MAY 4 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER 
Marians ©aphis. 
every-day life. 
BY LEAD PENCIL, ESQ. 
Death ! Has ifc terrors? Dr. Marvin 
told us at the Liberal Club, the other night, 
that we are constantly dying while wo live 
—that the cells which form our bodies are 
every day and every minute ceasing their 
functions, a nd new cells are forming- Death 
is simply a change of condition physically— 
the senses, one after another, cease to act; 
and yet even then the body is not dead. 
And he asserts that to die is not to suffer 
pain: It is simply going to sleep. It is an 
exquisite sense of rest which comes to us— 
painlessly, in the abstract. The martyrs 
who were burned at the stake, after the lirst 
few moments of suffering, seemed to have 
become transformed, and their sufferings 
ended in an ecstacy of joy. This, he thought , 
might he a purely physical result. Men ami 
women who moan in their unconsciousness, 
when ill, often moan without suffering. 
The sympathy they awaken in their attend¬ 
ants cause the latter more pain than the 
sick ones endure. 
We are constantly dying, yet do not die, 
in the sense in which we use the term, until 
the machine wears out or is stopped by the 
removal of an essential part of the machi¬ 
nery. Then t he functions of the body cease 
to act. The force which has moved the ma¬ 
chinery cannot operate it. But the force 
exists, and the machine resolves Into its 
normal elements, to become transformed 
by the laws of nature into other forms of 
life. We live; we, individually, die. And 
yet we do not cease to exist—no part of us. 
Death is change. What kind of a change? 
Who knows the unknowable? We can fol¬ 
low matter. Can we. follow spirit in its 
transformations ? 
We are but pendulums .at best. On the 
■Staten Island Ferry, to-day, came a poor 
mendicant with his begging paper in his 
hand—a most abject object. By my side 
sat a brilliant, talented young fellow, not 
unknown t<> fame, more abject than ho— 
more to be pitied than he, because lie was 
dying of “nothing to do”! Not brave? 
Yes he was! And if I could report what 
ho said to me, the reader would know that 
he had boen and is bravo. 
“This false, falso world!" ho exclaimed. 
“ But this world Is not false,” I retorted. 
“ There is ft limit to the swing of the pen¬ 
dulum, that is all. Every man must move 
in some direction, If he moves at all, in the 
arc of the cirole. If he is not, going np he is 
going down. And when he reaches the low¬ 
est point he ascends—he must, if the pen¬ 
dulum stands still of itself, when it is moved 
it ascends. It must. Sometimes t he clock¬ 
work of events is out of order. There is no 
power operating to move the pendulum. 
Sometimes, although the clock is wound up, 
the pendulum must be started to move the 
machinery. If the pendulum is lifted to 
the highost point without the aid of the 
machinery. It must swing to and pass the 
lowest, and will surely reach nil equal ele¬ 
vation. But we must never forget that 
there is always a limit to Its ascension. And 
so it is with human life. The man who 
starts as high as he can get, must go as low. 
I never know it to fail. There are different 
planes to the arc of each life. They are 
differently graduated. The longer the pen¬ 
dulum the more gradual the descent and 
ascent, just as some men seem to travel a 
uniform grade in life.” 
I loft my friend thinking about it, and 
went to look at another phase of life. 
“ What Is the difference between happi¬ 
ness in good clothes and happiness in hum¬ 
ble garb?” Hero is a beautiful child, clad 
in softest Bilks, wrapped In softest and 
warmest wraps, her feet shod with the soft¬ 
est sandals civilization has devised. She is 
happy, and she has a happy mother, clad 
with equal taste, care and comfort. From 
what point in the arc is this pendulum 
swinging? Perhaps up; perhaps down; at 
any rate swinging in a higher plane—proba¬ 
bly the pend alum is shorter—than this other 
little rosy-faoed fellow with copper-toed 
shoes, a well-worn cap, pluiuest cassimere 
olothing made from father’s cast-offs, prob¬ 
ably. And this mother seems equally hap¬ 
py with the first. There is content in the 
face. Each seems to enjoy all that passes, 
and nothing that can give joy seems to es¬ 
cape the eyes and ears. 
What Is the difference in tho quality of 
the happiness of each? Is there any? Or 
in the degree ? Is vanity, or pride, a niluis- 
terer to happiness? It may be to some. I 
sometimes think so. But how? Not uuloss 
we know it costs some one a twinge of envy, 
is it? Let us think about it, and if it is the 
better happiness. 
-<*-♦-*,- 
ARCHERY PRACTICE. 
The illustration given herewith repre¬ 
sents tho popular out-of-door game of 
Archery, which is yearly growing in favor 
in this country. If one visits Central Park, 1 
their work. In fact, unless there are special 
reasons to the contrary, tho conscientious 
“reader” prefers never to seo the author 
in relation to tho book while tho question is 
pending. When he has read the manuscript 
he writes an opinion, which ho returns to 
tho firm, sometimes expressed in a few 
words, sometimes in an elaborate analysis 
and criticism. Tint, in any case be never re¬ 
commends a book except after careful con- 
It iili' SAl 
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ARCHERY PRACTICE. 
in New York, or tho grounds of many of 
the fine residences which line the Hudson, 
parties of young folks will he discovered 
engaged in this healthy and delightful 
amusement. A striking characteristic of 
our English cousins is their love for open 
air exercise, and in tho pursuit of this will 
be found the secret of their ruddy cheeks 
and robust constitutions, which in many 
instances contrast so favorably with those 
of American women. The turf, the water, 
and tho lawn hove about equal sporting at¬ 
tractions, and while our brothers may be 
fond of horses and jaobts, the women and 
children can have amusements at, home 
which are nearly as interesting. Croquet 
has a certain charm, but ladies, like men, 
lovo changes, and the practice of Archery 
is found to be a most agreeable one. Dur¬ 
ing pleasant weather parties congregate 
among the trees in Central and Prospect 
Parks, for trials of skill, sight, patience and 
nerve. Lawn parties having tho same ob¬ 
ject in view promise to be popular this sea¬ 
son at. tho springs, the sea and mountain 
side. All amusements of this harmless and 
healthy nature should be encouraged. 
--■ 
A HINT FOR FLEDGELINGS. 
It is by no means so easy to get a manu¬ 
script printed as some unsophisticated an¬ 
thers fancy, for it has to run the gauntlet of 
those terrible persons known as “readers.” 
All great publishers, like tho Harpers, the 
Appletoms, oto.. have several regular read¬ 
ers, besides others, eminent in their various 
professions, whom they consult In relation 
to works of their several specialties. Their 
funotiou is to give full consideration to, and 
their best advice upon, qll matters submit¬ 
ted to them. For this they receive a salary; 
and it would be considered on both sides a 
breach of trust if they accepted any com¬ 
pensation whatever from tho author for 
sideration. These opinions are carefully 
copied into a book and preserved for refer¬ 
ence. If the first reader’s verdict is favora¬ 
ble, the manuscript Ik then sent, to another 
reader, who knows nothing of what, his pre¬ 
decessor ha* said. Usually, and in all cases 
of any possible doubt, the work is gent to a 
third reader. With three opinions, by three 
different persons, the firm consider that 
they have materials sufficient for decision 
in the caso.— Springfield Republican, 
■ -- 
A WONDERFUL CLOCK. 
Droz, a mechanic of Geneva, produced a 
clock whicli excelled all others in ingenuity. 
On it were seated a negro, a shephard and a 
dog. When tho clock struck, the shepherd 
played six tunes on bis flute, and the dog ap¬ 
proached and fawned upon him. This won¬ 
derful machine was exhibited to the King of 
Spain, who was greatly delighted with it. 
“The gentleness of my dog," said Droz, “ is 
his least merit,. If your majesty touch one 
of the apples which you see in the shepherd’s 
basket, you will admire the animals fidelity.” 
Tho King took an apple, and the dog flew at 
hishand, barking so loud that the King'Ndog, 
which was in the room, began to bark also. 
At this the courtiers, not doubting that it 
was an affair of witchcraft, hastily left the 
room, crossing themselves as they departed. 
Having desired tho minister of Marine (the 
only one who ventured to remain) to ask the 
negro what o’clock it was, tho Minister did 
so, but obtained no reply. Droz then ob¬ 
served that the negro had not yet learned 
Spanish, upon which tho question was re¬ 
peated in French, when tho black immedi¬ 
ately answered him. At this prodigy the 
firmness of the Minister also forsook him, 
and ho retreated precipitately, declaring 
that it must be tho work of a supernatural 
being. 
flhtr ^tora-©cller. 
THE LOST LETTER 
A STORY OF TRUSTING AND WAITINC. 
BY J. C. KETLAS. 
TnEY were leaning over tbo gate, looking 
back at tho quiet gray house, where tho 
harvest moon threw st range, shifting shad¬ 
ows from the baro branches, longing to call 
it “ home,” now, as they said their last 
words to each other. 
“Good-by, Ruth, good-by. IIow long it 
will be Goo only knows; but when 1 come 
back, we shall never be alone again.” 
Franz Dunbar needed tio answering as¬ 
surance from the pale, quivering lips. That, 
was not a face to lightly break troth; she 
would be faithful to him through good and 
evil, though weary years should pass ere his 
return. Ho trusted her completely, and so 
went away to the war. 
It was the fall of 1803—after the fearful 
slaughter of Gettysburg—when the heart 
of the country w:ih heavy with its great woe, 
despondent in the midst of the struggle, 
and looking with sad, uncertain gaze Into 
the dim future, not daring to prophesy the 
end. The call for help was loud; and among 
many others in Norton who put aside their 
present, gladness — (^<'ir home loves and 
comforts, for a. deep, unselfish devotion to 
the country—was Franz Dunbar. The 
rich old Squire, his father, opposed if with 
all tho strength of his will. 
“They’re plenty of them, plenty of them, 
Franz, glad to go for a bounty, let, alone 
what I would give them besides, if you will 
stay. ’Twould bo a. mercy to rid the land 
of them; but you, my hoy, don't go. I can¬ 
not spare you. One more would make lit¬ 
tle difference, and those rebel sharp-shoot¬ 
ers are sure to pick out the only men whom 
the world is better for. You will break 
that little girl’s heart, at, farmer King’s, 
unless you heed my words.” 
Day after day the argument s were renew¬ 
ed between father and son, the strong fug¬ 
ging of inclination making Franz more un¬ 
yielding on the other side. The great, con¬ 
test, could not be waged successfully if tho 
flower of the land held back in idle waiting 
and sent the off-scouring t,o fight, in their 
stead. There must be brains to rule and 
lead, as well as bauds to wield the weapons; 
so when at, last, a reluctant consent was 
given, young Dunbar left to join Meade’s 
Division, with a blessing wrung out from 
the father’s heart, and a half-uttered curse 
on the cause that claimed him. 
He was a man to win golden opinions from 
all who knew him. Brave as a lion, daunt¬ 
less and daring as the knights of old on tho 
battle-field; stern and unflinching in pun¬ 
ishing crime, yet merciful to weaker men's 
infirmities; with a royal culm and patience 
in days of defeat and darkness; self-sacri¬ 
ficing as Philip Sidney, when lie refused 
tho cup of cold water his very soul craved; 
tender and gentle as a woman to the wound¬ 
ed and dying—no wonder the soldiers looked 
upon him with an enthusiasm that could 
dare and endure all things when “ the Cap¬ 
tain ” led them on. 
Among f ile many deserving of high honor, 
his name was seen again and again; and as 
flattering reports sped borne to the village 
from comrades who went, out with him, and 
half a year had gone, and still no great harm 
had happened to “tho boy,” his father 
trusted that ho hor© a charmed life, and 
would soon como back to them, “ hearing his 
blushing honors thick upon him.” “The 
Captain says tho war will bo over in six 
months," he told, with coiilidont triumph, 
among mauy other of the Captain’s sayings 
that passed for sure decrees with tho vil¬ 
lagers; and they looked forward to tho 
New Year, at the latest, for a grand day of 
rejoicing, when they should greet their re¬ 
turning soldiers. 
And Ruth told not tho curious peoplo 
that she had most right to be glad, but, in 
her secret, joyful heart, conned over tho 
long letters that had come to her from all 
parts of the country, wondering how Franz 
could write, under so many tribulations, as 
often as ho did; what it would be like to 
have only a drum’s head to put your paper 
on, and to trace tho words by tho light of a 
oamp-flre; or, worso still, the stock of a 
gun, with the wind continually blowing tho 
precious sheet, and threatening to take 
strong possession of It. Franz had remem¬ 
bered her always, and tbo tears slowly 
dropped over the pages torn from his note¬ 
book, just on the eve of some terrible en¬ 
gagement, when his lovo and dread wero 
all for her; or when, after the battle, ho 
would not keep her a moment iu suspense, 
