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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mind Amongst the Spindles, by Various

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Title: Mind Amongst the Spindles

Author: Various

Editor: Charles Knight

Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37471]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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</pre>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i"></a></span></p>



<h1><br /><br /><br />MIND AMONGST THE SPINDLES.</h1>
<hr style="width: 25%;" />
<h4>A Miscellany,</h4>

<div class="center">WHOLLY COMPOSED BY THE FACTORY GIRLS.<br />
<hr style="width: 25%;" />

SELECTED FROM THE</div>

<h3>LOWELL OFFERING.</h3>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />
<div class="center">WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE ENGLISH EDITOR,<br /><br />

AND A LETTER FROM</div>

<h3>HARRIET MARTINEAU.</h3>


<div class="center">BOSTON:<br />
JORDAN, SWIFT &amp; WILEY.<br />
1845.</div>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 314px;">
<img src="images/illus-ii.jpg" width="314" height="152" alt="Dow and Jackson&#39;s Press" title="" />

</div>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Introduction.</span> By the English Editor</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Abby's Year in Lowell</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The First Wedding in Salmagundi</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"Bless, and curse not"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Ancient Poetry</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Spirit of Discontent</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Whortleberry Excursion</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Western Antiquities</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Fig Tree</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Village Pastors</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Sugar-Making Excursion</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Prejudice against Labor</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Joan of Arc</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Susan Miller</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Scenes on the Merrimac</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The First Bells</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Evening before Pay-Day</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Indian Pledge</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The First Dish of Tea</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Leisure Hours of the Mill Girls</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Tomb of Washington</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_136">136</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Life among Farmers</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A Weaver's Reverie</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Our Duty to Strangers</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span>Elder Isaac Townsend</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Harriet Greenough</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Fancy</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Widow's Son</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Witchcraft</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Cleaning Up</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Visits to the Shakers</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Lock of Gray Hair</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_178">178</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Lament of the little Hunchback</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">This World is not our Home</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Dignity of Labor</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Village Chronicle</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Ambition and Contentment</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A Conversation on Physiology</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 160px;">
<img src="images/illus-iv.jpg" width="160" height="250" alt="Decoration" title="" />
</div>


<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[v]</a></span></p>
<h2>INTRODUCTION, BY THE ENGLISH EDITOR.</h2>


<p>In the American state of Massachusetts, one of the New
England states, which was colonized by the stern Puritans
who were driven from our country by civil and religious
persecution, has sprung up within the last thirty years the
largest manufacturing town of the vast republic. Lowell is
situated not a great distance from Boston, at the confluence
of the rivers Merrimac and Concord. The falls of these
rivers here afford a natural moving power for machinery;
and at the latter end of the year 1813 a small cotton manufacture
was here set up, where the sound of labor had not
been heard before. The original adventure was not a
prosperous one. But in 1826 the works were bought by a
company or corporation; and from that time Lowell has
gone on so rapidly increasing that it is now held to be "the
greatest manufacturing city in America." According to
Mr. Buckingham, there are now ten companies occupying
or working thirty mills, and giving employment to more
than 10,000 operatives, of whom 7,000 are females. The
situation of the female population is, for the most part, a
peculiar one. Unlike the greater number of the young
women in our English factories, they are not brought up to
the labor of the mills, amongst parents who are also workers
in factories. They come from a distance; many of them
remain only a limited time; and they live in boarding houses
expressly provided for their accommodation. Miss Martineau,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span>
in her "Society in America," explains the cause
not only of the large proportion of females in the Lowell
mills, but also of their coming from distant parts in search
of employment: "Manufactures can to a considerable degree
be carried on by the labor of women; and there is a
great number of unemployed women in New England, from
the circumstance that the young men of that region wander
away in search of a settlement on the land, and after being
settled find wives in the south and west." Again, she says,
"Many of the girls are in the factories because they have
too much pride for domestic service."</p>

<p>In October, 1840, appeared the first number of a periodical
work entitled "The Lowell Offering." The publication
arose out of the meetings of an association of young women
called "The Mutual Improvement Society." It has continued
at intervals of a month or six weeks, and the first
volume was completed in December, 1841. A second
volume was concluded in 1842. The work was under the
direction of an editor, who gives his name at the end of the
second volume,&mdash;Abel C. Thomas. The duties which this
gentleman performed are thus stated by him in the preface
to the first volume:&mdash;</p>

<p>"The two most important questions which may be
suggested shall receive due attention.</p>

<p>"1st. Are all the articles, in good faith and exclusively
the productions of females employed in the mills? We
reply, unhesitatingly and without reserve, that <span class="smcap">they are</span>,
the verses set to music excepted. We speak from personal
acquaintance with all the writers, excepting four; and in
relation to the latter (whose articles do not occupy eight
pages in the aggregate) we had satisfactory proof that they
were employed in the mills.</p>

<p>"2d. Have not the articles been materially amended by
the exercise of the editorial prerogative? We answer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span>
<span class="smcap">they have not</span>. We have taken <i>less liberty</i> with the
articles than editors usually take with the productions of
other than the most experienced writers. Our corrections
and additions have been so slight as to be unworthy of
special note."</p>

<p>Of the merits of the compositions contained in these
volumes their editor speaks with a modest confidence, in
which he is fully borne out by the opinions of others:&mdash;</p>

<p>"In estimating the talent of the writers for the 'Offering,'
the fact should be remembered, that they are actively employed
in the mills for more than twelve hours out of every
twenty-four. The evening, after eight o'clock, affords their
only opportunity for composition; and whoever will consider
the sympathy between mind and body, must be sensible that
a day of constant manual employment, even though the
labor be not excessive, must in some measure unfit the
individual for the full development of mental power. Yet
the articles in this volume ask no unusual indulgence from
the critics&mdash;for, in the language of 'The North American
Quarterly Review,'&mdash;'many of the articles are such as
satisfy the reader at once, that if he has only taken up the
"Offering" as a phenomenon, and not as what may bear
criticism and reward perusal, he has but to own his error,
and dismiss his condescension, as soon as may be.'"</p>

<p>The two volumes thus completed in 1842 were lent to us
by a lady whose well-earned literary reputation gave us the
assurance that she would not bestow her praise upon a work
whose merit merely consisted in the remarkable circumstance
that it was written by young women, not highly educated,
during the short leisure afforded by their daily laborious employments.
She told us that we should find in those volumes
some things which might be read with pleasure and improvement.
And yet we must honestly confess that we looked at
the perusal of these closely-printed eight hundred pages as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span>
something of a task. We felt that all literary productions, and
indeed all works of art, should, in a great degree, be judged
without reference to the condition of the producer. When
we take up the poems of Burns, we never think that he was
a ploughman and an exciseman; but we have a painful
remembrance of having read a large quarto volume of verses
by Ann Yearsly, who was patronized in her day by Horace
Walpole and Hannah More, and to have felt only the conviction
that the milkwoman of Bristol, for such was their
authoress, had better have limited her learning to the score
and the tally. But it was a duty to read the "Lowell
Offering." The day that saw us begin the first paper was
witness to our continued reading till night found us busy at
the last page, not for a duty, but a real pleasure.</p>

<p>The qualities which most struck us in these volumes were
chiefly these: <i>First</i>&mdash;there is an entire absence of all
pretension in the writers to be what they are not. They are
factory girls. They always call themselves "girls." They
have no desire to be fine ladies, nor do they call themselves
"ladies," as the common fashion is of most American
females. They have no affectations of gentility; and by a
natural consequence they are essentially free from all vulgarity.
They describe the scenes amongst which they live,
their labors and their pleasures, the little follies of some of
their number, the pure tastes and unexpensive enjoyments
of others. They feel, and constantly proclaim without any
effort, that they think it an honor to labor with their hands.
They recognize the real dignity of all useful employments.
They know that there is no occupation really unworthy of
men or women, but the selfish pursuits of what is called
pleasure, without the desire to promote the good of others
by physical, intellectual, or moral exertions. <i>Secondly</i>&mdash;many
of these papers clearly show under what influences
these young women have been brought up. An earnest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span>
feeling of piety pervades their recollections of the past, and
their hopes for the future. The thoughts of home, too, lie
deep in their hearts. They are constantly describing the
secluded farm-house where they were reared, the mother's
love, the father's labors. Sometimes a reverse of fortune
falling upon a family has dispersed its once happy members.
Sometimes we see visions of past household joy through
the orphan's tears. Not unfrequently the ardent girl, happy
in the confirmed affection of some equal in rank, looks exultingly
towards the day when she may carry back from the
savings' bank at Lowell a little dower to furnish out their
little farm on the hill side, where the barberries grew, so
deliciously red and sour, in her remembrance of childhood.
<i>Thirdly</i>&mdash;there is a genuine patriotism in the tone of many
of these productions, which is worthy the descendants of the
stern freemen who, in the New England solitudes, looked
tearfully back upon their father-land. The institutions under
which these young women live are different from our own;
but there is scarcely a particle of what we have been too apt
to call republican arrogance. The War of Independence is
spoken of as it ought to be by every American, with feelings
of honest exultation. But that higher sentiments than those
of military triumph mingle with the memory of that war, and
render patriotism something far nobler than mere national
pride, may be seen in the little poem which we gladly reprint,
"The Tomb of Washington." The paper called
"The Lock of Gray Hair" is marked by an honest nationality,
which we would be ashamed not to reverence.&mdash;<i>Fourthly</i>&mdash;like
all writers of good natural taste, who have
not been perverted into mere imitators of other writers, they
perceive that there is a great source of interest in describing,
simply and correctly, what they have witnessed with their
own eyes. Thus, some of the home pictures of these
volumes are exceedingly agreeable, presenting to us manners<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span>
and habits wholly different from our own, and scenes
which have all the freshness of truth in their delineations.&mdash;The
old stories, too, which they sometimes tell of past life
in America, are equally interesting; and they show us how
deeply in all minds is implanted the love of old things,
which are tenderly looked back upon, even though they may
have been swept away by what is real improvement.&mdash;<i>Lastly</i>&mdash;although
there are necessarily in these volumes,
as in every miscellany, some things which are tedious, and
some puerile, mock sentimentalities and labored efforts at
fine writing, we think it would be difficult upon the whole
for a large body of contributors, writing under great indulgence,
to produce so much matter with so little bad taste.
Of pedantry there is literally none. The writers are
familiar with good models of composition; they know
something of ancient and modern history; the literature of
England has reached them, and given a character and direction
to their thoughts. But there is never any attempt to
parade what they know; and we see they have been readers,
only as we discover the same thing in the best educated
persons, not in a display of their reading, but in a general
tone which shows that cultivation has made them wiser and
better.</p>

<p>Such were the opinions we had formed of "The Lowell
Offering," before we were acquainted with the judgment
pronounced upon the same book by a writer whose original
and brilliant genius is always under the direction of kindly
feelings towards his fellow-creatures, and especially towards
the poor and lowly of his human brethren. Mr. Dickens,
in his "American Notes," thus mentions "The Lowell
Offering," of which he says, "I brought away from Lowell
four hundred good solid pages, which I have read from beginning
to end:"&mdash;"Of the merits of 'The Lowell
Offering,' as a literary production, I will only observe,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span>
putting entirely out of sight the fact of the articles having
been written by these girls after the arduous labors of the
day, that it will compare advantageously with a great many
English annuals. It is pleasant to find that many of its
tales are of the mills and of those who work in them; that
they inculcate habits of self-denial and contentment, and
teach good doctrines of enlarged benevolence. A strong
feeling for the beauties of nature, as displayed in the solitudes
the writers have left at home, breathes through its
pages like wholesome village air; and though a circulating
library is a favorable school for the study of such topics, it
has very scant allusion to fine clothes, fine marriages, fine
houses, or fine life. Some persons might object to the papers
being signed occasionally with rather fine names, but this is
an American fashion. One of the provinces of the state
legislature of Massachusetts is to alter ugly names into
pretty ones, as the children improve upon the tastes of their
parents."</p>

<p>If the separate articles in "The Lowell Offering" bear
signatures which represent distinct writers, we have, in our
selection of thirty-seven articles, given the productions of
twenty-nine individual contributors. It is this circumstance
which leads us to believe that many of the papers are faithful
representations of individual feelings. Tabitha, from
whose pen we have given four papers, is a simple, unpretending
narrator of old American scenes and customs. Ella,
from whom we select three papers, is one of the imaginative
spirits who dwell on high thoughts of the past, and reveries
of the future&mdash;one who has been an earnest thinker as well
as a reader. Jemima prettily describes two little home-scenes.
Susanna, who to our minds exhibits natural powers
and feelings, that by cultivation might enable her to become
as interesting an historian of the old times of America
in the days before the Revolution as an Irving or a Cooper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span>
furnishes us with two papers. The rest are Lisettas, and
Almiras, and Ethelindas, and Annettes, and Theresas; with
others who are contented with simple initials. They have
all afforded us much pleasure. We have read what they
have written with a deep interest. May the love of letters
which they enjoy, and the power of composition which they
have attained, shed their charms over their domestic life,
when their days of mill service are ended. May their epistles
to their friends be as full of truthfulness and good feeling
as their contributions to "The Lowell Offering." May
the success of this their remarkable attempt at literary composition
not lead them to dream too much of the proud distinctions
of authorship&mdash;uncertain prizes, won, if won at all,
by many a weary struggle and many a bitter disappointment.
The efforts which they have made to acquire the
practice of writing have had their own reward. They have
united themselves as familiar friends with high and gentle
minds, who have spoken to them in books with love and encouragement.
In dwelling upon the thoughts of others, in
fixing their own thoughts upon some definite object, they
have lifted themselves up into a higher region than is attained
by those, whatever be their rank, whose minds are not
filled with images of what is natural and beautiful and true.
They have raised themselves out of the sphere of the partial
and the temporary into the broad expanse of the universal
and the eternal. During their twelve hours of daily labor,
when there were easy but automatic services to perform,
waiting upon a machine&mdash;with that slight degree of skill
which no machine can ever attain&mdash;for the repair of the accidents
of its unvarying progress, they may, without a neglect
of their duty, have been elevating their minds in the scale of
being by cheerful lookings-out upon nature, by pleasant recollections
of books, by imaginary converse with the just and
wise who have lived before them, by consoling reflections<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</a></span>
upon the infinite goodness and wisdom which regulates this
world, so unintelligible without such a dependence. These
habits have given them cheerfulness and freedom amidst
their uninterrupted toils. We see no repinings against their
twelve hours' labor, for it has had its solace. Even during
the low wages of 1842, which they mention with sorrow but
without complaint, the same cultivation goes on; "The
Lowell Offering" is still produced. To us of England these
things ought to be encouraging. To the immense body of
our factory operatives the example of what the girls of Lowell
have done should be especially valuable. It should teach
them that their strength, as well as their happiness, lies in
the cultivation of their minds. To the employers of operatives,
and to all of wealth and influence amongst us, this example
ought to manifest that a strict and diligent performance
of daily duties, in work prolonged as much as in our
own factories, is no impediment to the exercise of those
faculties, and the gratification of those tastes, which,
whatever the world may have thought, can no longer be
held to be limited by station. There is a contest going on
amongst us, as it is going on all over the world, between the
hard imperious laws which regulate the production of wealth
and the aspirations of benevolence for the increase of human
happiness. We do not deplore the contest; for out of it
must come a gradual subjection of the iron necessity to the
holy influences of love and charity. Such a period cannot,
indeed, be rashly anticipated by legislation against principles
which are secondary laws of nature; but one thing, nevertheless,
is certain&mdash;that such an improvement of the operative
classes, as all good men,&mdash;and we sincerely believe amongst
them the great body of manufacturing capitalists,&mdash;ardently
pray for and desire to labor in their several spheres to attain,
will be brought about in a parallel progression with the elevation
of the operatives themselves in mental cultivation, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[xiv]</a></span>
consequently in moral excellence. We believe that this
great good may be somewhat advanced by a knowledge diffused
in every building throughout the land where there is a
mule or a loom, of what the factory girls of Lowell have
done to exhibit the cheering influences of "<span class="smcap">Mind amongst
the Spindles</span>."</p>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />

<p>We had written thus far when we received the following
most interesting and valuable letter from Miss Martineau.
We have the greatest pleasure in printing this admirable account
of the factory girls at Lowell, from the pen of one
who has labored more diligently and successfully than any
writer of our day, to elevate the condition of the operative
classes. To Miss Martineau we are deeply indebted for the
ardent zeal with which she has recommended the compilation,
and for the sound judgment with which she has assisted
us in arranging the details of a plan which mainly owes
its origin to her unwearied solicitude for the good of her fellow-creatures.</p>

<blockquote>

<div class="center"><i>Letter from Miss Martineau to the Editor.</i></div>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div class="signature"><i>Tynemouth, May 20, 1844.</i></div>


<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,&mdash;Your interest in this Lowell book can
scarcely equal mine; for I have seen the factory girls in
their Lyceum, and have gone over the cotton-mills at Waltham,
and made myself familiar on the spot with factory life
in New England; so that in reading the "Offering," I saw
again in my memory the street of houses built by the earnings
of the girls, the church which is their property, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</a></span>
girls themselves trooping to the mill, with their healthy
countenances, and their neat dress and quiet manners, resembling
those of the tradesman class of our country.</p>

<p>My visit to Lowell was merely for one day, in company
with Mr. Emerson's party,&mdash;he (the pride and boast of
New England as an author and philosopher) being engaged
by the Lowell factory people to lecture to them, in a winter
course of historical biography. Of course the lectures were
delivered in the evening, after the mills were closed. The
girls were then working seventy hours a week, yet, as I
looked at the large audience (and I attended more to them
than to the lecture) I saw no sign of weariness among any
of them. There they sat, row behind row, in their own Lyceum&mdash;a
large hall, wainscoted with mahogany, the platform
carpeted, well lighted, provided with a handsome table,
desk, and seat, and adorned with portraits of a few worthies,
and as they thus sat listening to their lecturer, all wakeful
and interested, all well-dressed and lady-like, I could not
but feel my heart swell at the thought, of what such a sight
would be with us.</p>

<p>The difference is not in rank, for these young people were
all daughters of parents who earn their bread with their own
hands. It is not in the amount of wages, however usual
that supposition is, for they were then earning from one to
three dollars a-week, besides their food; the children one
dollar (4<i>s.</i> 3<i>d.</i>), the second rate workers two dollars, and
the best three: the cost of their dress and necessary comforts
being much above what the same class expend in this
country. It is not in the amount of toil; for, as I have said,
they worked seventy clear hours per week. The difference
was in their superior culture. Their minds are kept fresh,
and strong, and free by knowledge and power of thought;
and this is the reason why they are not worn and depressed
under their labors. They begin with a poorer chance for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[xvi]</a></span>
health than our people; for the health of the New England
women generally is not good, owing to circumstances of climate
and other influences; but among the 3800 women and
girls in the Lowell mills when I was there, the average of
health was not lower than elsewhere; and the disease which
was most mischievous was the same that proves most fatal
over the whole country&mdash;consumption; while there were no
complaints peculiar to mill life.</p>

<p>At Waltham, where I saw the mills, and conversed with
the people, I had an opportunity of observing the invigorating
effects of <span class="smcap">mind</span> in a life of labor. Twice the wages and
half the toil would not have made the girls I saw happy and
healthy, without that cultivation of mind which afforded
them perpetual support, entertainment, and motive for activity.
They were not highly educated, but they had pleasure
in books and lectures, in correspondence with home; and
had their minds so open to fresh ideas, as to be drawn off from
thoughts of themselves and their own concerns. When at
work they were amused with thinking over the last book
they had read, or with planning the account they should
write home of the last Sunday's sermon, or with singing
over to themselves the song they meant to practise in the
evening; and when evening came, nothing was heard of
tired limbs and eagerness for bed, but, if it was summer,
they sallied out, the moment tea was over, for a walk, and if
it was winter, to the lecture-room or to the ball-room for a
dance, or they got an hour's practice at the piano, or wrote
home, or shut themselves up with a new book. It was during
the hours of work in the mill that the papers in the "Offering"
were meditated, and it was after work in the evenings
that they were penned.</p>

<p>There is, however, in the case of these girls, a stronger
support, a more elastic spring of vigor and cheerfulness than
even an active and cultivated understanding. The institution<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[xvii]</a></span>
of factory labor has brought ease of heart to many; and
to many occasion for noble and generous deeds. The ease
of heart is given to those who were before suffering in silent
poverty, from the deficiency of profitable employment for
women, which is even greater in America than with us. It
used to be understood there that all women were maintained
by the men of their families; but the young men of New
England are apt to troop off into the West, to settle in new
lands, leaving sisters at home. Some few return to fetch a
wife, but the greater number do not, and thus a vast over
proportion of young women remains; and to a multitude of
these the opening of factories was a most welcome event, affording
means of honorable maintenance, in exchange for
pining poverty at home.</p>

<p>As for the noble deeds, it makes one's heart glow to stand
in these mills, and hear of the domestic history of some who
are working before one's eyes, unconscious of being observed
or of being the object of any admiration. If one of the
sons of a New England farmer shows a love for books and
thought, the ambition of an affectionate sister is roused, and
she thinks of the glory and honor to the whole family, and
the blessing to him, if he could have a college education.
She ponders this till she tells her parents, some day, of her
wish to go to Lowell, and earn the means of sending her
brother to college. The desire is yet more urgent if the
brother has a pious mind, and a wish to enter the ministry.
Many a clergyman in America has been prepared for his
function by the devoted industry of sisters; and many a
scholar and professional man dates his elevation in social
rank and usefulness from his sister's, or even some affectionate
aunt's entrance upon mill life, for his sake. Many girls,
perceiving anxiety in their fathers' faces, on account of the
farm being incumbered, and age coming on without release
from the debt, have gone to Lowell, and worked till the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[xviii]</a></span>
mortgage was paid off, and the little family property free.
Such motives may well lighten and sweeten labor; and to
such girls labor is light and sweet.</p>

<p>Some, who have no such calls, unite the surplus of their
earnings to build dwellings for their own residence, six,
eight, or twelve living together with the widowed mother or
elderly aunt of one of them to keep house for, and give
countenance to the party. I saw a whole street of houses
so built and owned, at Waltham; pretty frame houses, with
the broad piazza, and the green Venitian blinds, that give
such an air of coolness and pleasantness to American village
and country abodes. There is the large airy eating-room,
with a few prints hung up, the piano at one end, and the
united libraries of the girls, forming a good-looking array of
books, the rocking chairs universal in America, the stove
adorned in summer with flowers, and the long dining-table
in the middle. The chambers do not answer to our English
ideas of comfort. There is a strange absence of the wish
for privacy; and more girls are accommodated in one room
than we should see any reason for in such comfortable and
pretty houses.</p>

<p>In the mills the girls have quite the appearance of ladies.
They sally forth in the morning with their umbrellas in
threatening weather, their calashes to keep their hair neat,
gowns of print or gingham, with a perfect fit, worked collars
or pelerines, and waistbands of ribbon. For Sundays and
social evenings they have their silk gowns, and neat gloves
and shoes. Yet through proper economy,&mdash;the economy of
educated and thoughtful people,&mdash;they are able to lay by
for such purposes as I have mentioned above. The deposits
in the Lowell Savings' Bank were, in 1834, upwards of
114,000 dollars, the number of operatives being 5000, of
whom 3800 were women and girls.</p>

<p>I thank you for calling my attention back to this subject.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xix" id="Page_xix">[xix]</a></span>
It is one I have pleasure in recurring to. There is nothing
in America which necessitates the prosperity of manufactures
as of agriculture, and there is nothing of good in their factory
system that may not be emulated elsewhere&mdash;equalled
elsewhere, when the people employed are so educated as to
have the command of themselves and of their lot in life,
which is always and everywhere controlled by mind, far
more than by outward circumstances.</p>

<div class="signature2">I am very truly yours,</div>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">H. Martineau.</span></div>
</blockquote>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 235px;">
<img src="images/illus-xix.jpg" width="235" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>
<h2>MIND AMONGST THE SPINDLES.</h2>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>ABBY'S YEAR IN LOWELL.</h2>



<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>


<p>"Mr. Atkins, I say! Husband, why can't you speak?
Do you hear what Abby says?"</p>

<p>"Any thing worth hearing?" was the responsive question
of Mr. Atkins; and he laid down the New Hampshire
Patriot, and peered over his spectacles, with a look which
seemed to say, that an event so uncommon deserved particular
attention.</p>

<p>"Why, she says that she means to go to Lowell, and
work in the factory."</p>

<p>"Well, wife, let her go;" and Mr. Atkins took up the
Patriot again.</p>

<p>"But I do not see how I can spare her; the spring
cleaning is not done, nor the soap made, nor the boys' summer
clothes; and you say that you intend to board your own
'men-folks' and keep two more cows than you did last
year; and Charley can scarcely go alone. I do not see how
I can get along without her."</p>

<p>"But you say she does not assist you any about the
house."</p>

<p>"Well, husband, she <i>might</i>."</p>

<p>"Yes, she might do a great many things which she does
not think of doing; and as I do not see that she means to
be useful here; we will let her go to the factory."</p>

<p>"Father, are you in earnest? may I go to Lowell?"
said Abby; and she raised her bright black eyes to her
father's, with a look of exquisite delight.</p>

<p>"Yes, Abby, if you will promise me one thing, and that
is, that you will stay a whole year without visiting us,
excepting in case of sickness, and that you will stay but one
year."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p>

<p>"I will promise anything, father, if you will only let me
go; for I thought you would say that I had better stay at
home, and pick rocks, and weed the garden, and drop corn,
and rake hay; and I do not want to do such work any
longer. May I go with the Slater girls next Tuesday? for
that is the day they have set for their return."</p>

<p>"Yes, Abby, if you will remember that you are to stay a
year, and only a year."</p>

<p>Abby retired to rest that night with a heart fluttering
with pleasure; for ever since the visit of the Slater girls,
with new silk dresses, and Navarino bonnets trimmed with
flowers and lace veils, and gauze handkerchiefs, her head
had been filled with visions of fine clothes; and she thought
if she could only go where she could dress like them, she
would be completely happy. She was naturally very fond
of dress, and often, while a little girl, had she sat on the
grass bank by the road-side, watching the stage which went
daily by her father's retired dwelling; and when she saw
the gay ribbons and smart shawls, which passed like a
bright phantom before her wondering eyes, she had thought
that when older she too would have such things; and she
looked forward to womanhood as to a state in which the
chief pleasure must consist in wearing fine clothes. But as
years passed over her, she became aware that this was a
source from which she could never derive any enjoyment,
while she remained at home, for her father was neither able
nor willing to gratify her in this respect, and she had begun
to fear that she must always wear the same brown cambric
bonnet, and that the same calico gown would always be her
"go-to-meeting dress." And now what a bright picture had
been formed by her ardent and uncultivated imagination.&mdash;Yes,
she would go to Lowell, and earn all that she possibly
could, and spend those earnings in beautiful attire; she
would have silk dresses,&mdash;one of grass green, and another
of cherry red, and another upon the color of which she
would decide when she purchased it; and she would have a
new Navarino bonnet; far more beautiful than Judith Slater's;
and when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream of
satin and lace, and her glowing fancy revelled all night in a
vast and beautiful collection of milliners' finery.</p>

<p>But very different were the dreams of Abby's mother;
and when she awoke the next morning, her first words to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
her husband were, "Mr. Atkins, were you serious last
night when you told Abby that she might go to Lowell? I
thought at first that you were vexed because I interrupted
you, and said it to stop the conversation."</p>

<p>"Yes, wife, I was serious, and you did not interrupt me,
for I had been listening to all that you and Abby were saying.
She is a wild, thoughtless girl, and I hardly know
what it is best to do with her; but perhaps it will be as well
to try an experiment, and let her think and act a little while
for herself. I expect that she will spend all her earnings in
fine clothes, but after she has done so she may see the folly
of it; at all events, she will be more likely to understand
the value of money when she has been obliged to work for
it. After she has had her own way for one year, she may
possibly be willing to return home, and become a little more
steady, and be willing to devote her active energies (for she
is a very capable girl) to household duties, for hitherto her
services have been principally out of doors, where she is
now too old to work. I am also willing that she should see
a little of the world, and what is going on in it; and I hope
that, if she receives no benefit, she will at least return to us
uninjured."</p>

<p>"O, husband, I have many fears for her," was the reply of
Mrs. Atkins, "she is so very giddy and thoughtless, and the
Slater girls are as hair-brained as herself, and will lead her
on in all sorts of folly. I wish you would tell her that she
must stay at home."</p>

<p>"I made a promise," said Mr. Atkins, "and I will keep
it; and Abby, I trust, will keep <i>hers</i>."</p>

<p>Abby flew round in high spirits to make the necessary
preparations for her departure, and her mother assisted her
with a heavy heart.</p>



<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>


<p>The evening before she left home her father called her
to him, and fixing upon her a calm, earnest, and almost
mournful look, he said, "Abby, do you ever think?"&mdash;Abby
was subdued, and almost awed, by her father's look
and manner. There was something unusual in it&mdash;something
in his expression which was unexpected in him,
which reminded her of her teacher's look at the Sabbath<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
school, when he was endeavoring to impress upon her mind
some serious truth. "Yes, father," she at length replied,
"I have thought a great deal lately about going to Lowell."</p>

<p>"But I do not believe, my child, that you have had one
serious reflection upon the subject, and I fear that I have
done wrong in consenting to let you go from home. If I
was too poor to maintain you here, and had no employment
about which you could make yourself useful, I should feel
no self-reproach, and would let you go, trusting that all
might yet be well; but now I have done what I may at
some future time severely repent of; and, Abby, if you
do not wish to make me wretched, you will return to us a
better, milder, and more thoughtful girl."</p>

<p>That night Abby reflected more seriously than she had
ever done in her life before. Her father's words, rendered
more impressive by the look and tone with which they were
delivered, had sunk into her heart as words of his had never
done before. She had been surprised at his ready acquiescence
in her wishes, but it had now a new meaning. She
felt that she was about to be abandoned to herself, because
her parents despaired of being able to do anything for her;
they thought her too wild, reckless, and untameable, to be
softened by aught but the stern lessons of experience. I
will surprise them, said she to herself; I will show them
that I have some reflection; and after I come home, my
father shall never ask me if I <i>think</i>. Yes, I know what
their fears are, and I will let them see that I can take care
of myself, and as good care as they have ever taken of me.
I know that I have not done as well as I might have done;
but I will begin <i>now</i>, and when I return, they shall see that
<i>I am</i> a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl. And the
money which I intended to spend in fine dress shall be put
into the bank; I will save it all, and my father shall see
that I can earn money, and take care of it too. O, how
different I will be from what they think I am; and how very
glad it will make my father and mother to see that I am not
so very bad, after all.</p>

<p>New feelings and new ideas had begotten new resolutions,
and Abby's dreams that night were of smiles from her mother,
and words from her father, such as she had never
received nor deserved.</p>

<p>When she bade them farewell the next morning, she said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
nothing of the change which had taken place in her views
and feelings, for she felt a slight degree of self-distrust in
her own firmness of purpose.</p>

<p>Abby's self-distrust was commendable and auspicious;
but she had a very prominent development in that part of the
head where phrenologists locate the organ of firmness; and
when she had once determined upon a thing, she usually
went through with it. She had now resolved to pursue a
course entirely different from that which was expected of
her, and as different from the one she had first marked out
for herself. This was more difficult, on account of her
strong propensity for dress, a love of which was freely
gratified by her companions. But when Judith Slater
pressed her to purchase this beautiful piece of silk, or that
splendid piece of muslin, her constant reply was, "No, I
have determined not to buy any such things, and I will keep
my resolution."</p>

<p>Before she came to Lowell, she wondered, in her simplicity,
how people could live where there were so many stores,
and not spend all their money; and it now required all her
firmness to resist being overcome by the tempting display of
beauties which met her eye whenever she promenaded the
illuminated streets. It was hard to walk by the milliners'
shops with an unwavering step; and when she came to the
confectionaries, she could not help stopping. But she did
not yield to the temptation; she did not spend her money in
them. When she saw fine strawberries, she said to herself,
"I can gather them in our own pasture next year;" when
she looked upon the nice peaches, cherries, and plums
which stood in tempting array behind their crystal barriers,
she said again, "I will do without them <i>this</i> summer;" and
when apples, pears, and nuts were offered to her for sale,
she thought that she would eat none of them till she went
home. But she felt that the only safe place for her earnings
was the savings' bank, and there they were regularly deposited,
that it might be out of her power to indulge in
momentary whims. She gratified no feeling but a newly-awakened
desire for mental improvement, and spent her
leisure hours in reading useful books.</p>

<p>Abby's year was one of perpetual self-contest and self-denial;
but it was by no means one of unmitigated misery.
The ruling desire of years was not to be conquered by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
resolution of a moment; but when the contest was over,
there was for her the triumph of victory. If the battle was
sometimes desperate, there was so much more merit in being
conqueror. One Sabbath was spent in tears, because Judith
Slater did not wish her to attend their meeting with such a
dowdy bonnet; and another fellow-boarder thought her
gown must have been made in "the year one." The color
mounted to her cheeks, and the lightning flashed from her
eyes, when asked if she had "<i>just come down</i>;" and she
felt as though she should be glad to be away from them all,
when she heard their sly innuendoes about "bush-wackers."
Still she remained unshaken. It is but a year, said she to
herself, and the time and money that my father thought I
should spend in folly, shall be devoted to a better purpose.</p>



<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>


<p>At the close of a pleasant April day, Mr. Atkins sat at
his kitchen fire-side, with Charley upon his knees. "Wife,"
said he to Mrs. Atkins, who was busily preparing the evening
meal, "is it not a year since Abby left home?"</p>

<p>"Why, husband, let me think: I always clean up the
house thoroughly just before <i>fast-day</i>, and I had not done it
when Abby went away. I remember speaking to her about
it, and telling her that it was wrong to leave me at such a
busy time, and she said, 'Mother, I will be at home to do it
all next year.' Yes, it is a year, and I should not be surprised
if she should come this week."</p>

<p>"Perhaps she will not come at all," said Mr. Atkins,
with a gloomy look; "she has written us but few letters,
and they have been very short and unsatisfactory. I suppose
she has sense enough to know that no news is better
than bad news, and having nothing pleasant to tell about
herself, she thinks she will tell us nothing at all. But if I
ever get her home again, I will keep her here. I assure
you, her first year in Lowell shall also be her last."</p>

<p>"Husband, I told you my fears, and if you had set up
your authority, Abby would have been obliged to stay at
home; but perhaps she is doing pretty well. You know
she is not accustomed to writing, and that may account for
the few and short letters we have received; but they have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
all, even the shortest, contained the assurance that she would
be at home at the close of the year."</p>

<p>"Pa, the stage has stopped here," said little Charley,
and he bounded from his father's knee. The next moment
the room rang with the shout of "Abby has come! Abby
has come!" In a few moments more, she was in the
midst of the joyful throng. Her father pressed her hand in
silence, and tears gushed from her mother's eyes. Her
brothers and sisters were clamorous with delight, all but little
Charley, to whom Abby was a stranger, and who repelled
with terror all her overtures for a better acquaintance.
Her parents gazed upon her with speechless pleasure, for
they felt that a change for the better had taken place in their
once wayward girl. Yes, there she stood before them, a
little taller and a little thinner, and, when the flush of emotion
had faded away, perhaps a little paler; but the eyes
were bright in their joyous radiance, and the smile of health
and innocence was playing around the rosy lips. She carefully
laid aside her new straw bonnet, with its plain trimming
of light blue ribbon, and her dark merino dress showed
to the best advantage her neat symmetrical form. There
was more delicacy of personal appearance than when she
left them, and also more softness of manner; for constant
collision with so many young females had worn off the little
asperities which had marked her conduct while at home.</p>

<p>"Well, Abby, how many silk gowns have you got?"
said her father, as he opened a large new trunk. "<i>Not one</i>,
father," said she; and she fixed her dark eyes upon him
with an expression which told all. "But here are some little
books for the children, and a new calico dress for mother;
and here is a nice black silk handkerchief for you to
wear around your neck on Sundays; accept it, dear father,
for it is your daughter's first gift."</p>

<p>"You had better have bought me a pair of spectacles, for
I am sure I cannot see anything." There were tears in the
rough farmer's eyes, but he tried to laugh and joke, that
they might not be perceived. "But what did you do with
all your money?"</p>

<p>"I thought I had better leave it there," said Abby, and
she placed her bank-book in her father's hand. Mr. Atkins
looked a moment, and the forced smile faded away. The
surprise had been too great, and tears fell thick and fast from
the father's eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p>

<p>"It is but a little," said Abby. "But it was all you
could save," replied her father, "and I am proud of you,
Abby; yes, proud that I am the father of such a girl. It is
not this paltry sum which pleases me so much, but the prudence,
self-command, and real affection for us which you
have displayed. But was it not sometimes hard to resist
temptation?"</p>

<p>"Yes, father, <i>you</i> can never know how hard; but it was
the thought of <i>this</i> night which sustained me through it all.
I knew how you would smile, and what my mother would
say and feel; and though there have been moments, yes,
hours, that have seen me wretched enough, yet this one
evening will repay for all. There is but one thing now to
mar my happiness, and that is the thought that this little
fellow has quite forgotten me;" and she drew Charley to
her side. But the new picture-book had already effected
wonders, and in a few moments he was in her lap, with his
arms around her neck, and his mother could not persuade
him to retire that night until he had given "sister Abby" a
hundred kisses.</p>

<p>"Father," said Abby, as she arose to retire, when the
tall clock struck eleven, "may I not sometime go back to
Lowell? I should like to add a little to the sum in the
bank, and I should be glad of <i>one</i> silk gown!"</p>

<p>"Yes, Abby, you may do anything you wish. I shall
never again be afraid to let you spend a year in Lowell."</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Lucinda.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE FIRST WEDDING IN SALMAGUNDI.</h2>


<p>I have often heard this remark, "If their friends can give
them nothing else, they will surely give them a wedding."
As I have nothing else to present at this time, I hope my
friends will not complain if I give them an account of the
first wedding in our town. The ceremony of marriage being
performed by his Excellency the Governor, it would not
be amiss to introduce him first of all.</p>

<p>Let me then introduce John Wentworth (the last governor
of New Hampshire while the colonies were subject to
the crown of Great Britain), whose country seat was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
Salmagundi. The wedding which I am about to describe
was celebrated on a romantic spot, by the side of Lake Winnipiseogee.
All the neighbors within ten miles were invited,
and it was understood that all who came were expected
to bring with them some implements of husbandry, such as
ploughs, harrows, yokes, bows, wheelbarrows, hods, scythe-snaths,
rakes, goads, hay-hooks, bar-pins, &amp;c. These articles
were for a fair, the product of which was to defray the
expenses of the wedding, and also to fit out the bride with
some household furniture. All these implements, and a
thousand and one besides, being wanted on the farm of
Wentworth, he was to employ persons to buy them for his
own especial use.</p>

<p>Johnny O'Lara, an old man, who used to chop wood at
my father's door, related the particulars of the wedding one
evening, while I sat on a block in the chimney-corner (the
usual place for the greatest rogue in the family), plying my
knitting-needles, and every now and then, when the eyes of
my step-mother were turned another way, playing slyly
with the cat. And once, when we yonkers went upon a
whortleberry excursion, with O'Lara for our pilot, he showed
us the spot where the wedding took place, and described
it as it was at the time. On the right was a grove of birches;
on the left a grove of bushy pines, with recesses for the
cows and sheep to retire from the noon-day sun. The background
was a forest of tall pines and hemlocks, and in front
were the limpid waters of the "Smile of the Great Spirit."
These encircled about three acres of level grass-land, with
here and there a scattering oak. "Under yonder oak,"
said O'Lara, "the ceremony was performed; and here, on
this flat rock, was the rude oven constructed, where the
good wives baked the lamb; and there is the place where
crotched stakes were driven to support a pole, upon which
hung two huge iron kettles, in which they boiled their peas.
And on this very ground," said O'Lara, "in days of yore,
the elfs and fairies used to meet, and, far from mortal ken,
have their midnight gambols."</p>

<p>The wedding was on a fine evening in the latter part of
the month of July, at a time when the moon was above the
horizon for the whole night. The company were all assembled,
with the exception of the Governor and his retinue.
To while away the time, just as the sun was sinking behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
the opposite mountains, they commenced singing an ode to
sunset. They had sung,</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"The sunset is calm on the face of the deep,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And bright is the last look of Sol in the west;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And broad do the beams of his parting glance sweep,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Like the path that conducts to the land of the blest,"<br /></span>
</div>

<p>when the blowing of a horn announced the approach of the
Governor, whose barge was soon seen turning a point of
land. The company gave a salute of nineteen guns, which
was returned from the barge, gun for gun. The Governor
and retinue soon landed, and the fair was quickly over.
The company being seated on rude benches prepared for the
occasion, the blowing of a horn announced that it was time
for the ceremony to commence; and, being answered by a
whistle, all eyes were turned toward the right, and issuing
from the birchen grove were seen three musicians, with a
bagpipe, fife, and a Scotch fiddle, upon which they were
playing with more good nature than skill. They were followed
by the bridegroom and grooms-man, and in the rear
were a number of young men in their holiday clothes.
These having taken their places, soft music was heard from
the left; and from a recess in the pines, three maidens in
white, with baskets of wild flowers on the left arm, came
forth, strewing the flowers on the ground, and singing a
song, of which I remember only the chorus:</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"Lead the bride to Hymen's bowers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strew her path with choicest flowers."<br /></span>
</div>

<p>The bride and bridesmaid followed, and after them came
several lasses in gala dresses. These having taken their
places, the father of the bride arose, and taking his daughter's
hand and placing it in that of Clifford, gave them his
blessing. The Governor soon united them in the bonds of
holy matrimony, and as he ended the ceremony with saying,
"What God hath joined let no man put asunder," he heartily
saluted the bride. Clifford followed his example, and after
him she was saluted by every gentleman in the company.
As a compensation for this "rifling of sweets," Clifford had
the privilege of kissing every lady present, and beginning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
with Madame Wentworth, he saluted them all, from the
gray-headed matron, to the infant in its mother's arms.</p>

<p>The cake and wine were then passed round. Being a
present from Madame Wentworth, they were no doubt excellent.
After this refreshment, and while the good matrons
were cooking their peas, and making other preparations,
the young folks spent the time in playing "blind-man's-buff,"
and "hide and go seek," and in singing "Jemmy
and Nancy," "Barbara Allen," "The Friar with Orders
Grey," "The Lass of Richmond Hill," "Gilderoy,"
and other songs which they thought were appropriate to the
occasion.</p>

<p>At length the ringing of a bell announced that dinner was
ready. "What, dinner at that time of night?" perhaps some
will say. But let me tell you, good friends (in Johnny
O'Lara's words), that "the best time for a wedding dinner,
is when it is well cooked, and the guests are ready to eat
it." The company were soon arranged around the rude tables,
which were rough boards, laid across poles that were
supported by crotched stakes driven into the ground. But
it matters not what the tables were, as they were covered
with cloth white as the driven snow, and well loaded with
plum puddings, baked lamb, and green peas, with all necessary
accompaniments for a well ordered dinner, which the
guests complimented in the best possible manner, that is, by
making a hearty meal.</p>

<p>Dinner being ended, while the matrons were putting all
things to rights, the young people made preparation for dancing;
and a joyous time they had. The music and amusement
continued until the "blushing morn" reminded the
good people that it was time to separate. The rising sun
had gilded the sides of the opposite mountains, which were
sending up their exhalations, before the company were all
on their way to their respective homes. Long did they remember
the first wedding in our town. Even after the frost
of seventy winters had whitened the heads of those who
were then boys, they delighted to dwell on the merry scenes
of that joyful night; and from that time to the present, weddings
have been fashionable in Salmagundi, although they
are not always celebrated in quite so romantic a manner.</p>

<div class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Tabitha.</span></div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p>
<h2>"BLESS, AND CURSE NOT."</h2>


<p>The Athenians were proud of their glory. Their
boasted city claimed pre-eminence in the arts and sciences;
even the savage bowed before the eloquence of their soul-stirring
orators; and the bards of every nation sang of the
glory of Athens.</p>

<p>But pre-eminent as they were, they had not learned to be
merciful. The pure precepts of kindness and love were not
taught by their sages; and their noble orators forgot to inculcate
the humble precepts of forgiveness, and the "charity
which hopeth all things." They told of patriotism, of freedom,
and of that courage which chastises wrong or injury
with physical suffering; but they told not of that nobler
spirit which "renders good for evil," and "blesses, but
curses not."</p>

<p>Alcibiades, one of their own countrymen, offended against
their laws, and was condemned to expiate the offence with
his life. The civil authorities ordered his goods to be confiscated,
that their value might swell the riches of the public
treasury; and everything that pertained to him, in the way
of citizenship, was obliterated from the public records. To
render his doom more dreary and miserable,&mdash;to add weight
to the fearful fulness of his sentence,&mdash;the priests and
priestesses were commanded to pronounce upon him their
curse. One of them, however, a being gentle and good as
the principles of mercy which dwelt within her heart&mdash;timid
as the sweet songsters of her own myrrh and orange
groves, and as fair as the acacia-blossom of her own bower&mdash;rendered
courageous by the all-stimulating and powerful
influence of kindness, dared alone to assert the divinity of
her office, by refusing to curse her unfortunate fellow-being&mdash;asserting
that she was "<span class="smcap">Priestess to bless, and not
to curse</span>."</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Lisetta.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;">
<img src="images/illus-032.jpg" width="150" height="155" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p>
<h2>ANCIENT POETRY.</h2>


<p>I love old poetry, with its obscure expressions, its obsolete
words, its quaint measure, and rough rhyme. I love it
with all these, perhaps <i>for</i> these. It is because it is different
from modern poetry, and not that I think it better, that
it at times affords me pleasure. But when one has been
indulging in the perusal of the smooth and elegant productions
of later poets, there is at least the charm of variety in
turning to those of ancient bards. This is pleasant to those
who love to exercise the imagination&mdash;for if we would understand
our author, we must go back into olden times; we
must look upon the countenances and enter into the feelings
of a long-buried generation; we must remember that much
of what we know was then unknown, and that thoughts and
sentiments which may have become common to us, glowed
upon these pages in all their primal beauty. Much of which
our writer may speak has now been wholly lost; and difficult,
if not impossible, to be understood are many of his expressions
and allusions.</p>

<p>But these difficulties present a "delightful task" to those
who would rather push on through a tangled labyrinth, than
to walk with ease in a smooth-rolled path. Their self-esteem
is gratified by being able to discover beauty where
other eyes behold but deformity: and a brilliant thought or
glowing image is rendered to them still more beautiful,
because it shines through a veil impenetrable to other eyes.
They are proud of their ability to perceive this beauty, or
understand that oddity, and they care not for the mental
labor which they have been obliged to perform.</p>

<p>When I turn from modern poetry to that of other days, it
is like leaving bright flowery fields to enter a dark tangled
forest. The air is cooler, but damp and heavy. A sombre
gloom reigns throughout, occasionally broken by flitting
sunbeams, which force their way through the thick branches
which meet above me, and dance and glitter upon the dark
underwood below. They are strongly contrasted with the
deep shade around, and my eye rests upon them with more
pleasure than it did upon the broad flood of sunshine which
bathes the fields without. My searching eye at times<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
discovers some lonely flower, half hidden by decayed leaves
and withered moss, yet blooming there in undecaying beauty.
There are briers and thistles and creeping vines around, but
I heedlessly press on, for I must enjoy the fragrance and
examine the structure of these unobtrusive plants. I enjoy
all this for a while, but at length I grow chilled and
weary, and am glad to leave the forest for a less fatiguing
resort.</p>

<p>But there is one kind of old poetry to which these remarks
may not apply&mdash;I mean the <span class="smcap">Poetry of the Bible</span>.&mdash;And
how much is there of this! There are songs of joy
and praise, and those of woe and lamentation; there are
odes and elegies; there are prophecies and histories; there
are descriptions of nature and narratives of persons, and all
written with a fervency of feeling which embodies itself in
lofty and glowing imagery. And what is this but poetry?
yet not that which can be compared to some dark, mazy
forest, but rather like a sacred grove, such as "were God's
first temples." There is no gloom around, neither is there
bright sunshine; but a calm and holy light pervades the
place. The tall trees meet not above me, but through their
lofty boughs I can look up and see the blue heavens bending
their perfect dome above the hallowed spot, while now and
then some fleecy cloud sails slowly on, as though it loved to
shadow the still loneliness beneath. There are soft winds
murmuring through the high tree-tops, and their gentle
sound is like a voice from the spirit-land. There are delicate
white flowers waving upon their slight stems, and
their sweet fragrance is like the breath of heaven. I feel
that I am in God's temple. The Spirit above waits for the
sacrifice. I can now erect an altar, and every selfish
worldly thought should be laid thereon, a free-will offering.
But when the rite is over, and I leave this consecrated spot
for the busy path of life, I should strive to bear into the
world a heart baptized in the love of beauty, holiness, and
truth.</p>

<p>I have spoken figuratively&mdash;perhaps too much so to please
the pure and simple tastes of some&mdash;but He who made my
soul and placed it in the body which it animates, implanted
within it a love of the beautiful in literature, and this love
was first awakened and then cherished by the words of
Holy Writ.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>

<p>I have, when a child, read my Bible, from its earliest
book to its latest. I have gone in imagination to the plains
of Uz, and have there beheld the pastoral prince in all his
pride and glory. I have marked him; too, when in the
depth of his sorrow he sat speechless upon the ground for
seven days and seven nights; but when he opened his
mouth and spake, I listened with eagerness to the heart-stirring
words and startling imagery which poured forth
from his burning lips! But my heart has thrilled with a
delightful awe when "the Lord answered Job out of the
whirlwind," and I listened to words of more simplicity than
uninspired man may ever conceive.</p>

<p>I have gone, too, with the beloved disciple into that lonely
isle where he beheld those things of which he was
commanded to write. My imagination dared not conceive of
the glorious throne, and of Him who sat upon it; but I have
looked with a throbbing delight upon the New Jerusalem
coming down from heaven in her clear crystal light, "as a
bride adorned for her husband." I have gazed upon the
golden city, flashing like "transparent glass," and have
marked its pearly gates and walls of every precious stone.
In imagination have I looked upon all this, till my young
spirit longed to leave its earthly tenement and soar upward
to that brighter world, where there is no need of sun or
moon, for "the Lamb is the light thereof."</p>

<p>I have since read my Bible for better purposes than the
indulgence of taste. There must I go to learn my duty to
God and my neighbor. There should I look for precepts to
direct the life that now is, and for the promise of that which
is to come; yet seldom do I close that sacred volume without
a feeling of thankfulness, that the truths of our holy
religion have been so often presented in forms which not
only reason and conscience will approve, but also which the
fancy can admire and the heart must love.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Ella.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 225px;">
<img src="images/illus-035.jpg" width="225" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE SPIRIT OF DISCONTENT.</h2>


<p>"I will not stay in Lowell any longer; I am determined
to give my notice this very day," said Ellen Collins,
as the earliest bell was tolling to remind us of the hour for
labor.</p>

<p>"Why, what is the matter, Ellen? It seems to me you
have dreamed out a new idea! Where do you think of
going? and what for?"</p>

<p>"I am going home, where I shall not be obliged to rise
so early in the morning, nor be dragged about by the
ringing of a bell, nor confined in a close noisy room from
morning till night. I will not stay here; I am determined
to go home in a fortnight."</p>

<p>Such was our brief morning's conversation.</p>

<p>In the evening, as I sat alone, reading, my companions
having gone out to public lectures or social meetings, Ellen
entered. I saw that she still wore the same gloomy expression
of countenance, which had been manifested in the
morning; and I was disposed to remove from her mind the
evil influence, by a plain common-sense conversation.</p>

<p>"And so, Ellen," said I, "you think it unpleasant to
rise so early in the morning, and be confined in the noisy
mill so many hours during the day. And I think so, too.
All this, and much more, is very annoying, no doubt. But
we must not forget that there are advantages, as well as
disadvantages, in this employment, as in every other. If
we expect to find all sunshine and flowers in any station in
life, we shall most surely be disappointed. We are very
busily engaged during the day; but then we have the evening
to ourselves, with no one to dictate to or control us. I have
frequently heard you say, that you would not be confined to
household duties, and that you dislike the millinery business
altogether, because you could not have your evenings for
leisure. You know that in Lowell we have schools, lectures,
and meetings of every description, for moral and intellectual
improvement."</p>

<p>"All that is very true," replied Ellen, "but if we were
to attend every public institution, and every evening school
which offers itself for our improvement, we might spend<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
every farthing of our earnings, and even more. Then if
sickness should overtake us, what are the probable consequences?
Here we are, far from kindred and home; and
if we have an empty purse, we shall be destitute of <i>friends</i>
also."</p>

<p>"I do not think so, Ellen. I believe there is no place
where there are so many advantages within the reach of the
laboring class of people, as exist here; where there is so
much equality, so few aristocratic distinctions, and such
good fellowship, as may be found in this community. A
person has only to be honest, industrious, and moral, to
secure the respect of the virtuous and good, though he may
not be worth a dollar; while on the other hand, an immoral
person, though he should possess wealth, is not respected."</p>

<p>"As to the morality of the place," returned Ellen, "I
have no fault to find. I object to the constant hurry of
everything. We cannot have time to eat, drink, or sleep;
we have only thirty minutes, or at most three-quarters of an
hour, allowed us, to go from our work, partake of our food,
and return to the noisy chatter of machinery. Up before
day, at the clang of the bell&mdash;and out of the mill by the
clang of the bell&mdash;into the mill, and at work, in obedience to
that ding-dong of a bell&mdash;just as though we were so many
living machines. I will give my notice to-morrow: go, I
will&mdash;I won't stay here and be a white slave."</p>

<p>"Ellen," said I, "do you remember what is said of the
bee, that it gathers honey even in a poisonous flower? May
we not, in like manner, if our hearts are rightly attuned,
find many pleasures connected with our employment? Why
is it, then, that you so obstinately look altogether on the
dark side of a factory life? I think you thought differently
while you were at home, on a visit, last summer&mdash;for you
were glad to come back to the mill in less than four weeks.
Tell me, now&mdash;why were you so glad to return to the ringing
of the bell, the clatter of the machinery, the early rising, the
half-hour dinner, and so on?"</p>

<p>I saw that my discontented friend was not in a humor
to give me an answer&mdash;and I therefore went on with my
talk.</p>

<p>"You are fully aware, Ellen, that a country life does not
exclude people from labor&mdash;to say nothing of the inferior
privileges of attending public worship&mdash;that people have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
often to go a distance to meeting of any kind&mdash;that books
cannot be so easily obtained as they can here&mdash;that you
cannot always have just such society as you wish&mdash;that
you"&mdash;</p>

<p>She interrupted me, by saying, "We have no bell, with
its everlasting ding-dong."</p>

<p>"What difference does it make?" said I, "whether you
shall be awakened by a bell, or the noisy bustle of a farm-house?
For, you know, farmers are generally up as early
in the morning as we are obliged to rise."</p>

<p>"But then," said Ellen, "country people have none
of the clattering of machinery constantly dinning in their
ears."</p>

<p>"True," I replied, "but they have what is worse&mdash;and
that is, a dull, lifeless silence all around them. The
hens may cackle sometimes, and the geese gabble, and the
pigs squeal"&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>Ellen's hearty laugh interrupted my description&mdash;and
presently we proceeded, very pleasantly, to compare a country
life with a factory life in Lowell. Her scowl of discontent
had departed, and she was prepared to consider the
subject candidly. We agreed, that since we must work for
a living, the mill, all things considered, is the most pleasant,
and best calculated to promote our welfare; that we will
work diligently during the hours of labor; improve our
leisure to the best advantage, in the cultivation of the mind,&mdash;hoping
thereby not only to increase our own pleasure,
but also to add to the happiness of those around us.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Almira.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE WHORTLEBERRY EXCURSION.</h2>


<p>About a dozen of us, lads and lasses, had promised
friend H. that on the first lowery day we would meet him
and his family on the top of Moose Mountain, for the purpose
of picking whortleberries, and of taking a view of the
country around. We had provided the customary complement
of baskets, pails, dippers, &amp;c.; and one morning,
which promised a suitable day for our excursion, we piled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
ourselves into a couple of waggons, and rode to the foot of
the mountain and commenced climbing it on foot. A beaten
path and spotted trees were our guides. A toilsome way
we found it&mdash;some places being so steep that we were
obliged to hold by the twigs, to prevent us from falling.</p>

<p>Three-quarters of an hour after we left our horses, we
found ourselves on the whortleberry ground&mdash;some of us
singing, some chatting, and all trying to see who could pick
the most berries. Friend H. went from place to place
among the young people, and with his social conversation
gave new life to the party&mdash;while his chubby boys and rosy
girls by their nimbleness plainly told that they did not intend
that any one should beat them in picking berries.</p>

<p>Towards noon, friend H. conducted us to a spring, where
we made some lemonade, having taken care to bring plenty
of lemons and sugar with us, and also bread and cheese for
a lunch. Seated beneath a wide-spreading oak, we partook
of our homely repast; and never in princely hall were the
choicest viands eaten with a keener relish. After resting a
while, we recommenced picking berries, and in a brief space
our pails and baskets were all full.</p>

<p>About this time, the clouds cleared away, the sun shone
out in all the splendor imaginable, and bright and beautiful
was the prospect. Far as the eye could reach, in a north
and north-easterly direction, were to be seen fields of corn
and grain, with new mown grass-land, and potato flats, farm-houses,
barns, and orchards&mdash;together with a suitable proportion
of wood-land, all beautifully interspersed; and a
number of ponds of water, in different places, and of different
forms and sizes&mdash;some of them containing small islands,
which added to the beauty of the scenery. The little village
at Wakefield corner, which was about three miles distant,
seemed to be almost under our feet; and with friend H.'s
spy-glass, we could see the people at work in their gardens,
weeding vegetables, picking cherries, gathering flowers, &amp;c.
But not one of our number had the faculty that the old lady
possessed, who, in the time of the Revolution, in looking
through a spy-glass at the French fleet, brought the Frenchmen
so near, that she could hear them chatter; so we had
to be content with ignorance of their conversation.</p>

<p>South-westerly might be seen Cropple-crown Mountain;
and beyond it, Merry-meeting Pond, where, I have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
told, Elder Randall, the father of the Free-will Baptist
denomination, first administered the ordinance of Baptism.
West, might be seen Tumble-down-dick Mountain; and
north, the Ossipee Mountains; and far north, might be seen
the White Mountains of New Hampshire, whose snow-crowned
summits seemed to reach the very skies.</p>

<p>The prospect in the other directions was not so grand,
although it was beautiful&mdash;so I will leave it, and take the
shortest route, with my companions, with the baskets and
pails of berries, to the house of friend H. On our way, we
stopped to view the lot of rock maples, which, with some
little labor, afforded a sufficient supply of sugar for the
family of friend H., and we promised that in the season of
sugar-making the next spring, we would make it convenient
to visit the place, and witness the process of making maple-sugar.</p>

<p>Our descent from the mountain was by a different path&mdash;our
friends having assured us, that although our route would
be farther, we should find it more pleasant; and truly we
did&mdash;for the pathway was not so rough as the one in which
we travelled in the morning. And besides, we had the
pleasure of walking over the farm of the good Quaker, and
of hearing from his own lips many interesting circumstances
of his life.</p>

<p>The country, he told us, was quite a wilderness when he
first took up his abode on the mountain; and bears, he
said, were as plenty as woodchucks, and destroyed much of
his corn. He was a bachelor, and lived alone for a number
of years after he first engaged in clearing his land. His
habitation was between two huge rocks, at about seventy
rods from the place where he afterwards built his house.&mdash;He
showed us this ancient abode of his; it was in the midst
of an old orchard. It appeared as if the rocks had been
originally one; but by some convulsion of nature it had been
sundered, midway, from top to bottom. The back part of
this dwelling was a rock wall, in which there was a fire-place
and an oven. The front was built of logs, with an
aperture for a door-way; and the roof was made of saplings
and bark. In this rude dwelling, friend H. dressed his food,
and ate it; and here, on a bed of straw, he spent his lonely
nights. A small window in the rock wall admitted the
light by day; and by night, his solitary dwelling was illuminated
with a pitch-pine torch.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p>

<p>On being interrogated respecting the cause of his living
alone so long as he did, he made answer, by giving us to
understand, that if he was called "the bear," he was not
so much of a brute as to marry until he could give his wife
a comfortable maintenance; "and moreover, I was resolved,"
said he, "that Hannah should never have the least
cause to repent of the ready decision which she made in my
favor." "Then," said one of our company, "your wife
was not afraid to trust herself with the bear?" "She did
not hesitate in the least," said friend H.; "for when I
'popped the question,' by saying, 'Hannah, will thee have
me?' she readily answered, 'Yes, To&mdash;&mdash;;' she would
have said, 'Tobias, I will;' but the words died on her lips,
and her face, which blushed like the rose, became deadly
pale; and she would have fallen on the floor, had I not
caught her in my arms. After Hannah got over her faintness,
I told her that we had better not marry, until I was in
a better way of living; to which she also agreed. And,"
said he, "before I brought home my bird, I had built yonder
cage"&mdash;pointing to his house; "and now, neighbors, let
us hasten to it; for Hannah will have her tea ready by the
time we get there." When we arrived at the house we
found that tea was ready; and the amiable Mrs. H., the
wife of the good Quaker, was waiting for us, with all imaginable
patience.</p>

<p>The room in which we took tea was remarkably neat.
The white floor was nicely sanded, and the fire-place filled
with pine-tops and rose-bushes; and vases of roses were
standing on the mantel-piece. The table was covered with
a cloth of snowy whiteness, and loaded with delicacies; and
here and there stood a little China vase, filled with white
and damask roses.</p>

<p>"So-ho!" said the saucy Henry L., upon entering the
room; "I thought that you Quakers were averse to every
species of decoration; but see! here is a whole flower-garden!"
Friend H. smiled and said, "the rose is a
favorite with Hannah; and then it is like her, with one exception."
"And what is that exception?" said Henry.&mdash;"Oh,"
said our friend, "Hannah has no thorns to wound."
Mrs. H.'s heightened color and smile plainly told us, that
praise from her husband was "music to her ear." After
tea, we had the pleasure of promenading through the house;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
and Mrs. H. showed us many articles of domestic manufacture,
being the work of her own and her daughters' hands.
The articles consisted of sheets, pillow-cases, bed-quilts,
coverlets of various colors, and woven in different patterns,&mdash;such
as chariot wheels, rose-of-sharon, ladies' delight,
federal constitution&mdash;and other patterns, the names of which
I have forgotten. The white bed-spreads and the table-covers,
which were inspected by us, were equal, if not superior,
to those of English manufacture; in short, all that we
saw proclaimed that order and industry had an abiding place
in the house of friend H.</p>

<p>Mrs. H. and myself seated ourselves by a window which
overlooked a young and thrifty orchard. A flock of sheep
were grazing among the trees, and their lambs were gambolling
from place to place. "This orchard is more beautiful
than your other," said I; "but I do not suppose it contains
anything so dear to the memory of friend H. as his old
habitation." She pointed to a knoll, where was a small
enclosure, and which I had not before observed. "There,"
said she, "is a spot more dear to Tobias; for there sleep
our children." "Your cup has then been mingled with sorrow?"
said I. "But," replied she, "we do not sorrow
without hope; for their departure was calm as the setting of
yonder sun, which is just sinking from sight; and we trust
that we shall meet them in a fairer world, never to part."
A tear trickled down the cheek of Mrs. H., but she instantly
wiped it away, and changed the conversation. Friend H.
came and took a seat beside us, and joined in the conversation,
which, with his assistance, became animated and
amusing.</p>

<p>Here, thought I, dwell a couple, happily united. Friend
H., though rough in his exterior, nevertheless possesses a
kindly affectionate heart; and he has a wife whose price
is above rubies.</p>

<p>The saucy Henry soon came to the door, and bawled out,
"The stage is ready." We obeyed the summons, and
found that Henry and friend H.'s son had been for our
vehicles. We were again piled into the waggons&mdash;pails,
baskets, whortleberries, and all; and with many hearty
shakes of the hand, and many kind farewells, we bade adieu
to the family of friend H., but not without renewing the
promise, that, in the next sugar-making season, we would
revisit Moose Mountain.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Jemima.</span></div>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE WESTERN ANTIQUITIES.</h2>


<p>In the valley of the Mississippi, and the more southern
parts of North America, are found antique curiosities and
works of art, bearing the impress of cultivated intelligence.
But of the race, or people, who executed them, time has
left no vestige of their existence, save these monuments of
their skill and knowledge. Not even a tradition whispers
its <i>guess-work</i>, who they might be. We only know <i>they
were</i>.</p>

<p>What proof and evidence do we gather from their remains,
which have withstood the test of time, of their origin
and probable era of their existence? That they existed centuries
ago, is evident from the size which forest trees have
attained, which grow upon the mounds and fortifications discovered.
That they were civilized and understood the arts,
is apparent from the manner of laying out and erecting their
fortifications, and from various utensils of gold, copper, and
iron which have occasionally been found in digging below
the earth's surface. If I mistake not, I believe even glass
has been found, which, if so, shows them acquainted with
chemical discoveries, which are supposed to have been unknown
until a period much later than the probable time of
their existence. That they were not the ancestors of the
race which inhabited this country at the time of its discovery
by Columbus, appears conclusive from the total ignorance of
the Indian tribes of all knowledge of arts and civilization,
and the non-existence of any tradition of their once proud
sway. That they were a mighty people is evident from the
extent of territory where these antiquities are scattered.
The banks of the Ohio and Mississippi tell they once lived;
and even to the shore where the vast Pacific heaves its
waves, there are traces of their existence. Who were
they? In what period of time did they exist?</p>

<p>In a cave in one of the Western States, there is carved
upon the walls a group of people, apparently in the act of
devotion; and a rising sun is sculptured above them. From
this we should infer that they were Pagans, worshipping
the sun and the fabulous gods. But what most strikingly
arrests the antiquarian's observation, and causes him to repeat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
the inquiry, "who were they?" is the habiliments of
the group. One part of their habit is of the Grecian costume,
and the remainder is of the Ph&oelig;nicians. Were they
a colony from Greece? Did they come from that land in
the days of its proud glory, bringing with them a knowledge
of arts, science, and philosophy? Did they, too, seek a
home across the western waters, because they loved liberty
in a strange land better than they loved slavery at home?
Or what may be as probable, were they the descendants of
some band who managed to escape the destruction of
ill-fated Troy?&mdash;the descendants of a people who had called
Greece a mother-country, but were sacrificed to her vindictive
ire, because they were prouder to be Trojans than the
descendants of Grecians? Ay, who were they? Might
not America have had its Hector, its Paris, and Helen? its
maidens who prayed, and its sons who fought? All this
might have been. But their historians and their poets alike
have perished. They <i>have been</i>; but the history of their
existence, their origin, and their destruction, all, all are hidden
by the dark chaos of oblivion. Imagination alone, from
inanimate landmarks, voiceless walls, and soulless bodies,
must weave the record which shall tell of their lives, their
aims, origin, and final extinction.</p>

<p>Recently, report says, in Mexico there have been discovered
several mummies, embalmed after the manner of the
ancient Egyptians. If true, it carries the origin of this fated
people still farther back; and we might claim them to
be contemporaries with Moses and Joshua. Still, if I form
my conclusions correctly from what descriptions I have perused
of these Western relics of the past, I should decide
that they corresponded better with the ancient Grecians,
Ph&oelig;nicians, or Trojans, than with the Egyptians. I repeat,
I may be incorrect in my premises and deductions, but as
imagination is their historian, it pleases me better to fill a
world with heroes and beauties of Homer's delineations,
than with those of "Pharaoh and his host."</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Lisette.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 255px;">
<img src="images/illus-044.jpg" width="255" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE FIG-TREE.</h2>


<p>It was a cold winter's evening. The snow had fallen
lightly, and each tree and shrub was bending beneath its
glittering burden. Here and there was one, with the moonbeams
gleaming brightly upon it, until it seemed, with its
many branches, touched by the ice-spirit, or some fairy-like
creation, in its loveliness and beauty. Every thing was
hushed in Dridonville.</p>

<p>Situated at a little distance, was a large white house,
surrounded with elm-trees, in the rear of which, upon an eminence,
stood a summer-house; and in the warm season
might have been seen many a gay lady reclining beneath its
vine-covered roof. No pains had been spared to make the
situation desirable. It was the summer residence of Captain
Wilson. But it was now mid-winter, and yet he lingered
in the country. Many were the questions addressed
by the villagers to the old gardener, who had grown grey in
the captain's service, as to the cause of the long delay; but
he could not, or would not, answer their inquiries.</p>

<p>The shutters were closed, the fire burning cheerfully, and
the astral lamp throwing its soft mellow light upon the crimson
drapery and rich furniture of one of the parlors. In a
large easy chair was seated a gentleman, who was between
fifty and sixty years of age. He was in deep and anxious
thought; and ever and anon his lip curled, as if some bitter
feeling was in his heart. Standing near him was a young
man. His brow was open and serene; his forehead high
and expansive; and his eyes beamed with an expression of
benevolence and mildness. His lips were firmly compressed,
denoting energy and decision of character.</p>

<p>"You may be seated," said Capt. Wilson, for it was he
who occupied the large chair, the young man being his only
son. "You may be seated, Augustus," and he cast upon
him a look of mingled pride and scorn. The young man
bowed profoundly, and took a seat opposite his father.
There was a long pause, and the father was first to break
silence. "So you intend to marry a beggar, and suffer the
consequences. But do you think your love will stand the
test of poverty, and the sneer of the world? for I repeat, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
not one farthing of my money shall you receive, unless you
comply with the promise which I long since made to my old
friend, that our families should be united. She will inherit
his vast possessions, as there is no other heir. True, she is
a few years your senior; but that is of no importance.
Your mother is older than I am. But I have told you all
this before. Consider well ere you choose between wealth
and poverty."</p>

<p>"Would that I could conscientiously comply with your
request," replied Augustus, "but I have promised to be
protector and friend to Emily Summerville. She is not rich
in this world's goods; but she has what is far preferable&mdash;a
contented mind; and you will allow that, in point of education,
she will compare even with Miss Clarkson." In a
firm voice he continued, "I have made my choice, I shall
marry Emily;" and he was about to proceed, but his father
stamped his foot, and commanded him to quit his presence.
He left the house, and as he walked rapidly towards Mr.
Grant's, the uncle of Miss Summerville, he thought how unstable
were all earthly possessions, "and why," he exclaimed,
"why should I make myself miserable for a little paltry
gold? It may wound my pride at first to meet my gay associates;
but that will soon pass away, and my father will
see that I can provide for my own wants."</p>

<p>Emily Summerville was the daughter of a British officer,
who for many years resided in the pleasant village of Dridonville.
He was much beloved by the good people for his
activity and benevolence. He built the cottage occupied by
Mr. Grant. On account of its singular construction, it bore
the name of the "English cottage." After his death it
was sold, and Mr. Grant became the purchaser. There Emily
had spent her childhood. On the evening before alluded
to, she was in their little parlor, one corner of which was occupied
by a large fig-tree. On a stand were geraniums,
rose-bushes, the African lily, and many other plants. At a
small table sat Emily, busily engaged with her needle, when
the old servant announced Mr. Wilson. "Oh, Augustus,
how glad I am you are come!" she exclaimed, as she
sprung from her seat to meet him; "but you look sad and
weary," she added, as she seated herself by his side, and
gazed inquiringly into his face, the mirror of his heart.
"What has happened? you look perplexed."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p>

<p>"Nothing more than I have expected for a long time,"
was the reply; and it was with heartfelt satisfaction that
he gazed on the fair creature by his side, and thought she
would be a star to guide him in the way of virtue. He told
her all. And then he explained to her the path he had
marked out for himself. "I must leave you for a time, and
engage in the noise and excitement of my profession. It
will not be long, if I am successful. I must claim one promise
from you, that is, that you will write often, for that will be
the only pleasure I shall have to cheer me in my absence."</p>

<p>She did promise; and when they separated at a late
hour, they dreamed not that it was their last meeting on
earth.</p>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />

<p>"Oh, uncle," said Emily, as they entered the parlor together
one morning, "do look at my fig-tree; how beautiful
it is. If it continues to grow as fast as it has done, I can
soon sit under its branches." "It is really pretty," replied
her uncle; and he continued, laughing and patting her
cheek, "you must cherish it with great care, as it was a
present from &mdash;&mdash; now don't blush; I do not intend to speak
his name, but was merely about to observe, that it might be
now as in olden times, that as <i>he</i> prospers, the tree will
flourish; if he is sick, or in trouble, it will decay."</p>

<p>"If such are your sentiments," said Emily, "you will
acknowledge that thus far his path has been strewed with
flowers."</p>

<p>Many months passed away, and there was indeed a
change. The tree that had before looked so green, had
gradually decayed, until nothing was left but the dry branches.
But she was not superstitious: "It might be," she
said, "that she had killed it with kindness." Her uncle
never alluded to the remark he had formerly made; but
Emily often thought there might be some truth in it. She
had received but one letter from Augustus, though she had
written many.</p>

<p>Summer had passed, and autumn was losing itself in winter.
Augustus Wilson was alone in the solitude of his
chamber.&mdash;There was a hectic flush upon his cheek, and the
low hollow cough told that consumption was busy. Was
that the talented Augustus Wilson? he whose thrilling eloquence
had sounded far and wide? His eyes were riveted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
upon a withered rose. It was given him by Emily, on the
eve of his departure, with these words, "Such as I am, receive
me. Would I were of more worth, for your sake."</p>

<p>"No," he musingly said; "it is not possible she has forgotten
me. I will not, cannot believe it." He arose, and
walked the room with hurried steps, and a smile passed
over his face, as he held communion with the bright images
of the past. He threw himself upon his couch, but sleep
was a stranger to his weary frame.</p>

<p>Three weeks quickly passed, and Augustus Wilson lay
upon his death-bed. Calm and sweet was his slumber, as
the spirit took its flight to the better land. And O, it was a
sad thing to see that father, with the frost of many winters
upon his head, bending low over his son, entreating him to
speak once more; but all was silent. He was not there;
nought remained but the beautiful casket; the jewel which
had adorned it was gone. And deep was the grief of the
mother; but, unlike her husband, she felt she had done all
she could to brighten her son's pathway in life. She knew
not to what extent Capt. W. had been guilty.</p>

<p>Augustus was buried in all the pomp and splendor that
wealth could command. The wretched father thought in
this way to blind the eyes of the world. But he could not
deceive himself. It was but a short time before he was laid
beside his son at Mount Auburn. Several letters were
found among his papers, but they had not been opened.
Probably he thought that by detaining them, he should induce
his son to marry the rich Miss Clarkson, instead of the
poor Emily Summerville.</p>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />

<p>Emily Summerville firmly stood amidst the desolation that
had withered all her bright hopes in life. She had followed
her almost idolized uncle to the grave; she had seen the
cottage, and all the familiar objects connected with her earliest
recollections, pass into the hands of strangers; but
there was not a sigh, nor a quiver of the lip, to tell of the
anguish within. She knew not that Augustus Wilson had
entered the spirit-land, until she saw the record of his death
in a Boston paper. "O, if he had only sent me one word,"
she said; "even if it had been to tell me that I was remembered
no more, it would have been preferable to this."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
The light which had shone so brightly on her pathway was
withdrawn, and the darkness of night closed around her.</p>

<p>Long and fearful was the struggle between life and death;
but when she arose from that sick bed, it was with a chastened
spirit. "I am young," she thought, "and I may yet
do much good." And when she again mingled in society,
it was with a peace that the world could neither give nor
take away.</p>

<p>She bade adieu to her native village, and has taken up her
abode in Lowell. She is one of the class called "factory
girls." She recently received the letters intercepted by
Capt. Wilson, and the melancholy pleasure of perusing
them is hallowed by the remembrance of him who is "gone,
but not lost."</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Ione.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>VILLAGE PASTORS.</h2>


<p>The old village pastor of New England was "a man having
authority." His deacons were <i>under</i> him, and not, as is
now often the case, his tyrannical rulers; and whenever his
parishioners met him, they doffed their hats, and said "Your
Reverence." Whatever passed his lips was both law and
gospel; and when too old and infirm to minister to his
charge, he was not turned away, like an old worn-out
beast, to die of hunger, or gather up, with failing strength,
the coarse bit which might eke out a little longer his remaining
days; but he was still treated with all the deference, and
supported with all the munificence which was believed due
to him whom they regarded as "God's vicegerent upon
earth." He deemed himself, and was considered by his
parishioners, if not infallible, yet something approaching it.
Those were indeed the days of glory for New England clergymen.</p>

<p>Perhaps I am wrong. The present pastor of New England,
with his more humble mien and conciliatory tone, his
closer application and untiring activity, may be, in a wider
sphere, as truly glorious an object of contemplation. Many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
are the toils, plans and enterprises entrusted to him, which
in former days were not permitted to interfere with the
duties exclusively appertaining to the holy vocation; yet
with added labors, the modern pastor receives neither added
honors, nor added remuneration. Perhaps it is well&mdash;nay,
perhaps it is <i>better</i>; but I am confident that if the old pastor
could return, and take a bird's-eye view of the situations of
his successors, he would exclaim, "How has the glory departed
from Israel, and how have they cast down the sons of
Levi!"</p>

<p>I have been led to these reflections by a contemplation of
the characters of the first three occupants of the pulpit in my
native village.</p>

<p>Our old pastor was settled, as all then were, for life. I
can remember him but in his declining years, yet even then
was he a hale and vigorous old man. Honored and beloved
by all his flock, his days passed undisturbed by the storms and
tempests which have since then so often darkened and disturbed
the theological world. The opinions and creeds, handed
down by his Pilgrim Fathers, he carefully cherished, neither
adding thereto, nor taking therefrom; and he indoctrinated
the young in all the mysteries of the true faith, with an undoubting
belief in its infallibility. There was much of the
patriarch in his look and manner; and this was heightened
by the nature of his avocations, in which pastoral labors
were mingled with clerical duties. No farm was in better
order than that of the parsonage; no fields looked more
thriving, and no flocks were more profitable than were those
of the good clergyman. Indeed he sometimes almost forgot
his spiritual field, in the culture of that which was more
earthly.</p>

<p>One Saturday afternoon the minister was very busily
engaged in hay-making. His good wife had observed that
during the week he had been unusually engrossed in temporal
affairs, and feared for the well-being of his flock, as
she saw that he could not break the earthly spell, even upon
this last day of the week. She looked, and looked in vain
for his return; until, finding him wholly lost to a sense of
his higher duties, she deemed it her duty to remind him of
them. So away she went to the haying field, and when she
was in sight of the reverend haymaker, she screamed out,
"Mr. W., Mr. W."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p>

<p>"What, my dear?" shouted Mr. W. in return.</p>

<p>"Do you intend to feed your people with hay to-morrow?"</p>

<p>This was a poser&mdash;and Mr. W. dropped his rake; and,
repairing to his study, spent the rest of the day in the preparation
of food more meat for those who looked so trustfully
to him for the bread of life.</p>

<p>His faithful companion was taken from him, and those
who knew of his strong and refined attachment to her, said
truly, when they prophesied, that he would never marry
again.</p>

<p>She left one son&mdash;their only child&mdash;a boy of noble feelings
and superior intellect; and his father carefully educated
him with a fond wish that he would one day succeed him in
the sacred office of a minister of God. He hoped indeed
that he might even fill the very pulpit which he must at
some time vacate; and he prayed that his own life might be
spared until this hope had been realized.</p>

<p>Endicott W. was also looked upon as their future pastor
by many of the good parishioners; and never did a more
pure and gentle spirit take upon himself the task of preparing
to minister to a people in holy things. He was the beloved
of his father, the only child who had ever blessed him&mdash;for
he had not married till late in life, and the warm
affections which had been so tardily bestowed upon one of
the gentler sex, were now with an unusual fervor lavished
upon this image of her who was gone.</p>

<p>When Endicott W. returned home, having completed his
studies at the University, he was requested by our parish to
settle as associate pastor with his father, whose failing
strength was unequal to the regular discharge of his parochial
duties. It was indeed a beautiful sight to see that old
man, with bending form and silvery locks, joining in the
public ministrations with his young and gifted son&mdash;the one
with a calm expression of trusting faith; the countenance
of the other beaming with that of enthusiasm and hope.</p>

<p>Endicott was ambitious. He longed to see his own name
placed in the bright constellation of famed theologians; and
though he knew that years must be spent in toil for the attainment
of that object, he was willing that they should be
thus devoted. The midnight lamp constantly witnessed the
devotions of Endicott W. at the shrine of science; and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
wasting form and fading cheek told what would be the fate
of the infatuated worshipper.</p>

<p>It was long before our young pastor, his aged father, and
the idolizing people, who were so proud of his talents, and
such admirers of his virtues,&mdash;it was long ere these could be
made to believe he was dying; but Endicott W. departed
from life, as a bright cloud fades away in a noon-day sky&mdash;for
his calm exit was surrounded by all which makes a
death-bed glorious. His aged father said, "The Lord gave,
and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the
Lord." And then he went again before his flock, and endeavored
to reconcile them to their loss, and dispense again
the comforts and blessings of the gospel, trusting that his
strength would still be spared, until one, who was even then
preparing, should be ready to take his place.</p>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />

<p>Shall I tell you now of my own home? It was a rude
farm-house, almost embowered by ancient trees, which covered
the sloping hill-side on which it was situated; and it
looked like an old pilgrim, who had crawled into the thicket
to rest his limbs, and hide his poverty. My parents were
poor, toiling, care-worn beings, and in a hard struggle for
the comforts of this life had almost forgotten to prepare for
that which is to come. It is true, the outward ordinances
of religion were never neglected; but the spirit, the feeling,
the interest, in short all that is truly deserving the name of
piety, was wanting. My father toiled through the burning
heat of summer, and the biting frost of winter, for his loved
ones; and my mother also labored, from the first dawn of
day till a late hour at night in behalf of her family. She
was true to her duties as wife and mother, but it was from
no higher motive than the instincts which prompt the fowls
of the air to cherish their brood; and though she perhaps
did not believe that "labor was the end of life," still her
conduct would have given birth to that supposition.</p>

<p>I had been for some time the youngest of the family, when
a little brother was born. He was warmly welcomed by us,
though we had long believed the family circle complete.&mdash;We
were not then aware at how dear a price the little
stranger was to be purchased. From the moment of his
birth, my mother never knew an hour of perfect health.
She had previously injured her constitution by unmitigated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
toil, and now were the effects to be more sensibly felt. She
lived very many years; but it was the life of an invalid.</p>

<p>Reader, did you ever hear of the "thirty years' consumption?"
a disease at present unknown in New England&mdash;for
that scourge of our climate will now complete in a few
months the destruction which it took years of desperate
struggle to perform upon the constitutions of our more hardy
ancestors.</p>

<p>My mother was in such a consumption&mdash;that disorder
which comes upon its victim like the Aurorean flashes in an
Arctic sky, now vivid in its pure loveliness, and then
shrouded in a sombre gloom. Now we hoped, nay, almost
believed, she was to be again quite well, and anon we
watched around a bed from which we feared she would
never arise.</p>

<p>It was strange to us, who had always seen her so unremitting
in her toilsome labors, and so careless in her exposure
to the elements, to watch around her now&mdash;to shield
her from the lightest breeze, or the slightest dampness of
the air&mdash;to guard her from all intrusion, and relieve her from
all care&mdash;to be always reserving for her the warmest place
by the fire-side, and preparing the choicest bit of food&mdash;to
be ever ready to pillow her head and bathe her brow&mdash;in
short, to be never unconscious of the presence of disease.&mdash;Our
steps grew softer, and our voices lower, and the stillness
of our manners had its influence upon our minds. The
hush was upon our spirits; and there can surely be nothing
so effectual in carrying the soul before its Maker, as disease;
and it may truly be said to every one who enters the
chamber of sickness, "The place whereon thou standest is
holy ground."</p>

<p>My little brother was to us an angel sent from heaven.&mdash;He
possessed a far more delicate frame and lofty intellect
than any other member of the family; and his high, pale
brow, and brilliant eyes, were deemed sure tokens of uncommon
genius. My mother herself watched with pleasure
these indications of talent, although the time had been when
a predilection for literary pursuits would have been thought
inconsistent with the common duties which we were all born
to fulfil.</p>

<p>We had always respected the learned and talented, but it
was with a feeling akin to the veneration we felt for the
inhabitants of the spiritual world. They were far above us,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
and we were content to bow in reverence. Our thoughts
had been restricted to the narrow circle of every-day duties,
and our highest aspirations were to be admitted at length, as
spectators, to the glory of a material heaven, where streets
of gold and thrones of ivory form the magnificence of the
place. It was different now.&mdash;With a nearer view of that
better world, to which my mother had received her summons,
came also more elevated spiritual and blissful views of
its glory and perfection. It was another heaven, for she
was another being; and she would have been willing at any
moment to have resigned the existence which she held by so
frail a tenure, had it not been for the sweet child which
seemed to have been sent from that brighter world to hasten
and prepare her for departure.</p>

<p>Our pastor was now a constant visitant. Hitherto he had
found but little to invite him to our humble habitation. He
had been received with awe and constraint, and the topics upon
which he loved to dwell touched no chord in the hearts of
those whom he addressed. But now my mother was anxious
to pour into his ears all the new-felt sentiments and
emotions with which her heart was filled. She wished to
share his sympathy, and receive his instructions; for she
felt painfully conscious of her extreme ignorance.</p>

<p>It was our pastor who first noticed in my little brother the
indications of mental superiority; and we felt then as though
the magical powers of some favored order of beings had
been transferred to one in our own home-circle; and we
loved the little Winthrop (for father had named him after
the old governor) with a stronger and holier love than we
had previously felt for each other. And in these new feelings
how much was there of happiness! Though there was
now less health, and of course less wealth, in our home,
yet there was also more pure joy.</p>

<p>I have sometimes been out upon the barren hill-side, and
thought that there was no pleasure in standing on a spot so
desolate. I have been again in the same bare place, and
there was a balmy odor in the delicious air, which made it
bliss but to inhale the fragrance. Some spicy herb had carpeted
the ground, and though too lowly and simple to attract
the eye, yet the charm it threw around the scene was not
less entrancing because so viewless and unobtrusive.</p>

<p>Such was the spell shed around our lowly home by the
presence of religion. It was with us the exhalation from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
lowly plants, and the pure fragrance went up the more freely
because they had been bruised. In our sickness and poverty
we had joy in the present, and bright hopes for the future.</p>

<p>It was early decided that Winthrop should be a scholar.&mdash;Our
pastor said it must be so, and Endicott, who was but a
few years older, assisted him in his studies. They were
very much together, and excepting in their own families, had
no other companion. But when my brother returned from the
pastor's study with a face radiant with the glow of newly-acquired
knowledge, and a heart overflowing in its desire to
impart to others, he usually went to his pale, emaciated
mother to give vent to his sensations of joy, and came to me
to bestow the boon of knowledge. I was the nearest in age.
I had assisted to rear his infancy, and been his constant companion
in childhood; and now our intercourse was to be
continued and strengthened, amidst higher purposes and
loftier feelings. I was the depository of all his hopes and
fears, the sharer of all his plans for the future; and his aim
was then to follow in the footsteps of Endicott W. If he
could only be as good, as kind and learned, he should think
himself one of the best of mankind.</p>

<p>When Endicott became our pastor, my brother was ready
to enter college, with the determination to consecrate himself
to the same high calling. It seemed hardly like reality
to us, that one of our own poor household was to be an
educated man. We felt lifted up&mdash;not with pride&mdash;for the
feeling which elevated us was too pure for that; but we esteemed
ourselves better than we had ever been before, and
strove to be more worthy of the high gift which had been
bestowed upon us. When my brother left home, it was
with the knowledge that self-denial was to be practised, for
his sake, by those who remained; but he also knew that it
was to be willingly, nay, joyously performed. Still he did
not know <i>all</i>. Even things which heretofore, in our poverty,
we had deemed essential to comfort, were now resigned.&mdash;We
did not even permit my mother to know how differently
the table was spread for her than for our own frugal repast.
Neither was she aware how late and painfully I toiled to
prevent the hire of additional service upon our little farm.
The joy in the secret depths of my heart was its own reward;
and never yet have I regretted an effort or a sacrifice made
then. It was a discipline like the refiner's fire, and but for
my brother, I should never have been even as, with all my
imperfections, I trust I am now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>

<p>My brother returned from college as the bright sun of
Endicott W.'s brief career was low in a western sky. He
had intended to study with him for the same vocation&mdash;and
with him he <i>did</i> prepare. O, there could have been no more
fitting place to imbue the mind with that wisdom which
cometh from above, than the sick room at our pastor's.</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"The chamber where the good man meets his fate,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is privileged beyond the common walks of life,"&mdash;<br /></span>
</div>

<p>and Endicott's was like the shelter of some bright spirit
from the other world, who, for the sake of those about him,
was delaying for a while his return to the home above.&mdash;My
brother was with him in his latest hours, and received as
a dying bequest the charge of his people. The parish also
were anxious that he should be Endicott's successor; and in
the space requested for farther preparation, our old pastor
returned to his pulpit.</p>

<p>But he had overrated his own powers; and besides, he
was growing blind. There were indeed those who said
that, notwithstanding his calmness in the presence of others,
he had in secret wept his sight away; and that while a
glimmer of it remained, the curtain of his window, which
overlooked the grave-yard, had never been drawn. He
ceased his labors, but a temporary substitute was easily
found&mdash;for, as old Deacon S. remarked, "There are many
ministers <i>now</i>, who are glad to go out to day's labor."</p>

<p>My mother had prayed that strength might be imparted
to her feeble frame, to retain its rejoicing inhabitant until
she could see her son a more active laborer in the Lord's
vineyard; "and then," said she, "I can depart in peace."
For years she had hoped the time would come, but dared not
hope to see it. But life was graciously spared; and the day
which was to see him set apart as peculiarly a servant of his
God, dawned upon her in better health than she had known
for years. Perhaps it was the glad spirit which imparted
its renewing glow to the worn body, but she went with us
that day to the service of ordination. The old church was
thronged; and as the expression of thankfulness went up
from the preacher's lips, that one so worthy was then to be
dedicated to his service, my own heart was subdued by the
solemn joy that he was one of us. My own soul was poured
out in all the exercises; but when the charge was given,
there was also an awe upon all the rest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p>

<p>Our aged pastor had been led into his pulpit, that he
might perform this ceremony; and when he arose with his
silvery locks, thinned even since he stood there last, and
raised his sightless eyes to heaven, I freely wept. He was
in that pulpit where he had stood so many years, to warn,
to guide, and to console; and probably each familiar face
was then presented to his imagination. He was where his
dear departed son had exercised the ministerial functions,
and the same part of the service which he had performed at
his ordination, he was to enact again for his successor. The
blind old man raised his trembling hand, and laid it upon the
head of the young candidate; and as the memories of the
past came rushing over him, he burst forth in a strain of
heart-stirring eloquence. There was not a tearless eye in
the vast congregation; and the remembrance of that hour
had doubtless a hallowing influence upon the young pastor's
life.</p>

<p>My brother was settled for five years, and as we departed
from the church, I heard Deacon S. exclaim, in his bitterness
against modern degeneracy in spiritual things, that
"the old pastor was settled <i>for life</i>." "So is the new
one," said a low voice in reply; and for the first time the
idea was presented to my mind that Winthrop was to be,
like Endicott W., one of the early called.</p>

<p>But the impression departed in my constant intercourse
with him in his home&mdash;for our lowly dwelling was still the
abode of the new pastor. He would never remove from it
while his mother lived, and an apartment was prepared for
him adjoining hers. They were pleasant rooms, for during
the few past years he had done much to beautify the place,
and the shrubs which he had planted were already at their
growth. The thick vines also which had struggled over the
building, were now gracefully twined around the windows,
and some of the old trees cut down, that we might be allowed
a prospect. Still all that could conduce to beauty was
retained; and I have often thought how easily and cheaply
the votary of true taste can enjoy its pleasures.</p>

<p>Winthrop was now so constantly active and cheerful, that
I could not think of death as connected with him. But I
knew that he was feeble, and watched and cherished him,
as I had done when he was but a little child. Though in
these respects his guardian, in others I was his pupil. I
sat before him, as Mary did at the Messiah's feet, and gladly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
received his instructions. My heart went out with him in
all the various functions of his calling. I often went with
him to the bed-side of the sick, and to the habitations of the
wretched. None knew better than he did, how to still the
throbbings of the wrung heart, and administer consolation.</p>

<p>I was present also, when, for the first time, he sprinkled
an infant's brow with the waters of consecration; and when
he had blessed the babe, he also prayed that we might all
become even as that little child. I was with him, too, when
for the first time he joined in holy bands, those whom none
but God should ever put asunder; and if the remembrance
of the fervent petition which went up for them, has dwelt as
vividly in their hearts as it has in mine, that prayer must
have had a holy influence upon their lives.</p>

<p>I have said that I remember his first baptism and wedding;
but none who were present will forget his first funeral.
It was our mother's. She had lived so much beyond
our expectations, and been so graciously permitted to witness
the fulfilment of her dearest hope, that when at length
the spirit winged its flight, we all joined in the thanksgiving
which went up from the lips of her latest-born, that she had
been spared so long.</p>

<p>It was a beautiful Sabbath&mdash;that day appointed for her
funeral&mdash;but in the morning a messenger came to tell us
that the clergyman whom we expected was taken suddenly
ill. What could be done? Our old pastor was then confined
to his bed, and on this day all else were engaged. "I
will perform the services myself," said Winthrop. "I shall
even be happy to do it."</p>

<p>"Nay," said I, "you are feeble, and already spent with
study and watching. It must not be so."</p>

<p>"Do not attempt to dissuade me, sister," he replied.
"There will be many to witness the interment of her who
has hovered upon the brink of the grave so long; and has
not almost every incident of her life, from my very birth,
been a text from which important lessons may be drawn?"
And then, fixing his large mild eyes full upon me, as though
he would utter a truth which duty forbade him longer to
suppress, he added, "I dare not misimprove this opportunity.
This first death in <i>my</i> parish may also be the last.
Nay, weep not, my sister, because I may go next. The
time at best is short, and I must work while the day lasts."</p>

<p>I did not answer. My heart was full, and I turned away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
That day my brother ascended his pulpit to conduct the funeral
services, and in them he <i>did</i> make of her life a lesson
to all present. But when he addressed himself particularly
to the young, the middle-aged and the old, his eyes kindled,
and his cheeks glowed, as he varied the subject to present
the "king of terrors" in a different light to each. Then he
turned to the mourners. And who were <i>they?</i> His own
aged father, the companion for many years of her who was
before them in her shroud. His own brothers and sisters,
and the little ones of the third generation, whose childish
memories had not even yet forgotten her dying blessing.
He essayed to speak, but in vain. The flush faded from his
cheek till he was deadly pale. Again he attempted to address
us, and again in vain. He raised his hand, and buried
his face in the folds of his white handkerchief. I also covered
my eyes, and there was a deep stillness throughout the
assembly. At that moment I thought more of the living
than of the dead; and then there was a rush among the
great congregation, like the sudden bursting forth of a mighty
torrent.</p>

<p>I raised my eyes, but could see no one in the pulpit. The
next instant it was filled. I also pressed forward, and unimpeded
ascended the steps, for all stood back that I might
pass. I reached him as he lay upon the seat where he had
fallen, and the handkerchief, which was still pressed to his
lips, was wet with blood. They bore him down, and
through the aisle; and when he passed the coffin, he raised
his head, and gazed a moment upon that calm, pale face.
Then casting upon all around a farewell glance, he sunk
gently back, and closed his eyes.</p>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />

<p>A few evenings after, I was sitting by his bed-side. The
bright glow of a setting sun penetrated the white curtains of
his windows, and fell with softened lustre upon his face.
The shadows of the contiguous foliage were dancing upon
the curtains, the floor, and the snowy drapery of his bed;
and as he looked faintly up, he murmured, "It is a beautiful
world; but the other is glorious! and my mother is
there, and Endicott. See! they are beckoning to me, and
smiling joyfully!&mdash;Mother, dear mother, and Endicott, I am
coming!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p>

<p>His voice and looks expressed such conviction of the reality
of what he saw, that I also looked up to see these beautiful
spirits. My glance of disappointment recalled him;
and he smiled as he said, "I think it was a dream; but it
will be reality soon.&mdash;Do not go," said he, as I arose to call
for others. "Do not fear, sister. The bands are very
loose, and the spirit will go gently, and perhaps even before
you could return."</p>

<p>I reseated myself, and pressing his wasted hand in mine,
I watched,&mdash;</p>

<div class="center">"As through his breast, the wave of life<br />
Heaved gently to and fro."</div>

<p>A few moments more, and I was alone with the dead.</p>

<p>We buried Winthrop by the side of Endicott W., and the
old pastor was soon laid beside them. * * * *</p>

<p>Years have passed since then, and I still love to visit those
three graves. But other feelings mingle with those which
once possessed my soul. I hear those whose high vocation
was once deemed a sure guarantee for their purity, either
basely calumniated, or terribly condemned. Their morality
is questioned, their sincerity doubted, their usefulness denied,
and their pretensions scoffed at. It may be that unholy
hands are sometimes laid upon the ark, and that change of
times forbids such extensive usefulness as was in the power
of the clergymen of New England in former days. But
when there comes a muttering cry of "Down with the
priesthood!" and a denial of the good which they have effected,
my soul repels the insinuation, as though it were
blasphemy. I think of the first three pastors of our village,
and I reverence the ministerial office and its labors,</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"If I but remember only,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That such as these have lived, and died."</span>
</div>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Susanna.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 169px;">
<img src="images/illus-060.jpg" width="169" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE SUGAR-MAKING EXCURSION.</h2>


<p>It was on a beautiful morning in the month of March,
(one of those mornings so exhilarating that they make even
age and decrepitude long for a ramble), that friend H. called
to invite me to visit his sugar-lot&mdash;as he called it&mdash;in
company with the party which, in the preceding summer,
visited Moose Mountain upon the whortleberry excursion.
It was with the pleasure generally experienced in revisiting
former scenes, in quest of novelty and to revive impressions
and friendships, that our party set out for this second visit to
Moose Mountain.</p>

<p>A pleasant sleigh-ride of four or five miles, brought us
safely to the domicile of friend H., who had reached home
an hour previously, and was prepared to pilot us to his sugar-camp.
"Before we go," said he, "you must one and
all step within doors, and warm your stomachs with some
gingered cider." We complied with his request, and after
a little social chat with Mrs. H., who welcomed us with a
cordiality not to be surpassed, and expressed many a kind
wish that we might spend the day agreeably, we made for
the sugar-camp, preceded by friend H., who walked by the
side of his sleigh, which appeared to be well loaded, and
which he steadied with the greatest care at every uneven
place in the path.</p>

<p>Arrived at the camp, we found two huge iron kettles suspended
on a pole, which was supported by crotched stakes,
driven in the ground, and each half full of boiling syrup.
This was made by boiling down the sap, which was gathered
from troughs that were placed under spouts which
were driven into rock-maple trees, an incision being first
made in the tree with an auger. Friend H. told us that it
had taken more than two barrels of sap to make what syrup
each kettle contained. A steady fire of oak bark was burning
underneath the kettles, and the boys and girls, friend
H.'s sons and daughters, were busily engaged in stirring
the syrup, replenishing the fire, &amp;c.</p>

<p>Abigail, the eldest daughter, went to her father's sleigh,
and taking out a large rundlet, which might contain two or
three gallons, poured the contents into a couple of pails.
This we perceived was milk, and as she raised one of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
pails to empty the contents into the kettles, her father called
out, "Ho, Abigail! hast thee strained the milk?"</p>

<p>"Yes, father," said Abigail.</p>

<p>"Well," said friend H., with a chuckle, "Abigail understands
what she is about, as well as her mother would;
and I'll warrant Hannah to make better maple-sugar than
any other woman in New England, or in the whole United
States&mdash;and you will agree with me in that, after that sugar
is turned off and cooled." Abigail turned to her work,
emptied her milk into the kettles, and then stirred their contents
well together, and put some bark on the fire.</p>

<p>"Come, Jemima," said Henry L., "let us try to assist
Abigail a little, and perhaps we shall learn to make sugar
ourselves; and who knows but what she will give us a
'gob' to carry home as a specimen to show our friends;
and besides, it is possible that we may have to make sugar
ourselves at some time or other; and even if we do not, it
will never do us any harm to know how the thing is done."
Abigail furnished us each with a large brass scummer, and
instructed us to take off the scum as it arose, and put it into
the pails; and Henry called two others of our party to come
and hold the pails.</p>

<p>"But tell me, Abigail," said Henry, with a roguish leer,
"was that milk really intended for whitening the sugar?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said Abigail with all the simplicity of a Quakeress,
"for thee must know that the milk will all rise in a
scum, and with it every particle of dirt or dust which may
have found its way into the kettles."</p>

<p>Abigail made a second visit to her father's sleigh, accompanied
by her little brother, and brought from thence a large
tin baker, and placed it before the fire. Her brother brought
a peck measure two-thirds full of potatoes, which Abigail
put into the baker, and leaving them to their fate, returned
to the sleigh, and with her brother's assistance carried several
parcels, neatly done up in white napkins, into a little
log hut of some fifteen feet square, with a shed roof made of
slabs. We began to fancy that we were to have an Irish
lunch. Henry took a sly peep into the hut when we first
arrived, and he declared that there was nothing inside, save
some squared logs, which were placed back against the
walls, and which he supposed were intended for seats. But
he was mistaken in thinking that seats were every convenience
which the building contained,&mdash;as will presently be
shown.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p>

<p>Abigail and her brother had been absent something like
half an hour, and friend H. had in the mean time busied himself
in gathering sap, and putting it in some barrels hard by.
The kettles were clear from scum, and their contents were
bubbling like soap. The fire was burning cheerfully, the
company all chatting merrily, and a peep into the baker told
that the potatoes were cooked.</p>

<p>Abigail and her brother came, and taking up the baker,
carried it inside the building, but soon returned, and placed
it again before the fire. Then she called to her father, who
came and invited us to go and take dinner.</p>

<p>We obeyed the summons; but how were we surprised,
when we saw how neatly arranged was every thing. The
walls of the building were ceiled around with boards, and
side tables fastened to them, which could be raised or let
down at pleasure, being but pieces of boards fastened with
leather hinges and a prop underneath. The tables were covered
with napkins, white as the driven snow, and loaded
with cold ham, neat's tongue, pickles, bread, apple-sauce,
preserves, dough-nuts, butter, cheese, and <i>potatoes</i>&mdash;without
which a Yankee dinner is never complete. For beverage,
there was chocolate, which was made over a fire in the
building&mdash;there being a rock chimney in one corner.
"Now, neighbors," said friend H., "if you will but seat
yourselves on these squared logs, and put up with these
rude accommodations, you will do me a favor. We might
have had our dinner at the house, but I thought that it would
be a novelty, and afford more amusement to have it in this
little hut, which I built to shelter us from what stormy
weather we might have in the season of making sugar."</p>

<p>We arranged ourselves around the room, and right merry
were we, for friend H.'s lively chat did not suffer us to be
otherwise. He recapitulated to us the manner of his life
while a bachelor; the many bear-fights which he had had;
told us how many bears he had killed; how a she-bear denned
in his rock dwelling the first winter after he commenced
clearing his land&mdash;he having returned home to his father's
to attend school; how, when he returned in the spring, he
killed her two cubs, and afterwards the old bear, and made
his Hannah a present of their skins to make a muff and tippet;
also his courtship, marriage, &amp;c.</p>

<p>In the midst of dinner, Abigail came in with some hot
mince-pies, which had been heating in the baker before the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
fire out of doors, and which said much in praise of Mrs. H.'s
cookery.</p>

<p>We had finished eating, and were chatting as merrily as
might be, when one of the little boys called from without,
"Father, the sugar has grained." We immediately went
out, and found one of the boys stirring some sugar in a bowl
to cool it. The fire was raked from beneath the kettles,
and Abigail and her eldest brother were stirring their contents
with all haste. Friend H. put a pole within the bail
of one of the kettles, and raised it up, which enabled two of
the company to take the other down, and having placed it
in the snow, they assisted friend H. to take down the other;
and while we lent a helping hand to stir and cool the sugar,
friend H.'s children ate their dinners, cleared away the tables,
put what fragments were left into their father's sleigh,
together with the dinner-dishes, tin baker, rundlet, and the
pails of scum, which were to be carried home for the swine.
A firkin was also put into the sleigh; and after the sugar
was sufficiently cool, it was put into the firkin, and covered
up with great care.</p>

<p>After this we spent a short time promenading around the
rock-maple grove, if leafless trees can be called a grove. A
large sap-trough, which was very neatly made, struck my
fancy, and friend H. said he would make me a present of it
for a cradle. This afforded a subject for mirth. Friend H.
said that we must not ridicule the idea of having sap-troughs
for cradles; for that was touching quality, as his eldest
child had been rocked many an hour in a sap-trough, beneath
the shade of a tree, while his wife sat beside it knitting,
and he was hard by, hoeing corn.</p>

<p>Soon we were on our way to friend H.'s house, which we
all reached in safety; and where we spent an agreeable evening,
eating maple sugar, apples, beech-nuts, &amp;c. We also
had tea about eight o'clock, which was accompanied by every
desirable luxury&mdash;after which we started for home.</p>

<p>As we were about taking leave, Abigail made each of us
a present of a cake of sugar, which was cooled in a tin heart.&mdash;"Heigh
ho!" said Henry L., "how lucky! We have
had an agreeable visit, a bountiful feast&mdash;have learned how
to make sugar, and have all got sweethearts!"</p>

<p>We went home, blessing our stars and the hospitality of
our Quaker friends.</p>

<p>I cannot close without telling the reader, that the sugar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
which was that day made, was nearly as white as loaf sugar,
and tasted much better.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Jemima.</span></div>


<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>PREJUDICE AGAINST LABOR.</h2>


<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<p>Mrs. K. and her daughter Emily were discussing the propriety
of permitting Martha to be one of the party which was
to be given at Mr. K.'s the succeeding Tuesday evening, to
celebrate the birth-day of George, who had lately returned
from college. Martha was the niece of Mr. K. She was
an interesting girl of about nineteen years of age, who, having
had the misfortune to lose her parents, rather preferred
working in a factory for her support, than to be dependent
on the charity of her friends. Martha was a favorite in the
family of her uncle; and Mrs. K., notwithstanding her aristocratic
prejudices, would gladly have her niece present at
the party, were it not for fear of what people might say, if
Mr. and Mrs. K. suffered their children to appear on a level
with factory operatives.</p>

<p>"Mother," said Emily, "I do wish there was not such a
prejudice against those who labor for a living; and especially
against those who work in a factory; for then Martha
might with propriety appear at George's party; but I know
it would be thought disgraceful to be seen at a party with a
factory girl, even if she is one's own cousin, and without a
single fault. And besides, the Miss Lindsays are invited,
and if Martha should be present, they will be highly offended,
and make her the subject of ridicule. I would not for
my life have Martha's feelings wounded, as I know they
would be, if either of the Miss Lindsays should ask her when
she left Lowell, or how long she had worked in a factory."</p>

<p>"Well, Emily," said Mrs. K., "I do not know how we
shall manage to keep up appearances, and also spare Martha's
feelings, unless we can persuade your father to take
her with him to Acton, on the morrow, and leave her at
your uncle Theodore's. I do not see any impropriety in this
step, as she proposes to visit Acton before she returns to
Lowell."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p>

<p>"You will persuade me to no such thing," said Mr. K.,
stepping to the door of his study, which opened from the
parlor, and which stood ajar, so that the conversation between
his wife and daughter had been overheard by Mr. K., and
also by the Hon. Mr. S., a gentleman of large benevolence,
whose firmness of character placed him far above popular
prejudice. These gentlemen had been in the study unknown
to Mrs. K. and Emily.</p>

<p>"You will persuade me to no such thing," Mr. K. repeated,
as he entered the parlor accompanied by Mr. S.; "I am
determined that my niece shall be at the party. However
loudly the public opinion may cry out against such a measure,
I shall henceforth exert my influence to eradicate the
wrong opinions entertained by what is called good society,
respecting the degradation of labor; and I will commence
by placing my children and niece on a level. The occupations
of people have made too much distinction in society.
The laboring classes, who are in fact the wealth of a nation,
are trampled upon; while those whom dame Fortune
has placed above, or if you please, <i>below</i> labor, with some
few honorable exceptions, arrogate to themselves all of the
claims to good society. But in my humble opinion, the rich
and the poor ought to be equally respected, if virtuous; and
equally detested, if vicious."</p>

<p>"But what will our acquaintances say?" said Mrs. K.</p>

<p>"It is immaterial to me what 'they say' or think," said
Mr. K., "so long as I know that I am actuated by right motives."</p>

<p>"But you know, my dear husband," replied his wife,
"that the world is censorious, and that much of the good or
ill fortune of our children will depend on the company which
they shall keep. For myself, I care but little for the opinion
of the world, so long as I have the approbation of my
husband, but I cannot bear to have my children treated with
coldness; and besides, as George is intended for the law, his
success will in a great measure depend on public opinion;
and I do not think that even Esq. S. would think it altogether
judicious, under existing circumstances, for us to place
our children on a level with the laboring people."</p>

<p>"If I may be permitted to express my opinion," said Mr.
S. "I must say, in all sincerity, that I concur in sentiment
with my friend K.; and, like him, I would that the line of
separation between good and bad society was drawn between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
the virtuous and the vicious; and to bring about this much-to-be-desired
state of things, the affluent, those who are allowed
by all to have an undisputed right to rank with good
society, must begin the reformation, by exerting their influence
to raise up those who are bowed down. Your fears,
Mrs. K., respecting your son's success, are, or should be,
groundless; for, to associate with the laboring people, and
strive to raise them to their proper place in the scale of being,
should do more for his prosperity in the profession
which he has chosen, than he ought to realize by a contrary
course of conduct; and, I doubt not, your fears will prove
groundless. So, my dear lady, rise above them; and also
above the opinions of a gainsaying multitude&mdash;opinions which
are erroneous, and which every philanthropist, and every
Christian, should labor to correct."</p>

<p>The remarks of Esq. S. had so good an effect on Mrs. K.,
that she relinquished the idea of sending Martha to Acton.</p>


<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>

<p>The following evening Emily and Martha spent at Esq. S.'s,
agreeably to an earnest invitation from Mrs. S. and her
daughter Susan, who were anxious to cultivate an acquaintance
with the orphan. These ladies were desirous to ascertain
the real situation of a factory girl, and if it was as truly
deplorable as public fame had represented, they intended to
devise some plan to place Martha in a more desirable situation.
Mrs. S. had a sister, who had long been in a declining
state of health; and she had but recently written to Mrs. S.
to allow Susan to spend a few months with her, while opportunity
should offer to engage a young lady to live with
her as a companion. This lady's husband was a clerk in
one of the departments at Washington; and, not thinking it
prudent to remove his family to the capital, they remained
in P.; but the time passed so heavily in her husband's absence,
as to have a visible effect on her health. Her physician
advised her not to live so retired as she did, but to go
into lively company to cheer up her spirits; but she thought
it would be more judicious to have an agreeable female companion
to live with her; and Mrs. S. concluded, from the
character given her by her uncle, that Martha would be just
such a companion as her sister wanted; and she intended in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
the course of the evening to invite Martha to accompany Susan
on a visit to her aunt.</p>

<p>The evening passed rapidly away, for the lively and interesting
conversation, in the neat and splendid parlor of Esq.
S., did not suffer any one present to note the flight of time.
Martha's manners well accorded with the flattering description
which her uncle had given of her. She had a good flow
of language, and found no difficulty in expressing her sentiments
on any subject which was introduced. Her description
of "Life in Lowell" convinced those who listened to
the clear, musical tones of her voice, that the many reports
which they had heard, respecting the ignorance and vice of
the factory operatives, were the breathings of ignorance,
wafted on the wings of slander, and not worthy of credence.</p>

<p>"But with all your privileges, Martha," said Mrs. S.,
"was it not wearisome to labor so many hours in a day?"</p>

<p>"Truly it was at times," said Martha, "and fewer hours
of labor would be desirable, if they could command a proper
amount of wages; for in that case there would be more time
for improvement."</p>

<p>Mrs. S. then gave Martha an invitation to accompany her
daughter to P., hoping that she would accept the invitation,
and find the company of her sister so agreeable that she
would consent to remain with her, at least for one year; assuring
her that if she did, her privileges for improvement
should be equal, if not superior to those she had enjoyed in
Lowell; and also that she should not be a loser in pecuniary
matters. Martha politely thanked Mrs. S. for the interest
she took in her behalf, but wished a little time to consider
the propriety of accepting the proposal. But when Mrs. S.
explained how necessary it was that her sister should have
a female companion with her, during her husband's absence,
Martha consented to accompany Susan, provided that her
uncle and aunt K. gave their consent.</p>

<p>"What an interesting girl!" said Esq. S. to his lady, after
the young people had retired. "Amiable and refined as
Emily K. appears, Martha's manners show that her privileges
have been greater, or that her abilities are superior to
those of Emily. How cold and calculating, and also unjust,
was her aunt K., to think that it would detract aught from
the respectability of her children for Martha to appear in
company with them! I really hope that Mr. K. will allow
her to visit your sister. I will speak to him on the subject."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>

<p>"She <i>must</i> go with Susan," said Mrs. S.; "I am determined
to take no denial. Her sprightly manners and delightful
conversation will cheer my sister's spirits, and be of more
avail in restoring her health than ten physicians."</p>

<p>Mr. K. gave the desired consent, and it was agreed by all
parties concerned that some time in the following week the
ladies should visit P.; and all necessary preparations were
immediately made for the journey.</p>


<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>

<p>It was Tuesday evening, and a whole bevy of young people
had assembled at Mr. K.'s. Beauty and wit were there,
and seemed to vie with each other for superiority. The
beaux and belles were in high glee. All was life and animation.
The door opened, and Mr. K. entered the room.
A young lady, rather above the middle height, and of a form
of the most perfect symmetry, was leaning on his arm. She
was dressed in a plain white muslin gown; a lace 'kerchief
was thrown gracefully over her shoulders, and a profusion
of auburn hair hung in ringlets down her neck, which had
no decoration save a single string of pearl; her head was
destitute of ornament, with the exception of one solitary rosebud
on the left temple; her complexion was a mixture of
the rose and the lily; a pair of large hazel eyes, half concealed
by their long silken lashes, beamed with intelligence
and expression, as they cast a furtive glance at the company.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. K., "this is my
niece, Miss Croly;" and as with a modest dignity she courtesied,
a beholder could scarce refrain from applying to her
Milton's description of Eve when she first came from the
hand of her Creator. Mr. K. crossed the room with his
niece, seated her by the side of his daughter, and, wishing
the young people a pleasant evening, retired. The eyes of
all were turned towards the stranger, eager to ascertain
whether indeed she was the little girl who once attended the
same school with them, but who had, for a number of years
past, been employed in a "Lowell factory." "Oh, it is the
same," said the Miss Lindsays. "How presumptuous,"
said Caroline Lindsay to a gentleman who sat near her,
"thus to intrude a factory girl into our company! Unless
I am very much mistaken, I shall make her sorry for her impudence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
and wish herself somewhere else before the party
breaks up." "Indeed, Miss Caroline, you will not try to
distress the poor girl; you cannot be so cruel," said the
gentleman, who was no other than the eldest son of Esq. S.,
who had on the preceding day returned home, after an absence
of two years on a tour through Europe. "Cruel!"
said Caroline, interrupting him, "surely, Mr. S., you cannot
think it cruel to keep people where they belong; or if they
get out of the way, to set them right; and you will soon see
that I shall direct Miss Presumption to her proper place, which
is in the kitchen,"&mdash;and giving her head a toss, she left Mr. S.,
and seating herself by Emily and Martha, inquired when the
latter left Lowell, and if the factory girls were as ignorant
as ever.</p>

<p>Martha replied by informing her when she left the "city
of spindles;" and also by telling her that she believed the
factory girls, considering the little time they had for the cultivation
of their minds, were not, in the useful branches of
education, behind any class of females in the Union. "What
chance can they have for improvement?" said Caroline:
"they are driven like slaves to and from their work, for
fourteen hours in each day, and dare not disobey the calls of
the factory bell. If they had the means for improvement,
they have not the time; and it must be that they are quite
as ignorant as the southern slaves, and as little fitted for society."
Martha colored to the eyes at this unjust aspersion;
and Emily, in pity to her cousin, undertook to refute the
charge. Mr. S. drew near, and seating himself by the cousins,
entered into conversation respecting the state of society
in Lowell. Martha soon recovered her self-possession, and
joined in the conversation with more than her usual animation,
yet with a modest dignity which attracted the attention
of all present. She mentioned the evening schools for teaching
penmanship, grammar, geography, and other branches
of education, and how highly they were prized, and how well
they were attended by the factory girls. She also spoke
of the Lyceum and Institute, and other lectures; and her remarks
were so appropriate and sensible, that even those who
were at first for assisting Caroline Lindsay in directing her
to her "proper place," and who even laughed at what they
thought to be Miss Lindsay's wit,&mdash;became attentive listeners,
and found that even one who "had to work for a living"
could by her conversation add much to the enjoyment of
"good society."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p>

<p>All were now disposed to treat Martha with courtesy, with
the exception of the Miss Lindsays, who sat biting their lips
for vexation; mortified to think that in trying to make Martha
an object of ridicule, they had exposed themselves to
contempt. Mr. S. took upon himself the task (if task it
could be called, for one whose feelings were warmly enlisted
in the work) of explaining in a clear and concise manner the
impropriety of treating people with contempt for none other
cause than that they earned an honest living by laboring with
their hands. He spoke of the duty of the rich, with regard
to meliorating the condition of the poor, not only in affairs of
a pecuniary nature, but also by encouraging them in the way
of well-doing, by bestowing upon them that which would
cost a good man or woman nothing,&mdash;namely, kind looks,
kind words, and all the sweet courtesies of life. His words
were not lost; for those who heard him have overcome their
prejudices against labor and laboring people, and respect the
virtuous whatever may be their occupation.</p>


<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3>

<p>Bright and unclouded was the morning which witnessed
the departure of the family coach from the door of the Hon.
Mr. S. Henry accompanied by his sister and the beautiful
Martha, whose champion he had been at the birth-night party
of George K. Arrived at P., they found that they were
not only welcome, but expected visitors; for Esq. S. had
previously written to his sister-in-law, apprising her of Henry's
return, and his intention of visiting her in company with
his sister Susan, and a young lady whom he could recommend
as being just the companion of which she was in need.
In a postscript to his letter he added, "I do not hesitate
to commend this lovely orphan to your kindness, for I know
you will appreciate her worth."</p>

<p>When Henry S. took leave of his aunt and her family,
and was about to start upon his homeward journey, he found
that a two days' ride, and a week spent in the society of
Martha, had been at work with his heart. He requested a
private interview, and what was said, or what was concluded
on, I shall leave the reader to imagine, as best suits his fancy.
I shall also leave him to imagine what the many billets-doux
contained which Henry sent to P., and what were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
answers he received, and read with so much pleasure.&mdash;As it
is no part of my business to enter into any explanation of
that subject, I will leave it and call the reader's attention to
the sequel of my story, hoping to be pardoned if I make it
as short as possible. * * * *</p>

<p>It was a lovely moonlight evening. The Hon. Mr. S.
and lady, Mr. and Mrs. K., and Caroline Lindsay, were
seated in the parlor of Mr. K.&mdash;Caroline had called to inquire
for Martha, supposing her to be in Lowell. Caroline's
father had been deeply engaged in the eastern land speculation,
the result of which was a total loss of property. This
made it absolutely necessary that his family should labor for
their bread; and Caroline had come to the noble resolution
of going to Lowell to work in a factory, not only to support
herself, but to assist her parents in supporting her little
brother and sisters. It was a hard struggle for Caroline to
bring her mind to this; but she had done it, and was now
ready to leave home. Dreading to go where all were strangers,
she requested Mr. K. to give her directions where to
find Martha, and to honor her as the bearer of a letter to his
niece. "I know," said she, "that Martha's goodness of
heart will induce her to secure me a place of work, notwithstanding
my former rudeness to her&mdash;a rudeness which has
caused me to suffer severely, and of which I heartily repent."
Mr. K. informed Caroline that he expected to see
his niece that evening; and he doubted not she would recommend
Miss Lindsay to the overseer with whom she had
worked while in Lowell; and also introduce her to good
society, which she would find could be enjoyed, even
in the "city of spindles," popular prejudice to the contrary
notwithstanding. Esquire and Mrs. S. approved of Caroline's
resolution of going to Lowell, and spoke many words
of encouragement, and also prevailed on her to accept of
something to assist in defraying the expenses of her journey,
and to provide for any exigency which might happen.
They were yet engaged in conversation, when a coach stopped
at the door, and presently George and Emily entered
the parlor! They were followed by a gentleman and lady
in bridal habiliments. George stepped back, and introduced
Mr. Henry S. and lady. "Yes," said Henry laughingly,
"I have brought safely back the Factory Pearl, which a
twelvemonth since I found in this room, and which I have
taken for my own." The lady threw back her veil, and Miss
Lindsay beheld the countenance of Martha Croly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p>

<p>I shall omit the apologies and congratulations of Caroline
and the assurance of forgiveness and proffers of friendship
of Martha. The reader must also excuse me from delineating
the joy with which Martha was received by her uncle
and aunt K.; and the heartfelt satisfaction which Esquire
and Mrs. S. expressed in their son's choice of a wife. It is
enough to state that all parties concerned were satisfied and
happy, and continue so to the present time. To sum up the
whole they are happy themselves, and diffuse happiness all
around them.</p>

<p>Caroline Lindsay was the bearer of several letters from
Martha, now Mrs. S., to her friends in Lowell. She spent
two years in a factory, and enjoyed the friendship of all who
knew her; and when she left Lowell her friends could not
avoid grieving for the loss of her company, although they
knew that a bright day was soon to dawn upon her. She
is now the wife of George K., and is beloved and respected
by all who know her. Well may she say, "Sweet are the
uses of adversity," for adversity awoke to energy virtues
which were dormant, until a reverse of fortune. Her father's
affairs are in a measure retrieved; and he says that he
is doubly compensated for his loss of property in the happiness
he now enjoys.</p>

<p>I will take leave of the reader, hoping that if he has
hitherto had any undue prejudice against labor, or laboring
people, he will overcome it, and excuse my freedom and
plainness of speech.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Ethelinda.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>JOAN OF ARC.</h2>


<p>When, in the perusal of history, I meet with the names
of females whom circumstances, or their own inclinations,
have brought thus openly before the public eye, I can seldom
repress the desire to know more of them. Was it choice,
or necessity, which led them to the battle-field, or council-hall?
Had the woman's heart been crushed within their
breasts? or did it struggle with the sterner feelings which
had then found entrance there? Were they recreant to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
their own sex? or were the deed which claim the historian's
notice but the necessary results of the situations in which
they had been placed?</p>

<p>These are questions which I often ask, and yet I love not
in old and musty records to meet with names which long ere
this should have perished with the hearts upon which love
had written them; for happier, surely, is woman, when in
<i>one</i> manly heart she has been "shrined a queen," than
when upon some powerful throne she sits with an untrembling
form, and an unquailing eye, to receive the homage,
and command the services of loyal thousands. I love not
to read of women transformed in all, save outward form,
into one of the sterner sex; and when I see, in the memorials
of the past, that this has apparently been done, I would
fain overleap the barriers of bygone time, and know how it
has been effected. Imagination goes back to the scenes
which must have been witnessed then, and perhaps unaided
portrays the minute features of the sketch, of which history
has preserved merely the outlines.</p>

<p>But I sometimes read of woman, when I would not know
more of the places where she has rendered herself conspicuous;
when there is something so noble and so bright in the
character I have given her, that I fear a better knowledge of
trivial incidents might break the spell which leads me to love
and admire her; where, perhaps, the picture which my fancy
has painted, glows in colors so brilliant, that a sketch by
Truth would seem beside it but a sombre shadow.</p>

<p>Joan of Arc is one of those heroines of history, who
cannot fail to excite an interest in all who love to contemplate
the female character. From the gloom of that
dark age, when woman was but a plaything and a slave, she
stands in bold relief, its most conspicuous personage. Not,
indeed, as a queen, but as more than a queen, even the preserver
of her nation's king; not as a conqueror, but as the
savior of her country; not as a man, urged in his proud
career by mad ambition's stirring energies, but as a woman,
guided in her brilliant course by woman's noblest impulses&mdash;so
does she appear in that lofty station which for herself
she won.</p>

<p>Though high and dazzling was the eminence to which she
rose, yet "'twas not thus, oh 'twas not thus, her dwelling-place
was found." Low in the vale of humble life was the
maiden born and bred; and thick as is the veil which time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
and distance have thrown over every passage of her life
yet that which rests upon her early days is most impenetrable.
And much room is there here for the interested inquirer,
and Imagination may rest almost unchecked amid the
slight revelations of History.</p>

<p>Joan is a heroine&mdash;a woman of mighty power&mdash;wearing
herself the habiliments of man, and guiding armies to battle
and to victory; yet never to my eye is "the warrior-maid"
aught but <i>woman</i>. The ruling passion, the spirit which
nerved her arm, illumed her eye, and buoyed her heart, was
woman's faith. Ay, it was <i>power</i>&mdash;and call it what ye
may&mdash;say it was enthusiasm, fanaticism, madness&mdash;or call
it, if ye will, what those <i>did</i> name it who burned Joan at the
stake,&mdash;still it was power, the power of woman's firm, undoubting
faith.</p>

<p>I should love to go back into Joan's humble home&mdash;that
home which the historian has thought so little worthy of his
notice; and in imagination I <i>must</i> go there, even to the very
cradle of her infancy, and know of all those influences which
wrought the mind of Joan to that fearful pitch of wild
enthusiasm, when she declared herself the inspired agent of
the Almighty.</p>

<p>Slowly and gradually was the spirit trained to an act like
this; for though, like the volcano's fire, its instantaneous
bursting forth was preceded by no prophet-herald of its
coming&mdash;yet Joan of Arc was the same Joan ere she was
maid of Orleans; the same high-souled, pure and imaginative
being, the creature of holy impulses, and conscious of
superior energies. It must have been so; <i>a superior mind
may burst upon the world, but never upon itself</i>: there must
be a feeling of sympathy with the noble and the gifted, a
knowledge of innate though slumbering powers. The
neglected eaglet may lie in its mountain nest, long after the
pinion is fledged; but it will fix its unquailing eye upon the
dazzling sun, and feel a consciousness of strength in the
untried wing; but let the mother-bird once call it forth, and
far away it will soar into the deep blue heavens, or bathe
and revel amidst the tempest-clouds&mdash;and henceforth the
eyrie is but a resting place.</p>

<p>As the diamond is formed, brilliant and priceless, in the
dark bowels of the earth, even so, in the gloom of poverty,
obscurity, and toil, was formed the mind of Joan of Arc.&mdash;Circumstances
were but the jeweller's cutting, which placed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
it where it might more readily receive the rays of light, and
flash them forth with greater brilliancy.</p>

<p>I have said, that I must in imagination go back to the
infancy of Joan, and note the incidents which shed their
silent, hallowed influence upon her soul, until she stands
forth an inspired being, albeit inspired by naught but her
own imagination.</p>

<p>The basis of Joan's character is religious enthusiasm:
this is the substratum, the foundation of all that wild and
mighty power which made <i>her</i>, the peasant girl, the savior
of her country. But the flame must have been early fed;
it was not merely an elementary portion of her nature, but
it was one which was cherished in infancy, in childhood
and in youth, until it became the master-passion of her
being.</p>

<p>Joan, the child of the humble and the lowly, was also
the daughter of the fervently religious. The light of faith
and hope illumes their little cot; and reverence for all that
is good and true, and a trust which admits no shade of fear
or doubt, is early taught the gentle child. Though "faith
in God's own promises" was mingled with superstitious awe
of those to whom all were then indebted for a knowledge of
the truth; though priestly craft had united the wild and
false with the pure light of the gospel: and though Joan's
religion was mingled with delusion and error,&mdash;still it comprised
all that is fervent, and pure, and truthful, in the
female heart. The first words her infant lips are taught to
utter, are those of prayer&mdash;prayer, mayhap, to saints or virgin;
but still to her <i>then</i> and in all after-time, the aspirations
of a spirit which delights in communion with the Invisible.</p>

<p>She grows older, and still, amid ignorance, and poverty,
and toil, the spirit gains new light and fervor. With a mind
alive to everything that is high and holy, she goes forth into
a dark and sinful world, dependent upon her daily toil for
daily bread; she lives among the thoughtless and the vile;
but like that plant which opens to nought but light and air,
and shrinks from all other contact&mdash;so her mind, amid the
corruptions of the world, is shut to all that is base and
sinful, though open and sensitive to that which is pure and
noble.</p>

<p>"Joan," says the historian, "was a tender of stables in
a village inn." Such was her outward life; but there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
for her <i>another</i> life, a life within that life. While the hands
perform low, menial service, the soul untrammelled is away,
and revelling amidst its own creations of beauty and of bliss.
She is silent and abstracted; always alone among her
fellows&mdash;for among them all she sees no kindred spirit; she
finds none who can touch the chords within her heart, or
respond to their melody, when she would herself sweep its
harp-strings.</p>

<p>Joan has no friends; far less does she ever think of earthly
lovers; and who would love <i>her</i>, the wild and strange
Joan! though perhaps, the gloomy, dull, and silent one;
but that soul, whose very essence is fervent zeal and glowing
passion, sends forth in secrecy and silence its burning
love upon the unconscious things of earth. She talks to
the flowers, and the stars, and the changing clouds; and
their voiceless answers come back to her soul at morn, and
noon, and stilly night. Yes, Joan loves to go forth in the
darkness of eve, and sit,</p>

<div class="poem"><span class="i0">"Beneath the radiant stars, still burning as they roll,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sending down their prophecies into her fervent soul;"</span>
</div>

<p>but, better even than this, does she love to go into some
high cathedral, where the "dim religious light" comes
faintly through the painted windows; and when the priests
chant vesper hymns, and burning incense goes upward from
the sacred altar&mdash;and when the solemn strains and the
fragrant vapor dissolve and die away in the distant aisles
and lofty dome, she kneels upon the marble floor, and in
ecstatic worship sends forth the tribute of a glowing heart.</p>

<p>And when at night she lies down upon her rude pallet,
she dreams that she is with those bright and happy beings
with whom her fancy has peopled heaven. She is there,
among saints and angels, and even permitted high converse
with the Mother of Jesus.</p>

<p>Yes, Joan is a dreamer; and she dreams not only in the
night, but in the day; whether at work or at rest, alone or
among her fellow-men, there are angel voices near, and
spirit-wings are hovering around her, and visions of all that
is pure, and bright, and beautiful, come to the mind of the
lowly girl. She finds that she is a favored one; she feels
that those about her are not gifted as she has been; she
knows that their thoughts are not as her thoughts; and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
the spirit questions, Why is it thus that she should be permitted
communings with unearthly ones? Why was this
ardent, aspiring mind bestowed upon <i>her</i>, one of earth's
meanest ones, shackled by bonds of penury, toil, and ignorance
of all that the world calls high and gifted? Day after
day goes by, night after night wears on, and still these
queries will arise, and still they are unanswered.</p>

<p>At length the affairs of busy life, those which to Joan
have heretofore been of but little moment, begin to awaken
even <i>her</i> interest. Hitherto, absorbed in her own bright
fancies, she has mingled in the scenes around her, like one
who walketh in his sleep. They have been too tame and
insipid to arouse her energies, or excite her interest; but
now there is a thrilling power in the tidings which daily
meet her ears. All hearts are stirred, but none now throb
like hers: her country is invaded, her king an exile from his
throne; and at length the conquerors, unopposed, are quietly
boasting of their triumphs on the very soil they have
polluted. And shall it be thus? Shall the victor revel and
triumph in her own loved France? Shall her country thus
tamely submit to wear the foreign yoke? And Joan says,
No! She feels the power to arouse, to quicken, and to
guide.</p>

<p>None now may tell whether it was first in fancies of the
day or visions of the night, that the thought came, like
some lightning flash, upon her mind, that it was for this
that powers unknown to others had been vouchsafed to <i>her</i>;
and that for this, even new energies should now be given.&mdash;But
the idea once received is not abandoned; she cherishes
it, and broods upon it, till it has mingled with every thought
of day and night. If doubts at first arise, they are not
harbored, and at length they vanish away.</p>

<div class="center">"Her spirit shadowed forth a dream, till it became a creed."</div>

<p>All that she sees and all that she hears&mdash;the words to which
she eagerly listens by day, and the spirit-whispers which
come to her at night,&mdash;they all assure her of this, that she
is the appointed one. All other thoughts and feelings now
crystallize in this grand scheme; and as the cloud grows
darker upon her country's sky, her faith grows surer and
more bright. Her countrymen have ceased to resist, have
almost ceased to hope; but she alone, in her fervent joy, has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
"looked beyond the present clouds and seen the light beyond."
The spoiler shall yet be vanquished, and <i>she</i> will do
it; her country shall be saved, and <i>she</i> will save it; her
unanointed king shall yet sit on the throne, and "Charles
shall be crowned at Rheims." Such is her mission, and
she goes forth in her own ardent faith to its accomplishment.</p>

<p>And did those who first admitted the claims of Joan as an
inspired leader, themselves believe that she was an agent of
the Almighty? None can now tell how much the superstition
of their faith, mingled with the commanding influence
of a mind firm in its own conviction of supernatural guidance,
influenced those haughty ones, as they listened to the
counsels, and obeyed the mandates, of the peasant girl.&mdash;Perhaps
they saw that she was their last hope, a frail reed
upon which they might lean, yet one that might not break.
Her zeal and faith might be an instrument to effect the end
which she had declared herself destined to accomplish.
Worldly policy and religious credulity might mingle in their
admission of her claims; but however this might be, the
peasant girl of Arc soon rides at her monarch's side, with
helmet on her head, and armor on her frame, the time-hallowed
sword girt to her side, and the consecrated banner
in her hand; and with the lightning of inspiration in her
eye, and words of dauntless courage on her lips, she guides
them on to battle and to victory.</p>

<p>Ay, there she is, the low-born maid of Arc! there, with
the noble and the brave, amid the clangor of trumpets, the
waving of banners, the tramp of the war horse, and the
shouts of warriors; and there she is more at home than in
those humble scenes in which she has been wont to bear a
part. Now for once she is herself; now may she put forth
all her hidden energy, and with a mind which rises at each
new demand upon its powers, she is gaining for herself a
name even greater than that of queen. And now does the
light beam brightly from her eye, and the blood course
quickly through her veins&mdash;for her task is ended, her mission
accomplished, and "Charles is crowned at Rheims."</p>

<p>This is the moment of Joan's glory,&mdash;and what is before
her now? To stand in courts, a favored and flattered one?
to revel in the soft luxuries and enervating pleasures of a
princely life? Oh this was not for one like her. To return
to obscurity and loneliness, and there to let the over-wrought<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
mind sink back with nought to occupy and support it, till it
feeds and drivels on the remembrance of the past&mdash;this is
what she would do; but there is for her what is better far,
even the glorious death of a martyr.</p>

<p>Little does Joan deem, in her moment of triumph, that
this is before her; but when she has seen her mission ended,
and her king the anointed ruler of a liberated people, the
sacred sword and standard are cast aside; and throwing
herself at her monarch's feet, and watering them with tears
of joy, she begs permission to return to her humble home.&mdash;She
has now done all for which that power was bestowed;
her work has been accomplished, and she claims no longer
the special commission of an inspired leader. But Dunois
says, No! The English are not yet entirely expelled the
kingdom, and the French general would avail himself of
that name, and that presence, which have infused new
courage into his armies, and struck terror to their enemies.
He knows that Joan will no longer be sustained by the
belief that she is an agent of heaven; but she will be with
them, and that alone must benefit their cause. He would
have her again assume the standard, sword, and armor; he
would have her still retain the title of "Messenger of
God," though she believe that her mission goes no farther.</p>

<p>It probably was not the first time, and it certainly was not
the last, when woman's holiest feelings have been made the
instruments of man's ambition, or agents for the completion
of his designs. Joan is now but a woman, poor, weak, and
yielding woman; and overpowered by their entreaties, she
consents to try again her influence. But the power of that
faith is gone, the light of inspiration is no more given, and
she is attacked, conquered, and delivered to her enemies.
They place her in low dungeons, then bring her before tribunals;
they wring and torture that noble spirit, and endeavor
to obtain from it a confession of imposture, or
connivance with the "evil one;" but she still persists in
the declaration that her claims to a heavenly guidance were
true.</p>

<p>Once only was she false to herself. Weary and dispirited;
deserted by her friends, and tormented by her foes,&mdash;she
yields to their assertions, and admits that she did deceive
her countrymen. Perhaps in that hour of trial and darkness,
when all hope of deliverance from without, or from
above, had died away,&mdash;when she saw herself powerless in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
the merciless hands of her enemies, the conviction might
steal upon her own mind, that she had been self-deceived;
that phantasies of the brain had been received as visions
from on high,&mdash;but though her confession was true in the
abstract, yet Joan was surely untrue to herself.</p>

<p>Still it avails her little; she is again remanded to the
dungeon, and there awaits her doom.</p>

<p>At length they bring her the panoply of war, the armored
suit in which she went forth at the king's right hand to fight
their battle hosts. Her heart thrills, and her eye flashes, as
she looks upon it&mdash;for it tells of glorious days. Once more
she dons those fatal garments, and they find her arrayed in
the habiliments of war. It is enough for those who wished
but an excuse to take her life, and the Maid of Orleans is
condemned to die.</p>

<p>They led Joan to the martyr-stake. Proudly and nobly
went she forth, for it was a fitting death for one like <i>her</i>.
Once more the spirit may rouse its noblest energies; and
with brightened eye, and firm, undaunted step, she goes
where banners wave and trumpets sound, and martial hosts
appear in proud array. And the sons of England weep as
they see her, the calm and tearless one, come forth to meet
her fate. They bind her to the stake; they light the fire;
and upward borne on wreaths of soaring flame, the soul of
the martyred Joan ascends to heaven.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Ella.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>SUSAN MILLER.</h2>



<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>


<p>"Mother, it is all over now," said Susan Miller, as she
descended from the chamber where her father had just died
of <i>delirium tremens</i>.</p>

<p>Mrs. Miller had for several hours walked the house, with
that ceaseless step which tells of fearful mental agony: and
when she had heard from her husband's room some louder
shriek or groan, she had knelt by the chair or bed which
was nearest, and prayed that the troubled spirit might pass
away. But a faintness came over her, when a long interval<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
of stillness told that her prayer was answered; and she
leaned upon the railing of the stairway for support, as she
looked up to see the first one who should come to her from
the bed of death.</p>

<p>Susan was the first to think of her mother: and when she
saw her sink, pale, breathless, and stupified upon a stair, she
sat down in silence, and supported her head upon her own
bosom. Then for the first time was she aroused to the consciousness
that she was to be looked upon as a stay and
support; and she resolved to bring from the hidden recesses
of her heart, a strength, courage, and firmness, which
should make her to her heart-broken mother, and younger
brothers and sisters, what <i>he</i> had not been for many years,
who was now a stiffening corpse.</p>

<p>At length she ventured to whisper words of solace and
sympathy, and succeeded in infusing into her mother's mind
a feeling of resignation to the stroke they had received.&mdash;She
persuaded her to retire to her bed, and seek the slumber
which had been for several days denied them; and then she
endeavored to calm the terror-stricken little ones, who were
screaming because their father was no more. The neighbors
came in and proffered every assistance; but when Susan
retired that night to her own chamber, she felt that she
must look to <span class="smcap">Him</span> for aid, who alone could sustain through
the tasks that awaited her.</p>

<p>Preparations were made for the funeral; and though
every one knew that Mr. Miller had left his farm deeply
mortgaged, yet the store-keeper cheerfully trusted them for
articles of mourning, and the dress-maker worked day and
night, while she expected never to receive a remuneration.
The minister came to comfort the widow and her children.
He spoke of the former virtues of him who had been
wont to seek the house of God on each returning Sabbath,
and who had brought his eldest children to the font of
baptism, and been then regarded as an example of honesty
and sterling worth; and when he adverted to the one failing
which had brought him to his grave in the very prime of
manhood, he also remarked, that he was now in the hands
of a merciful God.</p>

<p>The remains of the husband and father were at length
removed from the home which he had once rendered happy,
but upon which he had afterwards brought poverty and
distress, and laid in that narrow house which he never more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
might leave, till the last trumpet should call him forth; and
when the family were left to that deep silence and gloom
which always succeed a death and burial, they began to
think of the trials which were yet to come.</p>

<p>Mrs. Miller had been for several years aware that ruin
was coming upon them. She had at first warned, reasoned,
and expostulated; but she was naturally of a gentle and
almost timid disposition; and when she found that she
awakened passions which were daily growing more violent
and ungovernable, she resolved to await in silence a crisis
which sooner or later would change their destiny. Whether
she was to follow her degenerate husband to his grave, or
accompany him to some low hovel, she knew not; she
shrunk from the future, but faithfully discharged all present
duties, and endeavored, by a strict economy, to retain at
least an appearance of comfort in her household.</p>

<p>To Susan, her eldest child, she had confided all her fears
and sorrows; and they had watched, toiled, and sympathized
together. But when the blow came at last, when he who
had caused all their sorrow and anxiety was taken away by
a dreadful and disgraceful death, the long-enduring wife and
mother was almost paralyzed by the shock.</p>

<p>But Susan was young; she had health, strength, and
spirits to bear her up, and upon her devolved the care of
the family, and the plan for its future support. Her resolution
was soon formed; and without saying a word to any
individual, she went to Deacon Rand, who was her father's
principal creditor.</p>

<p>It was a beautiful afternoon in the month of May, when
Susan left the house in which her life had hitherto been
spent, determined to know, before she returned to it, whether
she might ever again look upon it as her home. It was
nearly a mile to the deacon's house, and not a single house
upon the way. The two lines of turf in the road, upon
which the bright green grass was springing, showed that it
was but seldom travelled; and the birds warbled in the
trees, as though they feared no disturbance. The fragrance
of the lowly flowers, the budding shrubs, and the blooming
fruit-trees, filled the air; and she stood for a moment to
listen to the streamlet which she crossed upon a rude bridge
of stones. She remembered how she had loved to look at it
in summer, as it murmured along among the low willows
and alder bushes; and how she had watched it in the early<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
spring, when its swollen waters forced their way through
the drifts of snow which had frozen over it, and wrought for
itself an arched roof, from which the little icicles depended
in diamond points and rows of beaded pearls. She looked
also at the meadow, where the grass was already so long
and green; and she sighed to think that she must leave all
that was so dear to her, and go where a ramble among
fields, meadows, and orchards, would be henceforth a
pleasure denied to her.</p>



<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>


<p>When she arrived at the spacious farm-house, which was
the residence of the deacon, she was rejoiced to find him at
home and alone. He laid aside his newspaper as she entered,
and, kindly taking her hand, inquired after her own
health and that of her friends. "And now, deacon," said
she, when she had answered all his questions, "I wish to
know whether you intend to turn us all out of doors, as you
have a perfect right to do&mdash;or suffer us still to remain, with
a slight hope that we may sometime pay you the debt for
which our farm is mortgaged."</p>

<p>"You have asked me a very plain question," was the
deacon's reply, "and one which I can easily answer. You
see that I have here a house, large enough and good enough
for the president himself, and plenty of every thing in it and
around it; and how in the name of common sense and charity,
and religion, could I turn a widow and fatherless
children out of their house and home! Folks have called
me mean, and stingy, and close-fisted; and though in my
dealings with a rich man I take good care that he shall not
overreach me, yet I never stood for a cent with a poor man
in my life. But you spake about some time paying me;
pray, how do you hope to do it?"</p>

<p>"I am going to Lowell," said Susan quietly, "to work in
the factory, the girls have high wages there now, and in a
year or two Lydia and Eliza can come too; and if we all have
our health, and mother and James get along well with the
farm and the little ones, I hope, I do think, that we can pay
it all up in the course of seven or eight years."</p>

<p>"That is a long time for you to go and work so hard, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
shut yourself up so close at your time of life," said the
deacon, "and on many other accounts I do not approve of
it."</p>

<p>"I know how prejudiced the people here are against
factory girls," said Susan, "but I should like to know what
real good <i>reason</i> you have for disapproving of my resolution.
You cannot think there is anything really wrong in my determination
to labor, as steadily and as profitably as I can,
for myself and the family."</p>

<p>"Why, the way that I look at things is this," replied the
deacon: "whatever is not right, is certainly wrong; and
I do not think it right for a young girl like you, to put herself
in the way of all sorts of temptation. You have no idea
of the wickedness and corruption which exist in that town of
Lowell. Why, they say that more than half of the girls
have been in the house of correction, or the county gaol, or
some other vile place; and that the other half are not much
better; and I should not think you would wish to go and
work, and eat, and sleep, with such a low, mean, ignorant,
wicked set of creatures."</p>

<p>"I know such things are said of them, deacon, but I do
not think they are true. I have never seen but one factory
girl, and that was my cousin Esther, who visited us last
summer. I do not believe there is a better girl in the world
than she is; and I cannot think she would be so contented
and cheerful among such a set of wretches as some folks
think factory girls must be. There may be wicked girls
there; but among so many, there must be some who are
good; and when I go there, I shall try to keep out of the
way of bad company, and I do not doubt that cousin Esther
can introduce me to girls who are as good as any with whom
I have associated. If she cannot I will have no companion
but her, and spend the little leisure I shall have in solitude,
for I am determined to go."</p>

<p>"But supposing, Susan, that all the girls there were as
good, and sensible, and pleasant as yourself&mdash;yet there are
many other things to be considered. You have not thought
how hard it will seem to be boxed up fourteen hours in a
day, among a parcel of clattering looms, or whirling
spindles, whose constant din is of itself enough to drive a
girl out of her wits; and then you will have no fresh air to
breathe, and as likely as not come home in a year or two
with a consumption, and wishing you had staid where you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
would have had less money and better health. I have also
heard that the boarding women do not give the girls food
which is fit to eat, nor half enough of the mean stuff they do
allow them, and it is contrary to all reason to suppose that
folks can work, and have their health, without victuals to
eat."</p>

<p>"I have thought of all these things, deacon, but they do not
move me. I know the noise of the mills must be unpleasant
at first, but I shall get used to that; and as to my health, I
know that I have as good a constitution to begin with as
any girl could wish, and no predisposition to consumption,
nor any of those diseases which a factory life might otherwise
bring upon me. I do not expect all the comforts which
are common to country farmers; but I am not afraid of
starving, for cousin Esther said, that she had an excellent
boarding place, and plenty to eat, and drink, and that which
was good enough for anybody. But if they do not give us
good meat, I will eat vegetables alone, and when we have
bad butter, I will eat my bread without it."</p>

<p>"Well," said the deacon, "if your health is preserved,
you may lose some of your limbs. I have heard a great
many stories about girls who had their hands torn off by
the machinery, or mangled so that they could never use
them again; and a hand is not a thing to be despised, nor
easily dispensed with. And then, how should you like to
be ordered about, and scolded at, by a cross overseer?"</p>

<p>"I know there is danger," replied Susan, "among so
much machinery, but those who meet with accidents are
but a small number, in proportion to the whole, and if I am
careful I need not fear any injury. I do not believe the
stories we hear about bad overseers, for such men would not
be placed over so many girls; and if I have a cross one, I
will give no reason to find fault; and if he finds fault without
reason, I will leave him, and work for some one else.&mdash;You
know that I must do something, and I have made up
my mind what it shall be."</p>

<p>"You are a good child, Susan," and the deacon looked
very kind when he told her so, "and you are a courageous,
noble-minded girl. I am not afraid that <i>you</i> will learn to
steal, and lie, and swear, and neglect your Bible and the
meeting-house; but lest anything unpleasant should happen,
I will make you this offer: I will let your mother live
upon the farm, and pay me what little she can, till your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
brother James is old enough to take it at the halves; and if
you will come here, and help my wife about the house and
dairy, I will give you 4<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> a-week, and you shall be
treated as a daughter&mdash;perhaps you may one day be one."</p>

<p>The deacon looked rather sly at her, and Susan blushed;
for Henry Rand, the deacon's youngest son, had been her
playmate in childhood, her friend at school, and her constant
attendant at all the parties and evening meetings. Her
young friends all spoke of him as her lover, and even the
old people had talked of it as a very fitting match, as Susan,
besides good sense, good humor, and some beauty, had the
health, strength and activity which are always reckoned
among the qualifications for a farmer's wife.</p>

<p>Susan knew of this; but of late, domestic trouble had
kept her at home, and she knew not what his present feelings
were. Still she felt that they must not influence her
plans and resolutions. Delicacy forbade that she should
come and be an inmate of his father's house, and her very
affection for him had prompted the desire that she should be
as independent as possible of all favors from him, or his
father; and also the earnest desire that they might one day
clear themselves of debt. So she thanked the deacon for
his offer, but declined accepting it, and arose to take leave.</p>

<p>"I shall think a great deal about you, when you are
gone," said the deacon, "and will pray for you, too. I
never used to think about the sailors, till my wife's brother
visited us, who had led for many years a sea-faring life;
and now I always pray for those who are exposed to the
dangers of the great deep. And I will also pray for the
poor factory girls who work so hard and suffer so much."</p>

<p>"Pray for me, deacon," replied Susan in a faltering
voice, "that I may have strength to keep a good resolution."</p>

<p>She left the house with a sad heart; for the very success
of her hopes and wishes had brought more vividly to mind
the feeling that she was really to go and leave for many
years her friends and home.</p>

<p>She was almost glad that she had not seen Henry; and
while she was wondering what he would say and think,
when told that she was going to Lowell, she heard approaching
footsteps, and looking up, saw him coming towards
her. The thought&mdash;no, the idea, for it had not time
to form into a definite thought&mdash;flashed across her mind,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
that she must now arouse all her firmness, and not let Henry's
persuasion shake her resolution to leave them all, and
go to the factory.</p>

<p>But the very indifference with which he heard of her intention
was of itself sufficient to arouse her energy. He appeared
surprised, but otherwise wholly unconcerned, though
he expressed a hope that she would be happy and prosperous,
and that her health would not suffer from the change
of occupation.</p>

<p>If he had told her that he loved her&mdash;if he had entreated
her not to leave them, or to go with the promise of returning
to be his future companion through life&mdash;she could have
resisted it; for this she had resolved to do; and the happiness
attending an act of self-sacrifice would have been her
reward.</p>

<p>She had before known sorrow, and she had borne it patiently
and cheerfully; and she knew that the life which
was before her would have been rendered happier by the
thought, that there was one who was deeply interested for
her happiness, and who sympathized in all her trials.</p>

<p>When she parted from Henry it was with a sense of loneliness,
of utter desolation, such as she had never before experienced.
She had never before thought that he was dear
to her, and that she had wished to carry in her far-off place
of abode the reflection that she was dear to him. She felt
disappointed and mortified, but she blamed not him, neither
did she blame herself; she did not know that any one had
been to blame. Her young affections had gone forth as naturally
and as involuntarily as the vapors rise to meet the
sun. But the sun which had called them forth, had now
gone down, and they were returning in cold drops to the
heart-springs from which they had arisen; and Susan resolved
that they should henceforth form a secret fount,
whence every other feeling should derive new strength and
vigor. She was now more firmly resolved that her future
life should be wholly devoted to her kindred, and thought
not of herself but as connected with them.</p>



<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>


<p>It was with pain that Mrs. Miller heard of Susan's plan;
but she did not oppose her. She felt that it must be so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
that she must part with her for her own good and the benefit
of the family; and Susan hastily made preparations for
her departure.</p>

<p>She arranged everything in and about the house for her
mother's convenience; and the evening before she left she
spent in instructing Lydia how to take her place, as far as
possible, and told her to be always cheerful with mother,
and patient with the younger ones, and to write a long letter
every two months (for she could not afford to hear oftener),
and to be sure and not forget her for a single day.</p>

<p>Then she went to her own room; and when she had re-examined
her trunk, bandbox, and basket, to see that all
was right, and laid her riding-dress over the great armchair,
she sat down by the window to meditate upon her change of
life.</p>

<p>She thought, as she looked upon the spacious, convenient
chamber in which she was sitting, how hard it would be to
have no place to which she could retire and be alone, and
how difficult it would be to keep her things in order in the
fourth part of a small apartment, and how possible it was
that she might have unpleasant room-mates, and how probable
that every day would call into exercise all her kindness
and forbearance. And then she wondered if it would be
possible for her to work so long, and save so much, as to
render it possible that she might one day return to that
chamber and call it her own. Sometimes she wished she
had not undertaken it, that she had not let the deacon know
that she hoped to be able to pay him; she feared that she
had taken a burden upon herself which she could not bear,
and sighed to think that her lot should be so different from
that of most young girls.</p>

<p>She thought of the days when she was a little child;
when she played with Henry at the brook, or picked berries
with him on the hill; when her mother was always happy,
and her father always kind; and she wished that the time
could roll back, and she could again be a careless little
girl.</p>

<p>She felt, as we sometimes do, when we shut our eyes and
try to sleep, and get back into some pleasant dream, from
which we have been too suddenly awakened. But the dream
of youth was over, and before her was the sad waking reality
of a life of toil, separation, and sorrow.</p>

<p>When she left home the next morning, it was the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
time she had ever parted from her friends. The day was
delightful, and the scenery beautiful; a stage-ride was of itself
a novelty to her, and her companions pleasant and sociable;
but she felt very sad, and when she retired at night to
sleep in a hotel, she burst into tears.</p>

<p>Those who see the factory girls in Lowell, little think of
the sighs and heart-aches which must attend a young girl's
entrance upon a life of toil and privation, among strangers.</p>

<p>To Susan, the first entrance into a factory boarding-house
seemed something dreadful. The rooms looked strange and
comfortless, and the women cold and heartless; and when
she sat down to the supper-table, where, among more than
twenty girls, all but one were strangers, she could not eat a
mouthful. She went with Esther to their sleeping apartment,
and, after arranging her clothes and baggage, she
went to bed, but not to sleep.</p>

<p>The next morning she went into the mill; and at first,
the sight of so many bands, and wheels, and springs, in constant
motion was very frightful. She felt afraid to touch
the loom, and she was almost sure that she could never
learn to weave; the harness puzzled and the reed perplexed
her; the shuttle flew out, and made a new bump upon her
head; and the first time she tried to spring the lathe, she
broke out a quarter of the treads. It seemed as if the girls
all stared at her, and the overseers watched every motion,
and the day appeared as long as a month had been at home.
But at last it was night; and O, how glad was Susan to be
released! She felt weary and wretched, and retired to rest
without taking a mouthful of refreshment. There was a
dull pain in her head, and a sharp pain in her ankles; every
bone was aching, and there was in her ears a strange noise,
as of crickets, frogs, and jews-harps, all mingling together,
and she felt gloomy and sick at heart. "But it won't seem
so always," said she to herself; and with this truly philosophical
reflection, she turned her head upon a hard pillow,
and went to sleep.</p>

<p>Susan was right, it did not seem so always. Every succeeding
day seemed shorter and pleasanter than the last;
and when she was accustomed to the work, and had become
interested in it, the hours seemed shorter, and the days,
weeks, and months flew more swiftly by than they had ever
done before. She was healthy, active, and ambitious, and
was soon able to earn even as much as her cousin, who had
been a weaver several years.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p>

<p>Wages were then much higher than they are now; and
Susan had the pleasure of devoting the avails of her labor
to a noble and cherished purpose. There was a definite aim
before her, and she never lost sight of the object for which
she left her home, and was happy in the prospect of fulfilling
that design. And it needed all this hope of success, and
all her strength of resolution, to enable her to bear up
against the wearing influences of a life of unvarying toil.
Though the days seemed shorter than at first, yet there was
a tiresome monotony about them. Every morning the bells
pealed forth the same clangor, and every night brought the
same feeling of fatigue. But Susan felt, as all factory girls
feel, that she could bear it for a while. There are few who
look upon factory labor as a pursuit for life. It is but a
temporary vocation; and most of the girls resolve to quit
the mill when some favorite design is accomplished. Money
is their object&mdash;not for itself, but for what it can perform;
and pay-days are the landmarks which cheer all
hearts, by assuring them of their progress to the wished-for
goal.</p>

<p>Susan was always very happy when she enclosed the
quarterly sum to Deacon Rand, although it was hardly won,
and earned by the deprivation of many little comforts, and
pretty articles of dress, which her companions could procure.
But the thought of home, and the future happy days
which she might enjoy in it, was the talisman which ever
cheered and strengthened her.</p>

<p>She also formed strong friendships among her factory
companions, and became attached to her pastor, and their
place of worship. After the first two years she had also the
pleasure of her sister's society, and in a year or two more,
another came. She did not wish them to come while very
young. She thought it better that their bodies should be
strengthened, and their minds educated in their country
home; and she also wished, that in their early girlhood
they should enjoy the same pleasures which had once made
her own life a very happy one.</p>

<p>And she was happy now; happy in the success of her
noble exertions, the affection and gratitude of her relatives,
the esteem of her acquaintances, and the approbation of conscience.
Only once was she really disquieted. It was when
her sister wrote that Henry Rand was married to one of
their old school-mates. For a moment the color fled from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
her cheek, and a quick pang went through her heart. It
was but for a moment; and then she sat down and wrote
to the newly-married couple a letter, which touched their
hearts by its simple fervent wishes for their happiness, and
assurances of sincere friendship.</p>

<p>Susan had occasionally visited home, and she longed to
go, never to leave it; but she conquered the desire, and remained
in Lowell more than a year after the last dollar had
been forwarded to Deacon Rand. And then, O, how happy
was she when she entered her chamber the first evening after
her arrival, and viewed its newly-painted wainscoting,
and brightly-colored paper-hangings, and the new furniture
with which she had decorated it; and she smiled as she
thought of the sadness which had filled her heart the evening
before she first went to Lowell.</p>

<p>She now always thinks of Lowell with pleasure, for Lydia
is married here, and she intends to visit her occasionally,
and even sometimes thinks of returning for a little while to
the mills. Her brother James has married, and resides in
one half of the house, which he has recently repaired; and
Eliza, though still in the factory, is engaged to a wealthy
young farmer.</p>

<p>Susan is with her mother, and younger brothers and sisters.
People begin to think she will be an old maid, and
she thinks herself that it will be so. The old deacon still
calls her a good child, and prays every night and morning
for the factory girls.</p>

<div class="signature">F. G. A.</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>SCENES ON THE MERRIMAC.</h2>


<p>I have been but a slight traveller, and the beautiful rivers
of our country have, with but one or two exceptions, rolled
their bright waves before "the orbs of fancy" alone, and
not to my visual senses. But the few specimens which
have been favored me of river scenery, have been very happy
in the influence they have exerted upon my mind, in favor
of this feature of natural loveliness.</p>

<p>I do not wonder that the "stream of <i>his</i> fathers" should
be ever so favorite a theme with the poet, and that wherever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
he has sung its praise, the spot should henceforth be as
classic ground. Wherever some "gently rolling river"
has whispered its soft murmurs to the recording muse, its
name has been linked with his; and far as that name may
extend, is the beauty of that inspiring streamlet appreciated.</p>

<p>Helicon and Castalia are more frequently referred to than
Parnassus,&mdash;and even the small streams of hilly Scotland,
are renowned wherever the songs of her poet "are said or
sung." "The banks and braes o' bonny Doon," are duly
applauded in the drawing-rooms of America; and the Tweed,
the "clear winding Devon," the "braes of Ayr," the
"braes o' Ballochmyle," and the "sweet Afton," so often
the theme of his lays, for his "Mary's asleep by its murmuring
stream," are names even here quite as familiar, perhaps
more so, than our own broad and beauteous rivers.
Such is the hallowing power of Genius; and upon whatever
spot she may cast her bright unfading mantle, there is forever
stamped the impress of beauty.</p>

<p>"The Bard of Avon" is an honorary title wherever our
language is read; and though we may have few streams
which have as yet been sacred to the muse, yet time will
doubtless bring forth those whose genius shall make the Indian
cognomens of our noble rivers' names associated with all
that is lofty in intellect and beautiful in poetry.</p>

<p>The Merrimac has already received the grateful tribute of
praise from the muse of the New England poet; and well
does it merit the encomiums which he has bestowed upon it.
It is a beautiful river, from the time when its blue waters
start on their joyous course, leaving "the smile of the Great
Spirit," to wind through many a vale, and round many a
hill, till they mingle</p>

<div class="center">"With ocean's dark eternal tide."</div>

<p>I have said that I have seen but few rivers. No! never
have I stood</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"Where Hudson rolls his lordly flood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seen sunrise rest, and sunset fade<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Along his frowning palisade;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Looked down the Appalachian peak<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On Juniata's silver streak;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or seen along his valley gleam<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Mohawk's softly winding stream;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The setting sun, his axle red<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quench darkly in Potomac's bed;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;"&mdash;<br /></span>
</div>

<p>but I still imagine that all their beauties are concentrated in
the blue waters of the Merrimac&mdash;not as it appears here,
where, almost beneath my factory window, its broad tide
moves peacefully along; but where by "Salisbury's beach
of shining sand," it rolls amidst far lovelier scenes, and with
more rapid flow. Perhaps it is because it is <i>my</i> river that I
think it so beautiful&mdash;no matter if it is; there is a great
source of gratification in the feeling of whatever is in any
way connected with our <i>humble</i> selves is on that account invested
with some distinctive charm, and in some mysterious
way rendered peculiarly lovely.</p>

<p>But even to the stranger's eye, if he have any taste for the
beautiful in nature, the charms of the banks of the Merrimac
would not be disregarded. Can there be a more beautiful
bend in a river, than that which it makes at Salisbury Point?
It is one of the most picturesque scenes, at all events, which
I have ever witnessed. Stand for a moment upon the drawbridge
which spans with its single arch the spot where "the
winding Powow" joins his sparkling waters with the broad
tide of the receiving river. We will suppose it is a summer
morning. The thin white mist from the Atlantic, which
the night-spirit has thrown, like a bridal veil, over the vale
and river, is gently lifted by Aurora, and the unshrouded
waters blush "celestial rosy red" at the exposure of their
own loveliness. But the bright flush is soon gone, and as
the sun rides higher in the heavens, the millions of little
wavelets don their diamond crowns, and rise, and sink, and
leap, and dance rejoicingly together; and while their sparkling
brilliancy arrests the eye, their murmurs of delight are
no less grateful to the ear. The grove upon the Newbury
side is already vocal with the morning anthems of the feathered
choir, and from the maple, oak, and pine is rising one
glad peal of melody. The slight fragrance of the kalmia,
or American laurel, which flourishes here in much profusion,
is borne upon the morning breeze; and when their roseate
umbels are opened to the sun, they "sing to the eye,"
as their less stationary companions have done to the ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>

<p>The road which accompanies the river in its beauteous
curve, is soon alive with the active laborers of "Salisbury
shore;" and soon the loud "Heave-ho!" of the ship-builders
is mingled with the more mellifluous tones which
have preceded them. The other busy inhabitants are soon
threading the winding street, and as they glance upon their
bright and beauteous river, their breasts swell with emotions
of pleasure, though in their constant and active bustle, they
may seldom pause to analyze the cause. The single sail of
the sloop which has lain so listless at the little wharf, and
the double one of the schooner which is about to traverse its
way to the ocean, are unfurled to the morning wind, and the
loud orders of the bustling skipper, and the noisy echoes of
his bustling men, are borne upon the dewy breeze, and echoed
from the Newbury slopes. Soon they are riding upon
the bright waters, and the little skiff or wherry is also seen
darting about, amidst the rolling diamonds, while here and
there a heavy laden "gundelow" moves slowly along,
"with sure and steady aim," as though it disdained the
pastime of its livelier neighbors.</p>

<p>Such is many a morning scene on the banks of the Merrimac;
and not less delightful are those of the evening. Perhaps
the sunset has passed. The last golden tint has faded
from the river, and its waveless surface reflects the deep
blue of heaven, and sends back undimmed the first faint ray
of the evening star. The rising tide creeps rippling up the
narrow beach, sending along its foremost swell, which, in a
sort of drowsy play, leaps forward, and then sinks gently
back upon its successors. Now the tide is up&mdash;the trees
upon the wooded banks of Newbury, and the sandy hills upon
the Amesbury side, are pencilled with minutest accuracy
in the clear waters. Farther down, the dwellings at the
Ferry, and those of the Point, which stand upon the banks,
are also mirrored in the deep stream. You might also fancy
that beneath its lucid tide there was a duplicate village,
so distinct is every shadow. As, one by one, the lights appear
in the cottage windows, their reflected fires shoot up
from the depths of the Merrimac.</p>

<p>But the waters shine with brighter radiance as evening
lengthens; for Luna grows more lavish of her silvery beams
as the crimson tints of her brighter rival die in the western
sky. The shore is still and motionless, save where a pair
of happy lovers steal slowly along the shadowed walk which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
leads to Pleasant Valley. The old weather-worn ship at
the Point, which has all day long resounded with the clatter
of mischievous boys, is now wrapped in silence. The new
one in the ship-yard, which has also been dinning with the
maul and hammer, is equally quiet. But from the broad
surface of the stream there comes the song, the shout, and
the ringing laugh of the light-hearted. They come from
the boats which dot the water, and are filled with the young
and gay. Some have just shot from the little wharf, and
others have been for hours upon the river. What they have
been doing, and where they have been, I do not precisely
know; but, from the boughs which have been broken from
<i>somebody's</i> trees, and the large clusters of laurel which the
ladies bear, I think I can "guess-o."</p>

<p>But it grows late. The lights which have glowed in the
reflected buildings have one by one been quenched, and still
those light barks remain upon the river. And that large
"gundelow," which came down the Powow, from the mills,
with its freight of "factory girls," sends forth "the sound
of music and dancing." We will leave them&mdash;for it is possible
that they will linger till after midnight, and we have
staid quite long enough to obtain an evening's glimpse at
the Merrimac.</p>

<p>Such are some of the scenes on the river, and many are
also the pleasant spots upon its banks. Beautiful walks and
snug little nooks are not unfrequent; and there are bright
green sheltered coves, like Pleasant Valley, where "all
save the spirit of man is divine."</p>

<p>I remember the first steamboat which ever came hissing
and puffing and groaning and sputtering up the calm surface
of the Merrimac. I remember also the lovely moonlight
evening when I watched her return from Haverhill, and when
every wave and rock and tree were lying bathed in a flood of
silver radiance. I shall not soon forget her noisy approach,
so strongly contrasted with the stillness around, nor the long
loud ringing cheers which hailed her arrival and accompanied
her departure. I noted every movement, as she hissed
and splashed among the bright waters, until she reached the
curve in the river, and then was lost to view, excepting the
thick sparks which rose above the glistening foilage of the
wooded banks.</p>

<p>I remember also the first time I ever saw the aborigines of
our country. They were Penobscots, and then, I believe,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
upon their way to this city. They encamped among the
woods of the Newbury shore, and crossed the river (there
about a mile in width) in their little canoes, whenever they
wished to beg or trade.&mdash;They sadly refuted the romantic
ideas which I had formed from the descriptions of Cooper
and others; nevertheless, they were to me an interesting
people. They appeared so strange, with their birch-bark
canoes and wooden paddles, their women with men's hats
and such <i>outré</i> dresses, their little boys with their unfailing
bows and arrows, and the little feet which they all had.
Their curious, bright-stained baskets, too, which they sold
or gave away. I have one of them now, but it has lost its
bright tints. It was given me in return for a slight favor.&mdash;I
remember also one dreadful stormy night while they were
amongst us. The rain poured in torrents. The thick darkness
was unrelieved by a single lightning-flash, and the
hoarse murmur of the seething river was the only noise
which could be distinguished from the pitiless storm. I
thought of my new acquaintance, and looked out in the direction
of their camp. I could see at one time the lights
flickering among the thick trees, and darting rapidly to and
fro behind them, and then all would be unbroken gloom.
Sometimes I fancied I could distinguish a whoop or yell, and
then I heard nought but the pelting of the rain. As I gazed
on the wild scene, I was strongly reminded of scenes which
are described in old border tales, of wild banditti, and night
revels of lawless hordes of barbarians.</p>

<p>These are summer scenes; and in winter there is nothing
particularly beautiful in the icy robe with which the Merrimac
often enrobes its chilled waters. But the breaking up
of the ice is an event of much interest.</p>

<p>As spring approaches, and the weather becomes milder,
the river, which has been a thoroughfare for loaded teams
and lighter sleighs, is gradually shunned, even by the daring
skater. Little pools of bluish water, which the sun has
melted, stand in slight hollows, distinctly contrasted with
the clear dark ice in the middle of the stream, or the flaky
snow-crust near the shore. At length a loud crack is heard,
like the report of a cannon&mdash;then another, and another&mdash;and
finally the loosened mass begins to move towards the ocean.
The motion at first is almost imperceptible, but it gradually
increases in velocity, as the impetus of the descending ice
above propels it along; and soon the dark blue waters are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
seen between the huge chasms of the parting ice. By and
bye, the avalanches come drifting down, tumbling, crashing,
and whirling along, with the foaming waves boiling up
wherever they can find a crevice; and trunks of trees, fragments
of buildings, and ruins of bridges, are driven along
with the tumultuous mass.&mdash;A single night will sometimes
clear the river of the main portion of the ice, and then the
darkly-tinted waters will roll rapidly on, as though wildly
rejoicing at their deliverance from bondage. But for some
time the white cakes, or rather ice-islands, will be seen floating
along, though hourly diminishing in size, and becoming
more "like angel's visits."</p>

<p>But there is another glad scene occasionally upon the
Merrimac&mdash;and that is, when there is a launching. I have
already alluded to the ship-builders, and they form quite a
proportion of the inhabitants of the shore. And now, by
the way, I cannot omit a passing compliment to the inhabitants
of this same shore. It is seldom that so correct, intelligent,
contented, and truly comfortable a class of people is
to be found, as in this pretty hamlet. Pretty it most certainly
is&mdash;for nearly all the houses are neatly painted, and
some of them indicate much taste in the owners. And then
the people are so kind, good, and industrious. A Newburyport
editor once said of them, "They are nice folks there on
Salisbury shore; they always pay for their newspapers"&mdash;a
trait of excellence which printers can usually appreciate.</p>

<p>But now to the ships, whose building I have often watched
with interest, from the day when the long keel was laid
till it was launched into the river. This is a scene which is
likewise calculated to inspire salutary reflections, from the
comparison which is often instituted between ourselves and
a wave-tossed bark. How often is the commencement of
active life compared to the launching of a ship; and even
the unimaginative Puritans could sing,</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"Life's like a ship in constant motion,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Sometimes high and sometimes low,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where every man must plough the ocean,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Whatsoever winds may blow."<br /></span>
</div>

<p>The striking analogy has been more beautifully expressed
by better poets, though hardly with more force. And if we
are like wind-tossed vessels on a stormy sea, then the gradual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
formation of our minds may be compared to the building
of a ship. And it was this thought which often attracted my
notice to the labors of the shipwright.</p>

<p>First, the long keel is laid&mdash;then the huge ribs go up the
sides; then the rail-way runs around the top. Then commences
the boarding or timbering of the sides; and for
weeks, or months, the builder's maul is heard, as he pounds
in the huge <i>trunnels</i> which fasten all together. Then
there is the finishing inside, and the painting outside, and,
after all, the launching.</p>

<p>The first that I ever saw was a large and noble ship. It
had been long in building, and I had watched its progress
with much interest. The morning it was to be launched I
played truant to witness the scene. It was a fine sunshiny
day, Sept. 21, 1832; and I almost wished I was a boy, that
I might join the throng upon the deck, who were determined
upon a ride. The blocks which supported the ship were
severally knocked out, until it rested upon but one. When
that was gone, the ship would rest upon greased planks,
which descended to the water. It must have been a thrilling
moment to the man who lay upon his back, beneath the huge
vessel, when he knocked away the last prop. But it was
done, and swiftly it glided along the planks, then plunged
into the river, with an impetus which sunk her almost to her
deck, and carried her nearly to the middle of the river.
Then she slowly rose, rocked back and forth, and finally
righted herself, and stood motionless. But while the dashing
foaming waters were still clamorously welcoming her to
a new element, and the loud cheers from the deck were
ringing up into the blue sky, the bottle was thrown, and she
was named the <span class="smcap">Walter Scott</span>. It will be remembered
that this was the very day on which the Great Magician
died&mdash;a fact noticed in the Saturday Courier about that
time.</p>

<p>Several years after this, I was attending school in a
neighboring town. I happened one evening to take up a
newspaper. I think it was a Portsmouth paper; and I saw
the statement that a fine new ship had been burnt at sea,
called the <span class="smcap">Walter Scott</span>. The particulars were so minutely
given, as to leave no room for doubt that it was the beautiful
vessel which I had seen launched, upon the banks of the
Merrimac.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Annette.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE FIRST BELLS.</h2>


<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>


<p>There are times when I am melancholy, when the sun
seems to shine with a shadowy light, and the woods are filled
with notes of sadness; when the up-springing flowers
seem blossoms strewed upon a bier, and every streamlet
chants a requiem. Have we not all our trials? And though
we may bury the sad thoughts to which they give birth in
the dark recesses of our own hearts, yet Memory and Sensibility
must both be dead, if we can always be light and
mirthful.</p>

<p>Once it was not so. There was a time when I gaily
viewed the dull clouds of a rainy day, and could hear the
voice of rejoicing in the roarings of the wintry storm, when
sorrow was an unmeaning word, and in things which now
appear sacred my thoughtless mind could see the ludicrous.</p>

<p>These thoughts have been suggested by the recollection
of a poor old couple, to whom in my careless girlhood I
gave the name of "the first bells." And now, I doubt not,
you are wondering what strange association of ideas could
have led me to fasten this appellation upon a poor old man
and woman. My answer must be the narration of a few
facts.</p>

<p>When I was young, we all worshipped in the great meeting-house,
which now stands so vacant and forlorn upon the
brow of Church Hill. It is never used but upon town-meeting
days&mdash;for those who once went up to the house of God
in company, now worship in three separate buildings. There
is discord between them&mdash;that worst of all hatred, the animosity
which arises from difference of religious opinions.
I am sorry for it; not that I regret that they cannot all think
alike, but that they cannot "agree to differ." Because the
heads are not in unison, it needeth not that the hearts should
be estranged; and a difference of faith may be expressed in
kindly words. I have my friends among them all, and they
are not the less dear to me, because upon some doctrinal
points our opinions cannot be the same. A creed which I
do not now believe is hallowed by recollections of the Sabbath
worship, the evening meetings, the religious feelings&mdash;in
short, of the faith, hope, and trust of my earlier days.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p>

<p>I remember now how still and beautiful our Sunday mornings
used to seem, after the toil and play of the busy week.
I would take my catechism in my hand, and go and sit upon
a large flat stone, under the shade of the chestnut tree;
and, looking abroad, would wonder if there was a thing
which did not feel that it was the Sabbath. The sun was
as bright and warm as upon other days, but its light seemed
to fall more softly upon the fields, woods and hills; and
though the birds sung as loudly and joyfully as ever, I
thought their sweet voices united in a more sacred strain.
I heard a Sabbath tone in the waving of the boughs above
me, and the hum of the bees around me, and even the
bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the kine seemed
pitched upon some softer key. Thus it is that the heart
fashions the mantle with which it is wont to enrobe all nature,
and gives to its never silent voices a tone of joy, or sorrow,
or holy peace.</p>

<p>We had then no bell; and when the hour approached for
the commencement of religious services, each nook and dale
sent forth its worshippers in silence. But precisely half an
hour before the rest of our neighbors started, the old man
and woman, who lived upon Pine Hill, could be seen wending
their way to the meeting-house. They walked side by
side, with a slow even step, such as was befitting the errand
which had brought them forth. Their appearance was always
the signal for me to lay aside my book, and prepare to
follow them to the house of God. And it was because they
were so unvarying in their early attendance, because I was
never disappointed in the forms which first emerged from the
pine trees upon the hill, that I gave them the name of "the
first bells."</p>

<p>Why they went thus regularly early I know not, but
think it probable they wished for time to rest after their long
walk, and then to prepare their hearts to join in exercises
which were evidently more valued by them than by most of
those around them. Yet it must have been a deep interest
which brought so large a congregation from the scattered
houses, and many far-off dwellings of our thinly peopled
country town.</p>

<p>And every face was then familiar to me. I knew each
white-headed patriarch who took his seat by the door of his
pew, and every aged woman who seated herself in the low
chair in the middle of it; and the countenances of the middle-aged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
and the young were rendered familiar by the exchange
of Sabbath glances, as we met year after year in that
humble temple.</p>

<p>But upon none did I look with more interest than upon
"the first bells." There they always were when I took
my accustomed seat at the right hand of the pulpit. Their
heads were always bowed in meditation till they arose to
join in the morning prayer; and when the choir sent forth
their strain of praise they drew nearer to each other, and
looked upon the same book, as they silently sent forth the
spirit's song to their Father in heaven. There was an expression
of meekness, of calm and perfect faith, and of subdued
sorrow upon the countenances of both, which won
my reverence, and excited my curiosity to know more of
them.</p>

<p>They were poor. I knew it by the coarse and much-worn
garments which they always wore; but I could not
conjecture why they avoided the society and sympathy of all
around them. They always waited for our pastor's greeting
when he descended from the pulpit, and meekly bowed
to all around, but farther than this, their intercourse with
others extended not. It appeared to me that some heavy
trial, which had knit their own hearts more closely together,
and endeared to them their faith and its religious observances,
had also rendered them unusually sensitive to the careless
remarks and curious inquiries of a country neighborhood.</p>

<p>One Sabbath our pastor preached upon parental love. His
text was that affecting ejaculation of David, "O Absalom,
my son, my son!" He spoke of the depth and fervor of
that affection which in a parental heart will remain unchanged
and unabated, through years of sin, estrangement, and
rebellion. He spoke of that reckless insubordination which
often sends pang after pang through the parent's breast;
and of wicked deeds which sometimes bring their grey hairs
in sorrow to the grave. I heard stifled sobs; and looking
up, saw that the old man and woman at the right hand of
the pulpit had buried their faces in their hands. They were
trembling with agitation, and I saw that a fount of deep
and painful remembrances had now been opened. They
soon regained their usual calmness, but I thought their
steps more slow, and their countenances more sorrowful
that day, when after our morning service had closed, they
went to the grave in the corner of the churchyard. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
was no stone to mark it, but their feet had been wearing,
for many a Sabbath noon, the little path which led to it.</p>

<p>I went that night to my mother, and asked her if she
could not tell me something about "the first bells." She
chid me for the phrase by which I was wont to designate
them, but said that her knowledge of their former life was
very limited. Several years before, she added, a man was
murdered in hot blood in a distant town, by a person named
John L. The murderer was tried and hung; and not long
after, this old man and woman came and hired the little cottage
upon Pine Hill. Their names were the same that the
murderer had borne, and their looks of sadness and retiring
manners had led to the conclusion that they were his parents.
No one knew, certainly, that it was so&mdash;for they shrunk
from all inquiries, and never adverted to the past; but a
gentle and sad looking girl, who had accompanied them to
their new place of abode, had pined away, and died within
the first year of their arrival. She was their daughter, and
was supposed to have died of a broken heart for her brother
who had been hung. She was buried in the corner of the
churchyard, and every pleasant Sabbath noon her aged parents
had mourned together over her lowly grave.</p>

<p>"And now, my daughter," said my mother, in conclusion
"respect their years, their sorrows, and, above all, the
deep fervent piety which cheers and sustains them, and
which has been nurtured by agonies, and watered by tears,
such as I hope my child will never know."</p>

<p>My mother drew me to her side, and kissed me tenderly;
and I resolved that never again would I in a spirit of levity
call Mr. and Mrs. L. "the first bells."</p>



<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>


<p>Years passed on; and through summer's sunshine and
its showers, and through winter's cold and frost, and storms,
that old couple still went upon their never-failing Sabbath
pilgrimage. I can see them even now, as they looked in
days long gone by. The old man, with his loose, black,
Quaker-like coat, and low-crowned, much-worn hat, his
heavy cowhide boots, and coarse blue mittens; and his
partner walking slowly by his side, wearing a scanty brown
cloak with four little capes, and a close, black, rusty-looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
bonnet. In summer the cloak was exchanged for a cotton
shawl, and the woollen gown for one of mourning print.
The Sabbath expression was as unchangeable as its dress.
Their features were very different, but they had the same
mild, mournful look, the same touching glance, whenever
their eyes rested upon each other; and it was one which
spoke of sympathy, hallowed by heartfelt piety.</p>

<p>At length a coffin was borne upon a bier from the little
house upon the hill; and after that the widow went alone
each Sabbath noon to the two graves in the corner of the
churchyard. I felt sad when I thought how lonely and
sorrowful she must be now; and one pleasant day I ventured
an unbidden guest into her lowly cot. As I approached
her door, I heard her singing in a low, tremulous tone,</p>

<div class="center">"How are thy servants blessed, O Lord."</div>

<p>I was touched to the heart; for I could see that her blessings
were those of a faith, hope, and joy, which the world
could neither give nor take away.</p>

<p>She was evidently destitute of what the world calls comforts,
and I feared she might also want its necessaries. But
her look was almost cheerful as she assured me that her
knitting (at which I perceived she was quite expeditious)
supplied her with all which she now wanted.</p>

<p>I looked upon her sunburnt, wrinkled countenance, and
thought it radiant with moral beauty. She wore no cap,
and her thin grey hair was combed back from her furrowed
brow. Her dress was a blue woollen skirt, and a short loose
gown; and her hard shrivelled hands bore witness to much
unfeminine labor. Yet she was contented, and even happy,
and singing praise to God for his blessings.</p>

<p>The next winter I thought I could perceive a faltering in
her gait whenever she ascended Church Hill; and one Sabbath
she was not in her accustomed seat. The next, she
was also absent; and when I looked upon Pine Hill, I could
perceive no smoke issuing from her chimney. I felt anxious,
and requested liberty to make, what was then in our
neighborhood an unusual occurrence, a Sabbath visit. My
mother granted me permission to go, and remain as long as
my services might be necessary; and at the close of the afternoon
worship, I went to the little house upon the hill. I
listened eagerly for some sound as I entered the cold apartment;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
but hearing none, I tremblingly approached the low
hard bed. She was lying there with the same calm look of
resignation, and whispered a few words of welcome as I
took her hand.</p>

<p>"You are sick and alone," said I to her; "tell me what
I can do for you."</p>

<p>"I am sick," was her reply, "but not <i>alone</i>. He who
is every where, and at all times present, has been with me,
in the day and in the night. I have prayed to him, and received
answers of mercy, love, and peace. He has sent His
angel to call me home, and there is nought for you to do but
to watch the spirit's departure."</p>

<p>I felt that it was so; yet I must do something. I kindled
a fire, and prepared some refreshment; and after she drank
a bowl of warm tea, I thought she looked better. She
asked me for her Bible, and I brought her the worn volume
which had been lying upon the little stand. She took from
it a soiled and much worn letter, and after pressing it to her
lips, endeavored to open it&mdash;but her hands were too weak,
and it dropped upon the bed. "No matter," said she, as I
offered to open it for her; "I know all that is in it, and in
that book also. But I thought I should like to look once
more upon them both. I have read them daily for many years
till now; but I do not mind it&mdash;I shall go soon."</p>

<p>She followed me with her eyes as I laid them aside, and
then closing them, her lips moved as if in prayer. She soon
after fell into a slumber, and I watched her every breath,
fearing it might be the last.</p>

<p>What lessons of wisdom, truth and fortitude were taught
me by that humble bed-side! I had never before been with
the dying, and I had always imagined a death-bed to be
fraught with terror. I expected that there were always
fearful shrieks and appalling groans, as the soul left its clay
tenement; but my fears were now dispelled. A sweet
calmness stole into my inmost soul, as I watched by the low
couch of the sufferer; and I said, "If this be death, may
my last end be like hers."</p>

<p>But at length I saw that some dark dream had brought a
frown upon the pallid brow, and an expression of woe
around the parched lips. She was endeavoring to speak or
to weep, and I was about to awaken her, when a sweet
smile came like a flash of sunlight over her sunken face,
and I saw that the dream of woe was exchanged for one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
pleasure. Then she slept calmly, and I wondered if the
spirit would go home in that peaceful slumber. But at
length she awoke, and after looking upon me and her little
room with a bewildered air, she heaved a sigh, and said
mournfully, "I thought that I was not to come back again,
but it is only for a little while. I have had a pleasant dream,
but not at first. I thought once that I stood in the midst of
a vast multitude, and we were all looking up at one who
was struggling on a gallows. O, I have seen that sight in
many a dream before, but still I could not bear it, and I said,
'Father, have mercy;' and then I thought that the sky rolled
away from behind the gallows, and there was a flood of
glory in the depth beyond; and I heard a voice saying to
him who was hanging there, 'This day shalt thou be with
me in Paradise!' And then the gallows dropped, and the
multitude around me vanished, and the sky rolled together
again; but before it had quite closed over that scene of
beauty, I looked again, and <i>they were all there</i>. Yes," added
she with a placid smile, "I know that <i>he</i> is there with
them; the <i>three</i> are in heaven, and <i>I</i> shall be there soon."</p>

<p>She ceased, and a drowsy feeling came over her. After
a while she opened her eyes with a strange look of anxiety
and terror. I went to her, but she could not speak, and she
pressed my hand closely, as though she feared I would leave
her. It was a momentary terror, for she knew that the last
pangs were coming on. There was a painful struggle, and
then came rest and peaceful confidence. "That letter,"
whispered she convulsively; and I went to the Bible, and
took from it the soiled paper which claimed her thoughts
even in death. I laid it in her trembling hands, which
clasped it nervously, and then pressing it to her heart, she
fell into that slumber from which there is no awakening.</p>

<p>When I saw that she was indeed gone, I took the letter,
and laid it in its accustomed place; and then, after straightening
the limbs, and throwing the bed-clothes over the stiffening
form, I left the house.</p>

<p>It was a dazzling scene of winter beauty that met my eye
as I went forth from that lowly bed of death. The rising
sun threw a rosy light upon the crusted snow, and the earth
was dressed in a robe of sparkling jewels. The trees were
hung with glittering drops, and the frozen streams were
dressed in lobes of brilliant beauty.</p>

<p>I thought of her upon whose eyes a brighter morn had beamed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
and of a scene of beauty upon which no sun should ever
set, and whose never-fading glories shall yield a happiness
which may never pass away.</p>

<p>I went home, and told my mother what had passed; and
she went, with some others, to prepare the body for burial.
I went to look upon it once more, the morning of the funeral.
The features had assumed a rigid aspect, but the placid
smile was still there. The hands were crossed upon the
breast; and as the form lay so still and calm in its snowy
robes, I almost wished that the last change might come upon
me, so that it would bring a peace like this, which should
last for evermore.</p>

<p>I went to the Bible, and took from it that letter. Curiosity
was strong within me, and I opened it. It was signed
"John L.," and dated from his prison the night before his
execution. But I did not read it. O no! it was too sacred.
It contained those words of penitence and affection over
which her stricken heart had brooded for years. It had
been the well-spring from which she had drunk joy and consolation,
and derived her hopes of a reunion where there
should be no more shame, nor sorrow, nor death.</p>

<p>I could not destroy that letter: so I laid it beneath the
clasped hands, over the heart to which it had been pressed
when its beatings were forever stilled; and they buried her,
too, in the corner of the churchyard; and that tattered paper
soon mouldered to ashes upon her breast. * * * *</p>

<p>We have now a bell upon our new meeting-house; and
when I hear its Sabbath morning peal, my thoughts are subdued
to a tone fitting for sacred worship; for my mind goes
back to that old couple, whom I was wont to call "the first
bells;" and I think of the power of religion to hallow and
strengthen the affections, to elevate the mind, and sustain
the drooping spirit, even in the saddest and humblest lot of
life.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Susanna.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 204px;">
<img src="images/illus-107.jpg" width="204" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
<h2>EVENING BEFORE PAY-DAY.</h2>



<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>


<p>"To-morrow is pay-day; are you not glad, Rosina, and
Lucy? <i>Dorcas</i> is, I know; for she always loves to see the
money. Don't I speak truth <i>now</i>, Miss Dorcas Tilton?"</p>

<p>"I wish you would stop your clack, Miss Noisy Impudence;
for I never heard you speak anything that was
worth an answer. Let me alone, for I have not yet been
able to obtain a moment's time to read my tract."</p>

<p>"'My tract'&mdash;how came it 'my tract,' Miss Stingy
Oldmaid?&mdash;for I can call names as fast as you," was the
reply of Elizabeth Walters. "Not because you bought it,
or paid for it, or gave a thank'ee to those who did; but because
you lay your clutches upon every thing you can get
without downright stealing."</p>

<p>"Well," replied Dorcas, "I do not think I have clutched
any thing now which was much coveted by anyone else."</p>

<p>"You are right, Dorcas," said Rosina Alden, lifting her
mild blue eye for the first time towards the speakers; "the
tracts left here by the monthly distributors are thrown about,
and trampled under foot, even by those who most approve
the sentiments which they contain. I have not seen anyone
take them up to read but yourself."</p>

<p>"She likes them," interrupted the vivacious Elizabeth,
"because she gets them for nothing. They come to her as
cheap as the light of the sun, or the dews of heaven; and
thus they are rendered quite as valuable in her eyes."</p>

<p>"And that very cheapness, that freedom from exertion
and expense by which they are obtained, is, I believe, the
reason why they are generally so little valued," added Rosina.
"People are apt to think things worthless which come
to them so easily. They believe them cheap, if they are offered
cheap. Now I think, without saying one word against
those tracts, that they would be more valued, more perused,
and exert far more influence, if they were only to be obtained
by payment for them. If they do good now, it is to the
publishers only; for I do not think the community in general
is influenced by them in the slightest degree. If Dorcas
feels more interested in them because she procures them gratuitously,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
it is because she is an exception to the general
rule."</p>

<p>"I like sometimes," said Dorcas, "to see the voice of instruction,
of warning, of encouragement, and reproof, coming
to the thoughtless, ignorant, poor and sinful, as it did
from him who said to those whom he sent to inculcate its
truths, Freely ye have received, <i>freely give</i>. The gospel is
an expensive luxury now, and those only who can afford to
pay their four, or six, or more, dollars a year, can hear its
truths from the successors of him who lifted his voice upon
the lonely mountain, and opened his lips for council at the
table of the despised publican, or under the humble roof of
the Magdalen."</p>

<p>"Do not speak harshly, Dorcas," was Rosina's reply;
"times have indeed changed since the Savior went about
with not a shelter for his head, dispensing the bread of life
to all who would but reach forth their hands and take it; but
circumstances have also changed since then. It is true, we
must lay down our money for almost everything we have;
but money is much more easily obtained than it was then.
It is true, we cannot procure a year's seat in one of our most
expensive churches for less than your present week's wages;
and if you really wish for the benefits of regular gospel instruction,
you must make for it as much of an exertion as
was made by the woman who went on her toilsome errand
to the deep well of Samaria, little aware that she was there
to receive the waters of eternal life. Do not say that it was
by no effort, no self-denial, that the gospel was received by
those who followed the great Teacher to the lonely sea-side,
or even to the desert, where, weary and famished, they remained
day after day, beneath the heat of a burning sun, and
were relieved from hunger but by a miracle. And who so
poor now, or so utterly helpless, that they cannot easily obtain
the record of those words which fell so freely upon the
ears of the listening multitudes of Judea? If there are such,
there are societies which will cheerfully relieve their wants,
if application be made. And these tracts, which come to us
with scarcely the trouble of stretching forth our hands for
their reception, are doubtless meant for good."</p>

<p>"Well, Rosina," exclaimed Elizabeth, "if you hold out
a little longer, I think Dorcas will have no reason to complain
but that she gets <i>her</i> preaching cheap enough; but as
I, for one, am entirely willing to pay for mine, you may be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
excused for the present; and those who wish to hear a theological
discussion, can go and listen to the very able expounders
of the Baptist and Universalist faiths, who are just
now holding forth in the other chamber. As Dorcas hears
no preaching but that which comes <i>as cheap as the light of
the sun</i>, she will probably like to go; and do not be offended
with me, Rosina, if I tell you plainly, that you are not the
one to rebuke her. What sacrifice have you made? How
much have you spent? When have you ever given anything
for the support of the gospel?"</p>

<p>A tear started to Rosina's eye, and the color deepened upon
her cheek. Her lip quivered, but she remained silent.</p>

<p>"Well," said Lucy to Elizabeth, "all this difficulty is the
effect of the very simple question you asked; and I will answer
for one, that I am glad to-morrow is pay-day. Pray
what shall you get that is new, Elizabeth?"</p>

<p>"Oh, I shall get one of those damask silk shawls which
are now so fashionable. How splendid it will look! Let
me see; this is a five weeks' payment, and I have earned
about two dollars per week; and so have you, and Rosina;
and Dorcas has earned a great deal more, for she has extra
work. Pray what new thing shall <i>you</i> get, Dorcas?" added
she, laughing.</p>

<p>"She will get a new bank book, I suppose," replied Lucy.
"She has already deposited in her own name five hundred
dollars, and now she has got a book in the name of her
little niece, and I do not know but she will soon procure another.
She almost worships them, and Sundays she stays
here reckoning up her interest while we are at meeting."</p>

<p>"I think it is far better," retorted Dorcas, "to stay at
home, than to go to meeting, as Elizabeth does, to show her
fine clothes. I do not make a mockery of public worship to
God."</p>

<p>"There, Lizzy, you must take that, for you deserved it,"
said Lucy to her friend. "You know you <i>do</i> spend almost
all your money in dress."</p>

<p>"Well," said Elizabeth, "I shall sow all my wild oats
now, and when I am an old maid I will be as steady, but
<i>not quite</i> so stingy as Dorcas. I will get a bank book, and
trot down Merrimack street as often as she does, and everybody
will say, 'what a remarkable change in Elizabeth Walters!
She used to spend all her wages as fast as they were
paid her, but now she puts them in the bank. She will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
quite a fortune for some one, and I have no doubt she will
get married for what she <i>has</i>, if not for what she is.' But I
cannot begin now, and I don't see how <i>you</i> can, Rosina."</p>

<p>"I have not begun," replied Rosina, in a low sorrowful
tone.</p>

<p>"Why yes, you have; you are as miserly now as Dorcas
herself; and I cannot bear to think of what you may become.
Now tell me if you will not get a new gown and
bonnet, and go to meeting?"</p>

<p>"I cannot," replied Rosina, decidedly.</p>

<p>"Well, do, if you have any mercy on us, buy a new gown
to wear in the Mill, for your old one is so shabby. When
calico is nine-pence a yard, I do think it is mean to wear
such an old thing as that; besides, I should not wonder if
it should soon drop off your back."</p>

<p>"Will it not last me one month more?" and Rosina began
to mend the tattered dress with a very wistful countenance.</p>

<p>"Why, I somewhat doubt it; but at all events, you must
have another pair of shoes."</p>

<p>"These are but just beginning to let in the water," said
Rosina; "I think they must last me till another pay-day."</p>

<p>"Well, if you have a fever or consumption, Dorcas may
take care of you, for <i>I</i> will not; but what," continued the
chattering Elizabeth, "shall you buy that is new, Lucy?"</p>

<p>"Oh, a pretty new, though cheap, bonnet; and I shall also
pay my quarter's pew-rent, and a year's subscription to the
'Lowell Offering;' and that is all that I shall spend. You
have laughed much about old maids; but it was an old maid
who took care of me when I first came to Lowell, and she
taught me to lay aside half of every month's wages. It is a
rule from which I have never deviated, and thus I have quite
a pretty sum at interest, and have never been in want of anything."</p>

<p>"Well," said Elizabeth, "will you go out to-night with
me, and we will look at the bonnets, and also the damask
silk shawls? I wish to know the prices. How I wish to-day
had been pay-day, and then I need not have gone out with
an empty purse."</p>

<p>"Well, Lizzy, <i>you</i> know that 'to-morrow is pay-day,' do
you not?"</p>

<p>"Oh yes, and the beautiful pay-master will come in, rattling
his coppers so nicely."</p>

<p>"Beautiful!" exclaimed Lucy; "do you call our pay-master
<i>beautiful</i>?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p>

<p>"Why, I do not know that he would look beautiful, if he
was coming to cut my head off; but really, that money-box
makes him look delightfully."</p>

<p>"Well, Lizzy, it <i>does</i> make a great difference in his
appearance, I know; but if we are going out to-night, we
must be in a hurry."</p>

<p>"If you go by the post-office, do ask if there is a letter
for me," said Rosina.</p>

<p>"Oh, I hate to go near the post-office in the evening; the
girls act as wild as so many Caribbee Indians. Sometimes
I have to stand there an hour on the ends of my toes, stretching
my neck, and sticking out my eyes; and when I think I
have been pommeled and jostled long enough, I begin to
'set up on my own hook,' and I push away the heads that
have been at the list as if they were committing it all to
memory, and I send my elbows right and left in the most approved
style, till I find myself 'master of the field.'"</p>

<p>"Oh, Lizzy! you know better; how can you do so?"</p>

<p>"Why, Lucy, pray tell me what <i>you</i> do?"</p>

<p>"I go away, if there is a crowd; or if I feel very anxious
to know whether there is a letter for me, the worst that I do
is to try 'sliding and gliding.' I dodge between folks, or slip
through them, till I get waited upon. But I know that we
all act worse there than anywhere else; and if the post-master
speaks a good word for the factory girls, I think it
must come against his conscience, unless he has seen them
somewhere else than in the office."</p>

<p>"Well, well, we must hasten along," said Elizabeth;
"and stingy as Rosina is, I suppose she will be willing to
pay for a letter; so I will buy her one, if I can get it. Good
evening, ladies," continued she, tying her bonnet; and she
hurried after Lucy, who was already down the stairs, leaving
Dorcas to read her tract at leisure, and Rosina to patch her
old calico gown, with none to torment her.</p>



<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>


<p>"Two letters!" exclaimed Elizabeth, as she burst into
the chamber, holding them up, as little Goody in the storybook
held up her "two shoes;" "two letters! one for <i>you</i>,
Rosina, and the other is for <i>me</i>. Only look at it! It is from
a cousin of mine, who has never lived out of sight of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
Green Mountains. I do believe, notwithstanding all that is
said about the ignorance of the factory girls, that the letters
which <i>go out</i> of Lowell look as well as those which <i>come
into</i> it. See here: up in the left hand corner, the direction
commences, 'Miss;' one step lower is 'Elizabeth;' then
down another step, 'Walters.' Another step brings us down
to 'Lowell;' one more is the 'City;' and down in the
right hand corner is 'Massachusetts,' at full length. Quite
a regular stair-case, if the steps had been all of an equal
width. Miss Elizabeth Walters, Lowell City, Massachusetts,
anticipates much edification from the perusal thereof,"
said she, as she broke the seal.</p>

<p>"Oh, I must tell you an anecdote," said Lucy. "While
we were waiting there, I saw one girl push her face into the
little aperture, and ask if there was a paper for her; and
the clerk asked if it was a transient paper. 'A what?' said
she. 'A transient paper,' he repeated. 'Why, I don't
know what paper it is,' was the reply; 'sometimes our folks
send me one, and sometimes another.'"</p>

<p>Dorcas and Elizabeth laughed, and the latter exclaimed,
"Girls, I am not so selfish as to be unwilling that you should
share my felicity. Should you not like to see my letter?"
and she held it up before them. "It is quite a contrast to
our Rosina's delicate Italian penmanship, although she is a
factory girl."</p>

<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Cousin.</span>&mdash;I write this to let you know that I am
well, and hope you are enjoying the same great blessing.
Father and Mother are well too. Uncle Joshua is sick of
the information of the brain. We think he will die, but he
says that he shall live his days out. We have not had a letter
from you since you went to Lowell. I send this by Mary
Twining, an old friend of mine. She works upon the Appletown
Corporation. She will put this in the post-office,
because we do not know where you work. I hope you will
go and see her. We have had a nice time making maple
sugar this spring. I wish you had been with us. When
you are married, you must come with your husband. Write
to me soon, and if you don't have a chance to send it by
private conveyance, drop it into the post-office. I shall get
it, for the mail-stage passes through the village twice a week.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">'I want to see you morn, I think,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than I can write with pen and ink;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But when I shall, I cannot tell&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At present I must wish you well.'<br /></span>
</div>

<div class="signature2">"Your loving cousin,</div>
<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">"Judith Walters</span>."</div>
</blockquote>

<p>"Well," said Elizabeth, drawing a long breath, "I do
not think my <i>loving cousin</i> will ever die of the 'information
of the brain;' but if it should get there, I do not know
what might happen.&mdash;But, Rosina, from whom is <i>your</i> letter?"</p>

<p>"My mother," said Rosina; and she seated herself at
the little light-stand, with a sheet of paper, pen, and inkstand.</p>

<p>"Why, you do not intend to answer it to-night?"</p>

<p>"I must commence it to-night," replied Rosina, "and
finish it to-morrow night, and carry it to the post-office. I
cannot write a whole letter in one evening."</p>

<p>"Why, what is the matter?" said Dorcas.</p>

<p>"My twin-sister is very sick," replied Rosina; and the
tears she could no longer restrain gushing freely forth.
The girls, who had before been in high spirits, over cousin
Judy's letter, were subdued in an instant. Oh, how quick
is the influence of sympathy for grief! Not another word
was spoken. The letter was put away in silence, and the
girls glided noiselessly around the room, as they prepared to
retire to rest.</p>

<p>Shall we take a peep at Rosina's letter? It may remove
some false impressions respecting her character, and many
are probably suffering injustice from erroneous opinions,
when, if all could be known, the very conduct which has
exposed them to censure would excite approbation. Her
widowed mother's letter was the following:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">My Dear Child.</span>&mdash;Many thanks for your last letter,
and many more for the present it contained. It was very
acceptable, for it reached me when I had not a cent in the
world. I fear you deprive yourself of necessaries to send me
so much. But all you can easily spare will be gladly received.
I have as much employment at tailoring as I can find time to
do, and sometimes I sit up all night, when I cannot accomplish
my self-allotted task during the day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p>

<p>"I have delayed my reply to your letter, because I wished
to know what the doctors really thought of your sister
Marcia. They consulted to-day, and tell me <i>there is no hope</i>.
The suspense is now over, but I thought I was better prepared
for the worst than I am. She wished me to tell her
what the doctors said. At length I yielded to her importunities.
'Oh, mother,' said she, with a sweet smile, 'I am
so glad they have told you, for I have known it for a long
time. You must write to Rosina to come and see me before
I die.' Do as you think best, my dear, about coming.
You know how glad we would be to see you. But
if you cannot come, do not grieve too much about it.&mdash;Marcia
must soon die, and you, I hope, will live many
years; but the existence which you commenced together
here, I feel assured will be continued in a happier world.
The interruption which will now take place will be short,
in comparison with the life itself which shall have no end.
And yet it is hard to think that one so young, so good, and
lovely, is so soon to lie in the silent grave. While the blue
skies of heaven are daily growing more softly beautiful, and
the green things of earth are hourly putting forth a brighter
verdure, she, too, like the lovely creatures of nature, is
constantly acquiring some new charm, to fit her for that
world which she will so soon inhabit. Death is coming,
with his severest tortures, but she arrays her person in
bright loveliness at his approach, and her spirit is robed in
graces which well may fit her for that angel-band, which
she is so soon to join.</p>

<p>"I am now writing by her bed-side. She is sleeping
soundly now, but there is a heavy dew upon the cheek,
brow, and neck of the tranquil sleeper. A rose&mdash;it is one
of <i>your</i> roses, Rosina&mdash;is clasped in her transparent hand:
and one rosy pedal has somehow dropped upon her temple.
It breaks the line which the blue vein has so distinctly
traced on the clear white brow. I will take it away, and
enclose it in the letter. When you see it, perhaps it will
bring more vividly to memory the days when you and
Marcia frolicked together among the wild rose bushes.&mdash;Those
which you transplanted to the front of the house
have grown astonishingly. Marcia took care of them as
long as she could go out of doors; for she wished to do
something to show her gratitude to you. Now that she can
go among them no longer, she watches them through the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
window, and the little boys bring her every morning the
most beautiful blossoms. She enjoys their beauty and
fragrance, as she does everything which is reserved for her
enjoyment. There is but one thought which casts a shade
upon that tranquil spirit, and it is that she is such a helpless
burden upon us. The last time that she received a compensation
for some slight article which she had exerted herself
to complete, she took the money and sent Willy for some
salt. 'Now, mother,' said she, with the arch smile which
so often illuminated her countenance in the days of health,
'Now, mother you cannot say that I do not earn my salt.'</p>

<p>"But I must soon close, for in a short time she will
awaken, and suffer for hours from her agonizing cough.&mdash;No
one need tell me now that a consumption makes an easy
path to the grave. I watched too long by your father's bed-side,
and have witnessed too minutely all of Marcia's sufferings
to be persuaded of this.</p>

<p>"But she breathes less softly now, and I must hasten. I
have said little of the other members of the family, for I
knew you would like to hear particularly about her. The
little boys are well&mdash;they are obedient to me, and kind to
their sister. Answer as soon as you receive this, for Marcia's
sake, unless you come and visit us.</p>

<p>"And now, hoping that this will find you in good health,
as, by the blessing of God, it leaves me, (a good though
an old-fashioned manner of closing a letter,) I remain as
ever,</p>

<div class="signature">"Your affectionate mother."</div></blockquote>

<p>Rosina's reply was as follows:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mother.</span>&mdash;I have just received your long-expected
letter, and have seated myself to commence an answer,
for I cannot go home.</p>

<p>"I do wish very much to see you all, especially dear
Marcia, once more; but it is not best. I know you think
so, or you would have urged my return. I think I shall feel
more contented here, earning comforts for my sick sister
and necessaries for you, than I should be there, and
unable to relieve a want. 'To-morrow is pay-day,' and my
earnings, amounting to ten dollars, I shall enclose in this letter.
Do not think I am suffering for anything, for I get a long
very well. But I am obliged to be extremely prudent, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
the girls here call me miserly. Oh, mother! it is hard to be
so misunderstood; but I cannot tell <i>them</i> all.</p>

<p>"But your kind letters are indeed a solace to me, for they
assure me that the mother whom I have always loved and
reverenced approves of my conduct. I shall feel happier to-morrow
night, when I enclose that bill to you, than my
room-mates can be in the far different disposal of theirs.</p>

<p>"What a blessing it is that we can send money to our
friends; and indeed what a blessing that we can send them
a letter. Last evening you was penning the lines which I
have just perused, in my far-distant home; and not twenty-four
hours have elapsed since the rose-leaf before me was
resting on the brow of my sister; but it is now ten o'clock,
and I must bid you good night, reserving for to-morrow
evening the remainder of my epistle, which I shall address
to Marcia."</p></blockquote>

<p>It was long before Rosina slept that night; and when she
did, she was troubled at first by fearful dreams. But at
length it seemed to her that she was approaching the quiet
home of her childhood. She did not remember where she
had been, but had a vague impression that it was in some
scene of anxiety, sorrow, and fatigue; and she was longing
to reach that little cot, where it appeared so still and happy.
She thought the sky was very clear above it, and the yellow
sunshine lay softly on the hills and fields around it. She saw
her rose-bushes blooming around it, like a little wilderness
of blossoms; and while she was admiring their increased
size and beauty, the door was opened, and a body arrayed in
the snowy robes of the grave, was carried beneath the rose-bushes.
They bent to a slight breeze which swept above
them, and a shower of snowy petals fell upon the marble
face and shrouded form. It was as if nature had paid this
last tribute of gratitude to one who had been one of her truest
and loveliest votaries.</p>

<p>Rosina started forward that she might remove the fragrant
covering, and imprint one last kiss upon the fair cold brow;
but a hand was laid upon her, and a well-known voice
repeated her name. And then she started, for she heard
the bell ring loudly; and she opened her eyes as Dorcas
again cried out, "Rosina, the second bell is ringing."&mdash;Elizabeth
and Lucy were already dressed, and they exclaimed
at the same moment, "Remember, Rosina, that <i>to-day is
pay-day</i>."</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Lucinda.</span></div>


<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE INDIAN PLEDGE.</h2>


<p>On the door-steps of a cottage in the land of "steady
habits," some ninety or an hundred years since, might, on a
soft evening in June, have been seen a sturdy young farmer,
preparing his scythes for the coming hay-making season.
So intent was he upon his work that he heeded not the approach
of a tall Indian, accoutred for a hunting expedition,
until, "Will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper
and lodging for the night?" in a tone of supplication,
caught his ear.</p>

<p>The farmer raised his eyes from his work, and darting
fury from beneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows, he exclaimed,
"Heathen, Indian dog, begone! you shall have nothing
here."</p>

<p>"But I am very hungry," said the Indian; "give only
a crust of bread and a bone to strengthen me on my
journey."</p>

<p>"Get you gone, you heathen dog," said the farmer; "I
have nothing for you."</p>

<p>"Give me but a cup of cold water," said the Indian,
"for I am very faint."</p>

<p>This appeal was not more successful than the others.&mdash;Reiterated
abuse, and to be told to drink when he came to a
river, was all he could obtain from one who bore the name
of Christian! But the supplicating appeal fell not unheeded
on the ear of one of finer mould and more sensibility.
The farmer's youthful bride heard the whole, as she sat
hushing her infant to rest; and from the open casement she
watched the poor Indian until she saw his dusky form sink,
apparently exhausted, on the ground at no great distance
from her dwelling. Ascertaining that her husband was too
busied with his work to notice her, she was soon at the
Indian's side, with a pitcher of milk and a napkin filled with
bread and cheese. "Will my red brother slake his thirst
with some milk?" said this angel of mercy; and as he essayed
to comply with her invitation, she untied the napkin,
and bade him eat and be refreshed.</p>

<p>"Cantantowwit protect the white dove from the pounces<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
of the eagle," said the Indian; "for <i>her</i> sake the unfledged
young shall be safe in their nest, and her red brother will
not seek to be revenged."</p>

<p>He then drew a bunch of feathers from his bosom, and
plucking one of the longest, gave it to her, and said,
"When the white dove's mate flies over the Indians' hunting
grounds, bid him wear this on his head." * * * *</p>

<p>The summer had passed away. Harvest-time had come
and gone, and preparations had been made for a hunting excursion
by the neighbors. Our young farmer was to be one
of the party; but on the eve of their departure he had
strange misgivings relative to his safety. No doubt his
imagination was haunted by the form of the Indian, whom,
in the preceding summer he had treated so harshly.</p>

<p>The morning that witnessed the departure of the hunters
was one of surpassing beauty. Not a cloud was to be seen,
save one that gathered on the brow of Ichabod (our young
farmer), as he attempted to tear a feather from his hunting-cap,
which was sewed fast to it. His wife arrested his hand,
while she whispered in his ear, and a slight quiver agitated
his lips as he said, "Well, Mary, if you think this feather
will protect me from the arrows of the red-skins, I'll e'en
let it remain." Ichabod donned his cap, shouldered his
rifle, and the hunters were soon on their way in quest of
game.</p>

<p>The day wore away as was usual with people on a like
excursion; and at nightfall they took shelter in the den of
a bear, whose flesh served for supper, and whose skin spread
on bruin's bed of leaves, pillowed their heads through a long
November night.</p>

<p>With the first dawn of morning, the hunters left their
rude shelter and resumed their chase. Ichabod, by some
mishap, soon separated from his companions, and in trying
to join them got bewildered. He wandered all day in the
forest, and just as the sun was receding from sight, and he
was about sinking down in despair, he espied an Indian hut.
With mingled emotions of hope and fear, he bent his steps
towards it; and meeting an Indian at the door, he asked him
to direct him to the nearest white settlement.</p>

<p>"If the weary hunter will rest till morning, the eagle will
show him the way to the nest of his white dove," said the
Indian, as he took Ichabod by the hand and led him within
his hut. The Indian gave him a supper of parched corn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
and venison, and spread the skins of animals, which he had
taken in hunting, for his bed.</p>

<p>The light had hardly began to streak the east, when the
Indian awoke Ichabod, and after a slight repast, the twain
started for the settlement of the whites. Late in the afternoon,
as they emerged from a thick wood, Ichabod with joy
espied his home. A heartfelt ejaculation had scarce escaped
his lips, when the Indian stepped before him, and turning
around, stared him full in the face, and inquired if he had
any recollection of a previous acquaintance with his red
brother. Upon being answered in the negative, the Indian
said, "Five moons ago, when I was faint and weary, you
called me an Indian dog, and drove me from your door. I
might now be revenged; but Cantantowwit bids me tell you
to go home; and hereafter, when you see a red man in need
of kindness, do to him as you have been done by. Farewell."</p>

<p>The Indian having said this, turned upon his heel, and
was soon out of sight. Ichabod was abashed. He went
home purified in heart, having learned a lesson of Christianity
from an untutored savage.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Tabitha.</span></div>


<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE FIRST DISH OF TEA.</h2>


<p>Tea holds a conspicuous place in the history of our country;
but it is no part of my business to offer comments, or
to make any remarks upon the spirit of olden time, which
prompted those patriotic defenders of their country's rights
to destroy so much tea, to express their indignation at the
oppression of their fellow citizens. I only intend to inform
the readers of the "Lowell Offering" that the first dish of
tea which was ever made in Portsmouth, N. H., was made
by Abigail Van Dame, my great-great-grandmother.</p>

<p>Abigail was early in life left an orphan, and the care of
her tender years devolved upon her aunt Townsend, to
whose store fate had never added any of the smiling blessings
of Providence; and as a thing in course, Abigail became not
only the adopted, but also the well-beloved, child of her uncle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
and aunt Townsend. They gave her every advantage
for an education which the town of Portsmouth afforded; and
at the age of seventeen she was acknowledged to be the
most accomplished young lady in Portsmouth.</p>

<p>Many were the worshippers who bowed at the shrine of
beauty and learning at the domicile of Alphonzo Townsend;
but his lovely niece was unmoved by their petitions, much to
the perplexity of her aunt, who often charged Abigail with
carrying an obdurate heart in her bosom. In vain did Mrs.
Townsend urge her niece to accept the offers of a young
student of law; and equally vain were her efforts to gain a
clue to the cause of the refusal, until, by the return of an
East India Merchantman, Mr. Townsend received a small
package for his niece, and a letter from Captain Lowd, asking
his consent to their union, which he wished might take
place the following year, when he should return to Portsmouth.</p>

<p>Abigail's package contained a Chinese silk hat, the crown
of which was full of Bohea tea. A letter informed her that
the contents of the hat was the ingredient, which, boiled
in water, made what was called the "Chinese soup."</p>

<p>Abigail, anxious to ascertain the flavor of a beverage, of
which she had heard much, put the brass skillet over the
coals, poured in two quarts of water, and added thereto a
pint bason full of tea, and a gill of molasses, and let it simmer
an hour. She then strained it through a linen cloth,
and in some pewter basins set it around the supper table, in
lieu of bean-porridge, which was the favorite supper of the
epicures of the olden time.</p>

<p>Uncle, aunt, and Abigail, seated themselves around the
little table, and after crumbling some brown bread into their
basins, commenced eating the Chinese soup. The first
spoonful set their faces awry, but the second was past endurance;
and Mrs. Townsend screamed with fright, for she
imagined that she had tasted poison. The doctor was sent
for, who administered a powerful emetic; and the careful
aunt persuaded her niece to consign her hat and its contents
to the vault of an outbuilding.</p>

<p>When Capt. Lowd returned to Portsmouth, he brought with
him a chest of tea, a China tea-set, and a copper teakettle,
and instructed Abigail in the art of tea-making and
tea drinking, to the great annoyance of her aunt Townsend,
who could never believe that Chinese soup was half so good
as bean-porridge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p>

<p>The <i>first dish of tea</i> afforded a fund of amusement for
Capt. Lowd and lady, and I hope the narrative will be acceptable
to modern tea-drinkers.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Tabitha.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>LEISURE HOURS OF THE MILL GIRLS.</h2>


<p>The leisure hours of the mill girls&mdash;how shall they be
spent? As Ann, Bertha, Charlotte, Emily, and others, spent
theirs? as we spend ours? Let us decide.</p>

<p>No. 4 was to stop a day for repairs. Ann sat at her window
until she tired of watching passers-by. She then started
up in search of one idle as herself, for a companion in a
saunter. She called at the chamber opposite her own. The
room was sadly disordered. The bed was not made, although
it was past nine o'clock. In making choice of dresses, collars,
aprons, <i>pro tempore</i>, some half dozen of each had been
taken from their places, and there they were, lying about on
chairs, trunks, and bed, together with mill clothes just taken
off. Bertha had not combed her hair; but Charlotte
gave hers a hasty dressing before "going out shopping;"
and there lay brush, combs, and hair on the table. There
were a few pictures hanging about the walls, such as "You
are the prettiest Rose," "The Kiss," "Man Friday," and
a miserable, soiled drawing of a "Cottage Girl." Bertha
blushed when Ann entered. She was evidently ashamed of
the state of her room, and vexed at Ann's intrusion. Ann
understood the reason when Bertha told her, with a sigh,
that she had been "hurrying all the morning to get through
the 'Children of the Abbey,' before Charlotte returned."</p>

<p>"Ann, I wish you would talk to her," said she. "Her
folks are very poor. I have it on the best authority. Elinda
told me that it was confidently reported by girls who came
from the same town, that her folks had been known to jump
for joy at the sight of a crust of bread. She spends every
cent of her wages for dress and confectionary. She has
gone out now; and she will come back with lemons, sugar,
rich cake, and so on. She had better do as I do&mdash;spend her
money for books, and her leisure time in reading them. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
buy three volumes of novels every month; and when that
is not enough, I take some from the circulating library. I
think it our duty to improve our minds as much as possible,
now the mill girls are beginning to be thought so much of."</p>

<p>Ann was a bit of a wag. Idle as a breeze, like a breeze
she sported with every <i>trifling</i> thing that came in her way.</p>

<p>"Pshaw!" said she. "And so we must begin to read
silly novels, be very sentimental, talk about tears and flowers,
dews and bowers. There is some poetry for you, Bertha.
Don't you think I'd better 'astonish the natives,' by
writing a poetical rhapsody, nicknamed 'Twilight Reverie,'
or some other silly, inappropriate thing, and sending it to
the 'Offering?' Oh, how fine this would be! Then I
could purchase a few novels, borrow a few more, take a few
more from a circulating library; and then shed tears and
grow soft over them&mdash;all because we are taking a higher
stand in the world, you know, Bertha."</p>

<p>Bertha again blushed. Ann remained some moments
silent.</p>

<p>"Did you ever read Pelham?" asked Bertha, by way of
breaking the silence.</p>

<p>"No; I read no novels, good, bad, or indifferent. I
have been thinking, Bertha, that there may be danger of our
running away from the reputation we enjoy, as a class. For
my part, I sha'n't ape the follies of other classes of females.
As Isabel Greenwood says&mdash;and you know she is always
right about such things&mdash;I think we shall lose our independence,
originality, and individuality of character, if we all
take one standard of excellence, and this the customs and
opinions of others. This is a jaw-cracking sentence for me.
If any body had uttered it but Isabel, I should, perhaps, have
laughed at it. As it was, I treasured it up for use, as I do
the wise sayings of Franklin, Dudley, Leavitt, and Robert
Thomas. I, for one, shall not attempt to become so accomplished.
I shall do as near right as I can conveniently, not
because I have a heavy burden of gentility to support, but
because it is quite as easy to do right,</p>

<div class="center">'And then I sleep so sweet at night.'</div>

<p>"Good morning, Bertha."</p>

<p>At the door she met Charlotte, on her return, with lemons,
nuts, and cake.</p>

<p>"I am in search of a companion for a long ramble," said
Ann. "Can you recommend a <i>subject</i>?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p>

<p>"I should think Bertha would like to shake herself," said
Charlotte. "She has been buried in a novel ever since she
was out of bed this morning. It was her turn to do the
chamber work this morning; and this is the way she always
does, if she can get a novel. She would not mind sitting all
day, with dirt to her head. It is a shame for her to do so.
She had better be wide awake, enjoying life, as I am."</p>

<p>"Nonsense!" exclaimed Ann, in her usual <i>brusque</i> manner.
"There is not a cent's choice between you this morning;
both are doing wrong, and each is condemning the
other without mercy. So far you are both just like me, you
see. Good morning."</p>

<p>She walked on to the next chamber. She had enough of
the philosopher about her to reason from appearances, and
from the occupation of its inmates, that she could succeed
no better there. Every thing was in the most perfect order.
The bed was shaped, and the sheet hemmed down <i>just
so</i>. Their lines that hung by the walls were filled "jist."
First came starched aprons, then starched capes, then pocket
handkerchiefs, folded with the marked corner out. Then
hose. This room likewise, had its paintings, and like those
of the other, they were in perfect keeping with the general
arrangements of the room and the dress of its occupants.
There was an apology for a lady. Her attitude and form
were of precisely that uncouth kind which is produced by
youthful artificers, who form head, body and feet from one
piece of shingle; and wedge in two sticks at right angles
with the body, for arms. Her sleeves increased in dimensions
from the shoulders, and the skirt from the belt, but without
the semblance of a fold. This, with some others of the
same school, and two "profiles," were carefully preserved in
frames, and the frames in screens of green barage. Miss Clark
was busily engaged in making netting, and Miss Emily in
making a dress. Ann made known her wants to them, more
from curiosity to hear their reply, than from a hope of success.
In measured periods they thanked her&mdash;would have
been happy to accompany her. "But, really, I must be excused,"
said Miss Clark. "I have given myself a stint, and
I always feel bad if I fall an inch short of my plans."</p>

<p>"Yes; don't you think, Ann," said Emily, "she has
stinted herself to make five yards of netting to-day. And
mother says there is ten times as much in the house as we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
shall ever need. Father says there is twenty times as much;
for he knows we shall both be old maids, ha! ha!"</p>

<p>"Yes, and I always tell him that if I am an old maid I
shall need the more. Our folks make twenty or thirty yards
of table linen every year. I mean to make fringe for every
yard; and have enough laid by for the next ten years, before
I leave the mill."</p>

<p>"Well, Emily," said Ann, "you have no fringe to make,
can't you accompany me?"</p>

<p>"I should be glad to, Ann; but I am over head and ears
in work. I have got my work all done up, every thing that
I could find to do. Now I am making a dress for Bertha."</p>

<p>"Why, Emily, you are making a slave of yourself, body
and mind," said Ann. "Can't you earn enough in the mill
to afford yourself a little time for rest and amusement?"</p>

<p>"La! I don't make but twelve dollars a month, besides
my board. I have made a great many dresses evenings, and
have stinted myself to finish this to-day. So I believe I
can't go, any way. I should be terrible glad to."</p>

<p>"Oh, you are very excusable," answered Ann. "But
let me ask if you take any time to read."</p>

<p>"No; not much. We can't afford to. Father owns the
best farm in Burt; but we have always had to work hard,
and always expect to. We generally read a chapter every
day. We take turns about it. One of us reads while the
other works."</p>

<p>"Yes; but lately we have only taken time to read a
short psalm," said Emily, again laughing.</p>

<p>"Well, the Bible says, 'Let him that is without sin cast
the first stone,' or I might be tempted to remind you that
there is such a thing as laboring too much 'for the meat that
perisheth.' Good morning, ladies."</p>

<p>Ann heard a loud, merry laugh from the next room, as
she reached the door. It was Ellinora Frothingham's; no
one could mistake, who had heard it once. It seemed the
out-pouring of glee that could no longer be suppressed.
Ellinor sat on the floor, just as she had thrown herself on
her return from a walk. Her pretty little bonnet was lying
on the floor on one side, and on the other a travelling bag,
whose contents she had just poured into her lap. There
were apples, pears, melons, a mock-orange, a pumpkin,
squash, and a crooked cucumber. Ellinora sprang to her feet
when Ann entered, and threw the contents of her lap on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
floor with such violence, as to set them to rolling all about.
Then she laughed and clapped her hands to see the squash
chase the mock-orange under the bed, a great russet running
so furiously after a little fellow of the Baldwin family, and
finally pinning him in a corner. A pear started in the chase;
but after taking a few turns, he sat himself down to shake
his fat sides and enjoy the scene. Ellinora stepped back a
few paces to elude the pursuit of the pumpkin, and then,
with well-feigned terror, jumped into a chair. But the
drollest personage of the group was the ugly cucumber.
There he sat, Forminius-like, watching the mad freaks of
his companions.</p>

<p>"Ha! see that cucumber?" exclaimed Ellinora, laughing
heartily. "If he had hands, how he would raise them so!
If he had eyes and mouth, how he would open them so!"
suiting action to her words. "Look, Ann! look, Fanny!
See if it does not look like the Clark girls, when one leaves
any thing in the shape of dirt on their table or stand!"</p>

<p>Peace was at length restored among the <i>inanimates</i>.</p>

<p>"I came to invite you to walk; but I find I am too late,"
said Ann.</p>

<p>"Yes. Oh, how I wish you had been with us! You
would have been so happy!" said Ellinora. "We started out
very early&mdash;before sunrise&mdash;intending to take a brisk walk
of a mile or two, and return in season for breakfast. We
went over to Dracut, and met such adventures there and
by the way, as will supply me with food for laughter years
after I get married, and trouble comes. We came along
where some oxen were standing, yoked, eating their breakfast
while their owner was eating his. They were attached
to a cart filled with pumpkins. I took some of the smallest,
greenest ones, and stuck them fast on the tips of the oxen's
horns. I was so interested in observing how the ceremony
affected the Messrs. Oxen, that I did not laugh a bit until I
had crowned all four of them. I looked up to Fanny, as I
finished the work, and there she sat on a great rock, where
she had thrown herself when she could no longer stand.
Poor girl! tears were streaming down her cheeks. With
one hand she was holding her lame side, and with the other
filling her mouth with her pocket handkerchief, that the
laugh need not run out, I suppose. Well, as soon as I
looked at her, and at the oxen, I burst into a laugh that
might have been heard miles, I fancy. Oh! I shall never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
forget how reprovingly those oxen looked at me. The poor
creatures could not eat with such an unusual weight on their
horns, so they pitched their heads higher than usual, and
now and then gave them a graceful cant, then stood entirely
motionless, as if attempting to conjecture what it all
meant.</p>

<p>"Well, that loud and long laugh of mine, brought a
whole volley of folks to the door&mdash;farmer, and farmer's wife,
farmer's sons, and farmer's daughters. 'Whoa hish!' exclaimed
the farmer, before he reached the door; and 'Whoa
hish!' echoed all the farmer's sons. They all stopped as
soon as they saw me. I would remind you that I still stood
before the oxen, laughing at them. I never saw such comical
expressions as those people wore. Did you, Fanny?
Even those pictures of mine are not so funny. I thought we
should raise the city police; for they had tremendous voices,
and I never saw any body laugh so.</p>

<p>"As soon as I could speak, and they could listen to me,
I walked up to the farmer. 'I beg your pardon sir,' said I,
'but I did want to laugh so! Came all the way from Lowell
for something new to laugh at.' He was a good, sensible
man, and this proves it. He said it was a good thing to
have a hearty laugh occasionally&mdash;good for the health and
spirits. Work would go off easier all day for it, especially
with the boys. As he said 'boys,' I could not avoid smiling
as I looked at a fine young sprig of a farmer, his oldest son,
as he afterwards told us, full twenty-one."</p>

<p>"And now, Miss Ellinora," said Fanny, "I shall avenge
myself on you, for certain saucy freaks, perpetrated against
my most august commands, by telling Ann, that as you
looked at this 'young sprig of a farmer,' he looked at you,
and you both blushed. What made you, Nora? I never
saw you blush before."</p>

<p>"What made you, Nora?" echoed Ellinora, laughing and
blushing slightly. "Well, the farmer's wife invited us to
rest and breakfast with them. We began to make excuses;
but the farmer added his good natured commands, so we
went in; and after a few arrangements, such as placing
more plates, &amp;c., a huge pumpkin pie, and some hot potatoes,
pealed in the cooking, we sat down to a full round table.
There were the mealy potatoes, cold boiled dish,
warm biscuit and dough-nuts, pie, coffee, pickles, sauce,
cheese, and just such butter and brown bread as mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
makes&mdash;bread hot, just taken from the oven. They all appeared
so pleasant and kind, that I felt as if in my own home,
with my own family around me. Wild as I was, as soon as
I began to tell them how it seemed to me, I burst into tears
in spite of myself, and was obliged to leave the table. But
they all pitied me so much, that I brushed off my tears, went
back to my breakfast, and have laughed ever since."</p>

<p>"You have forgotten two very important items," said
Fanny, looking archly into Ellinora's face. "This 'fine
young sprig of a farmer' happened to recollect that he had
business in town to-day; so he took their carriage and
brought us home, after Nora and a roguish sister of his had
filled her bag as you see. And more and better still, they
invited us to spend a day with them soon; and promised to
send this 'fine young sprig,' &amp;c., for us on the occasion."</p>

<p>Ellinora was too busily engaged in collecting her fruit to
reply. She ran from the room; and in a few moments returned
with several young girls, to whom she gave generous
supplies of apples, pears, and melons. She was about seating
herself with a full plate, when a new idea seemed to
flash upon her. She laughed, and started for the door.</p>

<p>"Ellinora, where now?" asked Fanny.</p>

<p>"To the Clark girls' room, to leave an apple peeling and
core on their table, a pear pealing on their stand, and melon,
apple, and pear seeds all about the floor," answered Ellinora,
gaily snapping her fingers, and nodding her head.</p>

<p>"What for? Here, Nora; come back. For what?"</p>

<p>"Why, to see them suffer," said the incorrigible girl.
"You know I told you this morning, that sport is to be the
order of the day. So no scoldings, my dear."</p>

<p>She left the room, and Fanny turned to one of the ladies
who had just entered.</p>

<p>"Where is Alice," said she. "Did not Ellinora extend
an invitation to her?"</p>

<p>"Yes; but she is half dead with the <i>blues</i>, to-day. The
Brown girls came back last night. They called on Alice this
morning, and left letters and presents from home for her.
She had a letter from her little brother, ten years old. He
must be a fine fellow, judging from that letter, it was so sensible,
and so witty too! One moment I laughed at some of
his lively expressions, and the next cried at his expressions of
love for Alice, and regret for her loss. He told her how he
cried himself to sleep the night after she left home; and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
flowers seemed to have faded, and the stars to have lost their
brightness, when he no longer had her by his side to talk to
him about them. I find by his letter that Alice is working to
keep him at school. That part of it which contained his
thanks for her goodness was blistered with the little fellow's
tears. Alice cried like a child when she read it, and I did
not wonder at it. But she ought to be happy now. Her
mother sent her a fine pair of worsted hose of her own spinning
and knitting, and a nice cake of her own making. She
wrote, that, trifling as these presents were, she knew they
would be acceptable to her daughter, because made by her.
When Alice read this, she cried again. Her sister sent her
a pretty little fancy basket, and her brother a bunch of flowers
from her mother's garden. They were enclosed in a
tight tin box, and were as fresh as when first gathered.
Alice sent out for a new vase. She has filled it with her
flowers, and will keep them watered with her tears, judging
from present appearances. Alice is a good-hearted girl, and
I love her, but she is always talking or thinking of something
to make her unhappy. A letter from a friend, containing
nothing but good news, and assurances of friendship, that
ought to make her happy, generally throws her into a crying
fit, which ends in a moping fit of melancholy. This destroys
her own happiness, and that of all around her.'"</p>

<p>"You ought to talk to her, she is spoiling herself," said
Mary Mason, whose mouth was literally crammed with the
last apple of a second plateful.</p>

<p>"I have often urged her to be more cheerful. But she
answers me with a helpless, hopeless, 'I can't Jane! you
know I can't. I shall never be happy while I live; and I
often think that the sooner I go where "the weary are at
rest," the better.' I don't know how many times she has given
me an answer like this. Then she will sob as if her
heart were bursting. She sometimes wears me quite out;
and I feel as I did when Ellinora called me, as if released
from a prison."</p>

<p>"Would it improve her spirits to walk with me?" asked
Ann.</p>

<p>"Perhaps it would, if you can persuade her to go. Do
try, dear Ann," answered Jane. "I called at Isabel Greenwood's
room as I came along, and asked her to go in and see
if she could rouse her up."</p>

<p>Ann heard Isabel's voice in gentle but earnest expostulation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
as she reached Alice's room. Isabel paused when Ann
entered, kissed her cheek, and resigned her rocking-chair to
her. Alice was sobbing too violently to speak. She took
her face from her handkerchief, bowed to Ann, and again
buried it. Ann invited them to walk with her. Isabel
cheerfully acceded to her proposal, and urged Alice to accompany
them.</p>

<p>"Don't urge me, Isabel," said Alice; "I am only fit for
the solitude of my chamber. I could not add at all to your
pleasure. My thoughts would be at my home, and I could
not enjoy a walk in the least degree. But Isabel, I do not
want you to leave me so. I know that you think me very
foolish to indulge in these useless regrets, as you call them.
You will understand me better if you just consider the situation
of my mother's family. My mother a widow, my oldest
brother at the West, my oldest sister settled in New
York, my youngest brother and sister only with mother,
and I a Lowell factory girl! And such I must be&mdash;for if I
leave the mill, my brother cannot attend school all of the
time; and his heart would almost break to take him from
school. And how can I be happy in such a situation; I do
not ask for riches; but I would be able to gather my friends
all around me. Then I could be happy. Perhaps I am as
happy now as you would be in my situation, Isabel."</p>

<p>Isabel's eyes filled, but she answered in her own sweet,
calm manner:</p>

<p>"We will compare lots, my dear Alice. I have neither
father, mother, sister, nor home in the world. Three years
ago I had all of these, and every other blessing that one
could ask. The death of my friends, the distressing circumstances
attending them, the subsequent loss of our large
property, and the critical state of my brother's health at
present, are not slight afflictions, nor are they lightly felt."</p>

<p>Isabel's emotions, as she paused to subdue them by a
powerful mental effort, proved her assertion. Alice began
to dry her tears, and to look as if ashamed of her weakness.</p>

<p>"I, too, am a Lowell factory girl," pursued Isabel. "I,
too, am laboring for the completion of a brother's education.
If that brother were well, how gladly would I toil! But
that disease is upon his vitals which laid father, mother, and
sister in their graves, in one short year. I can see it in the
unnatural and increasing brightness of his eye, and hear it
in his hollow cough. He has entered upon his third collegiate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
year; and is too anxious to graduate next commencement,
to heed my entreaties, or the warning of his physician."</p>

<p>She again paused. Her whole frame shook with emotion;
but not a tear mingled with Ann's, as they fell upon
her hand.</p>

<p>"You see, Alice," she at length added, "what reasons I
have for regret when I think of the past, and what for fear
when I turn to the future. Still I am happy, almost continually.
My lost friends are so many magnets, drawing
heavenward those affections that would otherwise rivet themselves
too strongly to earthly loves. And those dear ones
who are yet spared to me, scatter so many flowers in my
pathway, that I seldom feel the thorns. I am cheered in
my darkest hours by their kindness and affection, animated
at all times by a wish to do all in my power to make them
happy. If my brother is spared to me, I ask for nothing
more. And if he is first called, I trust I shall feel that it is
the will of One who is too wise to err, and too good to be
unkind."</p>

<p>"You are the most like my mother, Isabel, of any one I
ever saw," said Ann. "She is never free from pain, yet
she never complains. And if Pa, or any of us, just have a
cold or head ache, she does not rest till 'she makes us well.'
You have more trouble than any other girl in the house;
but instead of claiming the sympathies of every one on that
account, you are always cheering others in their little, half-imaginary
trials. Alice, I think you and I ought to be
ashamed to shed a tear, until we have some greater cause
than mere home-sickness, or low spirits."</p>

<p>"Why, Ann, I can no more avoid low spirits, than I can
make a world!" exclaimed Alice, in a really aggrieved
tone. "And I don't want you all to think that I have no
trouble. I want sympathy, and I can't live without it. Oh
that I was at home this moment!"</p>

<p>"Why, Alice, there is hardly a girl in this house who has
not as much trouble, in some shape, as you have. You
never think of pitying them; and pray what gives you such
strong claims on their sympathies? Do you walk with us,
or do you not?"</p>

<p>Alice shook her head in reply. Isabel whispered a few
words in her ear&mdash;they might be of reproof, they might be
of consolation&mdash;then retired with Ann to equip for their walk.</p>

<p>"What a beautiful morning this is!" exclaimed Ann,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
as they emerged from the house. "<i>Malgre</i> some inconveniences,
factory girls are as happy as any class of females.
I sometimes think it hard to rise so early, and work so many
hours shut up in the house. But when I get out at night,
on the Sabbath, or at any other time, I am just as happy as
a bird, and long to fly and sing with them. And Alice will
keep herself shut up all day. Is it not strange that all will
not be as happy as they can be? It is so pleasant."</p>

<p>Isabel returned Ann's smile. "Yes, Ann, it is strange
that every one does not prefer happiness. Indeed, it is
quite probable that every one does prefer it. But some
mistake the modes of acquiring it through want of judgment.
Others are too indolent to employ the means necessary
to its attainment, and appear to expect it to flow in to
them, without taking any pains to prepare a channel. Others,
like our friend Alice, have constitutional infirmities,
which entail upon them a deal of suffering, that to us, of
different mental organization, appears wholly unnecessary."</p>

<p>"Why, don't you think Alice might be as happy as we
are, if she chose? Could she not be as grateful for letters
and love-tokens from home? Could she not leave her room,
and come out into this pure air, listen to the birds, and catch
their spirit? Could she not do all this, Isabel, as well as
we?"</p>

<p>"Well, I do not know, Ann. Perhaps not. You know
that the minds of different persons are like instruments of
different tones. The same touch thrills gaily on one, mournfully
on another."</p>

<p>"Yes; and I know, Isabel, that different minds may be
compared to the same instrument <i>in</i> and <i>out</i> of tune. Now
I have heard Alice say that she loved to indulge this melancholy;
that she loved to read Byron, Mrs. Hemans, and
Miss Landon, until her heart was as gloomy as the grave.
Isn't this strange&mdash;even silly?"</p>

<p>"It is most unfortunate, Ann."</p>

<p>"Isabel, you are the strangest girl! I have heard a great
many say, that one cannot make you say anything against
anybody; and I believe they are correct. And when you
reprove one, you do it in such a mild, pretty way, that one
only loves you the better for it. Now, I smash on, pell-mell,
as if unconscious of a fault in myself. Hence, I oftener
offend than amend. Let me think.&mdash;This morning I have
administered reproof in my own blunt way to Bertha for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
reading novels, to Charlotte for eating confectionary, to the
Clark girls for their 'all work and no play,' and to Alice
for moping. I have been wondering all along how they
can spend their time so foolishly. I see that my own employment
would scarcely bear the test of close criticism, for
I have been watching motes in others' eyes, while a beam
was in my own. Now, Isabel, I must ask a favor. I do
not want to be very fine and nice; but I would be gentle and
kind hearted&mdash;would do some good in the world. I often
make attempts to this end; but always fail, somehow. I
know my manner needs correcting; and I want you to reprove
me as you would a sister, and assist me with your
advice. Will you not, dear Isabel?"</p>

<p>She pressed Isabel's arm closer to her side, and a tear
was in her eye as she looked up for an answer to her
appeal.</p>

<p>"You know not what you ask, my beloved girl," answered
Isabel, in a low and tremulous tone. "You know
not the weakness of the staff on which you would lean, or
the frailties of the heart to which you would look up, for aid.
Of myself, dear Ann, I can do nothing. I can only look to
God for protection from temptation, and for guidance in the
right way. When He keeps me, I am safe; when He withdraws
His spirit, I am weak indeed. And can I lead you,
Ann? No! you must go to a higher than earthly friend.
Pray to Him in every hour of need, and He will be 'more to
you than you can ask, or even think.'"</p>

<p>"How often I have wished that I could go to Him as
mother does&mdash;just as I would go to a father!" said Ann.
"But I dare not. It would be mockery in one who has
never experienced religion."</p>

<p>"Make prayer a <i>means</i> of this experience, my dear girl.
Draw near to God by humble, constant prayer, and He will
draw near to you by the influences of His spirit, which will
make you just what you wish to be, a good, kind-hearted
girl. You will learn to love God as a father, as the author
of your happiness and every good thing. And you will be
prepared to meet those trials which must be yours in life as
the 'chastisements of a Father's hand, directed by a Father's
love.' And when the hour of death comes, dear Ann, how
sweet, how soothing will be the deep-felt conviction that you
are going <i>home</i>! You will have no fears, for your trust will
be in One whom you have long loved and served; and you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
will feel as if about to meet your best, and most familiar
friend."</p>

<p>Ann answered only by her tears; and for some minutes
they walked on in silence. They were now some distance
from town. Before them lay farms, farm-houses, groves
and scattering trees, from whose branches came the mingled
song of a thousand birds. Isabel directed Ann's attention
to the beauty of the scene. Ann loved nature; but she had
such a dread of sentimentalism that she seldom expressed
herself freely. Now she had no reserves, and Isabel found
that she had not mistaken her capacities, in supposing her
possessed of faculties, which had only to develop themselves
more fully, which had only to become constant incentives to
action, to make her all she could wish.</p>

<p>"You did not promise, Isabel," said Ann, with a happy
smile, as they entered their street, "you did not promise to
be my sister; but you will, will you not?"</p>

<p>"Yes, dear Ann; we will be sisters to each other. I
think you told me that you have no sister."</p>

<p>"I had none until now; and I have felt as if part of my
affections could not find a resting place, but were weighing
down my heart with a burden that did not belong to it. I
shall no longer be like a branch of our woodbine when it
cannot find a clinging place, swinging about at the mercy
of every breeze; but like that when some kind hand twines
it about its frame, firm and trusting. See, Isabel!" exclaimed
she, interrupting herself, "there sits poor Alice,
just as we left her. I wish she had walked with us&mdash;she
would have felt so much better. Do you think, Isabel, that
religion would make her happy?"</p>

<p>"Most certainly. 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and
are heavy laden. Take my yoke upon you; for I am meek
and lowly in heart; and ye <i>shall</i> find rest for your souls,'&mdash;is
as 'faithful a saying' and as 'worthy of all acceptation'
now, as when it was uttered, and when thousands came
and 'were healed of <i>all</i> manner of diseases.' Yes, Alice
may yet be happy," she added musingly, "if she can be
induced to read Byron less, and her Bible more; to think
less of her own gratification, and more of that of others.
And we will be very gentle to her, Ann; but not the less
faithful and constant in our efforts to win her to usefulness
and happiness."</p>

<p>Ellinora met them at the door, and began to describe a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
frolic that had occupied her during their absence. She
threw her arms around Isabel's waist, and entered the
sitting-room with her. "Now, Isabel, I know you don't
think it right to be so giddy," said she. "I will tell you
what I have resolved to do. You shake your head, Isabel,
and I do not wonder at all. But this resolution was formed
this morning, on my way back from Dracut; and I feel in
my 'heart of hearts' 'a sober certainty of waking' energy
to keep it unbroken. It is that I will be another sort of
a girl, altogether, henceforth; steady, but not gloomy; less
talkative, but not reserved; more studious, but not a bookworm;
kind and gentle to others, but not a whit the less
independent, 'for a' that,' in my opinions and conduct.&mdash;And,
after this day, which I have dedicated to Momus, I
want you to be my Mentor. Now I am for another spree of
some sort. Nay, Isabel, do not remonstrate. You will
make me weep with five tender words."</p>

<p>It needed not so much&mdash;for Isabel smiled sadly, kissed her
cheek, and Ellinora's tears fell fast and thick as she ran
from the room.</p>

<p>Ann went immediately to Alice's room on her return.&mdash;She
apologized to her for reproving her so roughly, described
her walk, gave a synopsis of Isabel's advice, and her
consequent determinations. By these means she diverted
Alice's thoughts from herself, gave her nerves a healthy
spring, and when the bell summoned them to dinner, she
had recovered much of her happier humor. Ellinora sat
beside her at table. She laughingly proposed an exchange,
offering a portion of her levity for as much of her gravity.
She thought the <i>equilibrium</i> would be more perfect. So
Alice thought, and she heartily wished that the exchange
might be made.</p>

<p>And this exchange seems actually taking place at this
time. They are as intimate as sisters. Together they are
resolutely struggling against the tide of habit. They meet
many discouraging failures; but Isabel is ever ready to
cheer them by her sympathy, and to assist them by her advice.</p>

<p>Ann's faults were not so deeply rooted; perhaps she
brought more natural energy to their extermination. Be
that as it may, she is now an excellent lady, a fit companion
for the peerless Isabel.</p>

<p>The Clark girls do not, as yet, coalesce in their system of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
improvement. They still prefer making netting and dresses,
to the lecture-room, the improvement circle, and even to the
reading of the "Book of books." So difficult is it to turn
from the worship of Plutus!</p>

<p>The delusion of Bertha and Charlotte is partially broken.
Bertha is beginning to understand that much reading does
not naturally result in intellectual or moral improvement,
unless it be well regulated. Charlotte is learning that
"to enjoy is to obey;" and that to pamper her own animal
appetites, while her father and mother are suffering for
want of the necessaries of life, is not in obedience to Divine
command.</p>

<p>And, dear sisters, how is it with each one of <i>us</i>? How
do we spend our leisure hours? Now, "in the stilly hour
of night," let us pause, and give our consciences time to
render faithful answers.</p>

<div class="signature">D.</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.</h2>


<div class="center">"He sleeps there in the midst of the very simplicities of Nature."</div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There let him sleep, in Nature's arms,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Her well-beloved, her chosen child&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There 'mid the living, quiet charms<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Of that sequestered wild.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">He would have chosen such a spot,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">'Twas fit that they should lay him there,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Away from all the haunts of care;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The world disturbs him not.&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He sleeps full sweet in his retreat&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The place is consecrated ground,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It is not meet unhallowed feet<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Should tread that sacred mound.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He lies in pomp&mdash;not of display&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">No useless trappings grace his bier,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor idle words&mdash;they may not say<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
<span class="i1">What treasures cluster here.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The pomp of nature, wild and free,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Adorns our hero's lowly bed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And gently bends above his head<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The weeping laurel tree.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In glory's day he shunned display,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And ye may not bedeck him now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But Nature may, in her own way,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Hang garlands round his brow.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He lies in pomp&mdash;not sculptured stone,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Nor chiseled marble&mdash;vain pretence&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The glory of his deeds alone<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Is his magnificence.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">His country's love the meed he won,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He bore it with him down to death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unsullied e'en by slander's breath&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">His country's sire and son.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her hopes and fears, her smiles and tears,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Were each his own.&mdash;He gave his land<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His earliest cares, his choicest years,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And led her conquering band.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He lies in pomp&mdash;not pomp of war&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">He fought, but fought not for renown;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He triumphed, yet the victor's star<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Adorned no regal crown.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">His honor was his country's weal;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From off her neck the yoke he tore&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It was enough, he asked no more;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">His generous heart could feel<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No low desire for king's attire;&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">With brother, friend, and country blest,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He could aspire to honors higher<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Than kingly crown or crest.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He lies in pomp&mdash;his burial place<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Than sculptured stone is richer far;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For in the heart's deep love we trace<br /></span>
<span class="i1">His name, a golden star.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Wherever patriotism breathes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His memory is devoutly shrined<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In every pure and gifted mind:<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
<span class="i1">And history, with wreaths<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of deathless fame, entwines that name,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Which evermore, beneath all skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like vestal flame, shall live the same,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">For virtue never dies.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There let him rest&mdash;'t is a sweet spot;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Simplicity becomes the great&mdash;But<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vernon's son is not forgot,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Though sleeping not in state.<br /></span>
<span class="i1">There, wrapt in his own dignity,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His presence makes it hallowed ground,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Nature throws her charms around,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">And o'er him smiles the sky.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There let him rest&mdash;the noblest, best;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The labors of his life all done&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There let him rest, the spot is blessed&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i1">The grave of <span class="smcap">Washington</span>.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Adelaide.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>LIFE AMONG FARMERS.</h2>


<p>There is much complaint among farmers' wives and
daughters, of want of time for rest, recreation, and literary
pursuits. "It is cook, eat, and scrub&mdash;cook, eat, and scrub,
from morning till night, and from year to year," says many
a farmer's wife. And so it is in many families. But how
far this results from the very nature of the situation, and
how far from injudicious domestic management, is a query
worthy of our attention. A very large proportion of my
readers, who are now factory girls, will in a few months or
years be the busy wives of busy farmers; and if by a few
speculations on the subject before us, and an illustration to
the point, we can reach <i>one</i> hint that may hereafter be useful
to us, our labor and "search of thought" will not have
been in vain.</p>

<p>Mr. Moses Eastman was what is technically called a
wealthy farmer. Every one in the country knows what this
means. He had a farm of some hundred or more acres, a
large two-story dwelling house, a capacious yard, in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
were two large barns, sheds, a sheep-cote, granary, and
hen-coop. He kept a hundred sheep, ten cows, horses and
oxen in due proportion. Mr. Eastman often declared that
no music was half so sweet to him as that of the inmates of
this yard. I think we shall not quarrel with his taste in
this manifestation; for it is certainly delightful, on a warm
day, in early spring, to listen to them, the lambs, hens&mdash;Guinea
and American&mdash;turkeys, geese, and ducks and peacocks.</p>

<p>Mr. Eastman was unbending in his adherence to the
creed, prejudices, and customs of his fathers. It was his
boast that his farm had passed on from father to son, to the
fourth generation; and everybody could see that it was none
the worse for wear. He kept more oxen, sheep, and cows
than his father kept. He had "pulled down his barns and
built larger." He had surrounded his fields and pastures
with stone wall, in lieu of Virginian, stump, brush, and
board fence. And he had taught his sons and daughters, of
whom he had an abundance, to walk in his footsteps&mdash;all
but Mary. He should always rue the day that he consented
to let Mary go to her aunt's; but he acted upon the belief
that it would lessen his expenses to be rid of her during her
childhood. He had all along intended to recall her as soon
as she was old enough to be serviceable to him. But he
said he believed that would never be, if she lived as long as
Methuselah. She could neither spin nor weave as she
ought; for she put so much material in her yarn, and wove
her cloth so thick, that no profit resulted from its manufacture
and sale. Now Deborah, his oldest daughter, had just
her mother's <i>knack</i> of making a good deal out of a little.&mdash;And
Mary had imbibed some very dangerous ideas of religion,&mdash;she
did not even believe in ghosts!&mdash;dress, and reading.
For his part, he would not, on any account, attend any other
meeting than old Mr. Bates's. His father and grandfather
always attended there, and they prospered well. But Mary
wanted to go to the other meeting occasionally, all because
Mr. Morey happened to be a bit of an orator. True, Mr.
Bates was none of the smartest; but there was an advantage
in this. He could sleep as soundly, and rest as rapidly,
when at his meeting, as in his bed; and by this means he
could regain the sleep lost during the week by rising early
and working late. And Mary had grown so proud that she
would not wear a woolen home-manufactured dress visiting,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
as Deborah did. She must flaunt off to meeting every Sabbath,
in white or silk, while <i>chintz</i> was good enough for
Deborah. Deborah seldom read anything but the Bible,
Watts's Hymn Book, "Pilgrim's Progress," and a few tracts
they had in the house. Mary had hardly laid off her
finery, on her return from her aunt's, before she inquired
about books and newspapers. Her aunt had heaps of books
and papers. These had spoilt Mary. True, papers were
sometimes useful; he would have lost five hundred dollars
by the failure of the &mdash;&mdash; Bank, but for a newspaper he borrowed
of Captain Norwood. But the Captain had enough
of them&mdash;was always ready to lend to him&mdash;and he saved
no small sum in twenty years by borrowing papers of him.</p>

<p>How Captain Norwood managed to add to his property he
could not conceive. So much company, fine clothing, and
schooling! he wondered that it did not ruin him. And
'twas all folly&mdash;'twas a sin; for they were setting extravagant
examples, and every body thought they must do as the
Norwoods did. Mr. Norwood ought to remember that his
father wore home-made; and what was good enough for
his good old father was good enough for <i>him</i>. But alas!
times were dreadfully altered.</p>

<p>As for Mary, she must turn over a new leaf, or go back
to her aunt. He would not help one who did not help herself.
Mary was willing, nay, anxious to return. To spend
one moment, except on the Sabbath, in reading, was considered
a crime; to gather a flower or mineral, absurd; and
Mary begged that she might be permitted to return to Mrs.
Barlow. As there was no prospect of reforming her, Mr.
Eastman and his wife readily consented. Mr. Eastman told
her, at the same time, that she must be preparing for a wet
day; and repeatedly charged her to remember that those
who folded their hands in the summer, must "beg in harvest,
and have nothing."</p>

<p>Mary had often visited the Norwoods and other young
friends, during the year spent at home; but she had not
been permitted to give a party in return. Why, Deborah
had never thought of doing such a thing! Mary begged
the indulgence of her mother, with the assurance that it was
the last favor she would ever ask at her hand. The <i>mother</i>
in her at last yielded; and she promised to use her influence
with her husband. After a deal of cavilling, he consented,
on the condition that the strictest economy should attend the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
expenditures on the occasion, and that they should exercise
more prudence in the family, until their loss was made gain.
So the party was given.</p>

<p>"You find yourself thrown on barren ground, Miss
Norwood," said Mary, as she saw Miss Norwood looking
around the room; "neither papers, books, plants, plates,
nor minerals."</p>

<p>"Where are those rocks you brought in, Molly!" said
Deborah, with a loud, grating laugh.</p>

<p>Mary attempted to smile, but her eyes were full of tears.</p>

<p>"What rocks, Deborah!" asked Clarina Norwood.</p>

<p>"Them you see stuffed into the garden wall, there.&mdash;Mary
fixed them all in a row on the table. I think as father
does, that nothing is worth saving that can't be used; so I
put them in the wall to keep the hens out of the garden.
The silly girl cried when she see them; should you have
thought it?"</p>

<p>"What were they, Mary?" asked Clarina.</p>

<p>"Very pretty specimens of white, rose, and smoky
quartz, black and white mica, gneiss, hornblende, and a
few others, that I collected on that very high hill, west of
here."</p>

<p>"How unfortunate to lose them!" said Miss Norwood,
in a soothing tone. "Could not we recover them, dear
Mary?"</p>

<p>"There is no room for them," said Deborah. "We
want to spread currants and blueberries on the tables to be
dried. Besides, I think as father does, that there is
enough to do, without spending the time in such flummery.
As father says, 'time is our estate,' and I think we ought
to improve every moment of it, except Sundays, in work."</p>

<p>"I must differ from you, Miss Eastman," said Miss Norwood.
"I cannot think it the duty of any one to labor entirely
for the 'meat that perisheth.' Too much, vastly too
much time is spent thus by almost all."</p>

<p>"The mercy! you would have folks prepare for a wet
day, wouldn't you?"</p>

<p>"I would have every one make provision for a comfortable
subsistence; and this is enough. The mind should be
cared for, Deborah. It should not be left to starve, or feed
on husks."</p>

<p>"I don't know about this mind, of which you and our
Mary make such a fuss. My concern is for my body. Of
this I know enough."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes; you know that it is dust, and that to dust it must
return in a little time, while the mind is to live on for ever,
with God and His holy angels. Think of this a moment,
Deborah; and say, should not the mind be fed and clothed
upon, when its destiny is so glorious? Or should we spend
our whole lives in adding another acre to our farms,
another dress to our wardrobe, and another dollar to our
glittering heap?"</p>

<p>"Oh, la! all this sounds nicely; but I <i>do</i> think that
every man who has children should provide for them."</p>

<p>"Certainly&mdash;intellectual food and clothing. It is for this
I am contending. He should provide a comfortable bodily
subsistence, and educate them as far as he is able and their
destinies require."</p>

<p>"And he should leave them a few hundreds, or thousands,
to give them a kind of a start in the world."</p>

<p>"He does this in giving them a liberal education, and he
leaves them in banks that will always discount. But farther
than education of intellect and propensity is concerned, I am
for the self-made man. I think it better for sons to carve
their own way to eminence with little pecuniary aid by way
of a settlement; and for daughters to be 'won and wedded'
for their own intrinsic excellence, not for the dowry in store
for them from a rich father."</p>

<p>"There is no arguing with you, everybody says; so I'll
go and see how my cakes bake."</p>

<p>Mr. Eastmam came in to tea, contrary to his usual custom.</p>

<p>"Clarina, has your father sold that great calf of his?"
he inquired, as he seated himself snugly beside his "better
half."</p>

<p>"Indeed, I do not know, sir," answered Clarina, biting
her lip to avoid laughing.</p>

<p>"I heard Mr. Montgomery ask him the same question,
this morning; and Pa said 'yes,' I believe," said Miss
Norwood, smiling.</p>

<p>"How much did he get for it?"</p>

<p>Miss Norwood did not know.</p>

<p>"Like Mary, I see," said Mr. Eastman. "Now I'll
warrant you that Debby can tell the price of every creature
I've sold this year."</p>

<p>"Yes, father; I remember as plain as day, how much
you got from that simple Joe Slater, for the white-faced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
calf&mdash;how much you got for the black-faced sheep, Rowley
and Jumble, and for Star and Bright. Oh, how I want to
see Bright! And then there is the black colt&mdash;you got
forty dollars for him, didn't you, father?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Debby; you are a keen one," said Mr. Eastman
triumphantly. "Didn't I tell you so, Julia?"</p>

<p>"I do not burden my memory with superfluities," answered
Miss Norwood. "I can scarcely find room for necessaries."</p>

<p>"And do you rank the best way of making pies, cakes,
and puddings, with necessaries or superfluities?"</p>

<p>"Among necessaries in household economy, certainly,"
answered Miss Norwood. "But Mrs. Child's 'Frugal
Housewife' renders them superfluities as a part of memory's
storage."</p>

<p>"Oh, the book costs something, you know; and if this
can be saved by a little exercise of the memory, it is well,
you know."</p>

<p>"The most capacious and retentive memory would fail to
treasure up and retain all that one wishes to know of cooking
and other matters," said Clarina.</p>

<p>"Well, then, one may copy from her book," said Mr.
Eastman.</p>

<p>"Indeed, Mr. Eastman, to spend one's time in copying
her recipes, when the work can be purchased for twenty-five
cents, would be 'straining out a gnat, and swallowing a
camel,'" remarked the precise and somewhat pedantic Miss
Ellinor Gould Smith. "And then the peculiar disadvantages
of referring to manuscript! I had my surfeit of this before
the publication of her valuable work."</p>

<p>"Ah! it is every thing but valuable," answered Mr.
Eastman. "Just think of her pounds of sugar, her two
pounds of butter, her dozen eggs, and ounces of nutmegs.
Depend upon it, they are not very valuable in the holes they
would make in our cash-bags." He said this with precisely
the air of one who imagines he has uttered a poser.</p>

<p>"But you forget her economical and wholesome prescriptions
for disease, her directions for repairing and preserving
clothing and provisions, that would be lost without them,"
answered Miss Smith.</p>

<p>"But one should always be prying into these things, and
learn them for themselves," said Mr. Eastman.</p>

<p>"On the same principle, extended in its scale, every man
might make his own house, furniture, and clothing," said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
Miss Norwood. "With the expenditure of much labor and
research, she has supplied us with directions; and I think it
would be vastly foolish for every wife and daughter to expend
just as much, when they can be supplied with the fruits of
hers, for the product of half a day's labor."</p>

<p>"Does your mother use it much?" asked Mrs. Eastman.</p>

<p>"Yes; she acknowledges herself much indebted to it."</p>

<p>"I shouldn't think she'd need it; she is so notable. Has
she made many cheeses this summer?"</p>

<p>"About the usual number, I believe."</p>

<p>"Well, I've made more than I ever did a year afore&mdash;thirty
in my largest hoop, all new milk, and twenty in my
next largest, part skimmed milk. Our cheese press is terribly
out of order, now. It must be fixed, Mr. Eastman. And
I have made more butter, or else our folks haven't ate as
much as common. I've made it salter, and there's a great
saving in this."</p>

<p>"There's a good many ways to save in the world, if one
will take pains to find them out," said Mr. Eastman.</p>

<p>"Doubtless; but I think the best method of saving in provisions
is to eat little," said Clarina, as she saw Mr. Eastman
<i>putting down</i> his third biscuit.</p>

<p>"Why, as to that, I think we ought to eat as much as the
appetite calls for," answered Mr. Eastman.</p>

<p>"Yes; if the appetite is not depraved by indulgence."</p>

<p>"Yes; it is an awful thing to pinch in eating," said Deborah.</p>

<p>"I never knew one to sin in doing it," said Miss Norwood.
"But many individuals and whole families make
themselves excessively uncomfortable, and often incur disease,
by eating too much. There is, besides, a waste of food,
and of labor in preparing it. In such families, there is a
continual round of eating, cooking, and sleeping, with the
female portion; and no time for rest, recreation, or literary
pursuits."</p>

<p>"I have told our folks a great many times, that I did not
believe that you lived by eating, over to your house," said
Mr. Eastman. "I have been over that way before our folks
got breakfast half ready; and your men would be out to
work, and you women folks sewing, reading, or watering
plants, or weeding your flower garden. I don't see how you
manage."</p>

<p>"We do not find it necessary to manage at all, our breakfasts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
are so simple. We have only to make cocoa, and arrange
the breakfast."</p>

<p>"Don't you cook meat for breakfast?" asked Mrs. Eastman.</p>

<p>"Never; our breakfast invariably consists of cocoa, or
water, cold white bread and butter."</p>

<p>"Why, our men folks will have meat three times a day&mdash;warm,
morning and noon, and cold at night. We have warm
bread for breakfast and supper, always. When they work
very hard, they want luncheon at ten, and again at three.
I often tell our folks that it is step, step, from morning till
night."</p>

<p>"Of course, you find no time to read," said Miss Norwood.</p>

<p>"No; but I shouldn't mind this, if I didn't get so dreadful
tired. I often tell our folks that it is wearing me all out,"
said Mrs. Eastman, in a really aggrieved tone.</p>

<p>"Well, it is quite the fashion to starve, now-a-days, I
know; but it is an awful sin," said Mr. Eastman.</p>

<p>Miss Norwood saw that she might as well spend her time
in rolling a stone up hill, as in attempting to convince him of
fallacy in reasoning.</p>

<p>"Clarina," said she, "did you ask Frederic to call for the
other volume of the 'Alexandrian?'"</p>

<p>"Why, I should think that you had books enough at home,
without borrowing," said Mr. Eastman, stopping by the way
to rinse down his fifth dough-nut. "For my part, I find no
time for reading anything but the Bible." And the deluded
man started up with a gulp and a grunt. He had eaten
enough for three full meals, had spent time enough for eating
one meal, and reading several pages; yet he left the
room with a smile, so self-satisfied in its expression, that it
was quite evident that he thought himself the wisest man in
New Hampshire, except Daniel Webster.</p>

<p>This is rather a sad picture of life among farmers. But
many of my readers will bear me witness that it is a correct
one, as far as it goes. Many of them have left their homes,
because, in the quaint but appropriate language of Mrs. Eastman,
it was "step, step, from morning till night." But
there are other and brighter pictures, of more extensive application,
<i>perhaps</i>, than that already drawn.</p>

<p>Captain Norwood had as large a farm as Mr. Eastman.
His family was as large, yet the existence of the female<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
portion was paradisiacal, compared with that of Mrs. Eastman
and her daughters. Their meals were prepared with
the most perfect elegance and simplicity. Their table covers
and their China were of the same dazzling whiteness. Their
cutlery, from the unfrequency of its contact with acids, with
a little care, wore a constant polish. Much prettier these,
than the dark oiled-cloth cover and corresponding <i>et cetera</i> of
table appendages, at Mr. Eastman's. Mrs. Norwood and
her daughters carried <i>system</i> into every department of labour.
While one was preparing breakfast, another put things in
nice order all about the house, and another was occupied in
the dairy.</p>

<p>Very different was it at Mr. Eastman's. Deborah must
get potatoes, and set Mary to washing them, while she made
bread. Mrs. Eastman must cut brown bread, and send Deborah
for butter, little Sally for sauce, and Susan for pickles.
One must cut the meat and set it to cook; then it was "Mary,
have you seen to that meat? I expect it wants turning. Sally,
run and salt this side, before she turns it." And then, in a
few moments, "Debby, do look to that meat. I believe that it
is all burning up. How do them cakes bake? look, Sally.
My goodness! all burnt to a cinder, nearly. Debby, why
didn't you see to them?"</p>

<p>"La, mother! I thought Mary was about the lot, somewhere.
Where is she, I wonder?"</p>

<p>"In the other room, reading, I think likely. Oh! I forgot:
I sent her after some coffee to burn."</p>

<p>"What! going to burn coffee now? We sha'nt have
breakfast to-day."</p>

<p>"You fuss, Debby. We can burn enough for breakfast
in five minutes. I meant to have had a lot burned yesterday;
but we had so much to do. There, Debby, you see to the
potatoes. I wonder what we are going to have for dinner."</p>

<p>"Don't begin to talk about dinner yet, for pity's sake,"
said Deborah. "Sally, you ha'nt got the milk for the coffee.
Susan, go and sound for the men folks: breakfast will be
ready by the time they get here. Mary, put the pepper, vinegar,
and salt on the table, if you can make room for them."</p>

<p>"Yes; and Debby, you go and get one of them large
pumpkin pies," said Mrs. Eastman. "And Sally, put the
chairs round the table; the men folks are coming upon the
run."</p>

<p>"Oh, mother! I am so glad you are going to have pie!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
I do love it <i>so</i> well," said Susan, seating herself at the table,
without waiting for her parents.</p>

<p>Such a <i>rush!</i> such a clatter of knives, forks, plates,
cups, and saucers! It "realized the phrase of &mdash;&mdash;," and
was absolutely appalling to common nerves.</p>

<p>After breakfast came the making of beds and sweeping,
baking and boiling for dinner, making and turning cheese,
and so on, until noon. Occasional bits of leisure were <i>seized</i>
in the afternoon, for sewing and knitting that must be done,
and for visiting.</p>

<p>The situation of such families is most unpleasant, but it is
not irremediable. Order may be established and preserved in
the entire household economy. They may restrict themselves
to a simpler system of dietetics. With the money and time
thus saved, they may purchase books, subscribe for good
periodicals, and find ample leisure to read them. Thus their
intellects will be expanded and invigorated. They will have
opportunities for social intercourse, for the cultivation of
friendships; and thus their affections will be exercised and
warmed. Then, happy the destiny of the farmer, the farmer's
wife, and the farmer's daughters.</p>

<div class="signature">A. F. D.</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>A WEAVER'S REVERIE.</h2>


<p>It was a sunny day, and I left for a few moments the circumscribed
spot which is my appointed place of labor, that
I might look from an adjoining window upon the bright loveliness
of nature. Yes, it was a sunny day; but for many
days before, the sky had been veiled in gloomy clouds; and
joyous indeed was it to look up into that blue vault, and see
it unobscured by its sombre screen; and my heart fluttered,
like a prisoned bird, with its painful longings for an unchecked
flight amidst the beautiful creation around me.</p>

<p>Why is it, said a friend to me one day, that the factory
girls write so much about the beauties of nature?</p>

<p>Oh! why is it, (thought I, when the query afterwards
recurred to me,) why is it that visions of thrilling loveliness
so often bless the sightless orbs of those whose eyes have
once been blessed with the power of vision?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p>

<p>Why is it that the delirious dreams of the famine-stricken,
are of tables loaded with the richest viands, or groves, whose
pendent boughs droop with their delicious burdens of luscious
fruit?</p>

<p>Why is it that haunting tones of sweetest melody come
to us in the deep stillness of midnight, when the thousand
tongues of man and nature are for a season mute?</p>

<p>Why is it that the desert-traveller looks forward upon the
burning boundless waste, and sees pictured before his aching
eyes, some verdant oasis, with its murmuring streams, its
gushing founts, and shadowy groves&mdash;but as he presses on
with faltering step, the bright <i>mirage</i> recedes, until he lies
down to die of weariness upon the scorching sands, with that
isle of loveliness before him?</p>

<p>Oh tell me why is this, and I will tell why the factory girl
sits in the hour of meditation, and thinks&mdash;not of the crowded
clattering mill, nor of the noisy tenement which is her home,
nor of the thronged and busy street which she may sometimes
tread,&mdash;but of the still and lovely scenes which, in bygone
hours, have sent their pure and elevating influence with
a thrilling sweep across the strings of the spirit-harp, and then
awaken its sweetest, loftiest notes; and ever as she sits in
silence and seclusion, endeavoring to draw from that many-toned
instrument a strain which may be meet for another's
ear, that music comes to the eager listener like the sound
with which the sea-shell echoes the roar of what was once
its watery home. All her best and holiest thoughts are linked
with those bright pictures which call them forth, and when
she would embody them for the instruction of others, she does
it by a delineation of those scenes which have quickened and
purified her own mind.</p>

<p>It was this love of nature's beauties, and a yearning for
the pure hallowed feelings which those beauties had been
wont to call up from their hidden springs in the depths of the
soul, to bear away upon their swelling tide the corruption
which had gathered, and I feared might settle there,&mdash;it was
this love, and longing, and fear, which made my heart throb
quickly, as I sent forth a momentary glance from the factory
window.</p>

<p>I think I said there was a cloudless sky; but it was not so.
It was clear, and soft, and its beauteous hue was of "the
hyacinth's deep blue"&mdash;but there was one bright solitary
cloud, far up in the cerulean vault; and I wished that it might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
for once be in my power to lie down upon that white, fleecy
couch, and there, away and alone, to dream of all things
holy, calm, and beautiful. Methought that better feelings,
and clearer thoughts than are often wont to visit me, would
there take undisturbed possession of my soul.</p>

<p>And might I not be there, and send my unobstructed glance
into the depths of ether above me, and forget for a little
while that I had ever been a foolish, wayward, guilty child
of earth? Could I not then cast aside the burden of error
and sin which must ever depress me here, and with the maturity
of womanhood, feel also the innocence of infancy?
And with that sense of purity and perfection, there would
necessarily be mingled a feeling of sweet uncloying bliss&mdash;such
as imagination may conceive, but which seldom pervades
and sanctifies the earthly heart. Might I not look down from
my aerial position, and view this little world, and its hills,
valleys, plains, and streamlets, and its thousands of busy inhabitants,
and see how puerile and unsatisfactory it would
look to one so totally disconnected from it? Yes, there, upon
that soft snowy cloud could I sit, and gaze upon my native
earth, and feel how empty and "vain are all things here
below."</p>

<p>But not motionless would I stay upon that aerial couch.
I would call upon the breezes to waft me away over the broad
blue ocean, and with nought but the clear bright ether above
me, have nought but a boundless, sparkling, watery expanse
below me. Then I would look down upon the vessels pursuing
their different courses across the bright waters; and as
I watched their toilsome progress, I should feel how blessed
a thing it is to be where no impediment of wind or wave
might obstruct my onward way.</p>

<p>But when the beams of a midday sun had ceased to flash
from the foaming sea, I should wish my cloud to bear away
to the western sky, and divesting itself of its snowy whiteness,
stand there, arrayed in the brilliant hues of the setting
sun. Yes, well should I love to be stationed there, and see it
catch those parting rays, and, transforming them to dyes of
purple and crimson, shine forth in its evening vestment,
with a border of brightest gold. Then could I watch the
king of day as he sinks into his watery bed, leaving behind
a line of crimson light to mark the path which led him to his
place of rest.</p>

<p>Yet once, O only once, should I love to have that cloud<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
pass on&mdash;on&mdash;on among the myriads of stars; and leaving
them all behind, go far away into the empty void of space
beyond. I should love, for once, to be <i>alone</i>. Alone! where
<i>could</i> I be alone? But I would fain be where there is no
other, save the <span class="smcap">Invisible</span>, and there, where not even one
distant star should send its feeble rays to tell of a universe
beyond, there would I rest upon that soft light cloud, and
with a fathomless depth below me, and a measureless waste
above and around me, there would I&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>"Your looms are going without filling," said a loud voice
at my elbow; so I ran as fast as possible and changed my
shuttles.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Ella.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>OUR DUTY TO STRANGERS.</h2>

<div class="center">"Deal gently with the stranger's heart."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Mrs. Hemans.</span></div>


<p>The factory girl has trials, as every one of the class can
testify. It was hard for thee to leave</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The voices of thy hindred band,"&mdash;<br /></span>
</div>

<p>was it not, my sister? Yes, there was a burden at your
heart as you turned away from father, mother, sister, and
brother, to meet the cold glance of strange stage-companions.
There was the mournfulness of the funeral dirge and knell,
in the crack of the driver's whip, and in the rattling of the
coach-wheels. And when the last familiar object receded
from your fixed gaze, there was a sense of utter desolation
at your heart. There was a half-formed wish that you could
lie down on your own bed, and die, rather than encounter the
new trials before you.</p>

<p>Home may be a capacious farm-house, or a lowly cottage,
it matters not. It is <i>home</i>. It is the spot around which the
dearest affections and hopes of the heart cluster and rest.
When we turn away, a thousand tendrils are broken, and
they bleed.&mdash;Lovelier scenes <i>might</i> open before us, but that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
only "the loved are lovely." Yet until new interests are
awakened, and new loves adopted, there is a constant
heaviness of heart, more oppressive than can be imagined by
those who have never felt it.</p>

<p>The "kindred band" may be made up of the intelligent
and elegant, or of the illiterate and vulgar; it matters not.
Our hearts yearn for their companionship. We would rejoice
with them in health, or watch over them in sickness.</p>

<p>In all seasons of trial, whether from sickness, fatigue,
unkindness, or <i>ennui</i>, there is one bright <i>oasis</i>. It is</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;"the hope of return to the mother, whose smile<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Could dissipate sadness and sorrow beguile;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the father, whose glance we've exultingly met&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And no meed half so proud hath awaited us yet;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the sister whose tenderness, breathing a charm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No distance could lessen, no danger disarm;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the friends, whose remembrances time cannot chill,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And whose home in the heart not the stranger can fill."<br /></span>
</div>

<p>This hope is invaluable; for it,</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i4">"like the ivy round the oak,</span><br />
Clings closer in the storm."
</div>

<p>Alas! that there are those to whom this hope comes not!
those whose affections go out, like Noah's dove, in search of
a resting place; and return without the olive-leaf.</p>

<p>"Death is in the world," and it has made hundreds of our
factory girls orphans. Misfortunes are abroad, and they have
left as many destitute of homes. This is a melancholy fact,
and one that calls loudly for the sympathy and kind offices
of the more fortunate of the class. It is not a light thing to
be alone in the world. It is not a light thing to meet only
neglect and selfishness, when one longs for disinterestedness
and love. Oh, then, let us</p>

<div class="center">"Deal gently with the stranger's heart,"</div>

<p>especially if the stranger be a destitute orphan. Her garb
may be homely, and her manners awkward; but we will take
her to our heart, and call her sister. Some glaring faults
may be hers; but we will remember "who it is that maketh
us to differ," and if possible, by our kindness and forbearance,
win her to virtue and peace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span></p>

<p>There are many reasons why we should do this. It is a
part of "pure and undefiled religion" to "visit the fatherless
in their afflictions." And "mercy is twice blest; blest
in him that gives, and him that takes." In the beautiful
language of the simple Scotch girl, "When the hour o'
trouble comes, that comes to mind and body, and when the
hour o' death comes, that comes to high and low, oh, my
leddy, then it is na' what we ha' done for ourselves, but
what we ha' done for others, that we think on maist pleasantly."</p>

<div class="signature">E.</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>ELDER ISAAC TOWNSEND.</h2>


<p>Elder Townsend was a truly meek and pious man. He
was not what is called <i>learned</i>, being bred a farmer, and never
having had an opportunity of attending school but very little&mdash;for
school privileges were very limited when Elder Townsend
was young. His chief knowledge was what he had
acquired by studying the Bible (which had been his constant
companion from early childhood,) and a study of human
nature, as he had seen it exemplified in the lives of those with
whom he held intercourse.</p>

<p>Although a Gospel preacher for more than forty years, he
never received a salary. He owned a farm of some forty
acres, which he cultivated himself; and when, by reason of
ill health, or from having to attend to pastoral duties, his
farming-work was not so forward as that of his neighbors,
he would ask his parishioners to assist him for a day,
or a half-day, according to his necessities. As this was
the only pay he ever asked for his continuous labors with
them, he never received a denial, and a pittance so trifling
could not be given grudgingly. The days which were spent
on Elder Townsend's farm were not considered by his parishioners
as days of toil, but as holydays, from whose recreations
they were sure to return home richly laden with the
blessings of their good pastor.</p>

<p>The sermons of Elder T. were always <i>extempore</i>; and if
they were not always delivered with the elocution of an orator,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
they were truly excellent, inasmuch as they consisted principally
of passages of Scripture, judiciously selected, and well
connected.</p>

<p>The Elder's intimate knowledge of his flock, and their
habits and propensities, their joys and their sorrows, together
with his thorough acquaintance with the Scriptures, enabled
him to be ever in readiness to give reproof or consolation (as
need might be,) in the language of Holy Writ. His reproofs
were received with meekness, and the recipients would resolve
to profit thereby; and when he offered the cup of consolation,
it was received with gratitude by those who stood
in need of its healing influences. But when he dwelt on the
loving-kindness of our God, all hearts would rejoice and be
glad. Often, while listening to his preaching, have I sat
with eyes intently gazing on the speaker, until I fancied myself
transported back to the days of the "beloved disciple,"
and on the Isle of Patmos was hearing him say, "My little
children, love one another."</p>

<p>When I last saw Elder Townsend, his head was white
with the frosts of more than seventy winters. It is many
years since. I presume, ere this, he sleeps beneath the turf
on the hill-side, and is remembered among the worthies of
the olden time.</p>

<div class="signature">B. N.</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>HARRIET GREENOUGH.</h2>

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<div class="center">
"The day is come I never thought to see,<br />
Strange revolutions in my farm and me."
</div>

<div class="signature2"><span class="smcap">Dryden's Virgil.</span></div>

<p>Harriet Greenough had always been thought a spoiled
child, when she left home for Newburyport. Her father was
of the almost obsolete class of farmers, whose gods are their
farms, and whose creed&mdash;"Farmers are the most independent
folks in the world." This latter was none the less absolute
in its power over Mr. Greenough, from its being entirely
traditionary. He often repeated a vow made in early life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
that he would never wear other than "homespun" cloth.
When asked his reasons, he invariably answered, "Because
I won't depend on others for what I can furnish myself.
Farmers are the most independent class of men; and I mean
to be the most independent of farmers."&mdash;If for a moment
he felt humbled by the presence of a genteel well-educated
man, it was only for a moment. He had only to recollect
that farmers are the most independent class of people, and
his head resumed its wonted elevation, his manner and tone
their usual swaggering impudence.</p>

<p>While at school he studied nothing but reading, spelling,
arithmetic, and writing. Latterly, his reading had been
restricted to a chapter in the Bible per day, and an occasional
examination of the almanac. He did not read his Bible from
devotional feeling&mdash;for he had none; but that he might puzzle
the "book men" of the village with questions like the
following:&mdash;"Now I should like to have you tell me one
thing: How <i>could</i> Moses write an account of his own death
and burial? Can you just tell me where Cain and Abel
found their wives? What verse is there in the Bible that
has but two words in it? Who was the father of Zebedee's
children? How many chapters has the New Testament?&mdash;How
many verses, and how many words?" Inability or
disinclination to answer any and all of these, made the subject
of a day's laughter and triumph.</p>

<p>Nothing was so appalling to him as innovations on old
customs and opinions. "These notions, that the earth turns
round, and the sun stands still; that shooting stars are nothing
but little meteors, I think they call them, are turning the
heads of our young folks," he was accustomed to say to
Mr. Curtis, the principal of the village academy, every time
they met. "And then these new-fangled books, filled with
jaw-cracking words and falsehoods, chemistry, philosophy,
and so on&mdash;why, I wonder if they ever made any man a better
farmer, or helped a woman to make better butter and cheese?
Now, Mr. Curtis, it is <i>my</i> opinion that young folks had better
read their Bibles more. Now I'll warrant that not one in
ten can tell how many chapters there are in it. My father
knew from the time he was eight till he was eighty. Can
<i>you</i> tell, Mr. Curtis?"</p>

<p>Mr. Curtis smiled a negative; and Mr. Greenough went
laughing about all day. Indeed, for a week, the first thing
that came after his blunt salutation, was a loud laugh; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
in answer to consequent inquiries came the recital of his victory
over "the great Mr. Curtis." He would not listen a
moment to arguments in favor of sending Harriet to the academy,
or of employing any other teachers in his district than
old Master Smith, and Miss Heath, a superanuated spinster.</p>

<p>Mrs. Greenough was a mild creature, passionless and gentle
in her nature as a lamb. She acquiesced in all of her
husband's measures, whether from having no opinions of her
own, or from a deep and quiet sense of duty and propriety,
no one knew. Harriet was their pet. As rosy, laughing,
and healthy as a Hebe, she flew from sport to sport all the
day long. Her mother attempted, at first, to check her
romping propensity; but it delighted her father, and he took
every opportunity to strengthen and confirm it. He was never
so happy as when watching her swift and eager pursuit of a
butterfly; never so lavish of his praises and caresses as when
she succeeded in capturing one, and all breathless with the
chase, bore her prize to him.</p>

<p>"Do stay in the house with poor ma, to-day, darling; she
is very lonely," her mother would say to her, as she put
back the curls from the beautiful face of her child, and kissed
her cheek. One day a tear was in her eye and a sadness at
her heart; for she had been thinking of the early childhood
of her Harriet, when she turned from father, little brother,
playthings and all, for her. Harriet seemed to understand
her feelings; for instead of answering her with a spring and
laugh as usual, she sat quietly down at her feet, and laid her
head on her lap. Mr. Greenough came in at this moment.</p>

<p>"How? What does this mean, wife and Hatty?" said
he.&mdash;"Playing the baby, Hat? Wife, this won't do. Harriet
has your beauty; and to this I have no objections, if she
has my spirits and independence. Come, Hatty; we want
you to help us make hay to-day; and there are lots of butterflies
and grasshoppers for you to catch. Come," he added;
for the child still kept her eyes on her mother's face, as if
undecided whether to go or stay. "Come, get your bonnet&mdash;no;
you may go without it. You look too much like a
village girl. You must get more tan."</p>

<p>"Shall I go, ma?" Harriet asked, still clinging to her
mother's dress.</p>

<p>"Certainly, if pa wishes it," answered Mrs. Greenough
with a strong effort to speak cheerfully.</p>

<p>She went, and from that hour Mrs. Greenough passively<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
allowed her to follow her father and his laborers as she pleased;
to rake hay, ride in the cart, husk corn, hunt hen's eggs,
jump on the hay, play ball, prisoner, pitch quoits, throw dice,
cut and saw wood, and, indeed, to run into every amusement
which her active temperament demanded. She went to
school when she pleased; but her father was constant in his
hints that her spirits and independence were not to be destroyed
by poring over books. She was generally left to do
as she pleased, although she was often pleased to perpetrate
deeds, for which her school-mates often asserted they would
have been severely chastised. There was an expression of
fun and good humor lurking about in the dimples of her fat
cheeks and in her deep blue eye, that effectually shielded her
from reproof. Master Smith had just been accused of partiality
to her, and he walked into the school considerably
taller than usual, all from his determination to punish Harriet
before night. He was not long in detecting her in a rogueish
act. He turned from her under the pretence of looking
some urchins into silence, and said, with uncommon sternness
and precision, "Harriet Greenough, walk out into the floor."
Harriet jumped up, shook the hands of those who sat near
her, nodded a farewell to others, and walked gaily up to the
master. He dreaded meeting her eye; for he knew that his
gravity would desert him in such a case. She took a position
behind him, and in a moment the whole house was in an
uproar of laughter. Master Smith turned swiftly about on
his heel, and confronted the culprit. She only smiled and
made him a most graceful courtesy. This was too much for
his risibles. He laughed almost as heartily as his pupils.</p>

<p>"Take your seat, you, he! he! you trollop, you, he!
he! and I will settle with you by and bye," he said.</p>

<p>She only thanked him, and then returned to her sport.</p>

<p>So she passed on. When sixteen, she was a very child
in everything but years and form. Her forehead was high
and full, but a want of taste and care in the arrangement of
her beautiful hair destroyed its effect. Her complexion was
clear, but sunburnt. Her laugh was musical, but one missed
that <i>tone</i> which distinguishes the laugh of a happy feeling
girl of sixteen from that of a child of mere frolic. As to
her form, no one knew what it was; for she was always putting
herself into some strange but not really uncouth attitude;
and besides, she could never <i>stop</i> to adjust her dress properly.</p>

<p>Such was Harriet Greenough, when a cousin of hers paid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
them a visit on her return to the Newburyport mills. She
was of Harriet's age; but one would have thought her ten
years her senior, judging from her superior dignity and intelligence.
Her father died when she was a mere child,
after a protracted illness, which left them penniless. By
means of untiring industry, and occasional gifts from her
kind neighbors, Mrs. Wood succeeded in keeping her children
at school, until her daughter was sixteen and her son
fourteen. They then went together to Newburyport, under
the care of a very amiable girl who had spent several years
there. They worked a year, devoting a few hours every
day to study; then returned home, and spent a year at
school in their native village.</p>

<p>They were now on their return to the mills. It was arranged
that at the completion of the present year Charles
should return to school, and remain there until fitted for the
study of a profession, if Jane's health was spared that she
might labor for his support.</p>

<p>Jane was a gentle affectionate girl; and there was a new
feeling at the heart of Harriet from the day in which she
came under her influence. Before the week had half expired
which Jane was to spend with them, Harriet, with
characteristic decision, avowed her determination to accompany
her. Her father and mother had opposed her will in
but few instances. In these few she had laughed them into
an easy compliance. In the present case she found her task
a more difficult one. But they consented at last; and with
her mother's tearful blessing, and an injunction from her
father not to bear any insolence from her employers, but to
remember always that she was the independent daughter of
an independent farmer, she left her home.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>


<p>A year passed by, and our Harriet was a totally changed
being, in intellect and deportment. Her cousins boarded in
a small family, that they might have a better opportunity of
pursuing their studies during their leisure hours. She was
their constant companion. At first she did not open a book;
and numberless were the roguish artifices she employed to
divert the attention of her cousins from theirs. They often
laid them aside for a lively chat with her; and then urged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
her to study with them. She loved them ardently. To her
affection she at last yielded, and not to any anticipations of
pleasure or profit in the results, for she had been <i>educated</i> to
believe that there was none of either.</p>

<p>Charles had been studying Latin and mathematics; Jane,
botany, geology, and geography of the heavens. She
instructed Charles in these latter sciences; he initiated her
as well as he might, into the mysteries of <i>hic, hæc, hoc</i>, and
algebra. At times of recitation, Harriet sat and laughed at
their "queer words." When she accompanied them in
their search for flowers, she amused herself by bringing
mullen, yarrow, and, in one instance, a huge sunflower.&mdash;When
they had traced constellations, she repeated to them a
satire on star-gazers, which she learned of her father.</p>

<p>The <i>histories</i> of the constellations and flowers first arrested
her attention, and kindled a romance which had hitherto
lain dormant. A new light was in her eye from that hour,
and a new charm in her whole deportment. She commenced
study under very discouraging circumstances. Of this she
was deeply sensible. She often shed a few tears as she
thought of her utter ignorance, then dashed them off, and
studied with renewed diligence and success. She studied
two hours every morning before commencing labor and until
half past eleven at night. She took her book and her dinner
to the mill, that she might have the whole intermission for
study. This short season, with the reflection she gave during
the afternoon, was sufficient for the mastery of a hard lesson.
She was close in her attendance at the sanctuary. She
joined a Bible class; and the teachings there fell with a
sanctifying influence on her spirit, subduing but not destroying
its vivacity, and opening a new current to her thoughts
and affections. Although tears of regret for misspent
years often stole down her cheeks, she assured Jane that
she was happier at the moment than in her hours of loudest
mirth.</p>

<p>Her letters to her friends had prepared them for a change,
but not for <i>such</i> a change&mdash;so great and so happy. She
was now a very beautiful girl, easy and graceful in her
manners, soft and gentle in her conversation, and evidently
conscious of her superiority, only to feel more humble, more
grateful to Heaven, her dear cousins, her minister, her Sabbath
school teacher, and other beloved friends, who by their
kindness had opened such new and delightful springs of
feeling in her heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p>

<p>She flung her arms around her mother's neck, and wept
tears of gratitude and love. Mrs. Greenough felt that she
was no longer alone in the world; and Mr. Greenough, as
he watched them&mdash;the wife and the daughter&mdash;inwardly
acknowledged that there was that in the world dearer to his
heart than his farm and his independence.</p>

<p>Amongst Harriet's baggage was a rough deal box. This
was first opened. It contained her books, a few minerals
and shells. There were fifty well-selected volumes, besides
a package of gifts for her father, mother, and brother.&mdash;There
was no book-case in the house; and the kitchen shelf
was full of old almanacs, school books, sermons, and jest
books. Mr. Greenough rode to the village, and returned
with a rich secretary, capacious enough for books, minerals,
and shells. He brought the intelligence, too, that a large
party of students and others were to spend the evening with
them. Harriet's heart beat quick, as she thought of young
Curtis, and wondered if he was among the said students.&mdash;Before
she left Bradford, struck with the beauty and simplicity
of her appearance, he sought and obtained an introduction
to her, but left her side, after sundry ineffectual
attempts to draw her into conversation, disappointed and
disgusted. He <i>was</i> among Harriet's visitors.</p>

<p>"Pray, Miss Curtis, what may be your opinion of our
belle, Miss Greenough?" asked young Lane, on the following
morning, as Mr. Curtis and his sister entered the hall of
the academy.</p>

<p>"Why, I think that her improvement has been astonishingly
rapid during the past year; and that she is now a
really charming girl."</p>

<p>"Has she interfered with your heart, Lane?" asked his
chum.</p>

<p>"As to that, I do not feel entirely decided. I think I
shall renew my call, however&mdash;nay, do not frown, Curtis; I
was about to add, if it be only to taste her father's delicious
melons, pears, plums, and apples."</p>

<p>Curtis blushed slightly, bowed, and passed on to the
school room. He soon proved that he cared much less for
Mr. Greenough's fruit than for his daughter: for the fruit
remained untasted if Harriet was at his side. He was never
so happy as when Mr. Greenough announced his purpose of
sending Harriet to the academy two or three years. Arrangements
were made accordingly, and the week before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
Charles left home for college, she was duly installed in his
father's family.</p>

<p>She missed him much; but the loss of his society was
partially counterbalanced by frequent and brotherly letters
from him, and by weekly visits to her home, which by the
way, is becoming quite a paradise under her supervision.&mdash;She
has been studying painting and drawing. Several well-executed
specimens of each adorn the walls and tables of
their sitting-room and parlor. She has no "regular built"
centre-table, but in lieu thereof she has removed from the
garret an old round table that belonged to her grandmother.
This she has placed in the centre of the sitting-room; and
what with its very pretty covering (which falls so near the
floor as to conceal its uncouth legs), and its books, it forms
no mean item of elegance and convenience.</p>

<p>Mr. Greenough and his help have improved a few leisure
days in removing the trees that entirely concealed the Merrimac.
By the profits resulting from their sale, he has
built a neat and tasteful enclosure for his house and garden.
This autumn shade-trees and shrubbery are to be removed
to the yard, and fruit-trees and vines to the garden. Next
winter a summer-house is to be put in readiness for erection
in the spring.</p>

<p>All this, and much more, Mr. Greenough is confident he
can accomplish, without neglecting his <i>necessary</i> labors, or
the course of reading he has marked out, "by and with the
advice" of his wife and Harriet. And more, and better
still, he has decided that his son George shall attend school,
at least two terms yearly. He will board at home, and will
be accompanied by his cousin Charles, whom Mr. Greenough
has offered to board gratis, until his education is completed.
By this generosity on the part of her uncle, Jane
will be enabled to defray other expenses incidental to
Charles's education, and still have leisure for literary pursuits.</p>

<p>Most truly might Mr. Greenough say,&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"The day is come I never thought to see,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strange revolutions in my farm and me."</span>
</div>

<div class="signature">A.</div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 115px;">
<img src="images/illus-160.jpg" width="115" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p>
<h2>FANCY.</h2>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Swiftly flies the shuttle now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Swift as an arrow from the bow:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But swifter than the thread is wrought,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is soon the flight of busy thought;<br /></span>

<span class="i0">For Fancy leaves the mill behind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And seeks some novel scenes to find.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And now away she quickly hies&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O'er hill and dale the truant flies.<br /></span>

<span class="i0">Stop, silly maid! where dost thou go?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy road may be a road of woe:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some hand may crush thy fairy form,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And chill thy heart so lately warm.<br /></span>

<span class="i0">"Oh no," she cries in merry tone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">"I go to lands before unknown;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I go in scenes of bliss to dwell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where ne'er is heard a factory bell."<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Away she went; and soon I saw,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That Fancy's wish was Fancy's law;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For where the leafless trees were seen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Fancy wished them to be green,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her wish she scarcely had made known,<br /></span>

<span class="i0">Before green leaves were on them grown.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She spake&mdash;and there appear'd in view,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bright manly youths, and maidens, too.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Fancy called for music rare&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And music filled the ravished air.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And then the dances soon began,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And through the mazes lightly ran<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The footsteps of the fair and gay&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For this was Fancy's festal day.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On, on they move, a lovely group!<br /></span>

<span class="i0">Their faces beam with joy and hope;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor dream they of a danger nigh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath their bright and sunny sky.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One of the fair ones is their queen,<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span><span class="i0">For whom they raise a throne of green;<br /></span>

<span class="i0">And Fancy weaves a garland now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To place upon the maiden's brow;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fragrant are the blooming flowers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In her enchanted fairy-bowers.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And Fancy now away may slip,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And o'er the green-sward lightly skip,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And to her airy castle hie&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For Fancy hath a castle nigh.<br /></span>

<span class="i0">The festal board she quick prepares,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And every guest the bounty shares,&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And seated at the festal board,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their merry voices now are heard,<br /></span>

<span class="i0">As each youth places to his lips,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And from the golden goblet sips<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A draught of the enchanting wine<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That came from Fancy's fruitful vine.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But hark! what sound salutes mine ear?<br /><br /></span>
<span class="i0">A distant rumbling now I hear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, Fancy! 'tis no groundless fear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The rushing whirlwind draweth near!<br /></span>

<span class="i0">Thy castle walls are rocking fast,&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The glory of thy feast is past;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy guests are now beneath the wave,&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oblivion is their early grave,<br /></span>

<span class="i0">Thy fairy bower has vanished&mdash;fled:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy leafy tree are withered&mdash;dead!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy lawn is now a barren heath,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy bright-eyed maids are cold in death!<br /></span>

<span class="i0">Those manly youth that were so gay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have vanished in the self-same way!<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh Fancy! now remain at home,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And be content no more to roam;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For visions such as thine are vain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bring but discontent and pain.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Remember, in thy giddy whirl,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That <i>I</i> am but a factory girl:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And be content at home to dwell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though governed by a "factory bell."<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Fiducia.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE WIDOW'S SON.</h2>


<p>Among the multitudes of females employed in our manufacturing
establishments, persons are frequently to be met
with, whose lives are interspersed with incidents of an interesting
and even thrilling character. But seldom have I met
with a person who has manifested so deep devotion, such
uniform cheerfulness, and withal so determined a perseverance
in the accomplishment of a cherished object, as Mrs.
Jones.</p>

<p>This inestimable lady was reared in the midst of affluence,
and was early married to the object of her heart's affection.
A son was given them, a sweet and lovely boy. With
much joy they watched the development of his young mind,
especially as he early manifested a deep devotional feeling,
which was cultivated with the most assiduous attention.</p>

<p>But happiness like this may not always continue. Reverses
came. That faithful husband and affectionate father
was laid on a bed of languishing. Still he trusted in God;
and when he felt that the time of his departure approached,
he raised his eyes, and exclaimed, "Holy Father! Thou
hast promised to be the widow's God and judge, and a
Father to the fatherless; into Thy care I commit my beloved
wife and child. Keep Thou them from evil, as they
travel life's uneven journey. May their service be acceptable
in thy sight." He then quietly fell asleep.</p>

<p>Bitter indeed were the tears shed over his grave by that
lone widow and her orphan boy; yet they mourned not as
those who mourn without hope. Instead of devoting her
time to unavailing sorrow, Mrs. Jones turned her attention
to the education of her son, who was then in his tenth year.
Finding herself in reduced circumstances, she nobly resolved
to support her family by her own exertions, and keep
her son at school. With this object, she procured plain
needle-work, by which, with much economy, she was enabled
to live very comfortably, until Samuel had availed
himself of all the advantages presented him by the common
schools and high school. He was then ready to enter college&mdash;but
how were the necessary funds to be raised to defray
his expenses?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p>

<p>This was not a new question to Mrs. Jones. She had
pondered it long and deeply, and decided upon her course;
yet she had not mentioned it to her son, lest it should divert
his mind from his studies. But as the time now rapidly
approached when she was to carry her plan into operation,
she deemed it proper to acquaint Samuel with the whole
scheme.</p>

<p>As they were alone in their neat little parlor, she aroused
him from a fit of abstraction, by saying, "Samuel, my dear
son, before your father died we solemnly consecrated you to
the service of the Lord; and that you might be the better
prepared to labor in the gospel vineyard, your father designed
to give you a liberal education. He was called home; yet
through the goodness of our Heavenly Father, I have been
enabled thus far to prosecute his plan. It is now time for
you to enter college, and in order to raise the necessary
funds, I have resolved to sell my little stock of property, and
engage as an operative in a factory."</p>

<p>At this moment, neighbor Hall, an old-fashioned, good-natured
sort of a man, entered very unceremoniously, and
having heard the last sentence, replied: "Ah! widow, you
know that I do not like the plan of bringing up our boys in
idleness. But then Samuel is such a good boy, and so fond
of reading, that I think it a vast pity if he cannot read all
the books in the state. Yes, send him to college, widow;
there he will have reading to his heart's content. You
know there is a gratuity provided for the education of indigent
and pious young men."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Mrs. Jones, "I know it; but I am resolved
that if my son ever obtains a place among the servants of
the Prince of Peace, he shall stand forth unchained by the
bondage of men, and nobly exert the energies of his mind
as the Lord's freeman."</p>

<p>Samuel, who had early been taught the most perfect
obedience, now yielded reluctant consent to this measure.&mdash;Little
time was requisite for arrangements; and having converted
her little effects into cash, they who had never before
been separated, now took an affectionate and sorrowful
leave of each other, and departed&mdash;the one to the halls of
learning, and the other to the power-looms.</p>

<p>We shall now leave Samuel Jones, and accompany his
mother to Dover. On her arrival, she assumed her maiden
name, which I shall call Lucy Cambridge; and such was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
her simplicity and quietness of deportment, that she was
never suspected of being other than she seemed. She readily
obtained a situation in a weave-room, and by industry
and close application, she quickly learned the grand secret
of a successful weaver&mdash;namely, "Keep the filling running,
and the web clear."</p>

<p>The wages were not then reduced to the present low
standard, and Lucy transmitted to her son, monthly, all,
saving enough to supply her absolute necessities.</p>

<p>As change is the order of the day in all manufacturing
places, so, in the course of change, Lucy became my room-mate;
and she whom I had before admired, secured my
love and ardent friendship. Upon general topics she conversed
freely; but of her history and kindred, never. Her
respectful deportment was sufficient to protect her from
the inquiries of curiosity; and thus she maintained her
reserve until one evening when I found her sadly perusing a
letter. I thought she had been weeping. All the sympathies
of my nature were aroused, and throwing my arms
around her neck, I exclaimed, "Dear Lucy, does your letter
bring you bad news, or are any of your relatives"&mdash;&mdash;I
hesitated and stopped; for, thought I, "perhaps she <i>has</i> no
relatives. I have never heard her speak of any: she may
be a lone orphan in the world." It was then she yielded
to sympathy, what curiosity had never ventured to ask.
From that time she continued to speak to me of her history
and hopes. As I have selected names to suit myself, she
has kindly permitted me to make an extract from her answer
to that letter, which was as follows:</p>

<p>"My Dear Son,&mdash;in your letter of the 16th, you entreat
me to leave the mill, saying, 'I would rather be a scavenger,
a wood-sawyer, or anything, whereby I might honestly
procure a subsistence for my mother and myself, than have
you thus toil, early and late. Mother, the very thought is
intolerable! O come away&mdash;for dearly as I love knowledge,
I cannot consent to receive it at the price of my mother's
happiness.'</p>

<p>"My son, it is true that factory life is a life of toil&mdash;but
I am preparing the way for my only son to go forth as a
herald of the cross, to preach repentance and salvation to
those who are out of the way. I am promoting an object
which was very near the heart of my dear husband. Wherefore
I desire that you will not again think of pursuing any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
other course than the one already marked out for you; for
you perceive that my agency in promoting your success,
forms an important part of <i>my</i> happiness."</p>

<p>Often have I seen her eyes sparkle with delight as she
mentioned her son and his success. And after the labor and
toil of attending "double work" during the week, very often
have I seen her start with all the elasticity of youth, and go
to the Post Office after a letter from Samuel. And seldom
did she return without one, for he was ever thoughtful
of his mother, who was spending her strength for him. And
he knew very well that it was essential to her happiness to
be well informed of his progress and welfare.</p>

<p>Nearly three years had elapsed since Lucy Cambridge first
entered the mill, when the stage stopped in front of her
boarding house, and a young gentleman sprang out, and inquired
if Miss Lucy Cambridge was in. Immediately they
were clasped in each other's arms. This token of mutual
affection created no small stir among the boarders. One declared,
"she thought it very singular that such a pretty
young man should fancy so old a girl as Lucy Cambridge."
Another said, "she should as soon think that he would marry
his mother."</p>

<p>Samuel Jones was tall, but of slender form. His hair,
which was of the darkest brown, covered an unusually fine
head. His eyes, of a clear dark grey, beaming with piety
and intelligence, shed a lustre over his whole countenance,
which was greatly heightened by being overshadowed by a
deep, broad forehead.</p>

<p>He visited his mother at this time, to endeavor to persuade
her to leave the mill, and spend her time in some less laborious
occupation. He assured her that he had saved enough
from the stock she had already sent him, to complete his education.
But she had resolved to continue in her present
occupation, until her son should have a prospect of a permanent
residence; and he departed alone.</p>

<p>Intelligence was soon conveyed to Lucy that a young
student had preached occasionally, and that his labors had
been abundantly blessed. And ere the completion of another
year, Samuel Jones went forth a licentiate, to preach the
everlasting gospel.</p>

<p>I will not attempt to describe the transports of that widowed
heart, when she received the joyful tidings that her
son had received a unanimous call to take the pastoral charge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
of a small but well-united society in the western part of
Ohio, and only waited for her to accompany him thither.</p>

<p>Speedily she prepared to leave a place which she really
loved; "for," said she, "have I not been blessed with
health and strength to perform a great and noble work in
this place?"</p>

<p>Ay, undoubtedly thou hast performed a blessed work;
and now, go forth, and in the heartfelt satisfaction that thou
hast performed thy duty, reap the rich reward of all thy
labors.</p>

<p>Samuel Jones and his mother have departed for the scene
of their future labors, with their hearts filled with gratitude
to God, and an humble desire to be of service in winning
many souls to the flock of our Savior and Lord.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Orianna.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>WITCHCRAFT.</h2>


<p>It may not, perhaps, be generally known that a belief in
witchcraft still prevails, to a great extent, in some parts of
New England. Whether this is owing to the effect of early
impressions on the mind, or to some defect in the physical
organization of the human system, is not for me to say; my
present purpose being only to relate, in as concise a manner
as may be, some few things which have transpired within a
quarter of a century; all of which happened in the immediate
neighborhood of my early home, and among people with
whom I was well acquainted.</p>

<p>My only apology for so doing is, that I feel desirous to
transmit to posterity, something which may give them an
idea of the superstition of the present age&mdash;hoping that when
they look back upon its dark page, they will feel a spirit of
thankfulness that they live in more enlightened times, and
continue the work of mental illumination, till the mists of
error entirely vanish before the light of all-conquering truth.</p>

<p>In a little glen between the mountains, in the township of
B., stands a cottage, which, almost from time immemorial,
has been noted as the residence of some one of those ill-fated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
beings, who are said to take delight in sending their spirits
abroad to torment the children of men. These beings, it is
said, purchase their art of his satanic majesty&mdash;the price,
their immortal souls, and when Satan calls for his due, the
mantle of the witch is transferred to another mortal, who,
for the sake of exercising the art for a brief space of time,
makes over the soul to perdition.</p>

<p>The mother of the present occupant of this cottage lived
to a very advanced age; and for a long series of years, all
the mishaps within many miles were laid to her spiritual
agency; and many were the expedients resorted to to rid
the neighborhood of so great a pest. But the old woman,
spite of all exertions to the contrary, lived on, till she died of
sheer old age.</p>

<p>It was some little time before it was ascertained who inherited
her mantle; but at length it was believed to be a
fact that her daughter Molly was duly authorized to exercise
all the prerogatives of a witch; and so firmly was this belief
established, that it even gained credence with her youngest
brother; and after she was married, and had removed to a
distant part of the country, a calf of his, that had some
strange actions, was pronounced by the <i>knowing ones</i>, to be
bewitched; and this inhuman monster chained his calf in the
fire place of his cooper-shop, and burned it to death&mdash;hoping
thereby to kill his sister, whose spirit was supposed to be in
the body of the calf.</p>

<p>For several years it went current that Molly fell into the
fire, and was burned to death, at the same time in which the
calf was burned. But she at length refuted this, by making
her brother a visit, and spending some little time in the
neighborhood.</p>

<p>Some nineteen or twenty years since, two men, with
whom I was well acquainted, had an action pending in the
Superior Court, and it was supposed that the testimony of
the widow Goodwin in favor of the plaintiff, would bear hard
upon the defendant. A short time previous to the sitting of
the court, a man by the name of James Doe, offered himself
as an evidence for the defendant to destroy the testimony of
the widow Goodwin, by defaming her character. Doe said
that he was willing to testify that the widow Goodwin was
a witch&mdash;he knew it to be a fact; for, once on a time she
came to his bed-side, and flung a bridle over his head, and
he was instantly metamorphosed into a horse. The widow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
then mounted and rode him nearly forty miles; she stopped
at a tavern, which he named, dismounted, tied him to the
sign-post and left him. After an absence of several hours,
she returned, mounted, and rode him home; and at the bed-side
took off the bridle, when he resumed his natural form.</p>

<p>No one acquainted with Doe thought that he meant to deviate
from the truth. Those naturally superstitious thought
that the widow Goodwin was in reality a witch; but the
more enlightened believed that their neighbor Doe was under
the influence of spirituous liquor when he went to bed;
and that whatever might be the scene presented to his imagination,
it was owing to false vision, occasioned by derangement
in his upper story; and they really felt a sympathy
for him, knowing that he belonged to a family who
were subject to mental aberration.</p>

<p>A scene which I witnessed in part, in the autumn of 1822,
shall close my chapter on witchcraft. It was between the
hours of nine and ten in the morning, that a stout-built, ruddy-faced
man confined one of his cows, by means of bows
and iron chains, to an apple-tree and then beat her till she
dropped dead&mdash;saying that the cow was bewitched, and that
he was determined to kill the witch. His mother, and some
of the neighbors witnessed this cruel act without opposing
him, so infatuated were they with a belief in witchcraft.</p>

<p>I might enlarge upon this scene, but the recollection of
what then took place recalls so many disagreeable sensations,
that I forbear. Let it suffice to state that the cow
was suffering in consequence of having eaten a large quantity
of potatoes from a heap that was exposed in the field
where she was grazing.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Tabitha.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 280px;">
<img src="images/illus-169.jpg" width="280" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p>
<h2>CLEANING UP.</h2>


<p>There is something to me very interesting in observing
the manifestations of animal instinct&mdash;that unerring prompter
which guides its willing disciple into the ever straight
path, and shows him, with unfailing sagacity, the easiest and
most correct method of accomplishing each necessary design.</p>

<p>But to enter here, upon a philosophical dissertation, respecting
the nature and developments of instinct, is not my
design, and I will now detain you with but one or two instances
of it, which have fallen under my own observation.</p>

<p>One warm day in the early spring, I observed a spider,
very busily engaged upon a dirty old web, which had for
a long time, curtained a pane of my factory window. Where
Madame Arachne had kept herself during the winter, was
not in my power to ascertain; but she was in a very good
condition, plump, spry, and full of energy. The activity of
her movements awakened my curiosity, and I watched with
much interest the commotion in the old dwelling, or rather
slaughter house, for I doubted not that many a green head
and blue bottle had there met an untimely end.</p>

<p>I soon found that madam was very laboriously engaged in
that very necessary part of household exercises, called,
<span class="smcap">cleaning up</span>; and she had chosen precisely the season for
her labors which all good housewives have by common
consent appropriated to paint-cleaning, white-washing, &amp;c.
With much labor, and a prodigal expenditure of steps, she
removed, one by one, the tiny bits of dirt, sand &amp;c., &amp;c.,
which had accumulated in this net during the winter; but it
was not done, as I at first thought, by pushing and poking,
and thrusting the intruders out, but by gradually destroying
their <i>location</i>, as a western emigrant would say.&mdash;Whether
this was done, as I at one time imagined, by devouring the
fibre as she passed over it, or by winding it around some
under part of her body, or whether she left it at the centre
of the web, to which point she invariably returned after
every peregrination to the outskirts, I could not satisfy myself.
It was to me a cause of great marvel, and awakened
my perceptive as well as reflective faculties from a long winter
nap.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p>

<p>To the first theory there was no objection, excepting that
I had never heard of its being done; but then it might be so,
and in this case I had discovered what had escaped the observation
of all preceding naturalists. To the second there
was this objection, that when I occasionally caught a front
view of "my lady," she showed no distaff, upon which she
might have re-wound her unravelled thread. The third
suggestion was also objectionable, because, though the centre
looked somewhat thicker, or I surmised that it did, yet it
was not so much so as it must have been, had it been the
depot of the whole concern.</p>

<p>Of one thing I was at length assured&mdash;that there was to
be an entire demolition of the whole fabric, with the exception
of the main beams, (or sleepers, I think is the technical
term,) which remained as usual, when all else had been removed.
Then I went away for the night, and when I returned
the next morning, expecting to behold a blank&mdash;a
void, an evacuation of premises&mdash;a removal&mdash;a disappearance&mdash;a
destruction most complete, without even a wreck
left behind&mdash;lo! there was again the rebuilt mansion&mdash;the
restored fabric, the reversed Penelopian labor: and madam
was rejoicing like the patient man of Uz, when more than
he had lost was restored to him.</p>

<p>My feelings, (for I have a large bump of sympathy) were
of that pleasurable kind which Jack must have experienced,
when he saw the castle, which in a single night had established
itself on the top of his bean-pole; or which enlivened
the bosom of Aladdin, when he saw the beautiful palace,
which in a night had travelled from the genii's dominions
to the waste field, which it then beautified; and I felt
truly rejoiced that my industrious neighbor's works of darkness
were not always deeds of evil. But alack for the poor
<i>spinster</i>, when it came <i>my</i> turn to be <i>cleaning up</i>!</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 248px;">
<img src="images/illus-171.jpg" width="248" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>
<h2>VISITS TO THE SHAKERS.</h2>


<h3>A FIRST VISIT.</h3>

<p>Sometime in the summer of 18&mdash;, I paid a visit to one of
the Shaker villages in the State of New York. Previously
to this, many times and oft had I (when tired of the noise
and contention of the world, its erroneous opinions, and its
wrong practices) longed for some retreat, where, with a few
chosen friends, I could enjoy the present, forget the past,
and be free from all anxiety respecting any future portion of
time. And often had I pictured, in imagination, a state of
happy society, where one common interest prevailed&mdash;where
kindness and brotherly love were manifested in all of the
every-day affairs of life&mdash;where liberty and equality would
live, not in name, but in very deed&mdash;where idleness, in no
shape whatever, would be tolerated&mdash;and where vice of every
description would be banished, and neatness, with order,
would be manifested in all things.</p>

<p>Actually to witness such a state of society was a happiness
which I never expected. I thought it to be only a
thing among the airy castles which it has ever been my delight
to build. But with this unostentatious and truly kind-hearted
people, the Shakers, I found it; and the reality,
in beauty and harmony, exceeded even the picturings of
imagination.</p>

<p>No unprejudiced mind could, for a single moment, resist
the conviction that this singular people, with regard to their
worldly possessions, lived in strict conformity to the teachings
of Jesus of Nazareth. There were men in this society
who had added to the common stock thousands and tens of
thousands of dollars; they nevertheless labored, dressed, and
esteemed themselves as no better, and fared in all respects
like those who had never owned, neither added to the society,
any worldly goods whatever. The cheerfulness with
which they bore one another's burdens made even the
temporal calamities, so unavoidable among the inhabitants of
the earth, to be felt but lightly.</p>

<p>This society numbered something like six hundred persons,
who in many respects were differently educated, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
who were of course in possession of a variety of prejudices,
and were of contrary dispositions and habits. Conversing
with one of their elders respecting them, he said, "You
may say that these were rude materials of which to compose
a church, and speak truly: but here (though strange it may
seem) they are worked into a building, with no sound of axe
or hammer. And however discordant they were in a state
of nature, the square and the plumb-line have been applied
to them, and they now admirably fit the places which they
were designed to fill. Here the idle become industrious,
the prodigal contracts habits of frugality, the parsimonious
become generous and liberal, the intemperate quit the tavern
and the grog-shop, the debauchee forsakes the haunts of
dissipation and infamy, the swearer leaves off the habits of
profanity, the liar is changed into a person of truth, the
thief becomes an honest man, and the sloven becomes neat
and clean."</p>

<p>The whole deportment of this truly singular people,
together with the order and neatness which I witnessed in
their houses, shops, and gardens, to all of which I had free
access for the five days which I remained with them, together
with the conversations which I held with many of the
people of both sexes, confirmed the words of the Elder.&mdash;Truly,
thought I, there is not another spot in the wide earth
where I could be so happy as I could be here, provided the
religious faith and devotional exercises of the Shakers were
agreeable to my own views. Although I could not see the
utility of their manner of worship, I felt not at all disposed
to question that it answered the end for which spiritual worship
was designed, and as such is accepted by our heavenly
Father. That the Shakers have a love for the Gospel exceeding
that which is exhibited by professing Christians in
general, cannot be doubted by any one who is acquainted
with them. For on no other principle could large families,
to the number of fifty or sixty, live together like brethren
and sisters. And a number of these families could not, on
any other principles save those of the Gospel, form a society,
and live in peace and harmony, bound together by no other
bond than that of brotherly love, and take of each other's
property, from day to day and from year to year, using it
indiscriminately, as every one hath need, each willing that
his brother should use his property, as he uses it himself,
and all this without an equivalent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p>

<p>Many think that a united interest in all things temporal is
contrary to reason. But in what other light, save that of
common and united interest, could the words of Christ's
prophecy or promise be fulfilled? According to the testimony
of Mark, Christ said, "There is no man who hath
left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or
wife, or children, or lands, for my sake and the Gospel's,
but he shall receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses,
and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and
lands, with persecutions, and in the world to come eternal
life." Not only in fact, but in theory, is an hundredfold of
private interest out of the question. For a believer who
forsook all things could not possess an hundredfold of all
things only on the principle in which he could possess <i>all
that</i> which his brethren possessed, while they also possessed
the same in an united capacity.</p>

<p>In whatever light it may appear to others, to me it appears
beautiful indeed, to see a just and an impartial equality
reign, so that the rich and the poor may share an equal
privilege, and have all their wants supplied. That the
Shakers are in reality what they profess to be, I doubt not.
Neither do I doubt that many, very many lessons of wisdom
might be learned of them, by those who profess to be wiser.
And to all who wish to know if "any good thing can come
out of Nazareth," I would say, you had better "go and
see."</p>


<h3>A SECOND VISIT.</h3>

<p>I was so well pleased with the appearance of the
Shakers, and the prospect of quietness and happiness among
them, that I visited them a second time. I went with a determination
to ascertain as much as I possibly could of their
forms and customs of worship, the every-day duties devolving
on the members, &amp;c.; and having enjoyed excellent
opportunities for acquiring the desired information, I wish to
present a brief account of what "I verily do know" in relation
to several particulars.</p>

<p>First of all, justice will not permit me to retract a word
in relation to the industry, neatness, order, and general good
behavior, in the Shaker settlement which I visited. In
these respects, that singular people are worthy of all commendation&mdash;yea,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
they set an example for the imitation of
Christians everywhere. Justice requires me to say, also,
that their hospitality is proverbial, and deservedly so. They
received and entertained me kindly, and (hoping perhaps
that I might be induced to join them) they extended extra-civilities
to me. I have occasion to modify the expression of
my gratitude in only one particular&mdash;and that is, one of the
female elders made statements to me concerning the requisite
confessions to be made, and the forms of admission to
their society, which statements she afterwards denied, under
circumstances that rendered her denial a most aggravated
insult. Declining farther notice of this matter, because
of the indelicacy of the confessions alluded to, I pass to
notice,</p>

<p>1st. The domestic arrangements of the Shakers. However
strange the remark may seem, it is nevertheless true,
that our factory population work fewer hours out of every
twenty-four than are required by the Shakers, whose bell to
call them from their slumbers, and also to warn them that it
is time to commence the labors of the day, rings much
earlier than our factory bells; and its calls were obeyed, in
the family where I was entertained, with more punctuality
than I ever knew the greatest "workey" among my numerous
acquaintances (during the fourteen years in which I
have been employed in different manufacturing establishments)
to obey the calls of the factory-bell. And not
until nine o'clock in the evening were the labors of the
day closed, and the people assembled at their religious
meetings.</p>

<p>Whoever joins the Shakers with the expectation of relaxation
from toil, will be greatly mistaken, since they deem it
an indispensable duty to have every moment of time profitably
employed. The little portions of leisure which the
females have, are spent in knitting&mdash;each one having a
basket of knitting-work for a constant companion.</p>

<p>Their habits of order are, in many things, carried to the
extreme. The first bell for their meals rings for all to repair
to their chambers, from which, at the ringing of the
second bell, they descend to the eating-room. Here, all
take their appropriate places at the tables, and after locking
their hands on their breasts, they drop on their knees, close
their eyes, and remain in this position about two minutes.
Then they rise, seat themselves, and with all expedition<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
swallow their food; then rise on their feet, again lock their
hands, drop on their knees, close their eyes, and in about
two minutes rise and retire. Their meals are taken in silence,
conversation being prohibited.</p>

<p>Those whose chambers are in the fourth story of one
building, and whose work-shops are in the third story of
another building, have a daily task in climbing stairs which
is more oppressive than any of the rules of a manufacturing
establishment.</p>

<p>2d. With all deference, I beg leave to introduce some of
the religious views and ceremonies of the Shakers.</p>

<p>From the conversation of the elders, I learned that they
considered it doing God service to sever the sacred ties of
husband and wife, parent and child&mdash;the relationship existing
between them being contrary to their religious views&mdash;views
which they believe were revealed from heaven to
"Mother Ann Lee," the founder of their sect, and through
whom they profess to have frequent revelations from the
spiritual world. These communications, they say, are often
written on gold leaves, and sent down from heaven to instruct
the poor simple Shakers in some new duty. They
are copied, and perused, and preserved with great care. I
one day heard quite a number of them read from a book, in
which they were recorded, and the names of several of the
brethren and sisters to whom they were given by the angels,
were told me. One written on a gold leaf, was (as I was
told) presented to Proctor Sampson by an angel, so late as
the summer of 1841. These "revelations" are written
partly in English, and partly in some unintelligible jargon,
or unknown tongue, having a spiritual meaning, which can
be understood only by those who possess the spirit in an
eminent degree. They consist principally of songs, which
they sing at their devotional meetings, and which are
accompanied with dancing, and many unbecoming gestures
and noises.</p>

<p>Often in the midst of a religious march, all stop, and with
all their might set to stamping with both feet. And it is
no uncommon thing for many of the worshipping assembly
to crow like a parcel of young chanticleers, while others
imitate the barking of dogs; and many of the young women
set to whirling round and round&mdash;while the old men shake
and clap their hands; the whole making a scene of noise
and confusion which can be better imagined than described.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
The elders seriously told me that these things were the
outward manifestations of the spirit of God.</p>

<p>Apart from their religious meetings, the Shakers have
what they call "union meetings." These are for social
converse, and for the purpose of making the people acquainted
with each other. During the day, the elders tell
who may visit such and such chambers. A few minutes
past nine, work is laid aside; the females change, or adjust,
as best suits their fancy, their caps, handkerchiefs, and pinners,
with a precision which indicates that they are not
<i>altogether</i> free from vanity. The chairs, perhaps to the
number of a dozen, are set in two rows, in such a manner
that those who occupy them may face each other. At the
ringing of a bell each one goes to the chamber where either
he or she has been directed by the elders, or remains at
home to receive company, as the case may be. They enter
the chambers <i>sans cérémonie</i>, and seat themselves&mdash;the men
occupying one row of chairs, the women the other. Here,
with their clean checked home-made pocket-handkerchiefs
spread in their laps, and their spit-boxes standing in a row
between them, they converse about raising sheep and kine,
herbs and vegetables, building walls and raising corn, heating
the oven and paring apples, killing rats and gathering
nuts, spinning tow and weaving sieves, making preserves
and mending the brethren's clothes,&mdash;in short, every thing
they do will afford some little conversation. But beyond
their own little world they do not appear to extend scarcely
a thought. And why should they? Having so few sources
of information, they know not what is passing beyond them.
They however make the most of their own affairs, and
seem to regret that they can converse no longer, when, after
sitting together from half to three-quarters of an hour,
the bell warns them that it is time to separate, which they
do by rising up, locking their hands across their breasts,
and bowing. Each one then goes silently to his own chamber.</p>

<p>It will readily be perceived, that they have no access to
libraries, no books, excepting school-books, and a few relating
to their own particular views; no periodicals, and
attend no lectures, debates, Lyceums, &amp;c. They have
none of the many privileges of manufacturing districts&mdash;consequently
their information is so very limited, that their
conversation is, as a thing in course, quite insipid. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
manner of their life seems to be a check to the march of
mind and a desire for improvement; and while the moral
and perceptive faculties are tolerably developed, the intellectual,
with a very few exceptions, seem to be below the
average.</p>

<p>I have considered it my duty to make the foregoing statement
of facts, lest the glowing description of the Shakers,
given in the story of my first visit, might have a wrong
influence. I then judged by outward appearances only&mdash;having
a very imperfect knowledge of the true state of the
case. Nevertheless, the <i>facts</i> as I saw them in my first
visit, are still facts; my error is to be sought only in my
inferences. Having since had greater opportunities for
observation, I am enabled to judge more righteous judgment.</p>

<div class="signature">C. B.</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE LOCK OF GRAY HAIR.</h2>


<p>Touching and simple memento of departed worth and
affection! how mournfully sweet are the recollections thou
awakenest in the heart, as I gaze upon thee&mdash;shorn after
death had stamped her loved features with the changeless hue
of the grave. How vividly memory recalls the time when, in
childish sportiveness and affection, I arranged this little tress
upon the venerable forehead of my grandmother! Though
Time had left his impress there, a majestic beauty yet rested
upon thy brow; for age had no power to quench the light
of benevolence that beamed from thine eye, nor wither the
smile of goodness that animated thy features. Again do I
seem to listen to the mild voice, whose accents had ever
power to subdue the waywardness of my spirit, and hush to
calmness the wild and turbulent passions of my nature.&mdash;Though
ten summers have made the grass green upon thy
grave, and the white rose burst in beauty above thine honored
head, thy name is yet green in our memory, and thy
virtues have left a deathless fragrance in the hearts of thy
children.</p>

<p>Though she of whom I tell claimed not kindred with the
"high-born of earth"&mdash;though the proud descent of titled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
ancestry marked not her name&mdash;yet the purity of her spotless
character, the practical usefulness of her life, her firm
adherence to duty, her high and holy submission to the will
of Heaven, in every conflict, shed a radiance more resplendent
than the glittering coronet's hues, more enduring than
the wreath that encircles the head of genius. It was no
lordly dome of other climes, nor yet of our far-off sunny
south, that called her mistress; but among the granite hills
of New Hampshire (my own father-land) was her humble
home.</p>

<p>Well do I remember the morning when she related to me
(a sportive girl of thirteen) the events of her early days.&mdash;At
her request, I was her companion during her accustomed
morning walk about her own homestead. During our ramble,
she suddenly stopped, and looked intently down upon
the green earth, leaving me in silent wonder at what could
so strongly rivet her attention. At length she raised her
eyes, and pointing to an ancient hollow in the earth, nearly
concealed by rank herbage, she said, "that spot is the dearest
to me on earth." I looked around, then into her face for
an explanation, seeing nothing unusually attractive about
the place. But ah! how many cherished memories came
up at that moment! The tear of fond recollection stood in
her eye as she spoke:&mdash;"On this spot I passed the brightest
hours of my existence." To my eager inquiry, Did you
not always live in the large white house yonder? She replied,
"No, my child. Fifty years ago, upon this spot
stood a rude dwelling, composed of logs. Here I passed
the early days of my marriage, and here my noble first-born
drew his first breath." In answer to my earnest entreaty
to tell me all about it, she seated herself upon the large
broad stone which had been her ancient hearth, and commenced
her story.</p>

<p>"It was a bright midsummer eve when your grandfather,
whom you never saw, brought me here, his chosen and
happy bride. On that morning had we plighted our faith at
the altar&mdash;that morning, with all the feelings natural to a
girl of eighteen, I bade adieu to the home of my childhood,
and with a fond mother's last kiss yet warm upon my cheek,
commenced my journey with my husband towards his new
home in the wilderness. Slowly on horseback we proceeded
on our way, through the green forest path, whose deep
winding course was directed by incisions upon the trees left<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
by the axe of the sturdy woodsman. Yet no modern bride,
in her splendid coach, decked in satin, orange-flowers, and
lace&mdash;on the way to her stately city mansion, ever felt her
heart beat higher than did my own on that day. For as I
looked upon the manly form of him beside me, as with
careful hand he guided my bridal rein&mdash;or met the fond
glance of his full dark eye, I felt that his was a changeless
love.</p>

<p>"Thus we pursued our lonely way through the lengthening
forest, where Nature reigned almost in her primitive wildness
and beauty. Now and then a cultivated patch, with a
newly-erected cottage, where sat the young mother, hushing
with her low wild song the babe upon her bosom, with the
crash of the distant falling trees, proclaimed it the home of
the emigrant.</p>

<p>"Twilight had thrown her soft shade over the earth: the
bending foliage assumed a deeper hue; the wild wood bird
singing her last note, as we emerged from the forest to a
spot termed by the early settlers 'a clearing.' It was an
enclosure of a few acres, where the preceding year had
stood in its pride the stately forest-tree. In the centre, surrounded
by tall stalks of Indian corn, waving their silken
tassels in the night-breeze, stood the lowly cot which was to
be my future home. Beneath yon aged oak, which has been
spared to tell of the past, we dismounted from our horses,
and entered our rude dwelling. All was silent within and
without, save the low whisper of the wind as it swept
through the forest. But blessed with youth, health, love,
and hope, what had we to fear? Not that the privations
and hardships incident to the early emigrant were unknown
to us&mdash;but we heeded them not.</p>

<p>"The early dawn and dewy eve saw us unremitting in
our toil, and Heaven crowned our labors with blessings.
'The wilderness began to blossom as the rose,' and our
barns were filled with plenty.</p>

<p>"But there was coming a time big with the fate of these
then infant colonies. The murmur of discontent, long since
heard in our large commercial ports, grew longer and louder,
beneath repeated acts of British oppression. We knew
the portentous cloud every day grew darker. In those
days our means of intelligence were limited to the casual
visitation of some traveller from abroad to our wilderness.</p>

<p>"But uncertain and doubtful as was its nature, it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
enough to rouse the spirit of patriotism in many a manly
heart; and while the note of preparation loudly rang in
the bustling thoroughfares, its tones were not unheard
among these granite rocks. The trusty firelock was remounted,
and hung in polished readiness over each humble
door. The shining pewter was transformed to the heavy
bullet, awaiting the first signal to carry death to the oppressor.</p>

<p>"It was on the memorable 17th of June, 1775, that your
grandfather was at his usual labor in a distant part of his
farm: suddenly there fell upon his ear a sound heavier than
the crash of the falling tree: echo answered echo along
these hills; he knew the hour had come&mdash;that the flame had
burst forth which blood alone could extinguish. His was
not a spirit to slumber within sound of that battle-peal. He
dropped his implements, and returned to his house. Never
shall I forget the expression of his face as he entered.&mdash;There
was a wild fire in his eye&mdash;his cheek was flushed&mdash;the
veins upon his broad forehead swelled nigh to bursting. He
looked at me&mdash;then at his infant-boy&mdash;and for a moment his
face was convulsed. But soon the calm expression of high
resolve shone upon his features.</p>

<p>"Then I felt that what I had long secretly dreaded was
about to be realized. For awhile the woman struggled fearfully
within me&mdash;but the strife was brief; and though I
could not with my lips say 'go,' in my heart I responded,
'God's will be done'&mdash;for as such I could but regard the
sacred cause in which all for which we lived was staked. I
dwell not on the anguished parting, nor on the lonely desolation
of heart which followed. A few hasty arrangements,
and he, in that stern band known as the Green Mountain
Boys, led by the noble Stark, hurried to the post of danger.
On the plains of Bennington he nobly distinguished himself
in that fierce conflict with the haughty Briton and mercenary
foe.</p>

<p>"Long and dreary was the period of my husband's absence;
but the God of my fathers forsook me not. To Him
I committed my absent one, in the confidence that He would
do all things well. Now and then, a hurried scrawl,
written perhaps on the eve of an expected battle, came to
me in my lonely solitude like the 'dove of peace' and consolation&mdash;for
it spoke of undying affection and unshaken
faith in the ultimate success of that cause for which he had
left all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>

<p>"But he did return. Once more he was with me. I saw
him press his first-born to his bosom, and receive the little
dark-eyed one, whom he had never yet seen, with new
fondness to his paternal arms. He lived to witness the glorious
termination of that struggle, the events of which all so
well know; to see the 'stars and stripes' waving triumphantly
in the breeze, and to enjoy for a brief season the rich
blessings of peace and independence. But ere the sere and
yellow leaf of age was upon his brow, the withering hand
of disease laid his noble head in the dust. As the going
down of the sun, which foretells a glorious rising, so was his
death. Many years have gone by, since he was laid in his
quiet resting-place, where, in a few brief days, I shall slumber
sweetly by his side."</p>

<p>Such was her unvarnished story; and such is substantially
the story of many an ancient mother of New England.
Yet while the pen of history tells of the noble deeds of the
patriot fathers, it records little of the days of privation and
toil of the patriot mothers&mdash;of their nights of harassing
anxiety and uncomplaining sorrow. But their virtues remain
written upon the hearts of their daughters, in characters
that perish not. Let not the rude hand of degeneracy
desecrate the hallowed shrine of their memory.</p>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Theresa.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/illus-190.jpg" width="200" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>
<h2>LAMENT OF THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK.</h2>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, ladies, will you listen to a little orphan's tale?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And pity her whose youthful voice must breathe so sad a wail;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And shrink not from the wretched form obtruding on your view.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As though the heart which in it dwells must be as loathsome too.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Full well I know that mine would be a strange repulsive mind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Were the outward form an index true of the soul within it shrined;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But though I am so all devoid of the loveliness of youth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet deem me not as destitute of its innocence and truth.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And ever in this hideous frame I strive to keep the light<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of faith in God, and love to man, still shining pure and bright;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though hard the task, I often find, to keep the channel free<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whence all the kind affections flow to those who love not me.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be screened,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the babe recoils from my embrace, as though I were a fiend.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For a moment will my pulses fly, and I join the band so gay;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But they depart with nasty steps, while their lips and nostrils curl,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little crooked girl.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But once it was not thus with me: I was a dear-loved child;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For I to them was very near&mdash;their cherish'd, only one.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But sad the change which me befel, when they were laid to sleep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where the earth-worms o'er their mouldering forms their noisome revels keep;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to care,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And burdens on my back were laid a child should never bear.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For first upon me came disease&mdash;and deformity ensued:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Woe! woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stage<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Could be redeemed from the bended form and decrepitude of age.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And yet of purest happiness I have some transient gleams;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">'Tis when, upon my pallet rude, I lose myself in dreams:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The gloomy present fades away; the sad past seems forgot;<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span><span class="i0">And in those visions of the night mine is a blissful lot.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The dead then come and visit me: I hear my father's voice;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I hear that gentle mother's tones, which makes my heart rejoice;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To find myself the creature yet of misery and tears;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then, once more, I try to sleep, and know the thrilling bliss<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been given&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden lyre,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome choir.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And I have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bands<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I care not for their mockery now&mdash;the thought disturbs me not,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But I would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again.<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Full well I know this ne'er can be, till I with peace am blest,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the soul return for evermore to the "Holy One and Just."<br /></span>
</div></div>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Letty.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 174px;">
<img src="images/illus-184.jpg" width="174" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p>
<h2>THIS WORLD IS NOT OUR HOME.</h2>


<p>How difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that
they must die, and mingle with the common earth! Though
a towering monument may mark the spot where their lifeless
remains repose, their heads will lie as low as that of the
poorest peasant. All their untold gold cannot reprieve them
for one short day.</p>

<p>When Death places his relentless hand upon them, and as
their spirit is fast passing away, perhaps for the first time the
truth flashes upon their mind, that this world is not their
home; and a thrill of agony racks their frame at the thought
of entering that land where all is uncertainty to them. It
may be that they have never humbled themselves before the
great Lawgiver and Judge, and their hearts, alas! have not
been purified and renewed by that grace for which they never
supplicated. And as the vacant eye wanders around the
splendidly furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings
and couch of down, how worthless it all seems, compared
with that peace of mind which attends "the pure in heart!"</p>

<p>The aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was
his home, as day by day he twines the laurel-wreath for his
brow, and fondly trusts it will be unfading in its verdure;
and as the applause of a world, that to him appears all bright
and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of Him who resigned
his life on the cross for suffering humanity&mdash;he thinks
of naught but the bubble he is seeking; and when he has
obtained it, it has lost all its brilliancy&mdash;for the world has
learned to look with indifference upon the bright flowers he
has scattered so profusely on all sides, and his friends, one
by one, become alienated and cold, or bestow their praise
upon some new candidate who may have entered the arena
of fame. How his heart shrinks within him, to think of the
long hours of toil by the midnight lamp&mdash;of health destroyed&mdash;of
youth departed&mdash;of near and dear ties broken by a light
careless word, that had no meaning! How bitterly does he
regret that he has thrown away all the warm and better feelings
of his heart upon the fading things of earth! How
deeply does he feel that he has slighted God's holy law&mdash;for,
in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
world was not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity
gleamed in his pathway, he had neglected to cultivate
the fadeless wreath that cheers the dying hour! And now
the low hollow cough warns him of the near approach of
that hour beyond which all to him is darkness and gloom;
and as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting
that all the bright visions of youth had so soon vanished
away, the cold world perchance passes in review before him.</p>

<p>He beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade, and the star
of fame fall from the brow of youth. He marks the young
warrior on the field of battle, fighting bravely, while the
banner of stars and stripes waves proudly over his head; and
while thinking of the glory he shall win, a ball enters his
heart.&mdash;He gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the
lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the
morning, just touched by the hand of death; she was the
light of his home, the last of many dear ones; and he wondered
why he was spared, and the young taken. Though
the cup was bitter, he drank it.</p>

<p>Again he turned his eyes from the world, whereon everything
is written, "fading away." Yes, wealth, beauty, fame,
glory, honor, friendship, and oh! must it be said that even
love, too, fades? Almost in despair, he exclaimed, "Is there
aught that fades not?" And a voice seemed to whisper in
his ear, "There is God's love which never fades; this world
is not your home; waste not the short fragment of your life
in vain regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which
is the common lot of all; be ready, therefore, to pass to
that bourne from which there is no return, before you enter
the presence of Him whose name is Love."</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"Then ask not life, but joy to know<br /></span>
<span class="i1">That sinless they in heaven shall stand;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That Death is not a cruel foe,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">To execute a wise command.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">'Tis ours to ask, 'tis God's to give.&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We live to die&mdash;and die to live."<br /></span>
</div>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Beatrice.</span></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 204px;">
<img src="images/illus-186.jpg" width="204" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p>
<h2>DIGNITY OF LABOR.</h2>


<p>From whence originated the idea, that it was derogatory
to a lady's dignity, or a blot upon the female character, to
labor? and who was the first to say sneeringly, "Oh, she <i>works</i>
for a living?" Surely, such ideas and expressions ought not
to grow on republican soil. The time has been when ladies
of the first rank were accustomed to busy themselves in domestic
employment.</p>

<p>Homer tells us of princesses who used to draw water from
the springs, and wash with their own hands the finest of the
linen of their respective families. The famous Lucretia used
to spin in the midst of her attendants; and the wife of Ulysses,
after the siege of Troy, employed herself in weaving, until
her husband returned to Ithaca. And in later times, the wife
of George the Third, of England, has been represented as
spending a whole evening in hemming pocket-handkerchiefs,
while her daughter Mary sat in the corner, darning stockings.</p>

<p>Few American fortunes will support a woman who is above
the calls of her family; and a man of sense, in choosing a
companion to jog with him through all the up-hills and
down-hills of life, would sooner choose one who <i>had</i> to work
for a living, than one who thought it beneath her to soil her
pretty hands with manual labor, although she possessed her
thousands. To be able to earn one's own living by laboring
with the hands, should be reckoned among female accomplishments;
and I hope the time is not far distant when none
of my countrywomen will be ashamed to have it known that
they are better versed in useful than they are in ornamental
accomplishments.</p>

<div class="signature">C. B.</div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 210px;">
<img src="images/illus-187.jpg" width="210" height="100" alt="Decoration" title="Decoration" />
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE VILLAGE CHRONICLE.</h2>


<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<p>"Come, Lina, dear," said Mr. Wheeler to his little daughter,
"lay by your knitting, if you please, and read me the
paper."</p>

<p>"What, pa, this old paper, 'The Village Chronicle?'"</p>

<p>"Old, Lina!&mdash;why, it is damp from the press. Not so old,
by more than a dozen years, as you are."</p>

<p>"But, pa, the <i>news</i> is <i>olds</i>. Our village mysteries are all
worn threadbare by the gossiping old maids before the
printer can get them in type; and the foreign information is
more quickly obtained from other sources. And, pa, I wish
you wouldn't call me Lina&mdash;it sounds so childish, and I begin
to think myself quite a young lady&mdash;almost in my teens,
you know; and Angeline is not so very long."</p>

<p>"Well, Angeline, as you please; but see if there is not
something in the paper."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, pa; to please you I will read the stupid old
(<i>new</i>, I mean) concern.&mdash;Well, in the first place, we have
some poetry&mdash;some of our village poets' (genius, you know,
admits not of distinction of sex) effusions, or rather confusions.
Miss Helena (it used to be Ellen once) Carrol's sublime
sentiments upon 'The Belvidere Apollo,'&mdash;which she
never saw, nor anything like it, and knows nothing about.
She had better write about our penny-post, and then we might
feel an interest in her lucubrations, even if not very intrinsically
valuable. But if she does not want to be an old
maid, she might as well leave off writing sentimental poetry
for the newspapers; for who will marry a <i>bleu</i>?"</p>

<p>"There is much that I might say in reply, but I will wait
until you are older. And now do not let me hear you say
anything more about old maids, at least deridingly; for I
have strong hopes that my little girl will be one herself."</p>

<p>"No, pa, never!&mdash;I will not marry, at least while you, or
Alfred, or Jimmy, are alive; but I cannot be an old maid&mdash;not
one of those tattling, envious, starched-up, prudish
creatures, whom I have always designated as old maids,
whether they are married or single&mdash;on the sunny or shady
side of thirty."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p>

<p>"Well, child, I hope you never will be metamorphosed
into an old maid, then. But now for the Chronicle&mdash;I will
excuse you from the poetry, if you will read what comes
next."</p>

<p>"Thank you, my dear father, a thousand times. It would
have made me as sick as a cup-full of warm water would do.
You know I had rather take so much hot drops.&mdash;But the
next article is Miss Simpkins's very original tale, entitled
'The Injured One,'&mdash;probably all about love and despair, and
ladies so fair, and men who don't care, if the mask they can
wear, and the girls must beware. Now ain't I literary? But
to be a heroine also, I will muster my resolution, and commence
the story:</p>

<p>"'Madeline and Emerilla were the only daughters of Mr.
Beaufort, of H., New Hampshire.'</p>

<p>"Now, pa, I can't go any farther&mdash;I would as lieve travel
through the deserts of Sahara, or run the gauntlet among the
Seminoles, as to wade through this sloshy story. Miss Simpkins
always has such names to her heroines; and they would
do very well if they were placed anywhere but in the unromantic
towns of our granite State. H., I suppose, stands
for Hawke, or Hopkinton. Miss Simpkins is so soft that I
do not believe Mr. Baxter would publish her stories, if he were
not engaged to her sister. She makes me think of old 'deaf
uncle Jeff,' in the story, who wanted somebody to love."</p>

<p>"And she does love&mdash;she loves everybody; and I am sorry
to hear you talk so of this amiable and intellectual girl. But
I do not wish to hear you read her story now&mdash;as for her
names, she would not find one unappropriated by our towns-folks.
What comes next?"</p>

<p>"The editorial, pa, and the caption is, 'Our Representatives.'
I had ten times rather read about the antediluvians,
and I wish sometimes they might go and keep them company.
And now for the items: Our new bell got cracked, in its
winding way to this 'ere town; and the meeting-house at the
West Parish, has been fired by an incendiary; and the old
elm, near the Central House, has been blown down; and
Widow Frye has had a yoke of oxen struck by lightning;
and old Col. Morton fell down dead, in a fit of apoplexy;
and the bridge over the Branch needs repairing; and 'a friend
of good order' wishes that our young men would not stand
gaping around the meeting-house doors, before or after service;
and 'a friend of equal rights' wishes that people might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
sell and drink as much rum as they please, without interference,
&amp;c., &amp;c.; and all these things we knew before, as well as
we did our A B C's. Next are the cards: The ladies have
voted their thanks to Mr. K., for his lecture upon phrenology&mdash;the
matrimonial part, I presume, included; and the Anti-Slavery
Society is to have a fair, at which will be sold all
sorts of abolition things, such as anti-slavery paper, wafers,
and all such important articles. I declare I will make a
nigger doll for it. And Mr. P., of Boston, is to deliver a
lecture upon temperance; and the trustees of the Academy
have chosen Mr. Dalton for the Preceptor, and here is his
long advertisement; and the Overseers of the Poor are ready
to receive proposals for a new alms-house; and all these
things, pa, which have been the town talk this long time.
But here is something new. Our minister, dear Mr. Olden,
has been very seriously injured by an accident upon the Boston
and Salem Railroad. The news must be very recent, for
we had not heard of it; and it is crowded into very fine type.
Oh, how sorry I am for him!"</p>

<p>"Well, Lina, or Miss Angeline, there is something of
sufficient importance to repay you for the trouble of reading
it, and I am very glad that you have done so&mdash;for I will start
upon my intended journey to Boston to-day, and can assist
him to return home. Anything else?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, pa! a long list of those who have taken advantage
of the Bankrupt Act, and the Deaths and Marriages;
but all mentioned here, with whose names we were familiar,
have been subjects for table-talk these several days."</p>

<p>"Well, is there no foreign news?"</p>

<p>"Yes, pa; Queen Victoria has given another ball at Buckingham
Palace; and Prince Albert has accepted a very fine
blood-hound, from Major Sharp, of Houston; and Sir Howard
Douglas has been made a Civil Grand Cross of the Bath,
&amp;c., &amp;c. Are not these fine things to fill up our republican
papers with?"</p>

<p>"Well, my daughter, look at the doings in Congress&mdash;that
will suit you."</p>

<p>"You know better, pa. They do nothing there but scold,
and strike, and grumble&mdash;then pocket their money, and go
home. See, here it begins, 'The proceedings of the House
can hardly be said to have been <i>important</i>. An instructive
and delightful <i>scene</i> took place between Mr. Wise of Virginia,
and Mr. Stanly, of South Carolina.' Yes, pa, that's the way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
they spend their time. In this <i>act</i> of the farce, or tragedy,
one called t' other a <i>bull-dog</i>, t' other called one a <i>coward</i>.
Do you wish to hear any more?"</p>

<p>"You are somewhat out of humor, my child; but are
there no new notices?"</p>

<p>"Yes, here is an 'Assessors' Notice,' and an 'Assignee's
Notice,' and a 'Contractors' Notice;' but you do not care
anything about them. And here is an 'Auction Notice.'"</p>

<p>"What auction? Read it, my love."</p>

<p>"Why, the late old Mr. Gardner's farm-house, and all
his furniture, are to be sold at auction. And here is a notice
of a meeting of the Directors of the Pentucket Bank, to be
held this very afternoon."</p>

<p>"I am very glad to have learned of it, for I must be there.
Is that all?"</p>

<p>"All?&mdash;no, indeed! Here are some long articles, full of
<i>Whereases</i>, and <i>Resolved's</i>, and <i>Be it enacted's</i>; but I know
you will excuse me from reading them. And now for the
advertisements: Here is a fine new lot of <i>Chenie-de-Laines</i>,
'just received' at Grosvenor's&mdash;oh, pa! do let me have a
new dress, won't you?"</p>

<p>"No, I can't&mdash;at least, I do not see how I can. But if
you will promise to read my paper through patiently for the
future, and will prepare my valise for my journey to Boston,
I will see what I may do. Meantime I must be off to the
directors' meeting. And now let me remind you that two
items, at least, in this paper, have been of much importance
to me; and one, it seems, somewhat interesting to you. So
no more fretting about the Chronicle, if you want a <i>new
gown</i>."</p>

<p>Mr. Wheeler left the room, and Angeline seated herself
at the work-table, to repair his vest. She was sorry she had
fretted so much about the Chronicle; but she did wish her
father would take the "Ladies' Companion," or something
else, in its stead.</p>

<p>While seated there, her little brother came running into
the room, all out of breath, and but just able to gasp out,
"Oh, Lina! there is a man at the Central House, who has
just stopped in the stage, and he is going right on to Kentucky,
and straight through the town where Alfred lives,
for I heard him say so; and I asked him if he would carry
anything for us, and he said, 'Yes, willingly.' So I ran
home as fast as I could come, to tell you to write a note, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
do up a paper, or something, because he will be so sure to
get it&mdash;and right from us, too, as fast as it can go. Now do
be quick, or the stage will start off."</p>

<p>"Oh, dear me," exclaimed Angeline, "how I do wish we
had a New York Mirror, or a Philadelphia Courier, or a
Boston Gazette, or anything but this stupid Chronicle! Do
look, Jimmy! is there nothing in this pile of papers?"</p>

<p>"No, nothing that will do&mdash;so fold up the Chronicle, quick,
for the stage is starting."</p>

<p>Angeline, who had spent some moments in looking for
another paper, now had barely time to scrawl the short word
"Lina" on the paper, wrap it in an envelop, and direct it.
Jimmy snatched it as soon as it was ready, and ran out "<i>full
tilt</i>," in knightly phrase, or, as he afterwards said, "<i>lickity
split</i>."</p>

<p>The stage was coming on at full speed, and he wished to
stop it. Many a time had he stood by the road-side, with
his school companions, and, waving his cap, and stretching
out his neck, had hallooed, "Hurrah for Jackson!" and he
feared that, like the boy in the fable, who called "Wolves!
wolves!" if he now shouted to them from the road-side,
they would not heed him. So he ran into the middle of the
road, threw up his arms, and stood still. The driver barely
reined in his horses within a few feet of the daring boy.</p>

<p>"Where is the man who is going straight ahead to Kentucky?"</p>

<p>"Here, my lad," replied a voice, as a head popped out of
the window, to see what was the matter.</p>

<p>"Well, here is a paper which I wish you to carry to my
brother; and if you stop long enough where he is, you must
go and see him, and tell him you saw me too."</p>

<p>"Well done, my lad! you are a keen one. I'll do your
bidding&mdash;but don't you never run under stage-horses again."</p>

<p>He took the packet, while the driver cracked his whip;
and the horses started as the little boy leaped upon the bank,
shouting, "Hurra for Yankee Land and old Kentucky!"</p>


<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>

<p>In a rude log hut of Western Kentucky was seated an animated
and intelligent-looking young man. A bright moon
was silvering the forest-tops, which were almost the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
prospect from his window; but in that beauteous light the
rough clearing around seemed changed to fairy land; and
even his rude domicile partook of the transient renovation.
His lone walls, his creviced roof, and ragged floor, were
transformed beneath that silvery veil; and truly did it look
as though it might well be the abode of peaceful happiness.</p>

<p>"I feel as though I could write poetry now," said Alfred
to himself. "Let me see&mdash;'The Spirit's Call to the Absent,'
or something like that; but if I should strike my light, and
really get pens, ink, and paper, it would all evaporate, vanish,
abscond, make tracks, become scarce, be o. p. h. Ah, yes!
the poetry would go, but the feeling, the deep affection,
which would find some other language than simple prose,
can never depart.</p>

<p>"How I wish I could see them all! There is not a codger
in my native town&mdash;not a crusty fusty old bachelor&mdash;not
an envious tattling old maid&mdash;not a flirt, sot, pauper, idiot, or
sainted hypocrite, but I could welcome with an embrace.
But if I could only see my father, or Jimmy, or Lina, dear
girl! how much better I should feel! It would make me
ten years younger, to have a chat with Lina; and, to tell the
truth, I should like to see any woman, just to see how it
would seem. I'd go a quarter of a mile, now, to look at a
row of aprons hung out to dry. But there! it's no use
to talk.</p>

<p>"An evening like this is such an one as might entice me
to my mother's grave, were I at home. Oh! if she were
but alive&mdash;if I could only know that she was still somewhere
on the wide earth, to think and pray for me&mdash;I might be better,
as well as happier. Methinks it must be a blessed thing
to be a mother, if all sons cherish that parent's memory as I
have mine&mdash;and they do. It cheers and sustains the exile in
a stranger's land; it invigorates him in trial, and lights him
through adversity; it warns the felon, and haunts and harrows
the convict; it strengthens the captive, and exhilarates
the homeward-bound. Truly must it be a blessed thing to
be a mother!"</p>

<p>He stopped&mdash;for in the moonlight was distinctly seen the
figure of a horseman, emerging from the public road, and
galloping across the clearing. He turned towards the office
of the young surveyor, and in a few moments the carrier
had related the incident by which he obtained the paper, and
placed "The Village Chronicle" in Alfred's hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p>

<p>He struck a light, tore off the wrapper, and the only
written word which met his eye was "Lina." "Dear
name!" said he, "I could almost kiss it, especially as there
is none to see me. She must have been in a prodigious hurry!
and how funny that little rascal, Jimmy, must have
looked! Well, 'when he next doth run a race, may I be
there to see.'"</p>

<p>He took the paper to read. It was a very late one&mdash;he
had never before received one so near the date; and even
that line of dates was now so pleasing. First was Miss
Helena Carroll's poetry. "Dear girl!" said he, "what a
beautiful writer she is! Really, this is poetry! This is
something which carries us away from ourselves, and more
closely connects us with the enduring, high, and beautiful.
Methinks I see her now&mdash;more thin, pale, and ethereal in
her appearance than when we were gay school-mates; but
I wonder that, with all her treasures of heart and intellect,
she is still Helena Carroll.</p>

<p>"And now here is Miss Simpkin's story of 'The injured
One'&mdash;beautiful, interesting, and instructive, I am confident;
and I will read it, every word; but she italicises too
much; she throws too lavishly the bright robes of her prolific
fancy upon the forms she conjures up from New-England
hills and vales. I wonder if she remembers now the
time when she made me shake the old-apple tree, near the
pound, for her, and in jumping down, I nearly broke my
leg. Well, if I read her story, I will try that it does not
break my heart.</p>

<p>"And here is an excellent editorial about 'Our Representatives'&mdash;I
will read it again, and now for the <span class="smcap">items</span>."</p>

<p>These were all highly interesting to the <i>absentee</i>, and on
each did he expatiate to himself. How different were his
feelings from his sister's, as he read of the cracked bell, the
burned meeting-house, the dead oxen, the apoplectic old
Colonel, the decayed bridge, the hints of the friends of
"good order" and "equal rights." Then there was a little
scene suggested by every card; he wondered who had their
heads examined at the Phrenological lecture; and if the
West Parish old farmers were now as stiffly opposed to the
science. And how he would like to see Lina's chart, and to
know if Jimmy had brains&mdash;he was sure he had legs, and
a big heart for a little boy; and he wondered what girls ran
up to have their heads felt of in public; and what the man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
said about matrimony&mdash;an affair which in old times was
thought to have more to do with the heart than the head.</p>

<p>Then his imagination went forward to the fair of the
Anti-Slavery Society, and he wondered where it would be,
and who would go, and what Lina would make, and whether
so much fuss about slavery was right or wrong, and if
"father" approved of it. Then the temperance lecture was
the theme for another self-disquisition. He wondered who
had joined the society, and how the Washingtonians held
out, and if Mr. Hawkins was ever coming to the West.</p>

<p>Then he was glad the trustees were determined to resuscitate
the old academy. What grand times he had enjoyed
there, especially at the exhibitions! and he wondered where
all the pretty girls were who used to go to school with his
bachelorship. Then they were to have a new alms-house;
and forty more things were mentioned, of equal interest&mdash;not
forgetting Mr. Olden's accident, for which "father
would be so sorry." Then there were the Marriages and
Deaths&mdash;each a subject of deep interest, as was also the list
of Bankrupts. The foreign news was news to him; and
Congress matters were not passed unheeded by.</p>

<p>Then he read with deep interest every "Assessor's Notice,"
also those of "Assignees," "Contractors," and
"Auctioneers." There was not a single "Whereas" or
"Resolved," but was most carefully perused; and every
"Be it enacted" stared him in the face like an old familiar
friend.</p>

<p>Then there were the advertisements; and Grosvenor's
first attracted his attention from its <i>big</i> letters. "CHENIE-DE-LAINES!"
said he, "What in the name of common
sense are they? Something for gal's gowns, <i>I guess</i>; and
what will they next invent for a name?"</p>

<p>But each advertisement told its little history. Some of
the old "<i>pillars</i>" of the town were still in their accustomed
places. The same signatures, places, and almost the same
goods&mdash;nothing much changed but the dates. Another advertisement
informed him of the dissolution of an old copartnership,
and another showed the formation of a new one.
Some old acquaintances had changed their location or business,
and others were about to retire from it. Those whom
he remembered as almost boys, were now just entering into
active life, and those who should now be preparing for another
world were still laying up treasures on earth. One, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
had been a farmer, was now advertising himself as a <i>doctor</i>.
A lawyer had changed into a miller, and old Capt Prouty
was post-master. The former cobler now kept the bookstore,
and the young major had turned printer. The old
printer was endeavoring to collect his debts&mdash;for he said his
devil had gone to Oregon, and he wished to go to the devil.</p>

<p>Not a single puff did Alfred omit; he noticed every new
book, and swallowed every new nostrum. "Old rags,"
"Buffalo Oil," "Bear's Grease," "Corn Plaster," "Lip
Salve," "Accordions," "Feather Renovators," "Silk
Dye-Houses," "Worm Lozenges," "Ready-made Clothing,"
"Ladies' Slips," "Misses' Ties," "Christmas Presents,"
"Sugar-house Molasses," "Choice Butter," "Shell Combs,"
"New Music," "Healing Lotions," "Last Chance,"
"Hats and Caps," "Prime Cost," "Family Pills," "Ladies'
Cuff Pins," "Summer Boots," "Vegetable Conserve,"
"Muffs and Boas," "Pease's Horehound Candy,"
"White Ash Coal," "Bullard's Oil-Soap," "Universal
Panacea," "Tailoress Wanted," "Unrivalled Elixir,"
"Excellent Vanilla," "Taylor's Spool Cotton," "Rooms
to Let," "Chairs and Tables," "Pleasant House," "Particular
notice," "Family Groceries," "A Removal," "Anti-Dyspeptic
Bitters," &amp;c., &amp;c., down to "One Cent Reward&mdash;Ran
away from the Subscriber," &amp;c.&mdash;Yes; he had
read them all, and all with much interest, but one with a
deeper feeling than was awakened by the others. It was
the notice of the sale of the late Mr. Gardner's House, farm,
&amp;c.</p>

<p>"And so," said Alfred, "Cynthia Gardner is now free.
She used to love me dearly&mdash;at least she said so in every
thing but words; but the old man said she should never
marry a harum-scarum scape-grace like me. Well! it's no
great matter if I did sow all my wild oats then, for there is
too little cleared land to do much at it here. The old gentleman
is dead, and I'll forgive him; but I will write this
very night to Cynthia, and ask her to&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;'come, and with me share<br /></span>
<span class="i1">Whate'er my hut bestows;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My cornstalk bed, my frugal fare,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">My labor and repose.'"<br /></span>
</div>

<div class="signature"><span class="smcap">Lucinda.</span></div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p>
<h2>AMBITION AND CONTENTMENT.</h2>


<p>It has been said that all virtues, carried to their extremes,
become vices, as firmness may be carried to obstinacy,
gentleness to weakness, faith to superstition, &amp;c., &amp;c.; and
that while cultivating them, a perpetual care is necessary
that they may not be resolved into those kindred vices. But
there are other qualities of so opposite a character, that,
though we may acknowledge them both to be virtues, we can
hardly cherish them at the same time.</p>

<p>Contentment is a virtue often urged upon us, and too often
neglected. It is essential to our happiness; for how can we
experience pleasure while dissatisfied with the station which
has been allotted us, or the circumstances which befall us?
but when contentment degenerates into that slothful feeling
which will not exert itself for a greater good&mdash;which would
sit, and smile at ease upon the gifts which Providence has
forced upon its possessor, and turns away from the objects,
which call for the active spring and tenacious grasp&mdash;when,
I repeat, contentment is but another excuse for indolence, it
then has ceased to be a virtue.</p>

<p>And Ambition, which is so often denounced as a vice&mdash;which
<i>is</i> a vice when carried to an extent that would lead its
votary to grasp all upon which it can lay its merciless clutch,
and which heeds not the rights or possessions of a fellow-being
when conflicting with its own domineering will, which
then becomes so foul a vice&mdash;this same ambition, when kept
within its proper bounds, is then a virtue; and not only a
virtue, but the parent of virtues. The spirit of laudable enterprise,
the noble desire for superior excellence, the just
emulation which would raise itself to an equality with the
highest&mdash;all this is the fruit of ambition.</p>

<p>Here then are two virtues, ambition and contentment,
both to be commended, both to be cherished, yet at first
glance at variance with each other; at all events, with difficulty
kept within those proper bounds which will prevent a
conflict between them.</p>

<p>We are not metaphysicians, and did we possess the power
to draw those finely-pencilled mental and moral distinctions
in which the acute reasoner delights so often to display<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
his power, this would be no place for us to indulge our love
for nicely attenuated theories. We are aware, that to cherish
ambition for the good it may lead us to acquire, for the
noble impulses of which it may be the fountain-spring, and
yet to restrain those waters when they would gush forth
with a tide which would bear away all better feelings of the
heart&mdash;this, we know, is not only difficult, but almost impossible.</p>

<p>To strive for a position upon some loftier eminence, and
yet to remain unruffled if those strivings are in vain; to remain
calm and cheerful within the little circle where Providence
has stationed us, yet actively endeavoring to enlarge
that circle, if not to obtain admittance to a higher one; to
plume the pinions of the soul for an upward flight, yet calmly
sink again to the earth if these efforts are but useless
flutterings; all this seems contradictory, though essential
to perfection of character.</p>

<p>Thankfulness for what we have, yet longings for a greater
boon; resignation to a humble lot, and a determination
that it shall not always be humble; ambition and contentment&mdash;how
wide the difference, and how difficult for one
breast to harbor them both at the same time!</p>

<p>Nothing so forcibly convinces us of the frailty of humanity
as the tendency of all that is good and beautiful to corruption.
As in the natural world, earth's loveliest things are
those which yield most easily to blighting and decay, so in
the spiritual, the noblest feelings and powers are closely
linked to some dark passion.</p>

<p>How easily does ambition become rapacity; and if the
heart's yearnings for the unattainable are forcibly stilled,
and the mind is governed by the determination that no wish
shall be indulged but for that already in its power, how
soon and easily may it sink into the torpor of inaction! To
keep all the faculties in healthful exercise, yet always to
restrain the feverish glow, must require a constant and vigilant
self-command.</p>

<p>How soon, in that long-past sacred time when the Savior
dwelt on earth, did the zeal of one woman in her Master's
cause become tainted with the earth-born wish that her sons
might be placed, the one upon his right and the other upon
his left hand, when he should sit upon his throne of glory;
and how soon was <i>their</i> ardent love mingled with the fiery
zeal which would call down fire from heaven upon the heads
of their fellow-men!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p>

<p>Here was ambition, but not a justifiable desire for elevation;
an ambition, also, which had its source in some of the
noblest feelings of the soul, and which, when directed by the
pure principles which afterwards guided their conduct, was
the heart-spring of deeds which shall claim the admiration,
and spur to emulous exertions, the men of all coming time.</p>

<p>"Be content with what ye have," but never with what ye
are; for the wish to be perfect, "even as our Father in
heaven is perfect," must ever be mingled with regrets for
the follies and frailties which our weak nature seems to have
entailed upon us.</p>

<p>And while we endeavor to be submissive, cheerful, and
contented with the lot marked out for us, may gratitude
arouse us to the noble desire to render ourselves worthy of a
nobler station than earth can ever present us, even to a
place upon our Savior's right hand in his heavenly kingdom.</p>

<div class="signature">H. F.</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>A CONVERSATION ON PHYSIOLOGY.</h2>


<h3>INTRODUCTION.</h3>

<p>Physiology, Astronomy, Geology, Botany, and kindred
sciences, are not now, as formerly, confined to our higher
seminaries of learning. They are being introduced into the
common schools, not only of our large towns and cities, but
of our little villages throughout New-England. Hence
a knowledge of these sciences is becoming general. It needs
not Sibylline wisdom to predict that the time is not far distant
when it will be more disadvantageous and more humiliating
to be ignorant of their principles and technicalities,
than to be unable to tell the length and breadth of Sahara,
the rise, course and fall of little rivers in other countries,
which we shall never see, never hear mentioned&mdash;and the
latitude and longitude of remote or obscure cities and towns.
If a friend would describe a flower, she would not tell us
that it has so many flower-leaves, so many of those shortest
things that rise from the centre of the flower, and so many
of the longest ones; but she will express herself with more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
elegance and rapidity by using the technical names of these
parts&mdash;petals, stamens, and pistils. She will not tell us
that the green leaves are formed some like a rose-leaf, only
that they are rounder, or more pointed, as the case may be;
or if she can find no similitudes, she will not use fifty words
in conveying an idea that might be given in one little word.
We would be able to understand her philosophical description.
And scientific lectures, the sermons of our best preachers,
and the conversation of the intelligent, presuppose
some degree of knowledge of the most important sciences;
and to those who have not this knowledge, half their zest is
lost.</p>

<p>If we are so situated that we cannot attend school, we
have, by far the greater part of us, hours for reading, and
means to purchase books. We should be systematic in our
expenditures. They should be regulated by the nature of
the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed,&mdash;by
our wages, state of health, and the situation of our families.
After a careful consideration of these, and other incidentals
that may be, we can make a periodical appropriation of any
sum we please, for the purchase of books. Our readings,
likewise, should be systematic. If we take physiology,
physiology should be read exclusively of all others, except
our Bibles and a few well-chosen periodicals, until we acquire
a knowledge of its most essential parts. Then let this
be superseded by others, interrupted in their course only by
occasional reviews of those already studied.</p>

<p>But there are those whose every farthing is needed to
supply themselves with necessary clothing, their unfortunate
parents, or orphan brothers and sisters with a subsistence.
And forever sacred be these duties. Blessings be on the
head of those who faithfully discharge them, by a cheerful
sacrifice of selfish gratification. Cheerful, did I say? Ah!
many will bear witness to the pangs which such a sacrifice
costs them. It is a hard lot to be doomed to live on in ignorance,
when one longs for knowledge, "as the hart panteth
after the water brook." My poor friend L.'s complaint
will meet an answering thrill of sympathy in many a heart.
"Oh, why is it so?" said she, while tears ran down her
cheeks. "Why have I such a thirst for knowledge, and not
one source of gratification?" We may not know <i>why</i>, my
sister, but faith bids us trust in God, and "rest in his decree,"&mdash;to
be content "when he refuses more." Yet a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
spirit of <i>true</i> contentment induces no indolent yieldings to adverse
circumstances; no slumbering and folding the hands
in sleep, when there is so much within the reach of every
one, worthy of our strongest and most persevering efforts.
Mrs. Hale says,&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<span class="i0">"There is a charm in knowledge, <i>best</i> when bought<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>By vigorous toil of frame and earnest search of thought</i>."<br /></span>
</div>

<p>And we will toil. Morning, noon, and evening shall witness
our exertions to prepare for happiness and usefulness
here, and for the exalted destiny that awaits us hereafter.
But proper attention should be paid to physical comfort as
well as to mental improvement. It is only by retaining the
former that we can command the latter. The mind cannot
be vigorous while the body is weak. Hence we should not
allow our toils to enter upon those hours which belong to
repose. We should not allow ourselves, however strong
the temptation, to visit the lecture-room, &amp;c., if the state of
the weather, or of our health, renders the experiment hazardous.
Above all, we should not forget our dependence
on a higher Power. "Paul may plant, and Apollos water,
but God alone giveth the increase."</p>

<hr style="width: 25%;" />

<p><i>Ann.</i> Isabel, before we commence our "big talk," let me
ask you to proceed upon the inference that we are totally
ignorant of the subject under discussion.</p>

<p><i>Ellinora.</i> Yes, Isabel, proceed upon the <i>fact</i> that I am
ignorant even of the meaning of the term <i>physiology</i>.</p>

<p><i>Isabel.</i> It comes from the Greek words <i>phusis</i>, nature, and
<i>logia</i>, a collection, or <i>logos</i>, discourse; and means a collection
of facts or discourse relating to nature. Physiology is
divided, first, into Vegetable and Animal; and the latter is
subdivided into Comparative and Human. We shall confine
our attention to Human Physiology, which treats of the organs
of the human body, their mutual dependence and relation,
their functions, and the laws by which our physical
constitution is governed.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> And are you so heretical, dear Isabel, as to class this
science, on the score of utility, with Arithmetic and Geography&mdash;the
alpha and omega of common school education?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Yes. It is important, inasmuch as it is necessary that
we know how to preserve the fearfully delicate fabric which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
our Creator has entrusted to our keeping. We gather many
wholesome rules and cautions from maternal lips; we learn
many more from experiencing the painful results that follow
their violation. But this kind of knowledge comes tardily;
it may be when an infringement of some organic law, of
which we were left in ignorance, has fastened upon us painful,
perhaps fatal, disease.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> We may not always avoid sickness and premature
death by a knowledge and observance of these laws; for
there are hereditary diseases, in whose origin we are not implicated,
and whose effects we cannot eradicate from our
system by "all knowledge, all device."</p>

<p><i>I.</i> But a knowledge of Physiology is none the less important
in this case. If the chords of our existence are
shattered, they must be touched only by the skilful hand, or
they break.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Were it not for this, were there no considerations of
utility in the plea, there are others sufficiently important to
become impulsive. It would be pleasant to be able to trace
the phenomena which we are constantly observing within
ourselves to their right causes.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Yes; we love to understand the springs of disease,
even though "a discovery of the cause" neither "suspends
the effect, nor heals it." We rejoice in health, and we
love to know why it sits so strongly within us. The warm
blood courses its way through our veins; the breath comes
and goes freely in and out; the nerves, those subtle organs,
perform their important offices; the hand, foot, brain&mdash;nay,
the whole body moves as we will: we taste, see, hear, smell,
feel; and the inquiring mind delights in knowing by what
means these wonderful processes are carried on,&mdash;how far
they are mechanical, how far chemical, and how far resolvable
into the laws of vitality. This we may learn by a study
of Physiology, at least as far as is known. We may not
satisfy ourselves upon all points. There may be, when we
have finished our investigations, a longing for a more perfect
knowledge of ourselves; for "some points must be greatly
dark," so long as mind is fettered in its rangings, and
retarded in its investigations by its connection with the body.
And this is well. We love to think of the immortal state as
one in which longings for moral and intellectual improvement
will <i>all</i> be satisfied.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> Yes; it would lose half its attractions if we might attain
perfection here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p>

<p><i>E.</i> And now permit me to bring you at once to our subject.
What is this life that I feel within me? Does Physiology
tell us? It ought.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> It does not, however; indeed, it cannot. It merely
develops its principles.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> The principles of life&mdash;what are they?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> The most important are <i>contractibility</i> and <i>sensibility</i>.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Let me advertise you that I am particularly hostile to
technical words&mdash;all because I do not understand them, I
allow, but please humor this ignorance by avoiding them.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> And thus perpetuate your ignorance, my dear Ellinora?
No; this will not do; for my chief object in these conversations
is that you may be prepared to profit by lectures,
essays and conversation hereafter. You will often be thrown
into the company of those who express themselves in the
easiest and most proper manner, that is, by the use of technical
words and phrases. These will embarrass you, and
prevent that improvement which would be derived, if these
terms were understood. Interrupt me as often as you please
with questions; and if we spend the remainder of the evening
in compiling a physiological glossary, we may all reap
advantage from the exercise. To return to the vital principles&mdash;vital
is from <i>vita</i>, life&mdash;<i>contractibility</i> and <i>sensibility</i>.
The former is the property of the muscles. The muscles,
you know, are what we call flesh. They are composed of
fibres, which terminate in tendons.</p>

<p><i>Alice.</i> Please give form to my ideas of the tendons.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> With the muscles, they constitute the agents of all motion
in us. Place your hand on the inside of your arm, and
then bend your elbow. You perceive that cord, do you not?
That is a tendon. You have observed them in animals,
doubtless.</p>

<p><i>Ann.</i> I have. They are round, white, and lustrous; and
these are the muscular terminations.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Yes; this tendon which you perceive, is the termination
of the muscles of the fore-arm, and it is inserted into
the lower arm to assist in its elevation.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Now we are coming to it. Please tell me how I move
a finger&mdash;how I raise my hand in this manner.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> It is to the contractile power of the muscles that you
are indebted for this power. I will read what Dr. Paley
says of muscular contraction; it will make it clearer than
any explanation of mine. He says, "A muscle acts only by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
contraction. Its force is exerted in no other way. When
the exertion ceases, it relaxes itself, that is, it returns by
relaxation to its former state, but without energy."</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Just as this India-rubber springs back after extension,
for illustration.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Very well, Ellinora. He adds, "This is the nature
of the muscular fibre; and being so, it is evident that the
reciprocal <i>energetic</i> motion of the limbs, by which we
mean <i>with force</i> in opposite directions, can only be produced
by the instrumentality of opposite or antagonist muscles&mdash;of
flexors and extensors answering to each other. For instance,
the biceps and brachiæus <i>internus</i> muscles, placed in the
front part of the upper arm, by their contraction, bend the
elbow, and with such a degree of force as the case requires,
or the strength admits. The relaxation of these muscles,
after the effort, would merely let the fore-arm drop down.
For the <i>back stroke</i> therefore, and that the arm may not only
bend at the elbow, but also extend and straighten itself with
force, other muscles, the longus, and brevis brachiæus <i>externus</i>,
and the aconæus, placed on the hinder part of the arms,
by their contractile twitch, fetch back the fore-arm into a
straight line with the cubit, with no less force than that with
which it was bent out. The same thing obtains in all the
limbs, and in every moveable part of the body. A finger is
not bent and straightened without the <i>contraction</i> of two muscles
taking place. It is evident, therefore, that the animal
functions require that particular disposition of the muscles
which we describe by the name of antagonist muscles."</p>

<p><i>A.</i> Thank you, Isabel. This does indeed make the subject
very plain. These muscles contract at will.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> But how can the will operate in this manner? I have
always wished to understand.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> And I regret that I cannot satisfy you on this point.
If we trace the cause of muscular action by the nerves to
the brain, we are no nearer a solution of the mystery; for
we cannot know what power sets the organs of the brain at
work&mdash;whether it be foreign to or of itself.</p>

<p>We will come now, if you please to <i>sensibility</i>, which belongs
to the nerves.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> I have a very indefinite idea of the nerves.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> My <i>ideal</i> is sufficiently definite in its shape, but so
droll! I do not think of them as "being flesh of my flesh,"
but as a <i>species</i> of the <i>genus</i> fairy. They are to us, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
the Nereides are to the green wave, the Dryades to the oak,
and the Hamadryades to the little flower. They are quite
omnipotent in their operations. They make us cry or they
make us laugh; thrill us with rapture or woe as they please.
And, my dear Isabel, I shall not allow you to cheat me out
of this pleasing fancy. You may tell us just what they are,
but I shall be as incredulous as possible.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> They are very slender white cords, extending from the
brain and spinal marrow&mdash;twelve pairs from the former, and
thirty from the latter. These send out branches so numerous
that we cannot touch the point of a pin to a spot that has
not its nerve. The mucous membrane is&mdash;</p>

<p><i>F.</i> Oh, these technicals! What is the mucous membrane?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> It is a texture, or web of fibres, which lines all cavities
exposed to the atmosphere&mdash;for instance, the mouth, windpipe
and stomach. It is the seat of the senses of taste and
smell.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> And the nerves are the little witches that inform the
brain how one thing is sweet, another bitter; one fragrant,
another nauseous. Alimentiveness ever after frowns or
smiles accordingly. So it seems that the actions of the
brain, and of the external senses, are reciprocated by the
nerves, or something of this sort. How is it, Isabel? Oh,
I see! You say sensibility belongs to the nerves. So
sights by means of&mdash;of what?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Of the optical nerves.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Yes; and sounds by means of the&mdash;</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Auditory nerves.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Yes; convey impressions of externals to the brain.
And "Upon this hint" the brain acts in its consequent reflections,
and in the nervous impulses which induce muscular
contractibility. And this muscular contractibility is a contraction
of the fibres of the muscles. This contraction, of
course, shortens them, and this latter <i>must</i> result in the
bending of the arm. I think I understand it. What are the
brain and spine, Isabel? How are they connected?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> You will get correct ideas of the texture of the brain
by observing that of animals. It occupies the whole cavity
of the skull, is rounded and irregular in its form, full of
prominences, <i>alias</i> bumps. These appear to fit themselves
to the skull; but doubtless the bone is moulded by the brain.
The brain is divided into two parts; the upper and frontal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
part is called the <i>cerebrum</i>, the other the <i>cerebellum</i>. The
former is the larger division, and is the seat of the moral
sentiments and intellectual faculties. The latter is the seat
of the propensities, domestic and selfish.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> I thank you, Isabel. Now, what is this spine, of
which there is so much "complaint" now-a-days?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> I will answer you from Paley: "The spine, or backbone,
is a chain of joints of very wonderful construction. It
was to be firm, yet flexible; <i>firm</i>, to support the erect position
of the body; <i>flexible</i>, to allow of the bending of the
the trunk in all degrees of curvature. It was further, also,
to become a pipe or conduit for the safe conveyance from the
brain of the most important fluid of the animal frame, that,
namely, upon which <i>all voluntary motion depends, the spinal
marrow</i>; a substance not only of the first necessity to action,
if not to life, but of a nature so delicate and tender, so susceptible
and impatient of injury, that any unusual pressure
upon it, or any considerable obstruction of its course, is followed
by paralysis or death. Now, the spine was not only
to furnish the main trunk for the passage of the medullary
substance from the brain, but to give out, in the course of
its progress, small pipes therefrom, which, being afterwards
indefinitely subdivided, might, under the name of nerves,
distribute this exquisite supply to every part of the body."</p>

<p><i>Alice.</i> I understand now why disease of the spine causes
such involuntary contortions and gestures, in some instances.
Its connection with the brain and nerves is so immediate, that
it cannot suffer disease without affecting the whole nervous
system.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> It cannot. The spinal cord or marrow is a continuation
of the brain. But we must not devote any more time to this
subject.</p>

<p><i>Bertha.</i> I want to ask you something about the different
parts of the eye, Isabel. When &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash; lectured on
optics, I lost nearly all the benefit of his lecture, except a
newly awakened desire for knowledge on this subject. He
talked of the retina, cornea, iris, &amp;c.; please tell me precisely
what they are.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> The retina is a nervous membrane; in other words a
thin net-work, formed of very minute sensitive filaments.
It is supposed by some to be an expansion of the optic nerve;
and on this the images of objects we see are formed. It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
situated at the back part of the eye. Rays pass through the
round opening in the iris, which we call the pupil.</p>

<p><i>B.</i> What did the lecturer say is the cause of the color of
the pupil?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> He said that its <i>want of color</i> is to be imputed to the
fact that rays of light which enter there are not returned;
they fall on the retina, forming there images of objects. And
you recollect he said that "absence of rays is blackness."
The iris is a kind of curtain, covering the aqueous humor&mdash;aqueous
is from the Latin <i>aqua</i>, water. It is confined only
at its outer edge, or circumference; and is supplied with
muscular fibres which confer the power of adjustment to every
degree of light. It contracts or dilates involuntarily, as the
light is more or less intense, as you must have observed. The
rays of light falling on that part of the iris which immediately
surrounds the pupil, cause it to be either black, blue, or
hazel. We will not linger on this ground, for it belongs more
properly to Natural Philosophy. We will discuss the other
four senses as briefly as possible. "The sense of taste,"
says Hayward, "resides in the mucus membrane of the
tongue, the lips, the cheeks, and the fauces." Branches of
nerves extend to every part of the mouth where the sense of
taste resides. The fluid with which the mouth is constantly
moistened is called mucus, and chiefly subserves to the sense
of taste.</p>

<p><i>Ann.</i> I have observed that when the mucus is dried by
fever, food is nearly tasteless. I now understand the reason.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> <i>Apropos</i> to the senses, let me ask if feeling and touch
are the same. Alfred says they are; I contend they are not,
precisely.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Hayward thinks a distinction between them unnecessary.
He says they are both seated in the same organs, and have the
same nerves. But the sense of feeling is more general, extending
over the whole surface of the skin and mucus membrane,
while that of touch is limited to particular parts, being
in man most perfect in the hand; and the sense of feeling is
passive, while that of touch is active. This sense is in the
skin, and is most perfect where the epidermis, or external
coat, is the thinnest. We will look through this little magnifying
glass at the skin on my hand. You will see very minute
prominences all over the surface. These points are
called papillæ. They are supposed to be the termination of
the nerves, and the <i>locale</i> of sensation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p>

<p><i>E.</i> Will you <i>shape</i> my ideas of sensation?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> According to Lord Brougham, one of the English editors
of this edition of Paley, it is "the effect produced upon
the mind by the operation of the senses; and involves nothing
like an exertion of the mind itself."</p>

<p>Of the sense of hearing, I can tell you but little. Physiologists
have doubts relative to many parts of the ear; and
I do not understand the subject well enough to give you much
information. I will merely name some of the parts and
their relative situations. We have first the external ear,
which projecting as it does from the head, is perfectly adapted
to the office of gathering sounds, and transmitting them
to the membrane of the tympanum, commonly called the
drum of the ear, from its resembling somewhat, in its use
and structure, the head of a drum. The tympanum is a cavity,
of a cylindrical or tunnel form, and its office is supposed
to be the transmission to the internal ear of the vibrations
made upon the membrane. These vibrations are first communicated
to the malleus or hammer. This is the first of
four bones, united in a kind of chain, extending and conveying
vibrations from the tympanum to the labyrinth of the
ear beyond. The other bones are the incus, or anvil, the
round bone, and the stapes, or stirrup&mdash;the latter so called
from its resemblance to a stirrup-iron. It is placed over an
oval aperture, which leads to the labyrinth, and which is
closed by means of a membranous curtain. These bones are
provided with very small muscles, and move with the vibrations
of the tympanum. The equilibrium of the air in the
tympanum and atmosphere is maintained by the means of the
Eustachian tube, which extends from the back part of the
fauces, or throat, to the cavity of the tympanum. The parts
last mentioned constitute the middle ear. Of the internal
ear little is known. It has its semicircular canals, vestibules,
and cochlea; but their agencies are not ascertained.</p>

<p>The organ of smell is more simple. This sense lies, or is
supposed to lie, in the mucous membrane which lines the
nostrils and the openings in connection. Particles are constantly
escaping from odorous bodies; and, by being inhaled
in respiration, they are thrown in contact with the mucous
membrane.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> Before leaving the head, will you tell us something of
the organs of voice?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> By placing your finger on the top of your windpipe,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
you will perceive a slight prominence. In males this is very
large. This is the thorax. It is formed of four cartilages,
two of which are connected with a third, by means of four
chords, called vocal chords, from their performing an important
part in producing the voice. Experiments have been
made, which prove that a greater part of the larynx, except
these chords, may be removed without destroying the voice.
Magendie thus accounts for the production of the voice. He
says, "The air, in passing from the lungs in expiration, is
forced out of small cavities, as the air-cells and the minute
branches of the windpipe, into a large canal; it is thence
sent through a narrow passage, on each side of which is a
vibratory chord, and it is by the action of the air on these
chords, that the sonorous undulations are produced which are
called voice."</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Do not the lips and tongue contribute essentially to
speech?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> They do not. Hayward says he can bear witness to the
fact that the articulation remains unimpaired after the tongue
has been removed. The labials, <i>f</i> and <i>v</i>, cannot be perfectly
articulated without the action of the lips.&mdash;What subject
shall we take next?</p>

<p><i>A.</i> A natural transition would be from the head to the
heart, and, in connection, the circulation of the blood.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Yes. I will give you an abstract of the ideas I gained
in the study of Hayward's Physiology, and the reading of Dr.
Paley's Theology. The heart, arteries, and veins are the
agents of circulation. The heart is irregular and conical in
its shape; and it is hollow and double.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> There is no channel of communication between these
parts, is there?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> None; but each side has its separate office to perform.
By the right, circulation is carried on in the lungs; and by
the left through the rest of the body. I will mark a few
passages in Paley, for you to read to us, Ann. They will
do better than any descriptions of mine.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> I thank you, Isabel, for giving me an opportunity to lend
you temporary relief.&mdash;"The disposition of the blood-vessels,
as far as regards the supply of the body, is like that of the
water-pipes in a city, viz. large and main trunks branching
off by smaller pipes (and these again by still narrower tubes)
in every direction and towards every part in which the fluid
which they convey can be wanted. So far, the water-pipes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
which serve a town may represent the vessels which carry
the blood from the heart. But there is another thing necessary
to the blood, which is not wanted for the water; and
that is, the carrying of it back again to its source. For this
office, a reversed system of vessels is prepared, which, uniting
at their extremities with the extremities of the first system,
collects the divided and subdivided streamlets, first by
capillary ramifications into larger branches, secondly by these
branches into trunks; and thus returns the blood (almost exactly
inverting the order in which it went out) to the fountain
whence its motion proceeded. The body, therefore, contains
two systems of blood-vessels, arteries and veins.</p>

<p>"The next thing to be considered is the engine which
works this machinery, viz., the <i>heart</i>. There is provided in
the central part of the body a hollow muscle invested with
spiral fibres, running in both directions, the layers intersecting
one another. By the contraction of these fibres, the sides
of the muscular cavity are necessarily squeezed together, so
as to force out from them any fluid which they may at that
time contain: by the relaxation of the same fibres, the cavities
are in their turn dilated, and, of course, prepared to admit
every fluid which may be poured into them. Into these
cavities are inserted the great trunks both of the arteries
which carry out the blood, and of the veins which bring it
back. As soon as the blood is received by the heart from
the veins of the body, and <i>before</i> that is sent out again into
its arteries, it is carried, by the force of the contraction of
the heart, and by means of a separate and supplementary
artery, to the lungs, and made to enter the vessels of the
lungs, from which, after it has undergone the action, whatever
it may be, of that viscus, it is brought back, by a large
vein, once more to the heart, in order, when thus concocted
and prepared, to be thence distributed anew into the system.
This assigns to the heart a double office. The pulmonary
circulation is a system within a system; and one action of
the heart is the origin of both. For this complicated function
four cavities become necessary, and four are accordingly
provided; two called ventricles, which <i>send out</i> the blood,
viz., one into the lungs in the first instance, the other into
the mass, after it has returned from the lungs; two
others also, called auricles, which receive the blood from the
veins, viz. one as it comes from the body; the other, as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
same blood comes a second time after its circulation through
the lungs."</p>

<p><i>I.</i> That must answer our purpose, dear Ann. Of the
change which takes place in the blood, and of the renewal
of our physical system, which is effected by circulation, I
shall say nothing. We will pass to respiration.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Whose popular name is breathing?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Yes. The act of inhaling air, is called inspiration;
that of sending it out, expiration. Its organs are the lungs
and windpipe. The apparatus employed in the mechanism
of breathing is very complex. The windpipe extends from
the mouth to the lungs.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> How is it that air enters it so freely, while food and
drink are excluded?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> By a most ingenious contrivance. The opening to the
pipe is called glottis. This is closed, when necessary, by a
little valve, or lid, called the epiglottis (<i>epi</i> means <i>upon</i>.)</p>

<p><i>E.</i> And this faithful sentinel is none other than that perpendicular
little body which we can see in our throats, and
which we have <i>dubbed</i> palate.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> You are right, Ellinora. Over this, food and drink pass
on their way to the road to the stomach, the gullet. The
pressure of solids or liquids tends to depress this lid on the
glottis; and its muscular action in deglutition, or swallowing,
tends to the same effect. As soon as the pressure is removed,
the lid springs to its erect position, and the air passes freely.
Larynx and trachea are other names for the windpipe, and
pharynx is another for the gullet. The larynx divides into
two branches at the lungs, and goes to each side. Hence,
by subdivisions, it passes off in numerous smaller branches,
to different parts of the lungs, and terminates in air-cells.
The lungs, known in animals by the name of lights, consist
of three parts, or lobes, one on the right side, and two on
the left.</p>

<p><i>Alice.</i> The lights of inferior animals are very light and
porous&mdash;do our lungs resemble them in this?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Yes; they are full of air-tubes and air-cells. These,
with the blood vessels and the membrane which connects
(and this is cellular, that is, composed of cells,) form the
lungs. The process of respiration involves chemical, mechanical,
and vital or physiological principles. Of the mechanism
I shall say but little more. You already know that
the lungs occupy the chest. Of this, the breast bone forms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
the front, the spine, the back wall. Attached to this bone
are twelve ribs on each side. These are joined by muscles
which are supposed to assist in elevating them in breathing,
thus enlarging the cavity of the chest. The lower partition
is formed by a muscle of great power, called the diaphragm,
and by the action of this organ alone common inspiration can
be performed. Hayward says, "The contraction of this
muscle necessarily depresses its centre, which was before
elevated towards the lungs. The instant this takes place, the
air rushes into the lungs through the windpipe, and thus
prevents a vacuum, which would otherwise be produced between
the chest and lungs." Expiration is the reverse of this.
The chemistry of respiration regards the change produced in
the blood by respiration. To this change I have before alluded.</p>

<p><i>Ann.</i> When we consider the offices of the heart and lungs,
their importance in vital economy, how dangerous appears
the custom of pressing them so closely between the ribs by
tight lacing?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Yes; fearful and fatal beyond calculation! And one
great advantage in a general knowledge of our physical system,
is the tendency this knowledge must have to correct this
habit.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> To me there is not the weakest motive for tight lacing.
Everything but pride <i>must</i> revolt at the habit; and there is
something positively disgusting and shocking in the wasp-like
form, labored breathing, purple lips and hands of the
tight lacer.</p>

<p><i>E.</i> They indicate such a pitiful servitude to fashion, such
an utter disregard of comfort, when it comes in collision with
false notions of elegance! Well for our sex, as we could
not be induced to act from a worthier motive, popular opinion
is setting in strongly against this practice. Many of our
authors and public lecturers are bringing strong arms and benevolent
hearts to the work.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> Yes; but to be perfectly consistent, should not the
fashions of the "Lady's Book," the "Ladies' Companion,"
and of "Graham's Magazine," be more in keeping with the
general sentiment? Their contributors furnish essays, deprecating
the evils of tight lacing, and tales illustrative of its
evil effects, yet the figures of the plates of fashions are uniformly
most unnaturally slender. And these are offered for
national standards!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p>

<p><i>E.</i> "And, more's the pity," followed as such.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> I think the improvements you mention would only cause
a temporary suspension of the evil. They might indeed
make it the <i>fashion</i> to wear natural waists; but like all other
fashions, it must unavoidably give way to new modes. They
might lop off a few of the branches; but science, a knowledge
of physiology alone, is capable of laying the axe at
the root of the tree.&mdash;What is digestion, Ellinora?</p>

<p><i>E.</i> It is the dissolving, pulverizing, or some other <i>ing</i>, of
our food, isn't it?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Hayward says that "it is an important part of that process
by which aliment taken into the body is made to nourish
it." He divides the digestive apparatus into "the mouth
and its appendages, the stomach and the intestines." The
teeth, tongue, jaws, and saliva, perform their respective offices
in mastication. Then the food passes over the epiglottis,
you recollect, down the gullet to the stomach. The saliva is
an important agent in digestion. It is secreted in glands, which
pour it into the mouth by a tube about the size of a wheat
straw.</p>

<p><i>Alice.</i> I heard our physician say that food should be so
thoroughly masticated before deglutition (you see I have
caught your technicals, Isabel,) that every particle would be
moistened with the saliva. Then digestion would be easy
and perfect. He says that dyspepsia is often incurred and
perpetuated by eating too rapidly.</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Doubtless this is the case. As soon as the food reaches
the stomach, the work of digestion commences; and the
food is converted to a mass, neither fluid or solid, called
chyme. With regard to this process, there have been many
speculative theories. It has been imputed to animal heat, to
putrefaction, to a mechanical operation (something like that
carried on in the gizzard of a fowl,) to fermentation, and
maceration. It is now a generally adopted theory, that the
food is <i>dissolved</i> by the gastric juices.</p>

<p><i>Ann.</i> If these juices are such powerful solvents, why do
they not act on the stomach, when they are no longer supplied
with <i>subjects</i> in the shape of food?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> According to many authorities, they do. Comstock says
that "hunger is produced by the action of the gastric juices
on the stomach." This theory does not prevail, however;
for it has been proved by experiment, that these juices do not
act on anything that has life.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p>

<p><i>Alice.</i> How long does it take the food to digest?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Food of a proper kind will digest in a healthy stomach,
in four or five hours. It then passes to the intestines.</p>

<p><i>Ann.</i> But why does it never leave the stomach until thoroughly
digested?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> At the orifice of the stomach, there is a sort of a valve,
called pylorus, or door-keeper. Some have supposed that
this valve has the power of ascertaining when the food is sufficiently
digested, and so allows chyme to pass, while it contracts
at the touch of undigested substances.</p>

<p><i>A.</i> How wonderful!</p>

<p><i>I.</i> And "how passing wonder He who made us such!"</p>

<p><i>Alice.</i> No wonder that a poet said&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem"><span class="i0">"Strange that a harp of thousand strings</span>
<span class="i1">Should keep in tune so long!"</span>
</div>

<p><i>Ann.</i> And no wonder that the Christian bends in lowly
adoration and love before <i>such</i> a Creator, and <i>such</i> a Preserver?</p>

<p><i>E.</i> Now, dear Isabel, will you tell us something more?</p>

<p><i>I.</i> Indeed, Ellinora, I have already gone much farther
than I intended when I commenced. But I knew not where
to stop. Even now, you have but just <i>commenced</i> the study
of <i>yourselves</i>. Let me urge you to read in your leisure hours,
and reflect in your working ones, until you understand physiology,
as well as you now do geography.</p>

<div class="signature">D.</div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 260px;">
<img src="images/illus-214.jpg" width="260" height="100" alt="End" title="End" />
</div>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<div class='tnote'><b>Transcriber's Note:</b> Minor typographical errors and inconsistencies have been silently normalized. Archaic and variable spellings retained.</div>








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