrow’s winter shall have fled, 
Giving place to joy's sweet dew. 
Some sweet hope that breathes of spring, 
Through the weary, dreary time, 
Budding for its blossoming 
In the spirit’s silent clime. 
New York, 1S57. Etta. 
FEMALE CHARACTER, - EDUCATION. 
Of all the charms which twice themselves about 
the female character, none is more lovely, more 
touching, more worthy to be honored and admired, 
than simplicity—the gentle, yet frank open-heart¬ 
edness of character, which seems to make the sonl 
a place of light and purity, like the mild, sweet 
radiance of a spring morning, amid budding leaves 
and opening flowers. How exquisitely beautiful, 
how unspeakably delicate, says a late writer, is the 
loveliness of a woman unaccustomed to the world! 
" Unscathed by the chilling influence of blasted 
hopes, of wounded affection, her sharply-defined 
feelings manifest themselves in all their freshness, 
with a warmth unchecked by the dictates of jeal¬ 
ous prudence, or the wary suggestions of calcu¬ 
lating, narrow-minded, self-protecting interest.— 
For her to think, is to give utterance to her 
thoughts; and to feel, is to give expression to her 
emotions, with a guileless simplicity, unsuspicious 
of ill-natured misrepresentation, and fearless, be¬ 
cause unconscious of the possibility of miscon¬ 
struction.” 
Compare this sweet and touching simplicity, 
which makes the life but the expressive counte¬ 
nance of the soul, with artifice, that hateful weed, 
which often takes root so vigorously, even in early 
life, hardening and blackening the soil in which it 
grows, till nothing is seen but 6mut and stabble.— 
Compare a subtle, contriving, tortuous, snaky 
thing—with her crafty, satin-spoken words, her 
quick, furtive glances, her readily-changing brow, 
and her artificial softness of demeanor—the heart¬ 
less syren of the dance, who lores on her victim 
with deceitful smiles, and clustering ringlets, and 
jewelled fingers, and the pattering of tiny feet 
clothed in slippers of the choicest satin—the false 
hearted, smooth-faced creature, who attunes her 
shrill voice “ by a system of polite solfeggio, ” and 
conceals the sharpness of her talons under a fe¬ 
line velvetnde of paw—compare the words and 
looks of such a being with the unconstrained and 
artless vivaci y, the open looks, of fair simplicity 
—of the guileless being, who knows no restraint 
but that delicacy which has grown up with her 
inmost thoughts, shading, bnt not concealing them, 
like the sheath of sheltering green around the ex¬ 
quisite lily of the valley! No, no! simpli city is the 
very sonl of beanty—the sweet spirit of fascina¬ 
tion which makes us love what otherwise we could 
bnt at the most admire, All artifice or affection of 
character, all prettiness, all exquisite and elaborate 
contrivances to rivet the enchanted gaze of the 
beholder—whether displayed in the dress or man¬ 
ners—can never so bewitch ns as Natnre’s self. In 
female dress, when youth and beauty appear ar¬ 
rayed in Bimple white, with perhaps a single bou¬ 
quet reposing on the bosom of innocence—how in¬ 
finitely does snch a vision outshine the mere earth¬ 
en image, tricked out in all the polls and papilotts, 
all the dangling bows an#tresses, all the glittering 
ribbons and sparkling paste, which wealth or 
fashion, vanity or folly, can string together! 
It i3 a grand defect of the science of female 
education, in this country, that it is too much the 
science of mere behavior. Instead of educating 
the feelings, we are critically didactic as to the 
mode of their expression; the Bentiment and dis¬ 
position reigning within are not constantly visible 
in the external deportment We do not encourage 
intrepidity and independence of thought—there is 
nothing original—nothing fervent—nothing which . 
may prolong the delicate spell of respectful ten- 
derness and admiration, by casting upon the 
every-day occurrences of life the glow of feeling J 
and the oharm of novelty. Some minds there are 
by nature go strong and elastic as to rebound from 
the pressure of education into the beautiful region 
of natural enthusiasm and innocent true-hearted- 
ness; bnt the masB are bo moulded that they are f 
often bnt pastebosrd, buckram, and whalebone 
things; creatures of puffery and artifice, whose 
every word, look, and act—everything they do—is 
bnt a triok of custom. 
-- -» ■ »- 
THE BEAUTIFUL. ^ 
Who does not love the beautiful, displayed in 
any of its varied and soul-cbeering forms? It nn- < 
consciously elevates our natures and sheds a soft- ’ 
enieg and refining influence over our daily life.— 
The loveliness of nature is an eternal and ever- , 
changing picture of beauty, and presents to oar , 
enraptured gaze a series of gorgeous panoramas , 
(represented by the different seasons) in colors that 
no earthly artist can equal. The treasures of art, 
either in music, painting, or sculpture are never , 
failing sources of delight, and are endowed with 
wondrons power in awakening a sense of the beau- 
tifuL A lovely woman, the sweet Bmiles of inno- I 
cent childhood, and its own beauty, and natural 
graoes, are objects the eye loves to dwell upon, j 
and the heart to treasure ap as gems of beauty.— < 
Let us then cultivate and cherish a love of the 
beautiful, and the enjoyment we shall receive will 
repay ns a thousand fold. i 
A FRENCH MARRIAGE. 
Marriages iu France are often .arranged in a 
summary manner. Not long since, a young gen- 
tlenun of family succeeded iu running speedily 
through bis fortune. He was heavily in debt, and 
in great despair. Sitting one evening in the Van- 
devil e Theatre, he was accosted by an elderly 
gentleman A conversation ensued, and they be¬ 
came mutually interested, the former on account 
of the warm interest the latter seemed to take in 
his welfare, for what reason the young m m o*mld 
not think. The young man at once, with youthful 
confidence, imparted to tbe stranger his pecuniary 
embarrassments, The gentleman reflected a little, 
and then replied, 
“ Welt, I see no way of releasing yon from your 
difficulties, but to find you a wi;e.” 
“No, no,” said the young man; “ l am in trouble, 
it is true, but nothing so bad as matrimony has 
happened to me yet.” 
“Bat,” commenced the other, “you would not 
object to a wife with a tine fortune ?” 
“A difi-rent matter, indeed.” 
“Well,then,” said the elder, "I will present yon 
to a lady who will marry you, and you will be once 
again a rich man.” 
The new-made friends parted, soon to meet 
again. The young man was presented to the lady; 
his character and standing were without blemish; 
he was handsome, and the pair were speedily 
united; and as the unknown had predicted, the 
young gentleman was possessed of wealth. On 
the morning after the wedding, the stranger called 
on tbe bridegroom. 
“Ah,” said the latter, with warmth, “ my dear 
friend, you come to congratulate me, and at the 
same time reveal to me what I have ever done to 
inspire yon with so strong an interest in my fate.” 
“ With much pleasure,” replied he. “You have 
passed bills of exchange to the amount of fifteen 
thousand franos, which bills being now in my pos¬ 
session, I have called to congratulate yon, and to 
urge a settlement at the Bame time. I knew you 
were without fortune; putting yon in prison would 
not do me any good, so I preferred to furnish you 
a fortune; and now gratitude will surely force you 
to render me justice.” 
WOMANLY ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 
The New York Daily Times, of a late date, con¬ 
tained some sensible remarks on female accom¬ 
plishments. It mentions, among other important 
facts, that in the county of Suffolk, England, every 
woman can make bread, and one town, having 
sixty thousand inhabitants, has only two bakericB. 
The Times adds: 
“It is certainly greatly to the credit of the wo¬ 
men of England that there are so many of them 
who could, if it were necessary, make the family 
bread and prepare the hot rolls for their breakfast. 
Bread-mablDg is not one of the accomplishments 
which American women think it necessary for 
them to be acquainted with; every parlor has a 
piano, bnt very few lri chens have an oven; and it 
would be as difficult to find an American woman 
who did not understand the use of one, as to 
find one who knew the use of the other. Bnt it 
is not altogether the fault of onr ladies that they 
cannot, and do not, understand the art of making 
bread. In the country every family must make its 
own bread, bnt it is questionable economy to keep 
a private bakery in the city. It is not tbe econo¬ 
my of bread-making which makes it so desirable 
that every woman shomd understand the art, bnt 
because it Bhows a familiarity with domestic af¬ 
fairs which is neces a ary to the economy and com¬ 
fort of every household. The daughter of a mer¬ 
chant residing in a oity, the name of which it is 
not at all necessary we should mention, lately re¬ 
marked in confidence to her next, friend, that she 
did not see any advantage iu having a millionaire 
for a fither, since she had to work four hours eve¬ 
ry day at her piano. 
The hard case of this unhappy young lady is by 
no means a solitary one; and there are no doubt 
a great many daughters of millionaires who would 
be very glad to change tbe slavery of the piano 
for an hour or two of recreation in the kitchen, 
and to whom bread-making would be a delight 
compared with the labor of learning mnsic. We 
would not be understood as objecting to the piano 1 
bnt a change from that instrument to the knead¬ 
ing trough would not be at all injurious to the 
characters of onr young ladiea” 
Swedish Women.— The bedding everywhere 
along the road is of home-made linen, and I do 
not recollect an instance where it has not been 
bronght out fresh and sweet from the press for ns. 
In this, as in all other household arrangements, 
the people are very tidy and cleanly, though a 
little deficient as regards their own persons. Their 
clothing, however, is of a healthy, substantial 
character, and the women consult comfort rather 
than ornament Many of them wear doth panta¬ 
loons under their petticoats, which, therefore, tliey 
are able to gather under their arms in wading 
through snow-drifts. I have not Been a low-neck¬ 
ed dress or thin shoe north of Stockholm. 
“ The damsel who trips by daybreak, 
Is shod like a mountaiuc-er.’' 
Yet a sensible man would sooner take such a dam¬ 
sel to wile than any delicate Cinderella of the ball 
room. I protest, I lose all patience when I think 
of the habits of onr American women, especially 
onr country girls. If ever the Saxon race does 
deteriorate on the American side of the Atlantic 
as Borne ethnologists anticipate, it will be wholly 
their fault .—Bayard Taylor in Northern Europe. 
A beautiful superstition prevails among the 
Seneca tribe of Indians. When an Indian maiden 
dies, they imprison a young bird until it first be¬ 
gins to try its power of song, and then loading it, 
with kisses and caresses, they loose its bonds near 
the grave, in belief that it will not fold its wings 
nor close its eyes until it has flown to the spirit 
land and delivered its precious burden of affection 
to the loved and lost. It is not unfrequent to see 
twenty birds let loose over one grave. 
To repress a harsh answer, to confess a fault, or 
to stop (right or wrong) in the midst of self-defence, 
in gentle submission, sometimes requires a strag¬ 
gle almost like life and death; bnt these three 
efforts are the golden threads with which domestic 
happiness is interwoven; once begin the fabric 
with the wool, and trials shall not break, or Borrow 
tarnish it. 
THE AUTUMN LEAVES. 
What makes the hue of the autumn leaves? 
Well, tame thy bird-like glee, 
And chain thy bounding footsteps, child, 
Aud listen awhile to the legend wild, 
Which 1 will tell to thee. 
The Indians sny that long, long since, 
Ere our sires had brought their baud, 
Their forefathers came o’er the western eea, 
And they foun t a nation stern, wise and f ee, 
Aud they slew them—and took their land. 
And oft as that season returns again, 
So their simple faith believes— 
When the moon comes that lighteth the hunter's chase, 
Then the bright red blood of their murdered race 
Springs up in the autumn leaves. 
But a poet hath writton'tt gentler creed; 
List, love, and you shall know; 
For his sketches are “pencllinga” bright and bold, 
Like fairly tales of the times of old, \ 
Which I read so long ago. 
He says that the rainbows of myriad hues, 
Are laced in the tree tops high; 
That the sunsets have come iu the summer’s track, 
And poured their full splendor of radiance back, 
In a robe of gorgeous hue; 
That the burning gems, which he hid beneath, 
In their dark and earth-bound shrine. 
Have melted and mounted from root to crest, 
Till the forest in princely stylo is dressed 
With the riches of the mine. 
But the sweetest reason of all, I think, 
Is thie —which a lesson breathes — 
That the charm which lendeth the woods this flush, 
la the frosl-hiss, spreading a crimson blush 
O'er the modest autumn leaves. 
For Moore's Rnral Now-Yorker. 
NOBILITY. 
High sounding titles—honors bestowed by men— 
are no criterion of the nobility of the 60 ul of him 
who rejoices in them. Snoh dignities may be 
purchased by money, or by deeds opposed to that 
mercy and kind consideration for the feelings of 
others which constitute man's chief glory. 
But I have, to a certain extent, faith in heredi¬ 
tary nobility of tbe heart. When I hear people 
speak well of a man's ancestors, I feel quite sure, 
whatever they may say of himself, that there is 
something good in the descendant of good people, 
although bad habits or misfortune may have ob¬ 
scured it What a difference may bo observed be¬ 
tween children reared among those whose liberal 
hearts devise liberal things, and those wIiobo re¬ 
gard for self-interest inclines them only to listen 
to the voic$ of worldly prudence. I have seen the 
kindly feeling, the generous impulse, the high 
sense of honor, the delicate consideration for the 
feelings of others which prevents the utterance of 
a word calculated to wound, descend from parent 
to child, to the third generation; and I have seen 
the opposite qualities ding to those otherwise 
lovable and estimable increasing in bitterness and 
severity, until, when the attractions of youth were 
gone, they were left almost friendless—certainly 
destitute of the warm, enthusiastic friendship 
which only generosity of heart, true nobleness of 
soul, can hope to retain. A ud what better fate can 
the heart expect that shuts itself within a wall oi 
selfish prudence—that never spends upon a gener¬ 
ous impulse either time, money, affection or influ¬ 
ence. “ The liberal soul shall be made fat,” and it, 
is no wonder if the illiberal and self-righteous, or 
the cold and selfish, experience “leanness.” Who 
does not feel more leniency for the follies of the 
former, than for the everlasting frigidity of the 
latter? Who would encounter the dangers of the 
ocean only to sail among icebergs? Who can 
contemplate a voyage to the icy regions of the 
North but as a thing to be dreaded? Bnt who can 
pass the green, fragrant isles of “sunny climes” 
without experiencing ft feeling of delight, and of 
gratitude to the Giver of all good, who has placed 
us In a world of so much beauty aud comfort— 
’Tis thus fn life’s voyage—there are human ice- 
bergB among the cold, the Bell-righteous and the 
unfeeling, who, never glad with others’ gladness, 
nor ever sad with others’ sadnesB, often threaten to 
crash the timid, tbe unfortunate and the erring.— 
There are icy regions in society in which we may 
wander, and look with yearning hearts for a haven 
of rest from storms that beset onr way—for a ge¬ 
nial spot upon which to build a home sacred from 
the intrusions of the world; and we may look and 
long in vain. There may be dazzling glacierB of 
parity, of justice, of truth and honor, to attract 
our eyes, but they do but reflect onr gaze as a mir. 
ror. No depth of admiration can penetrate the 
icy manlleof selflshnegs so as to draw from thence 
cherishing warmth. 
Ob, who would not rather be like the gladdening 
sun and the gentle dew, which descend with a 
blessing to the lowliest vale, than like the ever¬ 
lasting snow upon the mountain top! Who would 
not rather cultivate in his child the feeling heart, 
the kind, unselfish act, the generous thought, 
which distinguish a true nobleman, than the cold 
severity of judgment, the prudential consideration 
the distrust of his fellow creatures, which mark 
the man “ concentered all in self,” which many 
think an essential part of education ior thiB world. 
And truly it is an education for this world and only 
this. ’Tis not an education for eternity—for the 
day when we shall be judged according to onr 
deeds. ’Tis not tbe teaching of Him who was tbe 
Highest Type of nobleness—who said “Love one 
another. Do unto all men as yo would they should 
do unto yon. Do good and lend hoping for noth¬ 
ing again. Be merciful as your Father In Heaven 
is merciful ; for He maketh the buu to shine upon 
the evil and the good, and sendeth rain upon the 
just and on the unjnBt” v. l. v. 
Greece, N. Y., 1857. 
How mneb misery is compressed in the single 
word homeless ! But no greater than the amount 
of happiness bound up in the still shorter one of 
home. The difference between the two can never 
be known to those who have had no experience of 
both, nor be forgotten by any one who has, Home 
is the sacred spot, where affection, virtue and re¬ 
ligion plant their roots, and where those princi¬ 
ples receive nourishment ond cnltnre which adorn 
private life, uphold and perpetuate knowledge and 
good government, liberty und law. 
RECREATION, 
To work beat, man must play a due proportion 
of the time; to bear the heaviest burdens, be must 
have his heart lightened now and then; to think 
so profoundly, be must not think fo steadily.— 
When tbe world, on any plea of prudence, or wis¬ 
dom, or conscience, has overlooked these princi¬ 
ples, religion and morality have suffered. In form¬ 
er times, monasteries and nunneries, caves and 
pillars, held the pure f maties and nltralsts, the 
idiots and hypocrites, whom violated nature sent 
there. Now insane asylums and hospitals shelter 
the victims furnished for their cells by the head¬ 
long sobriety and mad earnestness of business 
which knows no pleasure, or of study which allows 
no cessation, or of conscience and piety, which 
frowns on amusement: while the morbid morality, 
the thin wiHdom, the j mndioed sff ctions, the 
wretch'd dyspepsia, the wreck and defeat of body 
and soul which a community deficient in outdoor 
sports, genial society, or legitimate gayety, ex¬ 
hibits to the ihonghtfnl eye, are hardly less sad- 
d> niog than the hospital or mad-boose. 
Amusement, then, is not only defensible, bnt the 
want oj it is a calamity and an injury to the sober 
and solid interest of society. None are more truly 
interested — did they know their own doty and 
policy—in seeing the community properly amused, 
titan the organized friends of morality and piety. 
They ought to know that nature avenges herself 
sooner or later—and better sooner than later—for 
tire violation of the laws of physical aDd moral 
health; and that the suppression of the sportive, 
careless, and pleasure-craving propensities or ap¬ 
titudes of onr nature, involve an i uevitable derange¬ 
ment and sure decay of the higher organs and 
faculties. Instead, therefore, of interfering with 
business, daty, sobriety, piety—with scholarship, 
economy, virtue and reverence; amusement, view¬ 
ed merely as a principle, advances and supports 
them all. The intellect that playB a part of every 
day, works more powerfully and to better results 
for the rest of the time; the heart that, is gay for 
an hour, is more serious for the other honrs of the 
day; the will that rests, is more vigorous than the 
will that is always strained. 
GENIUS OF ENERGY. 
Thkhk is no genins in life, like the genius of 
energy and industry. Yon will learn that all the 
traditions so current among very young men—that 
certain great characters have wrought their great¬ 
ness by an inspiration, as it were, grows out of a 
sad mistake. 
And you will further find, when you come to 
measure yourself with meD, that there are no rivals 
so formidable as those earnest, determined minds, 
which reckon the value of every hour, and which 
achieve eminence by persistent application. 
Literary ambition may inflame yon at certain 
periods; and a thought of some great name will 
flash like a Hpark into the mine of yonr purposes; 
yon dream until midnight over books; you set up 
shadows, and chase them down — other shadows, 
and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them.— 
Nothing makes the “ scent lie well ” in the hunt 
after distinction, but labor. 
And it is a glorious thing, when onoe you are 
weary of the dissipation, and the ennui of yonr 
own aimless thoughts, to take up some glowing 
page of an earnest thinker, and read, deep and 
long, until yon feel the metal of his thought tink¬ 
ling on yonr brain, and striking oat from your 
flinty lethargy, flashes of ideas, that give tbe mind 
light and heat. And away you go, in the chase of 
what the soul within is creating on the instant, and 
yon wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so 
crude. The glow oi toll wakes yon to the con¬ 
sciousness of yonr real capacities; you feel sure 
that they have taken a new step toward final de- 
velopement. In each mood it iB, that one feels 
gratefnl to the mnsty tomes, which at other honrs, 
stand like cnriOBity-making mummies, with no 
warmth and no vitality. Now they grow into the 
affections like new-found friends; and gain ahold 
upon the heart, and light a fire in the brain, that 
the years and the mould cannot cover nor quench. 
— Ik Marvel. 
THE LOVE OF HOME. 
If nobler setiments than the following, which 
were uttered by Daniel Webster, ever fell from 
hnman lips, we have yet to see thorn. They are 
indeed pearls of the rarest value, should be cher¬ 
ished in the very heart of hearts by every one: 
“It is onlyeballow-minded pretenders who make 
either distinguished origin a matter of personal 
merit, or obscure origin a matter of personal re¬ 
proach. A man who is not ashamed of himself 
need not be ashamed of his early condition. It 
did happen to me to be born in a log cabin, raised 
urnoDg the Bnow drifts of New Hampshire, at a pe¬ 
riod so early that when the smoke first rose from 
its rude chimney, and curled over the frozen hills, 
there was no similar evidence of a white man’B 
habitation between it and the settlements on the 
rivers of Canada, Its remains Btill exist; I make 
it an annual visit. I carry my children to it, and 
teach them the hardships endured by the genera¬ 
tions before them. I love to dwell on tbe tender 
recollections, the kindred ties, the early affections, 
and the narrations und incidents which mingle 
with all I know ol this primitive family abode; I 
weep to think that none of those who inhabited it 
are now among the living, and if ever I fail in af¬ 
fectionate veneration for him who raised it and 
defended it against savage violence and destruc¬ 
tion, cherished all domestic comforts beneath its 
roof, and through the fire and blood of seven years’ 
revolutionary war, shrank from no toil, no sacri¬ 
fice, to serve hlB country, and to raise his children 
to a condition better than his own, may my name 
aud the name of my posterity be blotted from the 
memory of mankind.” 
-- 
Do all in your power to teach your children 
Belf-governmctit. If a child is passionate, teach 
him by gentle means to curb his temper. If he is 
greedy, cultivate liberality in him. If he Is snlky. 
charm him out of It by frank good hnmor. II in¬ 
dolent, accustom him to exertion, and train him 
so as to perform even onerous dutioB with alacrity. 
If pride comes in to make obodienco reluctant, 
subdue him by counsel or discipline. In short, 
give yonr children the habit of overcoming their 
besetting sins. 
“THE ART PRESERVATIVE.” 
rKRnAT-s there is no department of enterprise, 
the details of which are lesa understood by intel¬ 
ligent people, than “the art preservative”—the 
achievement of the types. Every day, their lives 
long, they aie accustomed to read the newspaper 
to find fault with its statements, ita arrangement’ 
its looke; to plume themselves upon the discovery 
of some roguish and acrobatic, type that gets in a 
frolic and stands upon its head; or of some word 
wltli a waste letter or two in it; bnt of the process 
by which the newspaper is made; of the myriads 
of motioni and the thousands of pieces necessary 
to Us composition, they kuow Lttle,and think less. 
They imagine they discourse of a wonder, indeed, 
when they talk of the fair white carpet woven for 
thought, to walk on, of the rag- that fluttered upon 
the b »ck of the beggar, yesterday. 
Bat. there is to us, something more wonderful 
still. When we look at the hundred and fifty-two 
little boxes, something shaded with the touch of 
inky fingers, that compose the printer's ’‘case,” 
and watch him at Lis noiseless work; noiseless 
except the clicking of the type?, as one by one) 
they take their places in the growing line, we 
think we have fouud the marvel of the art. Strewn 
in those little boxes, are thin parallelograms of 
metal, every one good for a single letter, a comma, 
a hyphen, a something that goes to make np writ¬ 
ten language—the visible loot-prints of thought 
upon carpets ot rags. We think how many fan¬ 
cies in fragments, there are in the boxes; how 
many atoms of poetry and eloquence, the printer 
can pick np here and there, if be only has a little 
chart to work by; how many tacts in small hand- 
fulls; how much truth in chaos. 
Now he picks up the scattered elements, until he 
holds in his hand a stanza of Gray’s Elegy, or a 
monody upon Grimes, “ all buttoned down before.” 
Now he “ sets np” a “ puppy missing,” cud now 
“Paradise Lost;” he arrayB a bride in “small 
caps,” and a sonnet in “nonpariel;” he announces 
that the languishing will “live,” in one sentence; 
transposes tbe word, and deplores the days that, 
are few and “evil,” in the next A poor old jest 
ticks its way into the printer’s hand, like a little 
clock jnet running down; and astrainof eloquence 
marches into line, letter by letter. We fancy we 
can tell the difference by the hearing of the ear, 
bnt perhaps not The types that told a wedding 
yesterday, announce a burial to-morrow; perhaps 
in the self-same letters. 
They are the elements to make a world of—those 
types are; a world with something in it as beauti¬ 
ful as Spring, as rich as Summer, and as grand as 
Autumn; flowers that frosts cannot wilt; fmitthat 
shall ripen for all time. 
LOCOMOTIVE EXPERIENCE. 
Riding on the engine of an express train is ex¬ 
citing business. We made intercession with the 
powers that be, the other day, and secured a pas¬ 
sage for a distance of ten miles on “the ma¬ 
chine.” It is interesting to watchtne track ahead, 
and imagine yonrself going down the banks of 
some obstruction. Yon look at the steam gauge 
and wonder if one hundred and ten pounds is a 
safe quantity. 
As the speed increases, the sway of the engine 
attracts especial notice. Every little roughness of 
the track iB felt, and the machine goes knocking 
about from aide to side with force enough to tear 
the rails from the ties. 
The flat ribbon of rail, extending so far before 
you, seems ntterly insufficient to hold the va 9 t pon¬ 
derous weight of iron upon it. For relief from 
the terrors yon conjured np, yon turn to the engi¬ 
neer and venture a remark. 
He does not look around; his hand is on the 
lever, bia eyes steadily fixed on the track. 
Just then the Greman rings the bell lor a cros¬ 
sing. Yon can see it swing, but in the crash and 
thunder of your progress yon hear no Bound, and 
then you think that the engineer perhapB did not 
hear your voice. 
The fireman is constantly busy. He piles up 
the wood in easy cliatance and then “ stokes.” As 
the dry Btioks are cast into the furnace, the de¬ 
vouring flames 6ieze them with a fierce avidity 
and cut into their substance, penetrate their pores, 
aud tear them to pieces almost in a moment. It is 
an awful fire, unlike any yon ever witnessed. 
You take another look at the track and gain a 
new Bensatlon, for wherever the rails are a little 
settled the engine sinks down upon it and it seems 
as if the wheels and tracks were giving away, and 
the whole machine about to crush down In one 
fatal BtnftBh np. 
These are daylight observations, but the night is 
the time to enjoy a locomotive ride. 
The light from the engine lamp strikes only for two 
or throe rails forward—beyond that all is darkness, 
and yon go plunging along in the black unseen 
before yon, without a possibility of a forewarning 
of any danger. You can sec the switch lights; or 
that of another locomotive, bnt a log or a drunken 
man m^y be on the track, or a rail may be broken, 
and you none the wiser, until with one tremendous 
crash yon meet your doom upon it. 
A Lauoil— How much of character lies in a 
laogh. It la in fact tbe cipher-key, oftentimes 
wherewith we decipher a man. Aa a late writer 
observes — “You know no man until yon have 
heard him laugh—till you know bow and when 
he will laugh. There aie occasions — there are 
humors—when a man with whom yon havo been 
long familiar, will quite startle you by breaking 
out Into a laugh, which comes manifestly right 
from the heart, and yet which he had never 
heard before. And in many a heart a sweet an¬ 
gel slumbers unseen, until some happy moment 
awakens it.” 
-- 
Literary Labor is undervalued, chiefly because 
the tools wherewith it is done are invisible. If the 
brain made as much noise as a mill, or if thought- 
sowing followed hard after a breaking-tip plow, the 
produce of the mind would at onco assert a place 
in the prices current If a writer could be so 
equipped with wheels arid pinions, as entirely to 
conceal the man within, like the automaton chess¬ 
player, and sentences were recorded by a wooden, 
instead ol a living hand, the expression of thought 
would be at a premium, because the clock-work 
would seem to show that it cost somthlng to make 
it .—('hicago Journal. 
