isra 
S g|j§ 
• rr. V -W-- * r-'r^Tfiir 
with shadowy promises of bright realizations to 
glad hopings,—and then back, all alone, to 
friendly Providence again, thinking of the Sea¬ 
shore Idyl of the dead poet— 
“ The waves grow calm in the dusk of eve, 
When the wind goes down with the sun; 
So fade the smiles of those who deceive 
When the coveted heart Is won. 
“ This sea-weed WTeath that hangs on the wall, 
She twined one day by tho sea: 
Of the weeds, and the waves, and her love, it is all 
That the Past has left to me I” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
LOUNGIMS. 
BY ADA J. MOORE. 
Little Mande, among the clover, 
In a little cottage dwelt; 
Mother had she none to love her. 
Yet an angel bent above her, 
When at evening prayer she knelt. 
And a consciousness of blessing 
Softly through the twilight foil, 
Sweeter than the fond caressing, 
When a mother’s hand is pressing 
Ringlets that she loves so well. 
Through the darknosB and tho dawning, 
While the little dreamer slept, 
Through the brightness of the morning, 
Like a calm her soul adorning, 
Little Muudo this treasure kept. 
And Its sweetness lingered o'er her 
All the long and weary day: 
Pleasant visions thronged before her; 
And tho hate that others bore her, 
Vanished, in its light away. 
Thus she grew so mock and holy, 
That her life was like a dream I 
Vision like. It faded sltnvly, 
Ere it vanished from us wholly, 
Like tho twilight’s fading gleam. 
ILiUle Corporal, 
V.—“THE LAST STEP.” 
The “ Bay Queen ” is steaming down the 
Narragansett this coquettish autumn day, and 
on either aide of the two hours’ ride, with the 
stiff breeze square in the faces of those of us 
who are more anxious for enjoyment than to be 
cooped up in the close cabin, we glide past 
Rocky Point, with all the nature-beauties which 
must he studied over and over to be learned by 
heart, and where millions of innocent clams 
find appreciative graves every season;—past 
Nayatt, with the erect, sentinel light-house, 
which keeps continual guard over the “ Wood¬ 
bine Cottages” aud quiet summer-dwellings of 
the lew who love the place, and a little one side 
of which, two piers — one in ruin3, the other 
with the freshness of continued renewal—par¬ 
allel the chameleon waters like emblems of life 
and death;—past Prudence aud Patience, the 
moveless sister-islands, and tho nestling Bristol 
which gives back the sunshine from hundreds 
of glittering city points; and then we dislodge 
ourselves irom the puffing boat on the wharf at 
Newport. 
But all voyages are not the smooth cleavings 
of Narragansett. We 
“-love and live on change, 
TUI the soul sighs for sameness, which at last 
Becomes variety and takes Its place,” 
and even In our dream-journeys we once and 
again image storms, which, like Michael 
Scott’s familiar spirit, will not always down at 
oar bidding. Yet, after tho cloud comes sun¬ 
shine ; after the storm, ealm, and 
“ When the shore, is won at last, 
Who will count the billows past?” 
Driving over tho long beach, almost to Purga¬ 
tory, or on the smooth avenue which passes the 
great hotels, meeting here and there remnants 
of the “ season," shaped In low pony-carriages, 
with their immense parti-colorcd son-shades,— 
or sitting on rude seats, overlooking the long 
row of bathing houses, just in hearing of the 
muffled tide as It advances and recedes on the 
sandy beach, talking meantime of unrccallable 
things, and thinking unutterable ones,—and the 
morning hours leave us. 
To-day is a “ beautiful day with the fairies," 
and as I turu my kaleidoscope at leisure, and, 
when some gorgeous combination meets the 
eye, hesitate to apply the touch of new crea¬ 
tion,—I wonder If there are many of Poe’s 
wicked iuventors, who, to spare thought and 
economize fancy, have established joiut-stock 
companies to twirl the little instrument by 
steam. 
Through a meadow, over a stile, by the very 
edge, almost, of the high bank, and we gain the 
Forty Steps. Shall we sit on the “Last Step" 
and listen to the waves ? Ah, they tell of won¬ 
drous things. The heaven clouds, and they 
whisper of remembrance. Anon the sun peeps 
through some little rift, and they murmur of 
hope. Then ftiU aud strong shine the beams on 
the restless water, and we listen to wooinga of 
love. And then the shadow comes again, and 
the foam seems shuddering like death. 
The young hearts, who have sat here on other 
days, lingering, even like us, weaving the thread 
of their own lives in looms of glittering hope, 
or fancying the love of a poet’s heart to be 
theirs, making up the gloriousness of something 
beyond, — perhaps arc sleeping loving, sweet 
sleep, or maybe, with the iron hand of disap¬ 
pointment bearing down their arms, have forgot¬ 
ten to keep true to their dreams,—have folded 
their iuner selves close in the dead memories. 
The chill air has driven away well-nigh all the 
revellers from the shores of the Bay of Rhode 
Island. But the echoes are ringing yet of the 
golden summer. 
“ All night have the roses heaml 
The tlute, violin, bassoon— 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 
To the dancers dancing in tone; 
“ Conic into the garden, Maud— 
I am here at the gato alone. 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown.” 1 
Yet she comes not. For her— 
II -the revel of life Is done— 
Ah, beautiful Maud, you never will miss 
The kissed another hath won,” 
And on the Last Step we read the “Day 
Dream,” thinking, perhaps, of him who, in the j 
old story, went in search of the water of ob¬ 
livion, loving his life only for the dear ones who 
were to be disenchanted by his success. 
How many there are of us, who would be, 
humanly speaking, infinitely better and hap¬ 
pier if we could hut begin again,—if we could 
take a fresh start, far away from all those who 
have been so thoroughly cognizant of our folly 
and childishness,—making for ourselves a new 
career, wherein we could forget those things 
which are behind, and reach forth unto those 
things which are before,—strong in our weak¬ 
ness, measureless in our confidence, triumphing 
through our loneliness aud friendliness. |But 
ah, it is only In Utopia that our possibilities 
achieve and conquer;—and yet 6ome day, when 
life’s oars are silent, and the hands that have 
blisteringly tugged so long against the sluggish 
currents, are folded in rcstfnlness, we shall look 
through dust to spirit, shall see where the 
golden pencil of the Sun of Righteousness has 
written the Evermore of Eternity. 
I have been lingering at Nayatt, reading des¬ 
tinies in the quiet waves that kiss the green 
shore in cooing ripples,—peering through the 
thick foliage of the little glen, as it rustles in 
the sad breeze,—or following some fairy foot¬ 
step which beguiles into an untrodden future 
Well, I have written the last of my loungings. 
The haziness of the autumn is gathering chill¬ 
ness more and more, as love and beauty wrap 
themselves In the mist of memory. The fllliDg 
in of the restful hours has been all pleasant, 
and now, looking back on the shifting scenes of 
the glad day’s fancy, I seem to see again the 
beautiful face, with its sweet, bright constancy, 
of the Fairy Princess, who, listening to the 
surge, to Tennyson— and to me, sat by my side 
one dreamy September day on the Last 8tcp of 
the Forty Steps at Newport. 
u It is out of our pain and our patience that 
God brings us beautilul answers. It is well for 
us. But if such answers do not come? That 
also is well." 
PEBESTRIARISM. 
A GOOD STORY OP A PRINCELY BOY, 
As a people, we have a curious habit of run¬ 
ning wild over an idea. A felicitous thought I* 
at once popularized, aud ranges across the 
country as common property. A “sensation" 
is sensationalized from Maine to California in a 
wonderfully short period. We hear a taking 
song, aud make ourselves hoarse with it until It 
Is absolutely sung out. We carry everything to 
the extreme, and in our peculiar zeal often make 
a wise aud good thing seem absurd and foolish. 
Hcro*making is onr forte. Wc have developed 
that talent in adegree almost astonishing. Com¬ 
pared with us, in this respect, other peoples are 
nowhere. It takes a quarter of a century to 
properly finish up a hero, in staid old England. 
In France they are more lively, and can do it in 
a decade. Wi can complete a most beautiful 
one in ft week! Grant that to-day a man accom¬ 
plishes something novel, If not deserving, In the 
sober city of Boston: three days hence he will 
be immortal all the wav to 8an Francisco. Wc 
Immortalized 8am Patch, and Blond tN, and 
Japanese Tommie, and the Prince of Wales; 
(England and posterity ought to thank us for the 
last,) and now Weston, our last and beat work, 
stands out high in the proud Temple of Fame, 
(in Chicago,) a noble creation In white hat and 
heavy brogans, and some other Little articles of 
apparel. Debus pedestrianated from “ away down 
East” clear to the little village on the shore of 
Lake Michigan, and fifty thousand people beside 
his wife have received him with open arms. 
Already has he bceu nominated for tho Vice 
Presidency, though as he is said not to be a 
vicious young hero we don’t see the fitness. 
The West has ever been positive. But they 
are improving. The latest semi-national Gram¬ 
mar renders it West, Weston, Weston-est— posi¬ 
tive, comparative, superlative —and the latter 
being liberally translated means Weston U — 
some. “ To be or not to be" Is a question 
wholly superfluous. He walked into the proud 
temple aforementioned, (we to or do not]refer to 
Crosby’s Opera House,) and has spoken his 
piece, as another conqueror did "when he said 
“ vent, /Adi, viol" &c. 
But to be serious. The young man who has 
performed the most remarkable feat, of the kind, 
on record, has demonstrated human’endurance 
bravely. He deserves to be feted. (We rather 
thiuk If we hud footed It over twelve hundred 
miles against time weshouldneed to bure-feeted.) 
While there may be something extremely ludi¬ 
crous in the universal walking fever caused by 
his tramp, we hope it will calm down to a 
healthy tOL'e, and be productive of good. Walk¬ 
ing is splendid ezercise, hut it has been sadly 
neglected lu this country. The English do 
better: instance Charles Dickens, who takes 
daily rambles of tea miles, outside of Boston. 
Onr people have patronized street cars aud 
busses too much for their owh good. Nearly 
every person would he benefited by a pedes¬ 
trian excursion of three or four mt7ee per day. 
We used to do considerably iu the way of pedal 
locomotion, and will say that when wc were iu 
the habit of walking from five to ten miles each 
day we enjoyed better health than we ever have 
since. Let every one get a Walker's diction¬ 
ary, (Webster’s is Lest, but it isn’t effete,) and 
practice tramping for a while, and by-and-by 
they will be able to foot anything unless it be 
their gas bill or their taxes. 
Charles X of Friiuce, when a child, was one 
day playing in an apartment of the palace while 
a peasant from Auvergne was busily employed 
in scrubbing the floor. The latter, encouraged 
by the gayety and playfulness of the couut, ou- 
tered familiarly into conversation with him, und, 
to amuse him, told him a number of diverting 
stories and anecdotes of his province. The 
prince, with all the ingenuousness of childhood, 
expressed his commiseration for the narrator's 
evident poverty, and for the labor which he was 
obliged to undergo in order to obtain a scanty 
livelihood. 
“ Ah!" said the mini, “my poor wife and fire 
children often go snpperlees to bed," 
“Well, then,” replied the prince, with tears 
in his eyes, “yOtl must let me manage for you. 
My governor every mouth gives me pocket 
money, for which, after all, I have no occasion, 
since 1 waut for nothing. You shall take this 
money and give it to your wife aud children; 
but bo sure not to mention a word of the matter 
to a living soul, or you will be finely scolded.” 
On leaving the apartment, the honest depend¬ 
ent acquainted the governor of the young prince 
with the conversation that had taken place. 
The latter, after praising the servant highly for 
his scrupulous Integrity, desired him to accept 
the money, and to keep the affair a profound 
secret, adding ihat he should have no cause to 
repent of his discretion. At the end of the 
month, the young Count d’Artois received Ills 
allowance as usual, and watching the moment 
when he was unobserved, hastily slipped the 
whole sum Into the hands of his protnje. 
Ou the same evening a child’s lottery was 
proposed, for the amusement of tho young 
princes, by the governor, who had purposely 
distributed among the* prizes such objects as 
were most likely to tempt a boy of the count’s 
age. Each of his brothers eagerly hazarded his 
little store, but the Count d’Artois kept aloof 
from his favorite amusement. Tho governor, 
feiguiug astonishment, at last demanded the 
reason of his unusual prudence; stljl no answer 
from the count. One of the princes, his brother, 
next testified his surprise, and at length pressed 
the young count so hard that In a moment of 
childish impatience he exclaimed: — “ This may 
be very well for you; but what would you do If, 
like me, you had a wife and five children to sup¬ 
port ? ” — Selected. 
Fitz Greene fl allege, who died recently at 
Guilford, Conn., was born at the same place in 
July, 171)5. A few years before attaining his 
majority, young Halleok removed to New York 
and entered the banking house of Jacob Bar¬ 
ker, where he remained for many years. For a 
considerable length of time prior to the decease 
of John Jacob Astob, Halleok was employed 
by that wealthy merchant, aud so far gained his 
esteem us to be named as one of the original 
trustees of the Astor Library, a position which 
he filled up to tho time of Ids death. His lines 
to “Twilight," the earliest iu date of his col¬ 
lected poems, were printed in the Now York 
Evening l’ost In 1818; and In the following 
spring he assisted J. Rodman Drake, a warm 
personal friend, in the preparation of the humor¬ 
ous “Croaker" paper# for that journal. The 
death of Mr. Drake In 1820, compelled a con¬ 
clusion of the series of papers, and Mr. Halleck 
commemorated the departure of his beloved 
friend in a most touching poetical effusion, 
commencing — 
“ Green be the turf above thee, 
Friend of my better days. 
None knew thee but. to love thee. 
None named thee hat to praise.” 
In 1810 he produced an amusing satire entitled 
“ Fancy,” written in the measure of Byron's 
“Don Juau," and criticising the follies, fash¬ 
ions and public characters of the day. In 1832 
be visited Europe, and upon bis return pub¬ 
lished an edition of poems, among which “Aln¬ 
wick Castle," “Burns" and “Marco Bozzarm” 
have achieved the greatest popularity. The 
latter poem is familiarly known throughout the 
whole country, uud more or leas so, perhaps, in 
European literary circles. His reputation, how¬ 
ever, rests mainly upon some of his poems 
published lu earlier works. Mr. Halleok was 
accustomed in life to pay a yearly visit to New 
York city, where, for two Or three weeks, ho 
enjoyed the society of artists and the leading 
literary men of the nation, all of whom looked 
with pleasure to his coming, aud delighted to 
do the distinguished old man reverence. The 
good old man has passed away; but from every 
school-house in tho land the story of Marco 
Bozarris will be declaimed for generations, and 
teachers will tell their pupils that, like the hero 
of the poem, Fitz Greene Hj.lt.eck’s is 
“ One of the few, the Immortal names, 
That are not born to die.” 
THAT’S HOW! 
After a great snow-Btorm, a little fellow 
began to shovel a path through a large snow¬ 
bank before his grandmother’s door. He had 
nothing but a small shovel to work with. 
“ How do you expect to get through that 
drift ?" asked a man passing along. 
“By keeping at it,” said the boy cheerfully; 
“ that’s how l” 
That ia the secret of mastering almost every 
difficulty under the sun. If a hard task is before 
you, at.i$k to it. Do not keep thinking how 
large or hard it is; but go at it, and little by 
little it will grow smaller aud smaller, until it is 
done. 
If a hard lesson Is to be learned, do not spend 
a moment in fretting; do not lose a breath in 
eayhig, “ I can't,” or “ I do not see how; ” but 
go at it, and keep at if. Study. That is the only 
way to conquer It. 
PflPPl 
had kingly men in our brief national history, W* 
their tombs are no royal sarcophagi. They are 
the people's dead, and they sleep where the dead 
of the people sleep, while their memories lin¬ 
ger in the hearts of all. We need no Westmin¬ 
sters for our dead royalty. 
In last peck’s Rural we gave a fine illustra¬ 
tion of the Home of Jefferson, and now por¬ 
tray the great Dtutcaman’s final resting place. 
It will be seen that the monument which marks 
it is plain and uupTetcntions, simple in design, 
and bearing but a auwplc inscription. We have 
Socrates, at an extreme age, learned to'play 
on musical Instruments. 
Cato, at eighty years of age thought proper to 
learn the Greek language. 
Plutarch, when between seventy and eighty, 
commenced the study of Latin. 
Boecancia was thirty-five years of age when he 
commenced his studies in light literature; yet 
he became one of three great masters of the Tus¬ 
can dialect, Dante and Petrarch being the other 
two. 
Sir Henry Spelman, neglected the sciences in 
his youth, but commenced the study of them 
when he was between fifty and sixty years of age. 
After this time he became a most learned anti¬ 
quarian and lawyer. 
Colbert, the famous French minister, at sixty 
years of age, returned to his Latin and law 
studies. 
Ludovico, at the great age of one hundred aud 
fifteen, wrote the memories of his own times. 
The Testament loaches us to 
Add to your “ faith/’ 
Add to your “ virtue/’ 
Add to your “ knowledge," 
Add to your “ patience,” 
Add to your “ godliness," 
Add to your “ brotherly kindness,” 
Add to your “charity.” 
What does this all mean, children—this add¬ 
ing of one thing to another? It means that 
either one is not sufficient of itself to make a 
perfect Christian, but that you must strive to 
grow in grace—to add one good thing to an¬ 
other until you possess them all. Just look at 
this table aud see what precious things you are 
admonished to acquire. Will you try to make 
these virtues yours, children ? 
THE RIGHT WHALE 
Ogilby, the translator of Homer andVhgil, 
was unacquainted with La’M and Greek until he 
was past the age of fifty. 
Franklin did not fully conY-ttence his philo¬ 
sophical pursuits until he had revelled his fiftieth 
year. 
Accroso, a great lawyer, being arked why he 
begau the study of luw so late, answered that 
indeed he began it late, he could, therefore,-mas¬ 
ter it the sooner. 
Dryden, in ids sixty-eighth year commenced 
the translation of Iliad, and his most pleasing 
productions were written in hie old age. 
It is the general belief among whalers that 
the sperm whale is dying out, the number hav¬ 
ing decreased so much as to render it difficult to 
obtain » full cargo. The right whale, however, 
still maintains its own in the Pacific ocean, only 
shifting its grounds to regions more and more 
remote. The Northern fleet from New Bedford 
this year numbers one hundred and two vessels, 
of which seventy-two arc In the Arctic, twenty 
in the Ochotrh, and ten in the Kodiak ground. 
Nineteen of thv fleet will probably return to San 
Francisco in the fall to reernit, and eighty-three 
to Honolulu, from which latter point, should 
the average catch be taken, there will he shipped 
between 50,000 mid 00,000 barrels of oil. 
There is more gladness in childhood than our 
young friends realize. 
Truth, wisdom, love, seek reasons; malice 
seeks only causes. 
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