MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
TUB LARGE 8T-CT RCT LAT1 X 6 
Agricultural, Literary and Family Newspaper 
IS PUBLISHED PVERY SATURPAT 
BY D. D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N, Y. 
the assiduous cares of Fonrose, and the frnits 
of a second marriage, have since opened her 
heart to the impressions of a new tenderness; 
and she is quoted as an example of an affection¬ 
ate wife and a tender parent. 
“ It could have required nothing less than the 
wandering of my reason to suspend in my heart 
the promptings of nature—to make me forget 
the most sacred of duties—to detach myself in 
fact from all I held most dear in the world; hut 
you have given hirth to this folly, for which I 
am hut too well punished. I love without hope 
that which is the most accomplished on earth. 
You see nothing, yon know nothing of this in¬ 
comparable womaD. She is honesty, sensibility, 
and virtue themseives. I love her to idolatry. 
I cannot be happy without her, yet I know she 
can never he mine.'’ 
“Has she confided to you,” demanded the 
Marquis, “the secret of her hirth?” 
“I have learned enough,” said Fonrose, 
“to assure you that it is quite equal to mine. 
She has even renounced a considerable fortune 
to bury herself in this desert. ’ 
“And do yon know what induced her to do 
spread it abroad. The death of my husband has 
placed an abyss between me and the world; 
and the confidence which I require will soon be 
buried in this tomb, where sorrow is conducting 
me slowly step by step.” 
“I hope to precede you,” said Foneose, 
bursting into tears. “Let me finish my deplor¬ 
able life without leaving to you the reproach of 
having abridged its course.” 
“0, Heavens! what do I hear?” cried she 
distractedly. “What, I! -— I have contributed 
to the ills that are crushing you? Go on, you 
pierce my heart. What have I done? What 
have I said? Alas, I tremble! O, God ! have I 
only been placed in the world to create unhap¬ 
piness ? Speak, I tell yon—it is no longer time 
to conceal from me who you are—you have said 
too much to dissimulate longer.” 
“Very well, then, I am,— I am Foxrose, the 
son of the travelers whom you have so filled 
with admiration and respect. What they told 
of your virtues and your charms inspired in me 
the fatal design of coming to see you under this 
disguise. I have left my family in desolation, 
believing they have lost me, and mourning my 
death. 1 have seen you. I know what attaches 
you to this place. I know that the only hope 
which remains to me is to die in adoring yon. 
Spare me all useless counsels and unjust re¬ 
proaches. My resolution is as firm and immov¬ 
able as yours. If by betraying my secret you 
trouble the last moments of a life which is being 
extinguished, you will have uselessly wrought 
me a wrong which I would never have wrought 
you.” 
Adelaide was confounded, and endeavored 
to calm the despair into which the young man 
was plunged. 
“Let ns render to his parents,” said she, 
“the service of recalling him to life—let ns save 
their only hope. Heaven offers me this occasion 
to recognize their kindness to me.” 
And so, far from frightening him by misplaced 
rigor, all of pity which is most tender, and all 
of friendship which is most consoling, were 
brought into use to calm him. 
“Angel of Heaven,” cried Foneose, “I ap¬ 
preciate the repugnance you have to making 
any one unhappy. Your heart belongs to him 
who rests in this tomb—I see that nothing can 
detach you—I see also how ingenious your 
virtue is to conceal from me my misfortune—I 
feel it in its whole extent. I am ernehed, hut I 
pardon you. Your duty is never to love me, 
and mine is to adore you forever.” 
Impatient to execute the design which she 
had conceived, Adelaide arrived at the cabin. 
“My father,” said she to her old master, “ do 
yon feel strong enough to make the journey to 
Turin ? I have need of some one in whom I can 
place confidence, to convey to M. and Madame 
de Foneose the most interesting intelligence.” 
The old man answered that his zeal to serve 
them would inspire his courage, 
“Go,” replied Adelaide; “you will liud 
them mourning the death of their only son. 
Tell them he is living; that he is here, and that 
I wish to restore him to them; but that it. is an 
indispensable necessity that they come them¬ 
selves to seek him.” 
He left —he reached Turin. He had himself 
announced as the “old man of the valley of 
Savoy ” 
“Ah!” eried Madame de Foneose, “per¬ 
haps some misfortune has reached onr Shep¬ 
herdess,” 
“Let him come in,” added the Marquis, 
“perhaps he will announce that she has con¬ 
sented to come and live with us.” 
“After the loss of my son,” said the Marchion¬ 
ess, “ it i3 the only consolation I can ever en¬ 
joy in this world.” 
The old man was introduced. He prostrated 
himself, but they quickly raised him up again. 
“ You mourn a son,” said he, “I come to tell 
yon that he is living. It is our dear child who 
has discovered him in the valley, and she has 
sent me to inform you; but you alone, she says, 
can bring him back.” 
While he spoke thus, surprise and joy bad 
taken away from Madame de Foxkose the use 
of her senses. The Marquis, in wild disorder of 
mind, summoned aid to hi& wife, recalled her to 
life, embraced the old man, and announced to all 
Lis household that the lest son was restored to 
them. The Marchioness soon regained her 
spirits. 
“What shail we do?” said she, seizing the 
hands ©f the old man, and pressing them with 
tenderness. “ What can we do to testify our 
gratitude for a benefit which restores life to us 
again ? ” 
Everything was ordered lor the departure, 
and they set out upon the journey with the good 
old man, traveling day and night until they 
reached the valley where their only joy awaited 
them. The Shepherdess is in the pastures—the 
old woman conducts them there—they approach. 
What is their surprise ! Their sou, their well- 
beloved son is with her in the simple dress of a 
Shepherd. Their hearts, rather than their eyes, 
recognize him. 
“ Ah! cruel child! ” cried his mother, throw¬ 
ing herself into his arms, “ what chagrin you 
have given us. Why did you conceal yourself 
from our tenderness ? And what have you come 
here to do?” 
“ To adore,” said he, “ what you have ad¬ 
mired yourself.” 
“Pardon me, Madame,” said Adelaide, 
while Fonrose embraced the knees of his father, 
who raised him with gentleness; “pardon me 
for leaving you so long in sorrow. If I had 
known it sooner you would have been sooner 
consoled.” 
After the first movement of nature, Fonrose 
fell back again Into the most profound affliction. 
“Come,” said the Marquis, “let us go uml 
repose ourselves In tbo cabin, and forget all the 
chagrin that this young madcap has given us.” 
“Yes, Monsieur, I have been mad,” said Fon- 
kose to his father, who led him by the haqd. 
[The story of “ the Rose and the Ring ” was writ¬ 
ten by Thackeray, id Rome, in the winter of 1854. At 
that time the littJe daughter of Mr. W. W. Story, the 
American sculptor, poet, etc., was recovering from 
severe illness, in the same city. Thackeray used to 
call on her and read his story, chapter by chapter, 
while it was in progress. At last, when finished and 
published, he sent her a copy of t he work, embellished 
with a caricature of himself, in the act of presenting 
it to a beautiful child. The following poem, manifest¬ 
ly written after Thackeray's death, commemorates 
these incidents, and touchingly suggest s the simplicity 
and tenderness of that great heart which is now stilled 
forever.—A". 7 Weekly Review, 
She smiles— but her heart is as sable, 
And sad as her Christinas is chill: 
She reads, and her book is the fable 
He penned for her while she was ill. 
It is nine years ago since he wrought it, 
Where reedy old Tiber is Ring, 
And chapter by chapter he brought it 
An ri read her "the Rose and the Ring.” 
And when it was printed, and gaining 
Renown with all lovers of glee. 
He sent her this copy containing 
His comical little cror/uh. 
A sketch of rather a droll couple— 
She’s pretty, he’s quite t'other thing— 
He begs (with a eplne vastly supple,) 
She will stndy “the Rose and the Ring.” 
It pleased the kind wizard to send her 
The last and the best of his toys; 
His heart had a sentiment tender 
For innocent women and boys: 
And, though he was great as a scorner, 
The guileless were safe from his sting; 
How sad is past mirth to the mourner 1— 
A tear on “ the Rose and the Ring.” 
She reads—I may vainly endeavor 
Her mirth-checkered grief to pursne; 
For she hears she has lost—and forever— 
The heart that was known by so few; 
But I wish on the ahrine of hie glory 
One fair little blossom to fling; 
And yon see there's a nice little story 
Attached to “the Rose and the Ring.” 
A Short Stort, but Interesting.—No gen¬ 
uine European extract lor the handkerchief could 
be afforded here, under the present tariff, at less 
than twice the price of Pbalon’6 “Night-Bloom¬ 
ing Cerens,” a more delicious, permanent and 
healthful periume than any one of them. Sold 
everywhere. 
TERMS, ry A D VA2TCE : 
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For Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 25 letters. 
My 1, 5,13, 8 are common. 
My 2. 9, 21, 0, 20,18 is a kind of fruit. 
My 10, 23,11, 9, 20, 24 is a farming utensil. 
My 19,1(1,1,21 is a musical instrument. 
My 8. 22, 23, 24,14, 25, 2. 3 is a federal officer. 
My 15, 5, IS is a useful animal. 
My 12, fi, 17, 50. 4 is a verb in the past tense. 
My whole is a work every sheep man should have, 
Elkhorn, Wis. H. Bright. 
Answer in two weeks. 
“Yes, my father, hut that is a secret which she 
alone may reveal to you.” 
“ Perhaps -be is married ? ” 
“She is a widow, but her heart is none the 
more free; her bonds are made stronger still.” 
“ My daughter,” said the Marquis, entering 
the cabin, “ you see that you turn the beads of 
all who bear the name of Fonrose. The ex¬ 
travagant passion of this young man can only 
be justified by so remarkable an object as your¬ 
self. All the wishes of my wife are limited to 
the desire of having you for a companion and 
friend—this child does not wish to live if he 
cannot obtain you for Ills wife—I desire none 
the less to have you. for a daughter. See how 
much unhappiness yon will cause by a refusal.” 
“Ah! Monsieur,” said she, “yonr goodness 
confonnds me—but listen and judge me.” 
Then in the presence of the old man and his 
wife Adelaide recited to them the story of her 
deplorable adventures. She added the name of 
her family, which was not unknown to M. de 
Foneose, and finished by taking him to witness 
that she owed to her husband inviolable fidelity. 
At these words consternation spread over all 
their faces. The young Fonrose, whose sobs 
were choking him, precipitated himself into a 
corner of the cabin to give them a free course. 
The father, much affected, flew to the aid of his 
son: 
“ See,” said he, “ my dear Adelaide, into 
what a 6tateyou have reduced him.” 
Madame de Fonrose, who was close to Ade¬ 
laide, pressed her in her arms, bathing her with 
tears. 
“What, my daughter,” said she, “will you 
make us weep a second time the death of our 
dear child? ” 
The old man and his wife, with their eyes filled 
with tears and fixed upon Adelaide, were wait¬ 
ing for her to speak. 
“Heaven is my witness,” said Adelaide, 
rising to her feet, “ that I would give my life 
in return for so many kindnesses. It would put 
the climax tojny misfortunes to have to reproach 
myself with yours: but I would that Fonrose 
himself should be my judge. Leave me, for 
mercy’s sake, to speak to him a moment.” 
Withdrawing with him till they were alone, 
she said: 
“Listen, Foneose. Yon know what sacred 
liens retain me here. If I could cease to cherish 
and weep for a husband who loved me but too 
well, I should be the most contemptible of 
women. Esteem, friendship, gratitude, arc the 
sentiments which I owe to you, but none of 
these can take the place of love; and the more 
love you conceive for me, the more you have a 
right to expect from me; and it is the impossi¬ 
bility of fulfilling this duty which prevents me 
from imposing it upon myself. Still I see you 
in a situation which would soften the least sen¬ 
sitive heart; it is frightful to me to be the cause 
of it, and it would be more frightful still to hear 
your parents accuse me of being the cause of 
your loss to them. I would wish then to forget 
myself at this moment, and to leave you, so far 
as in me lies, the arbiter of our destinies. It is 
for you to choose that of two situations which 
appears to yon the least painful; either to re¬ 
nounce me, vanquish yourself, and forget me, 
or to possess a wife who, with her heart filled by 
another object, can only accord to you senti¬ 
ments too feeble to fill the wishes of a lover.” 
" It is enough,” cried Fonrose, “ and with a 
heart like yours friendship must, hold the place 
of love. I shall be jealous, no doubt, of the 
tears you will give to the memory of another 
husband, bat the cause of that jealousy, in 
rendering you the more to be respected, will 
make you dearer in my eyes.” 
“ She is mine,” cried he, throwing himself 
into the arms of his parents; “ it is to her re¬ 
spect for you, to your goodness that I owe her, 
and you must have a second life.” 
From this moment their arms formed chains 
which Adelaide could not disengage herself 
from. 
Did she yield only to pity—to gratitude ? I 
should like to believe it, to admire her the more. 
Adelaide herself did believe it. 'Whatever it 
may have been, she wished before leaving to 6ee 
uguiu the tomb which she quitted with so much 
regret. 
“O, my dear D’Orestan,” said she, “if from 
the midst of the deid, you can read to the bot¬ 
tom of my boo), your spirit cannot murmur at 
the sacrifice I roakj. 1 owe it to the generous 
sentiments of thil virtuous family; but my 
heart will rernnio with you forever. I shall try 
to make others happy without any hope of ever 
being so myself.” 
They could not tear her from this place with¬ 
out a sort of violence, and she exacted the 
promise that a monument should he erected to 
the memory of her husband, and that the cabin 
of her old masters, who were to follow her to 
Turin, should be converted into a country 
house, as simple as solitary, where she proposed 
to herself to come sometimes to weep over the 
mistakes and misfortunes of her youth. Time, 
FTIHE PRAIRIE PARMER, 
J ISSUED WEEKLY AT CHICAGO, ILLS., 
Where it ha* been Piiblfwlied for n Quarter 
of a Century. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
ALGEBRAICAL PROBLEM. 
It contains more practical information c.n WESTERN 
AGRICULTURAL and HORTICULTURAL matters 
than can he obtained from any dozen other periodicals In 
lt« Market UffelllKeuce and “Record of the Season," 
convey to tlic reuder the general condition 01 the crops 
and markets of the couutiy bettor than any other 
medium. 
Its articles on AoRKTcXvr&is, DORTtcvLTUKii and 
trues. Raising arc written bv the moat practical men. 
Its Miscellaneous Department makes » a welcome vis¬ 
itor at the homes of both town and eoiunry people. 
It will help to srow the best crops. 
It will assist in obtaining the best prices for them w)ien 
crown. 
It will give report* of Agricultural Societies and Meet- 
D ft wtllelve the most reliable information about plant¬ 
ing ami taking care or fruit trees, with reports of north 
cultural Societies in the West. 
It will give information'concerning the best breeds of 
stock and how to treat them when sick and well. 
WESTERN FARMERS—Consult your Interests and 
take Thl I'it.UBts Farmer. 
The price is only $‘2.00 per Year, the same as be¬ 
fore the war. Subscriptions may commence at any time, 
and dub papers scut to as many different offices as 
desired. 
J3f~ A good agent wanted at every Post Office where 
we have not one already, to whom full particulars will be 
nlven on application, alio sample numbers sent. Address 
~ ffl+Steow EMERY A CO., Chicago. Ill. 
A man on being asked the ages of his two sons, 
answered that if from the square of the age of John 
he subtracted eight times the product of his age by 
the square root of William's age, the remainder would 
be sixty-four. And that should you subtract from the 
age of John twice the product of the square root of 
his age by the square root of William’s age, the re¬ 
mainder would be four. Required the respective ages 
or the two sons. 
Oneida, Mich. d. 8. 
J3gf Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
AN ANAGRAM. 
Tuthb spotos on tievor’s wornc ot reaw 
Ebr kamr si rawdup rawdot eth kys; 
Standoles hes lassi het reppu rai, 
Cloisrexe sashelf ormf ehr yee. 
Reh robw hitw deafsele yeatub nishes, 
Dan ritvne moblos ganol ehr datre, 
Hewll vole hitw nancystoc sincombe 
Ot morf a loah nodnr reh dealt. 
Knoxville, Fa. Nellie 
Answer in two weeks. 
nro FARMERS ARE 
A LIMBER DEALERS. 
Scribner's Log’ and Lumber Tables, 
Issued In small pocket fortif at the low price of SO cents, 
contain* the most complete nnri reliable Tables for meas¬ 
uring Saw Log*. Scantling, Boards, Flank, Wood, ttnd 
Lumber of all kinds, over published, also quite a number 
of oilier useful table*, for farmers, mechanics, und busi¬ 
ness men. ... 
Tins Is the only hook of the kind now punllsheri, and 
ha* had a huger sale than alt other books ever published 
on that subject. The calculation* made give to the far¬ 
mer just what belongs to him by mathematical measure¬ 
ment.. Over three hundred thousand copies have already 
been sold. In till new L cm sett USGICNS this book will 
will be louud Invaluable. The book it sold by booksel¬ 
ler* throughout the United States and Canada. Sent by 
. receipt ol 
Address GEO. W. FISHER, Publisher. 
Rochester. N. Y.. .Toly 11 , 18®._snfl-Stoair. 
Translated from the French for the Rural New-Yorker 
By O. O. B. 
[Concluded fromtpage 284, last number.] 
“You penetrate my heart,” said Fonrose, 
overwhelmed by what he had heard, “and what¬ 
ever] sensibility yon may suppose me to be 
possessed of, yon are very far from imagining 
the impression which the recital of yonr misfor¬ 
tunes has made upon me. Aias 1 why can I not 
respond with that confidence which yon manifest 
in me, and of which you are so worthy! Bat I 
have told you —I foresaw it — that such is the 
nature of my troubles that an eternal silence 
must hide them in the deepest recesses of my 
heart.' iYou are very unhappy,” added he with 
a profound sigh, “ I am more unhappy still; 
and that i6 all I can tell you. Be not offended 
by myjsilenee—it is frightful for me to be con¬ 
demned to it. An assiduous companion of all 
yonr steps, I will soften yonr labors—I will 
share all your sorrows—I will see you weep over 
this tomb, and I will mingle my tears with 
yours, v Ton will never repent having deposited 
your griefs in a heart, aias! only too sensitive.” 
“I do repent it already,” said -she in confu¬ 
sion—and the two with lowered eyes returned 
in silence. Adelaide, when leaving Fonrose, 
believed she could see the imprint of profound 
sorrow. 
“I have renewed,” said she, “ the sentiment 
from which he suffers—and how horrible it must 
be since he believes himself more unhappy 
than I!” 
From that day, no more songs, no more con¬ 
versations, followed between Fonrose and Ade¬ 
laide. They neither sought nor avoided each 
other, and looks, in which consternation was 
depicted, made np almost their only language. 
If he found her weeping over the tomb of her 
husband, he wonld contemplate her in silence, 
with his heart filled with pity, jealousy and 
sorrow, responding to her sobs by deep-drawn 
sighs. 
Two months had rolled by in this painful 
situation, and Adelaide 6aw the youthfuinees 
of Fonrose witheringlikeaflower. Thechagrin 
which consumed him afflicted her so much the 
more acutely because the cause of it was un¬ 
known to her. 8he was very far from suspect¬ 
ing that she herself was the object. However, 
as it is natural that two sentiments possessing 
the same heart will enfeeble each other, the 
regrets of Adelaide for the death of d’OBESTAN 
became less acute every day, just in proportion 
to the increasing pity with which Fonrose in¬ 
spired her. She was very sure that this pity 
was the most innocent in the world, and the 
idea of defending herself from it never came to 
her; besides, the. object of this generous senti¬ 
ment being ever within her sight, constantly 
reawakened it The languor into which the 
youDg man had fallen became such that Ade¬ 
laide did not believe that she ought to leave 
him longer to himself. 
“ You perish,” said she to him, “ and you add 
to my sufferings that of seeing you consumed 
by grief before my eyes, without the power to 
bring you any remedy. If the story of the im¬ 
prudences of my youth has not inspired you 
with contempt for me — if friendship of the 
purest and rno&t tender character is dear to 
you—in short, if yon do not wish to render me 
more unhappy thau I was before 1 knew you, 
confide to me the cause of yonr sufferings. You 
have no one but me in the world to aid you to 
sustain them. Were your secret more impor¬ 
tant than mine, yon need not tear that I would 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 814, 
Answer to Geographical EnigmaA good name is 
rather to be chosen than great riches. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:—Florence Night- 
ingale. 
Answer to Anagram: 
Happiness despises state; 
'Tis no sad experiment, 
Simply that the wise aul great 
May have joy and merriment; 
Rank 1? not its spell refined— 
Money’s not the teet of it, 
But a calm, contented mind 
That will make the best of it. 
E DWARD VTERSTEU, Attorney nnd Coun¬ 
sellor 111 Law, Conveyancing and searches ot 
title to real estate specially attended to, and a limited 
amount of land surveying done In connection therewith. 
Office No. 5, Lyons' Block. Rochester, N. Y. [ 797 -tf 
[IKE, BEST IN USE., 
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