RETREAT OF THE RAPPAHANNOCK. 
[The following beautiful stanzas (b,y the author of “del- 
lie Line,” and “Freedom’s Land,” given in recent num¬ 
bers of the RURAL,) appeared in the Rochester Uni'/n of 
the 19th ultimo.] 
Hack from the battle-field 
Hasten ye brave: the shades are gathering thicker, 
Tread lightly : columns, onward, onward, quicker! 
The howling winds shall yield 
Their solemn ilirges, mingled with the moans 
Of slaughtered thousands. Heed ye not their groans; 
Wait not, nor linger on the fatal plain 
Where blood of bravest hearts batli left its stain. 
Back from the battle-field! 
Ye wasted columns, erst with courage peerless, 
Dashing on sheltered foes, unbbmehed and fearless. 
To (lire destruction sealed; 
Heroes who quailed not at the glistening steel, 
Cheered ever by the cannon's thundering peal, 
Sad was thy hapless fate when neither might 
Nor high resolve availed thee in the fight. 
Bark from the battle field ! 
In gloomy silenee moving ever faster, 
Lest waiting foes pursue thee with disaster: 
In night and Con your shield. 
Stay not, nor ask who drove your doomed host 
To butchery and death—the nation’s boast 
And trust, responding with heroic zeal, 
Reckless of life, your country’s wounds to heal. 
Back from the battlefield 1 
Ye living haste, that ye swell not the number 
Who on the plain in gory death now slumber: 
The nation’s heart is peeled, 
And mourns her noble sons who prostrate lie,— 
Not as for fallen braves in victory. 
But struck with horror, as when fears appal 
And desolating grief hath come to all. 
Back from the battle field ! 
Dauntless ye move, from scathing war retiring, 
As vvhem, with courage high and hope inspiring, 
Ye sallied forth to wield 
The deadly blade, and hurl the charging might 
Of heroes trained in loyal cause to figlit- 
Uneonquered men 1 Another day shall beam ^ 
T’ avenge the night on Rappahannock’s stream. 
W. W. E. 
Written fur Mooro’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MARRYING A BEAUTY. 
BY T. 8. ARTHUR. 
CHAPTER, X. 
“Don’t do it, my boy,” said the old gentleman, 
speaking with unwonted fervor. “Take my ad¬ 
vice, and don’t do it-” 
The lino ardor which had Unshod my soul was 
chilled. Unde Marion saw the change. 
“ Beauty is too often a false signal," he added. 
“If all things were in the first order of creation, 
beauty would lie the outward sign of goodness; 
but evil has wrought many sad changes in our 
world—and beauty may not he trusted.” 
“Tfie beauty of Florence Ware may be 
trusted,” 1 answered eon (ideally. “ There is a 
very heaven of innocence in her face.” 
“Love is blind, my boy—love is blind!” said 
Uncle Marion, with oracular positiveness. “As 
for beauty, it is only a veil, not a representation.” 
“Cannot a beautiful person bo good?” i asked, 
my tones expressing surprise at the Implied ne¬ 
gation of his remarks. 
“ All tilings are possible.” lie answered, soberly ; 
blithe who trusts to beauty as the sign of good¬ 
ness, will find himself many, many times bitterly 
mistaken. Coodness 1ms her signs, but they are 
not in pure Grecian profiles, nor in white, queen¬ 
ly necks; they are not in brown eyes, nor pinky 
checks. The face may be lovely as a poet's or 
painter's dream, while the heart, beneath may be 
full of pride, ambition, selfishness and Impurity. 
I am an old man. Geoiwik, and from the experi¬ 
ence, observation and suffering of many years. I 
warn you against putting faith in beauty: and, 
above all. in the beauty of Florence Ware.” 
I had known ray Unde Marion as a cheerful 
old mail—quiet and reflective for the most part, 
but cheerful. The ordinary disturbing influen¬ 
ces, that continually jostle most people’s equa¬ 
nimity of miml, had scarcely any elfecl upon him. 
He lived in a region above their influence. It 
was not, therefore, without surprise, that 1 ob¬ 
served an agitation of manner altogether un¬ 
usual. 
Now, as to Florence Ware, a young lady 
who had recently come into our neighborhood 
from a distant city to spend a few months with a 
school friend, her beauty had bewitched me. Of 
all lovely creatures in human shape, she was, in 
ray eyes, the loveliest,. Not only were her form 
and features perfect, but there was a grace in 
every movement, and an indescribable charm 
and sweetness in her countenance, that in my 
eyes expressed more than human perfection. It 
had never entered into my heart to conceive of 
her as anything less than the embodiment of all 
that was pure and true and good. To be warned, 
therefore, almost solemnly. not to put faith in her 
beauty, hurt ms well as surprised ino. 
' “Don’t do iL my boy!” said Uncle Marion, 
after a pause, repeating the injunction made a 
little while before in answer to something more 
than a jesting remark, that i thought of offering 
my hand to Florence. “ The poorest of all rec¬ 
ommendations that a young lady lias to offer, is 
her beauty. Ten chances to one if ils very pos¬ 
session has not spoiled her for a good man’s wife. 
It will lie a miracle, almost, if she be not vain 
and fond of admiration. The quiet of home will 
be irksome; and its common duties distasteful. 
Having feasted on homage, admiration, flattery, 
how can she live on the plain fare that succeeds 
to lifir withdrawal from that, brilliant outer 
sphere, where her charms were perpetually re¬ 
flected back upon her from hundreds of admiring 
eyes.” 
All this did not satisfy me. There might be 
truth in the general proposition as to the danger¬ 
ous influence of beauty on a weak mind; but the 
idea ot ignoring beauty in a wife struck me as 
absurd. 
“I will indorse Florence Ware,” said I. half 
desperately, setting myself wholly against my 
uncle. 
The effect of this surprised mo. For a little 
while Uncle Marion seemed like one who had 
been stunned. His eyes were fixed on the floor, 
his brows drawn heavily together, his lips shut 
(irmly. After a while he drew a long breath, and 
looked up into my face. There was a change in 
him. The old quiet look was gone. 
“Indorse no one, on mere appearance,” he 
said; “for nothing is more deceptive. I do not 
assort that the face always lies; but I will say 
that it oftener hides than reveals a person's true 
quality. Don’t trust it, my boy! There are giv¬ 
en more unerring signs than the face ever reveals, 
except when the soul isoffguard. All thataman 
or woman is. will, under certain circumstances,be¬ 
tray itself in the eyes and countenance: but you 
are rarely admitted to the view, The face you 
meet in company,when every outlet of the mind 
is guarded, is not the face by which you may 
judge of character. You must see the person at 
home, on the street, in business or domestic life. 
You must take the view from many stand-points, 
and study and compare. A prudent person will 
do this before entering into the most ordinary 
business relations with a man; and yet, I find 
you actually meditating an oiler of marriage to a 
girl, simply on the credit of her pretty face! 
You had not even so much as heard of her six 
weeks ago. As to who or what are her father 
and mother, you rest in complete ignorance; and 
are just as ignorant of the girl’s disposition and 
character. The bright eye and beautiful face are 
accepted as credentials for every thing. But, 
only ‘handsome is that handsome does.’ And 
my word for it. the chances are all against the 
‘handsome does,’ in the case of Florence 
Ware.” 
“If we judge harshly without evidence. Uncle 
Marion, we will, in almost every case, judge 
wrong. I am sure that, you are unjust to Flor¬ 
ence. I doubt if you have met her twice since 
she came into the neighborhood,” said I. witli 
feeling. 
“ I have seen her, perhaps, as often a« you have, 
GeorOe,” he answered; “ and under circumstan¬ 
ces more favorblc to observation. She is very 
beautiful. I will own — bowitchingly so. Her 
countenance, when lighted, almost bewilders. I 
never saw lint one face just like it—” 
The old man’s voice suddenly faltered. His 
eyes were shadowed by a new and st range ex¬ 
pression. Some long buried memory had quick¬ 
ened into life. He arose, in a slightly agitated 
way. crossed the room to a book-case, and open¬ 
ing it, appeared to be searching for a volume. Ll 
was only a feint to draw my attention from his 
unusually disturbed manner, i understood this 
at the lime. He came back, after a little while, 
with a book in his hand, which he laid on a table 
without opening. I was watching him closely. 
“George!” He faced round upon me in a 
quick, nervous way. “ Don’t trust in beauty ! 
Don’t let it bewilder you! Don’t let it betray 
you as it once betrayed me !” 
lie stopped, cast his eyes down and sat silent 
fora few moments; then, looking, up he forced 
to bis lips a feeble smile that hid their sadness, 
and told me this story of his past life. 
When about your age, lie said, an advanta¬ 
geous business offer took me to New York. I be¬ 
came the junior partner in a flourishing silk 
house, and soon found myself introduced to a 
pleasant circle of acquaintances. One evening, 
a few months after my arrival in the city, 1 was 
at a party where nearly all the guests were strun. 
gers. In consequence, I was left mostly to myself, 
and was beginning to feel rather dull, when a 
lady whom I knew came to me and said— 
“ I have a charming young friend here to whom 
1 must introduce you. 1 know you will like her. 
A few moments afterwards, I found myself 
standing before tin* loveliest being my gaze bad 
ever rested upon. Her beauty was faultless.— 
The tendcrest, sweetest, brightest of eyes looked 
up into mine. I saw before me a countenance 
that appeared blending all things pure and good. 
Every line of every feature seemed a perfect line 
of beauty; and there was not a tint, or light, or 
shade in the whole complexion that an artist 
would have criticised. You smile, but, soberly 
speaking, and at this distance of time, 1 mean 
just, what I say. Her beauty came Up to my best 
ideal. 
Of course I was charmed—nay more, fascina¬ 
ted, for l stood in the presence of all enchantress. 
She read her power over inc in the admiring eyes 
that looked into hoi’s. I was too fresh and young 
to hide or dissimulate. She overcame me on the 
instant, and knew that I was entangled in the web 
her of beauty. I say “ of her beauty,” meaning 
just that. 
She was a blonde, with large, dark blue eyes, 
and full, dark lashes: hair of a soft chestnut 
brown, or golden bu(£ as the light happened to 
fall on it; skin of that semi-transparent texture 
rarely found, but always so like a veil behind 
which the spiritual body seems hiding from mor¬ 
tal eyes its enchanting loveliness. She was just 
a little above the medium height in woman, and 
being slender, looked tall. Every motion was 
grace. I say it now after nearly thirty years 
have passed since that first meeting. And 1 
repeat, now, looking back through those thirty 
years, that she was of almost faultless beauty. I 
was captivated. From the instant I looked at 
her, I was a worshiper. She was sweet and 
gracious in her manner: my undisguised admira¬ 
tion having proved the passport to her favor. 
“If her hand is yet free, it shall be mine." I 
said, as I lay awake that night, feasting my in¬ 
ward eye. on the charms that still shaped them¬ 
selves to my imagination. I asked no question 
as to her hereditary or acquired character; but 
took everything for granted. She must be good, 
pure, loving; for were not all these written in 
beauty ou her face? 
1 had asked the privilege of calling upon her. 
and she had graciously consented. On the very 
next evening I was in her presence. She wel¬ 
comed my coining in the sweetest manner, and 
threw over me a deeper and more bewildering 
fascination. It was only by the exercise of per¬ 
petual self-restraint, that I hold myself back 
from a foolishly precipitate offer of marriage. 
Twice, in the week that followed. I sought her 
presence, and was as blind to any danger as is 
the nioth while circling round a blazing candle. 
With an art the most perfect in its simulation of 
artlessness, she drew me on and on, until, within 
little more than two months after our first meet¬ 
ing, I laid rny destiny at. her feet, and she 
accepted the trust, and became the ev il genius of 
my life. 
1 was very happy. Heaven had no conccivar 
ble bliss higher than mine. I dwelt in light and 
beauty. And yet the door of this charmer’s heart 
had never really been opened to me; and if it 
had been opened, there would have been no 
room in its crowded chambers for me to enter: 
for they were already full of pride, vanity, self- 
love. and love of pleasure, f might have known 
all this. If I had been wise, prudent, dear- 
seeing. as a man ought always to be when he 
Contemplates marriage, I might have seen that 
below the gilding all was Common and poor. 
But beauty had blinded mo. 
For causes which need not be stated, our mar¬ 
riage was deferred for a year, and the date fixed. 
In that time some of the gilding fell off. and i had 
glimpses of things which often made me very 
sober. But I was so proud of her—so fascinated 
by her personal charms—that I came quickly out 
of these passing shadows into the pleasant sun¬ 
shine. If she did love admiration: if she were 
fond of social pleasures and public assemblies; if 
her eyes were continually looking out and invit¬ 
ing homage; if she hud winning smiles for all the 
attractive men who sought Iter notice, I had still 
many reasons and excuses for my own satisfac¬ 
tion. Her heart, for all this, I said, was mine— 
we were betrothed—were all the world to each 
other, and would soon be united in the holiest 
bonds. 
We were married at last. Twice, at her de¬ 
sire. the appointed time was changed, aud the 
wedding deferred. It did not really take place 
until four months after the period first agreed 
upon. In each of those intervals of time, as it 
has since been very plain to me, she meditated a 
breach of the engagement: and only remained 
true because ardent admirers did not press their 
claims to favor in formal declarations of love. 
Yos, we were married at last. The wedding was 
a brilliant affair. All that art could give to nature 
was lavished upon the bride. She was more like 
the creation of a dream, or a poet’s Imagining?, 
than one of flesh and blood. And all this won¬ 
derful beauty was mine —mine! Vows were 
given, hands (flasped. kisses exchanged, the ben¬ 
ediction spoken, and we twain were bound 
together. The long suspense was over. What 
a moment of bliss! 
I had been, during all this year and a half, 
living out of the sphere of my own true life and 
dwelling in a ivsjiwi of enchantment: and all 
this time ! had I kW longing toget dow n into the 
real tilings in whl^lj I was to find true enjoy¬ 
ment, My prize gained. ! wished to leave the 
open field, and bear it aw ay to the sanctuary of a 
home, there to enjoy the blessing 1 had won. 
My beauty was to be my own delight—my treas¬ 
ure sacred to myself! Alas! the time for awaken¬ 
ing w as not fur distant. 
How largely I had counted on the pleasures of 
companionship, when the sweet maiden became 
my wife; and yet, strange to say, J had never in 
a single instance been able to draw her into the 
expression of an intelligent opinion about a work 
of art, or a book in any of the higher branches of 
literature, If a reader of history, she did not be¬ 
tray the fact. She never referred to the leading 
poets, and if their names or best productions 
were mentioned, she smiled, but offered no appre¬ 
ciative response*. But she was enthusiastic over 
opera singers and theatrical stars; and her con¬ 
versation was always more of persons than acts, 
opinions, or principles. Flip was a hero-wor¬ 
shiper, with little or no sympathy for heroism. 
Actions wore dead—unsympathetic of the past; 
but the man and woman were centers of admira¬ 
tion. She could understand the glory of position 
bill not the grandeur of achievement. 
During all the year and a half that intervened 
from the time of our engagement until we were 
married, I failed in every effort to draw her 
thoughts into the region of interest where mine 
dwelt. I was the lover, the wooer, the wor¬ 
shiper, and so bent down to the region where she 
dwelt. But l could not live there forever. I 
was organized, spiritually, for life in another 
sphere of mind. My soul craved food of another 
and more substantial quality. For a year and a 
half I had lived a kiud of artificial life; had put 
aside old habits of thinking and feeling; had left 
my real tastes hungering for appropriate food: 
had given up nearly everything essentially my 
own; had deterred on almost all occasions to the 
preferences and pleasures of a beauty so much 
enamored of herself that she rarely if ever 
thought of consulting my wants or feelings- 
Could this last after marriage? No! 
It did not take a very long time to reach the 
period of awakening. 1 soon found that my com¬ 
pany no more sufficed for my wife than it had 
sufficed for piy betrothed: that the home of her 
husband was scarcely more attractive than the 
homo of her aunt had been. Her life was in the 
world — iu pleasures, admiration, excitement. 
Take these away, and you robbed her of almost 
everything. During a few mouths after our mar¬ 
riage. I yielded, with a gradually diminishing 
grace. After that, seeing how absorbed she still 
remained, and how little interest she manifested 
in her home, both duty and feeling prompted me 
to lay upon her the hand of restraint I did tins 
as gently as possible—us lovingly as possible, 
Butit made a strong ripple iu the current- of her life. 
I saw a veil fall instantly over her beauty. The 
soft eyes hardened, and the sweet face grew cold. 
A chill went inward to the very center of my 
being; for I understood something of what this 
meant. I had been studying her from a closer 
point of view since our marriage, and was grad¬ 
ually arriving at a truer knowledge of her char¬ 
acter. Day by day there had come to me new 
and painful revelations touching the qualify ot 
her mind. I had put aside the veil of beauty and 
looked into the soul, searching for the real things 
that beauty represented, but had not found them. 
Still J hoped they might be there—some of them 
at least—and kept on searching. 
The hat'd eyes and the cold face were too 
strong for me in the beginning. I took off the 
restraining hand—the ripple was gone, and the 
current ran on smoothly again; but in the old chan¬ 
nels. This could not last. 1 am Ann and strong 
when I see clearly. I had not seen clearly for a 
great while, for beauty had deceived me into the 
faith that it was the sign of all perfection. I 
knew, now, that it only concealed weaknesses 
of character which must tie guarded; a poverty 
of mind that must ever leave me hungry in com¬ 
panionship; an unkindness of spirit when ail 
was not yielded, that must hurt me deeply in 
every contact. But the way of duty grew plainer 
and plainer before me at every step. The hand 
of restraint was put forth again, and again the 
current of her life was agitated. She struggled 
against the impediment. I did not yield. Then 
the foundations of a separating wall, to rise up 
between us, were laid. To me she was beautiful 
no longer. Tier countenance, so lovely to every 
one—so full of all sweetnesses—so bewitching 
and so bewildering—was only a transparent veil 
to my eyes, and i looked through it. gazing sadly 
and in continually increasing alienation, on (lie 
deformity and incompleteness that lay hidden 
below. She was so worldly — so absorbed in 
gayety and pleasure —so fond of admiration. 
Even as before marriage, she was, in all large 
companies, a center of attraction. A light class 
of young men were continually fluttering around 
jpr; and by her manner she as continually 
invited their attentions. 
This annoyed, fretted, even angered me at 
times. If I had really loved her, I would have 
grown jealous. But I was only annoyed. Bride, 
not jealousy, was aroused, i felt that my honor 
was touched. I was humiliated, through my 
wife’s weakness, before the world. Men, for 
whom I eared nothing-may, disliked became 
visitors at my house; dropping in at all hours, 
day and evening, whether 1 was at home or not. 
In public assemblies, I was continually chafed by 
tiie observation she attracted. .Men would recog¬ 
nize and point her out to their companions. In 
the intervals between acts, or parts, they would 
leave their seats, and make their way to where 
we were silting, to lie graciously received by my 
wife. [To lie continued.] 
OH, GIVE ME THE OTTLD LOVE AGIN. 
On, (five mo the OwW loveWkgin now, 
An’ don’t v© fro oil’ in that style; 
Snro IIiron Mo has made mo q uite thin, now, 
Oh, Barney, hoar wid me awhile. 
Wid Bryan I II own t have ('ported, 
Hut sure. dear. I thought it no sin; 
Call batik, now, the days when we coorted, 
An give me file out it love agin. 
Wi,l Cupid I've thrilled an' flatted, 
Olitil he (tniies on me no more; 
Oh, Live me not lone an' departed, 
Hut give me yer heart as before. 
Now, Harney, lue honey, belave me— 
For Bryan l don't cure a jiin; 
Sure, dartin', Fit no more desnve ye, 
tf ye’ll give mo the ould love agin. 
Fai.x, Barney. jist make yer mind aisy; 
Me thirtin mount nothin'at all; 
An" if 'twill in any way plaise ye, 
Why, tare, then, the praial ye may call. 
Myself knows ye never was cruel, 
I guessed yer ould heart I should win; 
So I'll lave off taring, me jewel, 
Aud be ttirue to the ould love agin. 
-►«■» ■ 
The Man wiio won’t Pay the Printer.— 
A country editor, who works for glory and prints 
on trust, is responsible for the following anathe- 
matical aspirations on the man who won’t pay 
the printer: 
1 May he have sore eyes, and a chestnut burr for 
an eye-stone. May every day of his life be more 
despotic than the Dey of. Algiers. May he never 
Ih? permitted to kiss a handsome woman. May 
his boot* leak, his gun hang fire, and his fishing 
lines break. May ids coffee be sweetened with 
flies, and his soup seasoned with spiders. May 
his friend run off with his wife, and his children 
take the whooping cough. May his cattle die of 
murrain, and his pigs destroy his garden. May 
a regiment of cats caterwaul under his window 
each night. May his cows gjve sour milk, and 
rancid butter. In short, may his daughter marry 
a one-eyed editor, and his business go to ruin, and 
lie go to-the Legislature. 
A Goon Kecommenoation. —“ Och, an’ what’s 
yer honor agoin’ to give tne, seein’ as it’s niysilf 
that saved yer honor’s house from turnin' to 
ashes intirely?” *• How so, Put?” “An’ sure, 
when it cote lied afire, wasn’t I the sicond one 
that hollered fire first?” 
The Difference. —“Can you tell me, Jim, 
where they get so much corn for the manufacture 
into whisky?” “ Why no,” says Jim. “ but I can 
tell very well where the corn comes from after 
the whisky is made." 
Zeno, the philosopher, believed in an inevita¬ 
ble destiny. His servant availed himself of this 
doctrine, whjbg being beaten for a theft, by 
exelaiming v ; r was I not destined to rob?” “ Yes,” 
replied Zeae. *Hrad to be corrected also.” 
A dentist advertises that he will “spare no 
pains” in extracting people’s molars. Surpris¬ 
ing candor! 
Miss Fantapling says the first time she locked 
arms with a young man, she felt like Hope lean¬ 
ing on her anchor. Poetic young woman that. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BIBLICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 33 tetters. 
Mp 13, 19, 20, 3 is the name of the first exile mentioned in 
the Bible. 
My 16, G, 1, 20, 5 is the name of the first pilgrim. 
My 3, 31,12, 2. 12 is the name of the first scribe, judge 
and historian. 
M,v 8, 7. 14, 25, 24. 13, 18 wore the first bridal veil. 
My 27, 10, 20, 1, 23, 16, -30 was the first person known to 
have worn a ring on his finger. • 
My 31,13, 24 is the name of a sorrowful tree spoken of 
in the Holy Scriptures. 
My 1, 31,12, 11 and 32. 28, 32. 21 are the two flowers men¬ 
tioned in the Bilde. 
My 26, 32, 28,12, 10, 20 is the first person we read of plow¬ 
ing. 
My 29, 10, 1, 4. 11 is the number of times the word Chris¬ 
tian is used in the Scriptures. 
My 15, 4, 26. 1, 12, 30, 11, 6, 20 is where a patriarch plant¬ 
ed a grove. 
My 5, 13, 1, 33 was the mother of our 8, 7,19, 2, 4, 3, 25,1. 
My 12, 20, 6, 9, 13, 30 was one of the sons of Cush. 
My 22, 28,1, 13, 12 was a deseendent of Noah. 
My 9,11, 17, 30 were the children before whom Abraham 
bowed. 
My whole is a divine command. 
Sutton, Vermont, 1862. Deette J. Powers. 
Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 29 letters. 
My 4, 14, 16, 10, 24, 15, 17. 12, 22,15 is a city in the United 
States, 
My 4, 27, 0, 15,3 is a county in Ohio. 
My 17, 13, 5,15, 29 is a river in Michigan. 
Mv 17, 5, 20, 1, 22, 15 is a town in North Carolina. 
My 8, 19, 27, 28 |s a Cape iu the United States. , 
My 29, 5, 0, 1, 7, 15 is a town in Oiiio. 
My ll, 9,15, 0 is a volcano. 
My 2, 14, 21, 1, 24, 15, 17, 20 is a town in Michigan. 
My 18, 20, 24,10, 3 is a river in Europe. 
My 25,15, 7, 4 is a mountain in Africa. 
My 23, 10, 22, 29, 3, 16 is a city in Asiatic Turkey. 
My whole may be found in Scripture. 
Sept. 20,1862. M. DeWitt Clark. 
j£5^” Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ALGEBRAICAL PROBLEM. 
Two men were talking about their horses, when A said 
to B, if to my number of horses you add the square root 
of two times my number, increased by three times the 
square of your’s diminished by 11, I shall have 7 more 
than two times your number diminished by the square of 
jour’a. Then B said to A if to three times my number of 
horses you add 7, then subtract your number, and then 
extract the square root of the remainder, It will be equal 
to the sum of our horses divided by the difference of them. 
How many had each ? S. G. Cagwi.v. 
Verona, Onei. Co., N. Y., 18C2. 
Answer in two weeks. 
- ♦♦♦ - 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
AN ANAGRAM. 
I sskomiiiet mdare, yth tpnlaesa sesmli 
Lslti no cm yslwtce Iful, 
Hyt steon fo elvo I yftatin rhae 
Ym earns tii sssaedn tela. 
I wktm ttuh utoh tar yhpap 
Hwti yht lueug—cpglaum no, 
Tbu vm tln'ea si yvre edteaslo, 
Ot ktulii ttha tuoh rat egno. 
Latonia springs, Ky , 1862. Miss F. Sanford. 
XTsf Answer iu two weeks. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
THE LARGEST CIRCULATED 
Agricultural, Literary and Family Newspaper, 
JS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY 
D. D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
Office, Union Buildings, Opposite (lie Court House, Buffalo St. 
t /: it. n ,v, /„v .in I’./.vt /* .• 
Two Dollars a Year To Clubs and Agents as follows: 
Three Copies one year, for $5; Six, and one free to club 
agent, for $10, Ten, and one free, for $15; and any greater 
number at same rate —only $1.50 per copy. Club papers 
directed to individuals and sent to as tnanv different Post- 
Offices as desired. As we Pre-pay American postage on 
papers sent to the British Provinces, our Canadian agents 
aud friends must add 12Ji' cents per copy to the club rates 
of the Rural. The lowest price of copies sent to Europe, 
&e., is $2.50 —including postage. 
The Postage on the Rural New-Yorker is only 314 cte, 
per quarter to any part of this State, (except Monroe coun¬ 
ty, where it goes freed and 6,k» cts, to any other Loyal 
State, if paid quarterly iu advance where received. 
The Cash System is strictly adhered to in publishing the 
Rural — enjiics arc never mailed to individual subscribers 
until paid for, and oilcans discontinued when the subscrip¬ 
tion term expires. Hence, wo force the (viper upon none, 
aud keep no credit books, long experience having demon¬ 
strated that the Cash Plan is the best for both Subscriber 
and Publisher. 
Back Vpi.ciiks.-- Bound copies of Volume XIH, for 1862, 
will be ready in a few days —price, $3. We would again 
state that neither of the first live volumes of the Rural 
can lie furnished by us at any price- The subsequent vol¬ 
umes will be supplied, bound, at $3 each — or if several are 
taken, at $2.50 each- The only volumes we can furnish, 
unbound, aie those of 1859, '60, ’61 and '62—price, $2 each. 
Additions to Clubs are always in order, whether in 
ones, twos, fives, tens, twenties, or any other number. 
Subscriptions Can commence with the volume or any num¬ 
ber: but the formorio the best time, aud we shall send from 
it for some weeks, unless specially directed otherwise. 
Please “make a note of it.'' 
Direct to Rochester, X. Y-—All persons having occa¬ 
sion to address the Rural Nkw-Yokkkk, will please direct 
to Rochester. A. Y and not, as many do, to New York, 
Albany, Hu Halo, Ate. Money Letters intended for us are 
frequently directed aud mailed to the above places. 
The Rural as a Puksext.—A ny Subscriber wishing to 
send the Rural to a friend ui relative, as a present, will be 
charged otdy $1.0). It is also furnished to Clergymen, 
Teachers and Soldiers at the lowest club rate—$1.50 a copy. 
Our Inducements for obtaining mbscribers to the Four¬ 
teenth Volume Of the Rural, for 1863, toe of the most 
Liberal and Substantial character. Premium Lists, Show- 
Bills, Ac., seat free to all dispose to act as agents. 
Any person so disposed eon act us local agent for the 
Rural New-Yorker, and those who volunteer in the good 
cause will receive gratuities, and their kindnesses be 
appreciated. 
No Traveling Agents are employed by us, as we wish 
to give the whole field to local agents and those who form 
clubs, 
l'*7~ See Publisher’s Notices on preceding page. _2£T 
