MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
upon Lis ear is borne the glorious shout or song 
of praise, and as be looks aloft he views his brother 
man treading the straight and narrow path, while 
sometimes o’er bis brow he feels the waving of 
some heavenly wicg that hovere o’er life’s narrow 
way. Ab, then he would fain retrace his steps.— 
Alas his feet are slippery and he cannot climb the 
ascent with the ease he wandered down. The 
tempter’s jeers are in his ear, bright colors false 
but fair allure him on, until along the path of crime 
he boldly travels. 
Scarce half the days allotted human life are 
passed. Within the gloomy wilds of grim despair, 
where friendB exult and fiery serpents throw their 
banefnl stings, behold the prostrate form of the 
transgressor. Allnringscenesof vicious pleasure 
yield him no delight; with eager lips he qnaffs 
the poisonous draught, but now it gives no peace. 
Beside his bloated form, with hideous triumph in 
his eye, that demon gnide is watching. He has 
been his leader fall many a year along the devious 
path which he has chosen, and he will not leave 
him now. The banning page of envious hatred 
and revengtfal n; .poe he has taught him, while for 
his hand the ass.i snu’s knife he fondly sharpened, 
and now, without disguise, be waits to stamp upon 
the death-damped brow Satanic seals and symbols. 
No heavenly messenger can linger round that 
scene; but from tbe narrow way, the holy brother 
views the painful struggle, and too well he knows 
no voice of prayer could save him. 
With firmer step the Christian presses forth, 
and stronger yet, buckles on the saving shield un¬ 
til his sun begins to set behind the years of ripe 
old age. Fanned by the breeze from nnseen wings, 
whose shadow lingers o’er his brow, he gently falls, 
while to bis ear are borne sweet strains of holy 
pen, one of these days,” replied her father, laugh¬ 
ing, and after speaking a few words in a low tone, 
to his wife, took his hat and over-coat and left tbe 
house. After an hour’s absence he returned and 
found Aggie still np, anxiously awaiting bis 
arrivaL 
“ Have you sent them papa?” she asked, as he 
entered the room. 
“Sent what, little fairy?” said Mr. Leslie with 
a rogniBh look. 
11 Why, something nice to Matty’s mother. Ab, 
I know you have, I can tell by your eyes. Will 
they get them to-night?” 
“No, not to-night,” returned her father, “as it 
was too late to send them. But they will be there 
early in the morning.” 
“Ob, I am so happy,” murmured little Aggie, as 
she laid her head on her father's shoulder, “and 
God will bless you, papa, for Chbist said, “It is 
more blessed to give than to receive,” A tear 
trembled in Mr. Lcslie's eye ss he glanced from 
his sweet child to his wife, and met an answering 
FOUR MILLIONS OF LETTERS. 
“ About four million letters per annum are exchanged 
between tbe Uni ud States and Great Britain. What a 
library these letters would foim.” 
Yes—a library indeed! aid, allowing the let¬ 
ters average three pageB each, they would fill 
thirty thousand volumes of four hundred pages 
each! Thirty tbonsand volumes tilled with the 
hopes, the wishes, the joys, the woes, the plans and 
purposes of nearly a million of human beings!_ 
What a heart history aud brain-history that cor¬ 
respondence of a single year must contain! He 
who should have the privilege and patience to 
read through that vast amount of manuscript 
would have a perfect knowledce of that, mtmteri. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE 
For Moore's Rnr&l New-Yorker. 
AUTUMN OF THE HEART. 
tor Moore’B Rural New-Yorker. 
MY MOTHER’S SPIRIT. 
BY ANN1H MOUVWS 
How joyous hast thou b eni How light and free 
In the sweet spring-time of thy life when earth 
Was a blooming paradise to theel 
How shook thy spirit's chords with joy and mirth! 
Music of life, 0, cheer me now as then! 
Come back! come back agatnl 
When Bpring awoke with Mashing buds and flowers, 
And happy birds sang Id a tbonsand trees, 
With song and laughter passed the merry hours, 
For thou, O, beattl wast happier far thin these! 
Bleed now in silence, and forget thy glee, 
Earth haa no joy for thee. 
To brighter climes the warbling birds have flown, 
Tbe beauteous flowers are withered now and dead, 
The trembling leaves across the path are blown, 
Heedless upon them, human footsteps tread. 
So fall thy cherished hopes. With every blast 
They’re tailing, falling fast 
Soon 'twill be Winter with thee. Cold as Death 
Thou it shiver in the storm. Look t ip and smile! 
A brighter land awaits thee, where the breath 
Of Winter comes not. Suffer for awhile. 
In Heaven is endless Spring, and flowers grow, 
Nor fade as here below. 
La Grange, Wyo. Co., N. Y., 1857. 
A spiKif hovers around me, 
Hovers aronnd me now. 
It’s airy form 1 cannot see, 
Nor feel tt touch my brow. 
And yet *tis near, I know *tis near, 
The fpirit of my muUier dear. 
They tell me spirits never come 
Again, when once set free, 
To Tisil still tbeir former home, 
And earthly friend to see, 
’Tis false! for ever at my side, 
Doth a mother's spirit glide. 
And when at nigtt I seek my rest, 
Her spirit still is there— 
I thank my Father I am blest 
With such augohe eare; 
And most of all blessings given, 
Thank Him for this guide to heaven. 
New York, Nov., 1857. J 
cetyed. Those fragile musives, secured by a sin¬ 
gle seal, would unfold tragic tales of deeper in¬ 
terest. than ever inspired the Tragic Muse. There 
would be evidence of attachment pure, and noble, 
and burning brighter In the dread etdeal of ab¬ 
sence; there, would be sorrow “such as press tbo 
life oat. from young bosoms,” and joys almost too 
deep for uiterance. 
There, too, would be fonnd false wordB, the coin- 
age ot perfidious hearts—professions of love as 
lea ponderable as air, the muBk of hatred deep and 
undying. Thoua mds of letters, with black sealB, 
carrying death, Instead of life, to expectant friends. 
Thousands of letters, like the casket of the Ara¬ 
bian taleB, which, opened, gave birth to a huge 
monster—the pag ‘&ntsof castle builders, the mirth 
of cbildien, the devotion of lovers, the schemes 
of misers; and all this movement and interchange 
of thought is secret and confidential The mail- 
agent, the steamship captain, the many employees, 
, through whose band*- this tide of Intercommuni¬ 
cation flows>know absolutely nothingof tlu-springs 
they put in motion. Tuey feel not the pulsations 
of the million hearts list depend upon their fidel¬ 
ity and fortunes. Very little of this vast tide of 
imformation ever overflows directly upon the pub¬ 
lic, though it influences society by its action on 
individual!!. And this whole system, on which we 
have been conimfutitg, is of modern origin; the 
interweaving of iho silent and invisible links 
that bind the whole human family together, and 
permit mind to respond to mind, is a comparative¬ 
ly new creation. The world, a lew centuries back 
was in Cimmerian darkness, compared to the light 
it now enjoys. 
For Moore’s Rnra) New-Yorker 
LIFE’S PATHWAY. 
lire lortucorotng. A rap at the door. What con 
it mean at this early hour. Perchance their infu¬ 
riated landlord, and Mrs. Carter’s hands tremble 
from an undefined fear, as well as from cold, a 9 she 
unfastens the latch. “Does the widow Cabtbr 
live here?” inquired a good-natured, rosy-looking 
man. as he slapped his bands together to keep 
them warm. 
“ Yea sir,” responded the widow, dreading sho 
knew not what. 
" All right then,” returned the man cheerfully. 
*' Wboa, horses,” as he drove a team up to the door, 
and threw down a load of wood, all ready for use.’ 
“ ^e Bee mu’nrn somebody has a care for warm 
toes Thanksgiving Day,” a-id with an expressive 
smile, he jumped into tbe. wagon, and drove away 
before tbe poor woman comprehended the mean¬ 
ing of tbe affair. She wdb Boon brought to her 
I saw a lovely path, narrow but straight, be¬ 
decked with fairest flowers whose odor made the 
ambient air like sweetest incense. With boughs 
entwined, a lovely cypress and a noble oak cast 
o’er the place their warm, protecting ahadowa 
Far above the bright, t ine belt of Heaven, a 
sbining form, with silken win^s whose golden lus 
tre far outshone the glorious sunbeam, views with 
care this fairy bower. AU is complete; and now 
from heavenly scenes through the ethereal vault 
he hastens. Within his arms he bears two infant 
souls, and nestled ’neath t,h6 ambrosial shade, they 
find life’s pathway. How gently fold his azure 
wingB as on tbeir brows he sets the seal of Heaven 
and o’er their tiny forniB breathes a holy benedic¬ 
tion; then, again they softly spread and high he 
soars above tbo stately shade, ’till far above, amid 
the ethereal bine, he hovers round to watch their 
progress. 
Sweet babes! how gentle is the pressure of your 
footsteps o’er the flowery path of childhood, and 
how well protected are yoargrowingforma by those 
parental trees! 
The path expands, and soon amid the glowing 
flowers of yonth, behold those nimble feet are 
treading. But see! half hidden by yon bushy 
border, another form now glides along life’s path¬ 
way. EUb Bhape and outward mien he fain would 
make angelic, hot in his bosom wrangling scor¬ 
pions hide, whose poisonous breath like livid fires 
fill every vein and make his touch a deadly poison. 
Upon his well-masked form, two leaden wings un¬ 
fold, as if they, too, had power to soar to heavenly 
heights. Oftimes he lowly crouches round those 
youthful feet or decks the fair surrounding scene 
with more than radiant beauties; again, with siren 
voice he Alls the air with richest melody or from 
the trembling harp-string strikes tbe soft, sweet 
cadences of music. 
Entranced, those youthful ears catch the beguil- 
ing notes, or revel ’mid the fair, enchanting 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
What a dreary night to precede Thanksgiving 
Day. The friendly moon has hid her face, and 
the November wind is howling mournfully among 
the bare-brauobed trees, and laying the new-iallen 
snow in drifts. Tbe traveler, as he hastily turns 
his steps homeward, patiently submits to have his 
nose pinched by Jack Frost, and hia hair ruffled 
by the frolicB of the wind, while thinking of the 
warm, pleasant fireside that awaits hia coming.— 
Ah, these firesides! they make home a happy 
place. But think ye not there are some this night 
who gather aronnd no cheerful Are? Ye who 
have plenty, remember ye have the poor always 
with yon. In the shadow of yonder great house, 
stands a little hovel A Bingle light gleams forth 
from that broken window, and a mother with her 
three little ones, crouch around a few, dying em¬ 
bers. As every gust, of wind penetrates their 
miserable dwelling, the shivering inmates gather I 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ECHOES. 
ivni, mi, u*i, against me aoor in quick succession, 
and on Matty’s opening it, several well filled' 
baskets and huge parcels were showered upon her, 
more than the little arms could hold. Who could 
have guessed their wants so clearly? Shoes and 
stockings for the little feet, and food enough “ to 
last a month” as the children said, and various ar. 
ticles conducive to their comforr, and last of all a 
ten dollar gold piece, wrapped in white paper, on 
which was written the words, “Trust in the Lord 
and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and* 
verily thou Bhalt be fed.” “Behold the fowls of 
the air; for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor 
gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feed- 
eth them. Are ye not much better than they?” 
The widow Carter caused her children to kneel 
beside her, and raising her streaming eyeB to 
heaven, exclaimed, 11 r-'oly, weeping mav endure 
Echo is sound reflected. Nature presents a 
scene of sounds, ever varying, never ceasing; we 
hear them in the gargling fountains of spring, as 
well as in the rustling of autumn’s withered leaves, 
or in the howi of winter’s blast 
The sounds of the world without have an echo 
in the world within. We have all heard the old 
legend of the boy in the mountain puss, who com¬ 
plained that a mockiDg fairy was concealed near 
repeating every word he spoke. Be this true or 
not, surely eo'io like a fairy spirit dwells in every 
souL The heart is a grotto, and echoes of strains 
sad or joyful, harsh or meodions, are ever rever- 
bratiug through its long chambers. 
Eohoes of the past never die away. They may 
be Bilent at times, bat they only sleeps. As in a 
mountain cave one soft: whisper or iow footfall 
will vibrate through the long dark recesses; so 
one sound like those of the past, awakens a thou 
sand thoughts that echo and re-echo through all 
the winding labyrinths of the sonl; whether it be 
the sweet sound of a loved friend’s voice, long 
silent, or the music of early haunts died away on 
closer to each other, endeavoring in vain'to re¬ 
store warmth to their chilled frames. How the 
wind sigh6 and moans. Mingled with every blast, 
can ye not hear the crie9 of the suffering poor? 
"Mother,” 6aid little Matty, “to-morrow will 
be Thanksgiving,” 
The widow Carter moved not. Her eyes were 
vacantly fixed on the coals, bnt her heart was far 
away. She was a child again. A gay, “ free-heart¬ 
ed, careless one.” She witnessed again the abund¬ 
ance of her father’s house, and the joyous festivi¬ 
ties and social gatherings of Thanksgiving Day. 
With a sigh she passed over those happy years, 
and saw herself first Bettiug out in her journey 
through the world, hand In hand with one, who 
made all of life, shared with him, one happy 
Thanksgiving day. She lain would have omitted 
the sad scenes of later years; bnt memory, with a 
faithful band, pictured them alL The solemn 
death-bed scene, the agony of separation, rhe 
dark, sad days of bereavement and loneliness, 
were all lived over again in those few moments. 
“ Mother,” again repeated Matty, wearied with 
the long continued silence, "mother, do you know 
to-morrow is Thanksgiving? And we will have 
some fire, I hope,” she added, shivering, “and a 
nice dinner too, for I’m real hungry.” 
The mother had sgain returned to the sad reali¬ 
ties of their present condition, and a spirit of re¬ 
pining atOBe within her, as she thought of those who 
were surrounded with ease aud plenty, while sho 
and her little ones were destitute of the common 
necessaries of life. Thanksgivlue? What had 
nine suen principles, ana pursue such a course, 
that its benefits may be yunrs. It is a prize so 
rich that it repays every sacrifice and every toil 
necessary to secure it. Suppose a mercantile com¬ 
munity could be found whose every individual 
was known and acknowledged to possess strict and 
uncompromising integrity; the representation of 
each other were In strict accordance with truth; 
“ his word as good as a bond!” Such a commu¬ 
nity would have a monopoly o( the trude, so far ua 
they had the weans of supplying the demand_ 
“The tricks of the trade,” whatever may be their 
apparent advantages, impair confidence, and in the 
end injure thoBe who practice them tar more than 
they benefit them. It. is a short sighted, as well as 
a guilty policy, to swerve, under any circumstan¬ 
ces, from those great principles which are of uni¬ 
versal and everlasting obligation. Let a man 
maintain his integrity at all times, and he will be 
satisfied there is a blessiDg in it, and a blessing all 
aronnd it.— Philadelphia Bulletin. 
.ug uoics, o. rcvci inxu me lair, encoantlng scene. 
Ah! how exultant is hi 8 visage as he lingers near 
t-. breathe upon their ears the tones of flattery.— 
The genial shade of the parental oak and cypress 
deepen, bnt ti ey yleid a small defence against the 
tempter’s art... With canning wiles he enters 
’neath their shadow to wipe away the glorious 
sign God set upon those youthful foreheads. 
Still near now is fluttering that angel spirit. No 
movement of the arch fiend escapes him; too well 
he knows the fell destroyer along life's pathway.— 
Ah 1 how he strives to guide them where no thorns 
may pierce their feet ; how arduously he fans away 
the poisonous breeze and make more bright and 
dear the Master’s seal. 
The struggle deepens. Bright manhood dawns, 
and through its winding iabjrint'u these manly 
forms pursue their way with energetic zeal; bnt 
here each glowing rose secretes its thorn, fair 
scenes allure to trap the wandering feet, and pleas¬ 
ure’s fairy hand paints scenes that tempt their 
fancy. Within that demon’s breast still fiercer 
burn those hidden fires, as, with more gilded form 
and honeyed lips, he tempts fair virtue’s power or 
lares their tastes hy foaming draughts of ruddy 
poison. Ah, foolish mortals, thus to linger round 
the tempter's board. Oh! why not hear those 
heavenly whisperings of the guardian spirit who 
for yon adorned life’s pathway—whose unseen 
arm, protected through the ills of babbling child¬ 
hood, healed the woands along tbe thorny path of 
youth, and strove to guide where the deceiver’s 
snare might not entrap you. List, as he beckons 
you along tbe narrow path and whispers that it 
leads to Heaven. He begs yon cast one lingering 
glance upon the fading cypress and the falling 
oak. Upon your brows God’s glowing seal is dim 
and fain the foe of Heaven would quite erase and 
stamp thereon his own. The plea is not in vain. ' 
One maoly head iB raised to Heaven; aronnd bis ( 
brow a holy lustre seems to linger, as on the low- 
bent knee the prayerful accents of the contrite 
penitent pour forth. Ah, yes, the eye of faith ob- * 
j^L-uues ui me ousy worms low bum are ever 
about us. The sound of passing footsteps, the 
rattling cf wheels along the street,—all are heard 
by the ear apparently unheeded; but in the 
soul is the low echo of thought. Whither tends 
this great multitude? Every new footstep, every 
spoken word awakens many an inquiry within, as 
the mighty tide sweeps on. 
Silence haB echoes,—deep toned eohoes in the 
souL “ Night hath its Bongs,” songs that the day 
with its wild commotion may listen in vain to 
hear. When the tempest roareth not, when the 
spring bird siDgeth not, when the soft wind Bigb- 
eth not, then the very silence will sing to yon in 
the night The very orbs of heaven as they move 
on in silent majesty, sing of an unseen Hand; ever 
twinkling in their modest light, they sing of a 
glorions Heaven, a land of blisB far beyond, and 
then comeB n whiBper through the silence as of 
the still suial! voice, calling, “ Come, come,come,” 
Oh! the beautiful songB of the night! the sweet 
music of silence! listen to Its strains. 
The gentle voices that find a response in kin¬ 
dred hearts, awakens their sweet music, filling the 
soul with delight. When hearts beat in unison, in 
harmony pnre and Bweet, then the gentle accents 
they seemed to chase each other in amorous play, 
printing sparkling kisBeB on each others luminous 
lips. The low shores, liued with the heavy foliaged 
mangroves, looked like a frame of massive, an¬ 
tique carving, aronnd the vast mirror of the 
lagoon, across whose surface streamed a silvery 
shaft of light from the evening star, palpitating 
like a young bride, low in the horizon. Then there 
were whispered “ voices of the night,” the drowsy 
winds talking themselves to sleep among the trees 
aud tbe little ripples of the lagoon pattering with 
liquid foot along the Bandy shore. The distant 
monotonous beating of the bcb, and an occasional 
sullen plunge of marine animal, which served to 
open, momentarily, the eye-lids drooping in slum- 
These were tbe 
A wise man will never rust out. A» long as he 
can move and breathe, he will be doing something 
for himself, his neighbor, or for prosperity. Al¬ 
most to the last hour of hia life, Washington was 
at. work. So were Franklin, and Young, and How¬ 
ard, and Newton. Tho vigor of their lives never 
decayed. No rust marred their spirit*. It is a 
fooliih Idea to suppose that we must lie down and 
die, because wo are old. Who m old? Not the 
mau of energy; not the day laborer in science, art 
or benevolence; but he only who uufloia his ener¬ 
gies to waste away, and tbe spring of life to be- 
oomc motionless; on whose bauds tho hours drag 
heavily, and to whom all thing* wear tho garb of 
gloom. Ih he old? should not bo aaked; bnt, la he 
active, can he breathe freely, and move with agili¬ 
ty? There are scores of gray headed men whom 
we should prefer, In any important enterprise, to 
those yonog gentlemen, who fear and tremble at 
approaching shadows, and turn pale at a Hon in 
their path,—at a harsh word or Down. 
brons sympathy with the seono. 
elements which entranced me daring the long, de¬ 
licious hoars of my first evening nlone with Na¬ 
ture, on the Mnaquito shore.—" Waikna," by Sam¬ 
uel A. Bard. 
The Workings of Thought.— All great revolu¬ 
tions might be traced to tbe thinkings of some 
great souL The germ of the Reformation origi 
nuted in the thinkings of Martin Luther. A man 
ot iron will get hold of so idea, or, rather, it got 
hold of him, and became a pusBion, all-absorbing, 
aud it overmastered him, ami, full of it, he sought 
to Indoctrinate others with it; they took it, and 
made it their own; and thus it became what was 
called public opinion, and that caused Senates to 
tremble, the face of nations to become altered, 
thrones to totter, and a whole continent to be filled 
with convulsion. Bncb were the results of the 
workings of a single thought 
Opposition. — “A certain amount of opposi¬ 
tion,” says John Neal, “ ia a great help to man.— 
Kites rise against, and not with the wind. Even 
a head wind is better than none. No man ever 
worked his passage anywhere in a dead calm._ 
Let no man wax pale, therefore because ol op¬ 
position; opposition is what he wants, and muat 
have to be good for anything. Hardship is the 
native sail of manhood and self-reliance. He that 
cannot ubide tbe Btorm without flinching orquail- 
iug, strips himuelf in the tuiutdiine, and lies down 
by tho wayside to be overlooked aud forgotten.— 
Ho who bnt bract s himself to the struggle when 
the wind blows, gives np when they have done, 
aud falls asleep in tho stiUness that follows. 
Water and Mokals. — A very slight declivity 
suffices to give the running motive to water.— 
Three inches per mile in a Binooth, straight chan¬ 
nel, give a velocity of about three miles per hour. 
Now, what is true of water is equally true of 
morals. The best of men only need a alight push 
from adversity to obtain a downhill momentum. 
Be careful, therefore, how you lose your equilib¬ 
rium. 
Wait.— Of course it ia very hard. No matter 
whether you have to wult in certainty or in doubt, 
whether in the fulfillment of a promise, or the ar¬ 
rival of a “shipload of money,”waiting is tedious 
and one feels that patience Is a virtue. Yonng 
trembling on the thorny brink. Hark! as he turns 
his gaze aloft, celestial choirs have faintly touch¬ 
ed the trembling chord of hope. But ah! upon 
his listening ear beguiling tones of fiendish hosts 
are falling, and rashly does he thrust away the 
profiered Heaven. Mangled anew, fair mercy’s 
bleeding form recedes. “ All nature from her Beat 
gives signs of woe, that all is lost.’’ As heaven’s 
seal becomes obscure, the soft-winged spirits 
sighing turn away, and demon shouts triumphant¬ 
ly resound. 
Along the craggy, sidling steep, now travel hand 
in hand, the tempter and the tempted, bnt oft 
The English language is full of deltcate rela¬ 
tions, Borne of which porhapB, are accidental, while 
others, we are constrained to believed, are the 
work of design. There are “ friend,” and “ fiend,” 
whiah the canine letter “r” just prevents being 
identical. And how true it is, that no one has the 
power of playing the fiend to another who has not 
first beeu admitted inside of his heart, in the ca¬ 
pacity of ft friend. 
The sorrows of a pure heart are but the May- 
frosts which precede the warm summer-day; bat 
the sorrows ot a corrupt bouI are its Antnmn-frosts, 
which foretell the cold, dreary winter.— Jean Paul 
-♦—*>- 
To the pure, all purity is manifest—to the strong, 
all emergency. 
