ura 
mih 
f? A Ol ©iill 
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PRECEPT 
PRACTICE. 
BY C. H. WEBB. 
The world if? rife with nobler thought 
Than tremble* on the tongue: 
The world in fall of melody. 
Unwritten and unsung. 
The music of a march ie sweet— 
But action is sublime; 
And each may live a nobler verse 
Than e’er was told in rhyme. 
Sweep from my sight these foolish books, 
They vex my weary brain, 
And I will sit at Nature’s feet— 
Her open page the plain— 
And read a pleasant roundelay 
In every blade that grows; 
A lyric In the lily's leaf, 
An epic in the rose 1 
Let tinhlings of the tongue or pen 
To love-sick girls belong— 
The music Of a well-spent life 
Is sweeter far than song. 
It likes me not, this wasteVjf words— 
Our world Were not so dead, 
If maids and men would cease to write, 
And live their verse instead I 
$f0Un ®6tl6S. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
EMILY MEADE. 
[Concluded from page 226, last number.] 
CHAPTER III. 
“ Hers was a form of life and light. 
That seen became u part of eight, 
And rose when ’rl turned my eye, 
The morning star ol memory.” 
After leaving Em, and while going home¬ 
ward, the thoughts of Linda and Gug naturally 
turned upon their friend and her affairs. She 
and Linda had been thrown together at school, 
and Linda’s cheerful temper and ever fresh con¬ 
tentment had drawn the admiration and friend¬ 
ship of the restless child of disappointment and 
uneasiness. Linda united with some simplicity 
a delicate und sympathetic nature, which entered, 
us if by instinct, into feelings it did nolfuUyun- 
deretand. Tt. was this unquestioning sympathy 
that Emma wanted. When she felt in the mood, 
she could tell her thoughts with perfect free¬ 
dom, feeling sure that they would be received 
with uo argument and no criticism, but with 
keen and kindly appreciation. And when she 
chose to be reserved, she could be so without 
being considered harsh or sullen, and be met 
with the same kindly confidence. 
On her part, Linda, perhaps, found in her 
friend’s uneasy and shifting moods the stimulus 
and variety which her ow n sonny, even temper 
did uot afford. Unselfish nud self-forgetting, 
she could find almost a second existence in the 
life of her friend. Brought up herself in abund¬ 
ance, poverty took on, in her eye, a romantic 
interest, which Emily’s character and habits 
justified and Increased. Had she been able to 
comprehend its coarser realities, Emily might 
have found it, at times, disagreeable. As it 
was, so far from feeling the difference in their 
situations painfully, she almost escaped from 
the unpleasant realities when in the society of 
her friend, from her very inability to appreciate 
them. 
“ Qus,” said Linda, “ what do you think of 
Em’s plan ?” 
“ I think it is nothing but a plan, and will 
never be anything more. 
“Why, Gus, she will carry it out if she has 
resolved to.” 
“You are mistaken about ber resolution. 
She has not half as much ol' it as you have; 
she does not think alike two hours in succes¬ 
sion. The resolution of to-day will be reject¬ 
ed and thrown away to-morrow for some new 
chimera.” 
“ You are prejudiced against her, and you arc 
always trying to find weak points in her char¬ 
acter. 
“ No » 1 am not; but you are mistaken in that 
particular. Yon ascribe firmness to her because 
she has frankness, or bluntncss, a quality we gen¬ 
erally think is united with resolution—chieflv, 
I.suppose, from a notion that Providence com¬ 
pensates in one direction for wbnt he withholds 
in. another.” 
“ You are unkind and unjust, and all you can 
say.eanuot shake my faith in her." 
“Well, perhaps I am somewhat unjust. I 
confess that 1 spoke more strongly than I really 
feel, because I do not like to see yon worsliip- 
ing.at a shrine unworthy your homage.” 
I’erhap6 Gus was a little jealous of this volun¬ 
tary homage, and he, perhaps, knew of another 
shrine where he would rather have seen its in¬ 
cense ascending, for ho was not lacking in that 
not least common of human failings, vanity. 
“Hut,” he added, “I perhaps understand 
some of her qualities better because they par¬ 
tially correspond with my own.” 
" That looks very likely,” laughed Linda. 
“ It may not to yon,” he answered, in a slight- 
lyl.offendcd tone, “ but it i3 nevertheless true 
that the warp of our minds is slmilur though the 
woof may be different. I have thought so from 
almost the first that I knew her, aud 1 do not 
doubt she will tell you the same.” 
“Well, 1 regret my want of the sagacity to 
Gustavus ADOLPncs Graham had been an j next day with some hesitation,—but it was her 
early friend of Charles Meade, the brother ] accustomed seat, and why should she avoid it 
of Emily, and by tbat friendship had been 
thrown for a number of years into the society 
of his sister. This companionship might have 
resulted as such accidental friendships often do 
— the more likely that—as Gus had observed, 
they were in some respects similar, and they 
understood each other better than other people 
understood them. Indeed, everything seemed 
to be tending that way, until the introduction 
of Linda into the circle changed the views of 
the young gentleman, who was by nature rather 
fickle. Her beauty, fine manners, wealth and 
high Btation had outweighed the attractions by 
which he now considered himself to have been 
boyishly entrapped. lie had a lively temper, 
good abilities and fine personal appearance— 
was uot endowed with great resolution or mneli 
steadiness of purpose, though a great deal of 
earnestness in the pursuit of his purposes, while 
they lasted, gave him the appearance Of having 
much more stability than he really possessed. 
Kind and impulsively generous, more from satis¬ 
faction with himself than benevolence toward 
others, he was yet kicking in depth of feeling, 
and had not that delicate generosity toward the 
feelings of others, which indicates the truly 
noble. With the characteristic of a weak and 
vacillating nature, he attempted to justify the 
fickleness ol'bis fancy, and fortify himself against 
any return of ids former feelings, by reasoning, 
and was continually seeking causes for doing 
what lie load already done. And from this wish 
had arisen the “ antagonism ” of which he and 
Linda had been speaking. 
Emily had noticed the change which had 
come over him from his first acquaintance with 
her friend. She saw, too, the eanse of his change 
of manner toward her, and while she despised 
it and at times held the one who could cherish 
such feelings in supreme con ' -apt, yet she could 
not at once shake off the affections which had 
been growing up for years, strengthening with 
every Interview, and weaving themselves into 
the thoughts and emotions of her life. She felt 
that she had faculties which might make her 
| superior to him, but she also felt powerless to 
rise. Natural indolence prevented her from ac¬ 
complishing it for hurseif by a strong effort, 
and want of other companionship deterred her 
from gaining it in an easier way. And so her 
conceiving helpless resolutions but made her 
contempt of her position the stronger, but could 
not change it. 
on this day more than any other? So she went, 
—slightly wondering if her meditations would 
be disturbed to-day. It was not long before she 
heard the step again, and wished herself any¬ 
where but on the big stone, at the landing-place 
in the path by the bank of the river, behind the 
stone school-house. But it was too late to re¬ 
treat. The stranger seemed glad to find her 
there again, was more lively thau before—spoke 
more of himself and gave his name as Felton. 
Many such casual Interviews led to a quite in¬ 
timate acquaintance, which was suddenly term¬ 
inated in this wise. While walking one day, or 
rather evening, for the day was just fading into 
night, along the bank of the river, they came to 
a place where the bank was high and slightly 
projecting. From this lie started back with a 
slight shudder. Emily asked wTiat was the 
matter. 
“Nothing,” he replied, “only this reminded 
me forcibly of a similar place, connected with 
unpleasant memories 1” 
“ How unpleasant?” she asked, not knowing 
exactly what else to say. 
“ Dangerous to myself, and fatal to a friend.” 
“ Where was it?” 
“ In California.” 
“ California! have you been there ? Did you 
know my brother, Charles Meade?” she asked, 
eagerly, 
“ Do you know all the people in your own 
State ?” 
“ You did not know him then ?” she said, with 
a disappointed air. 
At this moment a suspicion came into her 
mind that be knew something of her brother’s 
death. Charley lmd occasionally mentioned 
in his letters a friend by the name of Felton, 
This man had been in California and had never 
mentioned it, though he had heard her speak of 
her brother, aud now he evaded her questions 
about him. She could not inquire further. He 
did not reply to her last inquiry, and she hast¬ 
ened homeward, nothing being said by either 
until they arrived there. 
The next day Emily received the following 
letter: 
CHAPTER IV. 
“ Welcome light 
Dawns from the east, but duwns to disappear, 
And mocks me with a sky that ripens not 
Into a steady morning.” 
Gus* predictions with regard to Emily’s plans 
did not prove correct. A few weeks saw her in¬ 
stalled as mifltre.68 of the “ stone school-house” 
at a place some distance from her home,—a situ¬ 
ation sufficiently disagreeable to her, for she dis¬ 
liked nothing more than authority in all its forms. 
When exercised over herself she was flee to 
laugh at it, but when it became necessary to Like 
the scepter into ber own hands, support it with 
her own dignity, and make it the principal pari 
of the character by which she was known to 
others, it became simply disagreeable. A school 
has too much the character of an absolute mon¬ 
archy to be agreeable to strictly republican ideas. 
Condemnation and sentence, though just, come 
more unpleasantly from the lips of a single poten¬ 
tate, than when passing through a score of hands 
of inferior rank. However Emily’s sentiments 
in this respect were not the result of her polit¬ 
ical principles, but simply a natural dislike of 
the forms of petty authority. 
But these unpleasant circumstances were par¬ 
tially softened by the romantic beauty of the 
place where her court was held. They bad not, 
as nsuully in such places, chosen the highest, 
dryest, sandiest and sunniest spot for the seliool- 
housc, but had built it near the bauk of a small 
river tbat ran through the place. A little above 
It was a considerable waterfall; the banks were 
high, aud rocky paths led down to the water. 
Hardy birqhes and evergreens grew along tlm 
edge of the bank, and in the crevices of the pre¬ 
cipitate rocks, scrubby bushes held a precarious 
and uneasy footing, like stunted poverty In the 
cracks and crevices of the social world; while 
here and there the nightshade thrust up its ma¬ 
licious-looking blossoms among its more honest 
neighbors. Just trees enough had been cut away 
to make room for the building, and the survivors 
served as an agreeable &bade in summer aud a 
useful protection against the wind in winter. 
This site had been chosen chiefly on account of 
its uselessness for agricultural purposes. 
This gorge was a favorite resort for the embryo 
geologists of the region,—and often, in the long, 
drowsy summer afternoons, the suppressed hum 
of the school-room would be broken into by the 
6harp click of a hummer in the hands of some 
scientific youngster, who considered himself at 
least half a century in advance of the age. In 
some secluded spot around the banks, generally 
at a baiting place in one of the paths where a 
fragment of rock furnished a secure seat, Emily 
was in the habit of passing the noon-time. As 
she was seated here one day enjoying the dreamy 
quiet of the scene, and listlessly watching the 
spray rising from the waterfall, she heard foot¬ 
steps at no great distance, and soon saw, cmerg- 
perceive it,’ she said, a little, piqued. “ But if ing slowly from a clump of trees, through which 
yon are so much alike, why are you always quar¬ 
reling?” 
“ That arises from an antagonism which you 
cannot understand, any more than you cun the 
similarity,” he replied, after some hesitation. 
“No, but in earnest, now, tell me why it is 
that you are so often at variance." 
“You must ask her,” was the reply. 
They had now reached Linda’s home, one of 
the finest houses in one of the pleasantest streets 
in the city, and with an air of some disappoint¬ 
ment at the last answer, she bade him good-night 
and hastily entered. 
wound one of the many little paths, a gentleman 
whom she. did not know. She had only time to 
notice a pair of gray eyes that looked out with a 
kind of dreamy melancholy from a somewhat- 
pale countenance, when, seeing her, he retired, 
but soon returned, and with some little show of 
irresolution and hesitation addressed to her 
some remark about the place. 
A little conversation followed, from which she 
gathered uothing to satisfy her .curiosity concern¬ 
ing him. He talked indiffcreutly well on indif¬ 
ferent subjects, but said nothing of himself. 
She walked dowD to her accustomed seat the 
“ Emily As I am about 1o retire to where it. is 
beyond the reach of probability that you will ever 
encounter me again, and where, also, I may perhaps 
be able to lose remembrance of self, alter such re¬ 
membrance shall have become more painful than ever 
by wbut 1 dm about to write; haring thus entrenched 
myself. I venture to lay before you the cause of my 
uidhappincsB. 
“When, more than two years ago, I left Philadel¬ 
phia, my residence until that time, I left, a rejected 
suitor, with a boyish resolve to revenge myself by 
making the alliance desirable to her who had re¬ 
jected it, and then put it beyond her reach. I 
threw up the study of my profession, and started 
for California. Here I met your brother. What 
attracted him to me I do not know, for 1 was 
too much absorbed hi the contemplation ol' uiy 
misery and too muck affected by boyish misan¬ 
thropy to be agreeable to any one. But- it so hap¬ 
pened that ho liked me, and in spite of my hedgehog 
policy—for 1 had determined to be alone In my mis¬ 
fortune—gained my friendship, nnd ive were after¬ 
ward constantly together, 1 told him why I yvas 
there, and though 1 believe he considered the cause 
a foolish one, be was too kind not to pity the real 
unhappiness which he saw 1 felt. 
“ For nearly two years we traveled, worked, talked 
and thought together. He often tried to overcome 
my lingering preference, sometimes by argument, 
but oftener by banter. Attacks of the latter kind 
were soHn-tiines annoying to me. as hta ready wit 
was too much for my slow replica. I believe he 
made these attacks in all kindness utid disinterest¬ 
edness, mistaken though he was as to their effect. 
•Five months ago, we were working at a place 
where there were many others engaged, with whom 
your brother, it is almost needier'." to say, was a 
favorite, for he Instantly became one, into whatever 
society he fell. One evening as wc, together with 
others, were seated around the fire, he gave me a 
witty aside, relating to my disappointment. This 
led to an altercation, which was witnessed by our 
companions, by whom I was universally considered 
a sullen and ill-natured fellow, and, of course, their 
whole sympathy wnB with him. 
“The following day Charley made the apologies 
which 1 should have made, and in the evening we 
walked out together. While standing on a ledge 
similar to the one where I stood with you at our 
last meeting, but vastly higher aud more dangerous, 
your brother, while my buck was turned, fell, with a 
sliding fra .uncut of rock, from the bank. lie uttered 
no cry. I looked around and he was gone. I started 
back for help, but—could 1 give myself up to die the 
death of a murderer Y for such would surely have 
been my late. I left the State, and a sort of way¬ 
ward caprice drew me to his home. I need not say 
that his sister’s attractions have done for mi? what 
all his argument and banter could not do. But it has 
Bubstitute.il a stronger and more hopeless passion. 
A*ou will brand me as a murderer or a coward, and as 
such l shall remain in your remembrance, 1 accept 
the punishment of my cowardice, or the infliction of 
my evil fortunes, it matters not which. 
_ “J. T. Felton.” 
CHAPTER V. 
“ Thou ehalt hear the Never, never! whispered by 
the phantom years.” 
Emily could uot but censure him for desert¬ 
ing her brother, without stopping to find some 
way down the rocks to sec if life might uot 
remain, and endeavoring to restore him or to 
recover his lifeless body. But she did uot doubt 
the truth of the story, and regretted the hasty 
self-condemnation which had led to las sudden 
departure. She. felt, with some reproach of 
conscience for the thought, that one loss was 
illy compensated by another. Yet she would 
not have recalled him if she could, after such a 
leave-taking—and she tried to reconcile herself 
to her lonely lot. She held the letter over the 
Uame of the light, find as it parched and shriv¬ 
eled with the fierce heat she accepted it as an 
emblem of her blasted and withered life. 
For some time Emily toiled on in her school, 
with no hope and no ambition beyond it. Her 
yesterdays, to-days and to-morrowB were all 
alike—a routine in the outer, a blank in the 
inner life. Even her occasional visits home 
only served to deepen her gloom, by reminding 
her more forcibly of her loss. During one of 
these visits she one day received a letter with 
the distant postmark and familiar superscription 
ol' her brother. She opened it eagerly. The 
lew lingering hopes, which had been defeated 
by her failing to hear from him, were realized. 
His fall had been intercepted by a lower ledge, 
which projected from the bank midway from the 
upper one to the. stream. He had been stunned 
aud badly injured, hut was found by his com¬ 
panions the following day. A long illness had 
ensued. He had not wished his friends to know 
of his danger till it was over, —wus now suf¬ 
ficiently recovered for the journey home, and 
would soon he with them. 
Charley came, and with him life and ani¬ 
mation to the sorrowful household. The old 
light came hack to Emily’s eyes, and the old 
playfulness to her conversation. All was not 
lost. Here was still some stimulus to exertion, 
and Bhc tried to be satisfied and accept the other 
trial as a needful balance. She had present hap¬ 
piness in the society of her brother—she could 
indulge in thoughts of the lost one with no re¬ 
proaches of conscience aud no self-contempt, 
and this was all her inactive nature required. 
But CnARLEY would not lose his friend in this 
way. After many unsuccessful efforts he at last 
fouud him in a dusty corner of the metropolis, 
sunk deep in law-books and melancholy, and 
bore him hack in triumph. 
“Well,” said Emily, as they were seated at 
her favorite resort, the door-step, the evening 
after the arrival, " the pleasantest place in the 
house is out of it, after all.” 
“It is so, with every house,” said Charley, 
“as Felton and I have found in our out-door 
life. We have learned to turn up our noses at 
roofs and look down on floors.” 
“ And to descend precipices safely without the 
aid of stairs,” said Felton. 
(loctfrt lot % Sottttfl. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GRAMMATICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 18 tetters. 
My 4, it, 11 is an interjection. 
My 5, 6,10,12,11 is a preposition. 
My 4,12, 8 is a pronoun. 
My 15,18,11 is a verb. 
My 18, C, 7 is a conjunction. 
My 14, S, 15,9 Is a noun. 
My 12, 6, 3,5,17, 4 is an adverb. 
My it, 4,18 is a pronoun. 
My 15,19, 9. fj Is a participle. 
My 17,8,9,16,1 Is an adjective. 
My whole ie the name of a beautiful piece of poetry. 
East Lansing, N. Y. Nellie. 
Z3f~ Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of SO letters. 
My 1, 9, 5, 0, 8,15,13 is Gen. Burnside’s given name. 
My 2.18,19, C ie not far distant. 
My 11, 3,1,10,12,17 is a destroyer of rats. 
My 14, 7, 0,12,13 is what every person has. 
My 16,19, 4 is music of a crow. 
My SO, 8, 11 Is not old. 
My whole Is an old saying. 
St. Joe, Mich. j. m. n. 
Z3T Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AN ANAGRAM. 
Ni rsmoem'y gnmoelilw saiga I zgea 
Dna drorimer ehert era retho ysad, 
Eht dnosu fo hwcih sah dsaeps aywa, 
Guthrfa sa ti swa htwi ldyoem. 
Napoleon, Ohio. Rosa. 
XST" Answer in two weeks. 
-HK- 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
PROBLEM. 
A person bought a heifer calf. How many cattle 
would he have in 20 years, supposing each one to have 
a heifer calf when 3 years old, and one each year after 
that, all to be heifers ? 
Washington, O. Roland S. Frame. 
83Y“ Answer in t wo weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 909. 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus:—Aching teeth are 
incendiary tenants. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:—He that loveth 
pleasure shall be a poor man. 
Answer to Anagram: 
When the clouds come sweeping onward, 
And with darkness shroud the sky, 
Then some cheering ray of sunlight 
Forme the rainbow bright on high. 
So when sorrow gathers o’er os 
And its gloom bids Joy depart, 
Some bright hope that's sent to cheer ns 
Forms the rainbow of the heart. 
Answer to Mathematical Problem:— 81 acres and 
31 3-10 rods. 
rpHE 
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. 10,000 
20 Melodinms, *225 each.. 4,500 
5 Rosewood sew I rig Machines, * 2 U 0 each. 1,000 
10 Family hewing Machine;), *100 euch.... 1,000 
50 Fine Gold Watches, *200 euch. 10,000 
100 011 Paintings, by leading artists —aggregate 
value... 10,000 
8 Camel’s Hair Shawls, *1.0o0 each. 8,000 
2 Cutuel’a Hair Shawls, *8,000 each. 6,000 
8 Handsome Luce fcluiwjM, 1250 euch. 750 
io Cautioners Shaw Is, *50 each . 500 
20 Silk Dress Patterns, *75 each. 1,500 
50 City Building Lots, *179 snob.. 8,750 
The remainder will 0011 * 1*1 ol Silverware, Mu¬ 
sical Boxes, Opera Glosses, Pocket Bibles, 
. and (llllcrcnt articles of ornament and use, 
amounting to. . 82,000 
Total... .. * 800,000 
All the properties given clear ol Incumbrance. 
HOW TO OBTAIN SHARES AND EN¬ 
GRAVINGS. 
Send orders to us by mall, enclosing from *1 to *20, 
either by Posuutlice orders or in n registered letter, at 
our risk. Larger amounts should be sent by draft or 
express. 
10 shares with Engravings.* 9,50 
25 shares with Engravings. 28,50 
50 th»re6 wtth Engravings.... . 40,50 
75 shares wIlk Engravings... 09,00 
100 shares with Engravings. 90,00 
L 0 C 8 I AGENTS WANTED throughout the United States. 
The Association have appointed as Receivers, Messrs. 
GEOltUE A. COOKE <fc CO., whose well knowm integrity 
and business experience will he a sufficient guarantee 
that the money intrusted to them will be promptly ap¬ 
plied to tho purpose slated. 
Pii'i ATiBLrniA. P*^ May 20,1807. 
To the Officers and Members of the Washington Library 
<JO.,N7S. HEED, Secretary : , . 
Gitari-EMax:—Ow receipt of ronr favor of tlm 15tn 
Inst., notifying us of our appointment as Receivers for 
your Company, we took the liberty to submit u copy of 
your Charter, with u plan of your enterprise, to the high¬ 
est legal authority of the Mate, and having received his 
favorablct opinion In regard to Its legality, and sympa¬ 
thizing with the the btneculeiil object of your Associa¬ 
tion, vhs: the education and maintenance of the orphan ( 
children of our soldiers and sailor* at the Rlvrnudo In- \ 
stltute, we have concluded to accept the trust, aud to 
use our best efforts to promote so worthy an object. 
Respectfully, yonrs, &e., GKO. A. COOKE & CO. 2 
Address all letter* and order* to 
U&O. A. COOKE & CO„ BANKERS, j 
88 South Third Street, Philadelphia, Pa-. 
Receivers lor the Washington Library Co t 
