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• »v 



A c 

Hot.tot fz) 

t- il 







, AND 




“Is Soul also among the Prophets 1” 



Atq oS.ioj ( 3) 

<_ j 

Printed by Stearns & Taylor, 

Corner of Central and Hurd at>. 




Address to Patrons, 23 

Aunt Letty, or The Useful, 25 

A Christmas Tale, 85 

Ada, the Factory Maid, 97 

A Fragment, ' 128 

Alison's History of Europe, 166 

A Swedish Cure for Duelling, 180 

A Letter about Hard Times, 203 

A Manual Labor School, 213, 281 

A Letter from Miss M&rtineau, 216 

An upright Judge \9 no respecter of 
persons, f 227 

Beauty, 109 

Books and Reading, 143 

Charity, 31 

Cousin Judith’s Visit to Boston, 45 

Cleopatra and Zenobia, 65 

Curiosity, 80 

Cousin Mary, 89 

Charity. A Sketch. 121 

Comedy at the Parsonage, 141 

Composition, 164 

Chapters on Life as it is, 

199, 237, 248, 278 
Chances and Changes, 238 

Close of the Volume, 282 

Departed Summer Flowers, 34 

Destruction of the Jewish Temple, 138 

Evidence of Design in Nature, 32 

Embroidered Scarf, 208 

Factory Blossoms for Queen Victoria, 1 
First Efforts of Genius, 5 

Forefathers' Day, 119 

Faith and Fancy, 153 

Garfilena, 255 

History of the Lowell Offering, 47 

How beautiful are all the Works of 
God, 127 

Health, 190 

History, 201 

History of a Tree, 245 

Hard Times, 165 

Incidents of Adventure, 77,107,144 


Life, 12 

Lafayette at the Tomb of Washington, 140 
Lowell, 145 

Life’s Changes, 171 

My Grandfather's Queue, 58 

No Confidence where there is no Prin¬ 
ciple, 249 

Originality, 21 

Our Native Land, 129 

Our Thoughts are heard in Heaven, 155 
Our Poor Relation, 156 

O why should the spirit of mortals be 
proud, $53 

Pocahontas, 14 

Plea for the Indian, 56 

Poems, 172 

Poetry. A Dialogue. 176 

Prejudice the Arbiter of Taste, 242 

Review of American Notes, 95 

Reading, 100 

Something New, 42 

Say, where does beauty dwell, 82 

Solitude, 162 

Stories from the Linn-side, 

i me uum-aiucr, 


The Miniature, 

The Laborer's Remonstrance, 

The Old-Fashioned Collar, 

The First Grief, 

The Young Wife, 

The Prospect from my Window in the 

The Victim of Revenge, 

The Misanthrope, 

The Picture, 

The New Year, 

The silent expressions of Nature, 
The Young Widow, 

The Village Burial, 

The Male Coquette, 

The Last of the Barons, 

The White Dress, or Village Aristoc¬ 

















/-\ L t-f O I O | ^3 ) 

u J 

Printed by Stearns & Taylor, 

Corner of Central and Hurd at>. 



O C T O B Eir 18,4£7 ~~ , 


Lady, accept the humble flowers 
Which now I tender thee; 

They bloomed not in Parnassian bowers, 

Nor on some classic tree. 

Amid the granite rocks they grew f 

Of a far-distant land; 

Ne’er were they bathed in Grecian dew^^ 

Or watched by sylphre hand. 

This claims no place amid the wreaths 
Which often strew thy way; ( 

Simple the fragrance which it breathes, t , 

A factory girVs boquet. 

But deem me not,' When it meets your sight, 

Wanting in courtesy— 

This Stubborn Tanked pen wont write,' 

Youa Gracious Majesty. 


And yet thy throne f’ve ever deemed 
A nucleus of light; 

All earthly grandeur to me seemed 
Around thee clustering bright. 

I ’ve marked thy course since I was told, 

That, ’neath Old England's sky, 

A princess dwelt, about as old, 

Or nearly so, as I. 

For in my childhood’s days, I loved 
To hear of kings and queens; 

My infant fancy quickly moved 
At grand and novel scenes. 





Twilight Musings, 



The Poet’s Dream, 


The Wanderer, 


The Embroidered Scarf, 


The Pudding, 




The Fortune Hunter, 


The Poems Returned, 


The Sabbath in Lowell, 


The Dark Side, 


The Broken Vow, 


The Past, 



The Portrait Gallery, 14, 65,113 

To the 44 Blue Devils,” 279 

Thoughts of Home, 280 

Unstable as water thou shalt not excel, 187 
Voyage of Fernando up the Mississippi,211 
Woman’s Influence, 217 

You must Forget, 248 

Zenoble, 113 


Autumnal Thoughts, 


Complaint of a Nobody, 




For Sabbath Morning, 




He is not here—He is risen, 




Lines to O. P. H. 


Lines addressed to the Comet, 


Lines addressed to a Cloud, 


Lines addressed to a Brother, 


Memento Mori, 


Napoleon in Exile, 


On a Young Man lost at Sea, 


Room for the Dead, 


Song of the Invalid Girl, 


Show us the Father, 






TV Bridge of Sighs, 


The River, 


The Task of Death, 


The Dentist's Arin-Chair, 


The Fairies, 83, 110, 


True Charity, 


To a Faded Rose, 


To the Eolian Harp, 


The Indians, 


The Admirer of Nature) > 


The Murdefer’s Request, 


The Falling Rain, 


To the “Linncea Borealis,” 


The Past, 


What is Beautiful, 


Winter Forest Musings, 




( TciTo BElRTHTaT^ 


Lady, accept the humble flowers 
Which now I tender thee ; 

They bloomed not in Parnassian bowers, 

Nor on some classic tree. 

Amid the granite rocks they grew , f 
Of a far-distant land; ' 

Ne’er were they bathed in Grecian dew,^ 

Or watched by sylphic hand. 

This claims no place amid the wreaths 
Which often strew tby way; 

Simple the fragrance which it breathes, 

A factory girts boquct. 

But deem me hot, When it meets your sight, 

Wanting in courtesy— 

This stubborn Yankee pen wont write, 

Youn Gkaciocs Majesty. 

< • 

And yet thy throne f’ve ever deemed 
A nucleus of light; 

All earthly grandeur to me seemed 
Around thee clustering bright. 

I ’ye marked thy course since I Was told, 

That, ’neath Old England’s sky, 

A princess dwelt, about as old, 

Or nearly so, as I. 

For in my childhood’s days, I loved 
To hear of kings and queens; 

My infant fancy quickly moved 
At grand and novel scenes. 





There’s one, whose memory still on earth 
By my fond heart is shrined, 

For wisdom, beauty, knowledge^ worth, 

In her were all combined. 

I wept to think, that one like her, 

So soon, to Death^ impt bow; . 

/ » l \ ^nd oft tfcej qjiery wpulc$ recur, „ ■ 

1 ' ' “Have 1 they a Charlotte now?” * 

I often strove, vjith, mentalglanpe, 

To ffoan Ihe youthful maid, 

Who o’er that cold form must advance. 

And rule where she’d have swayed. 

The day t watched *o many bless, 

Which made the girl a queen; 

I saw the plain black mourning dress, 

The supple pqlenno^ 

The tearful eye, the modest mein, 

Distinctly were portrayed, 

Thou surely in that hour wert seen 
Id purest charms arrayed. 

I marked the pageant, long and proud. 
When thou, in dazzling sheen, 
Surrounded by a brilliant crowd, 

Wert crowned Britannia’s queen.. 

And, lacjy, never, since that hour, 

Could I forget that queen; 

But ah, in all of regal power, 

The woman ’s seldom seen. 

I read of wars, so vast and proud— 

" Say, are they always just ? 

Are those whose necks thy warriors bowed, 
Those Who should[ kiss the dust. - , . , 

I read pf thole by wrongs oppressed 
Beneath a woman’s 9 way: • 

Lady, could not thy kind behest 
Change their sad lot ? Oh, say! 

Methinks thop art not ruler there 
I see the statesman’s guile ; 

In all that speaks of regal care, 

There’s diplomatic wile. 

Lady, this would not be, but then 
Amidst this care and strife, . 

The youthful queen has also been 
A mother, and a wife. 



Yes, like some hint add tiny star 
Set in a darkling sky, 

I’ve watched the brilliant orb afar ■ 
Whose fires were flashing* high-; . 

I’ve seen another join it there,< - 
And forth, in orbit bright, * ■ \ *: 

They grandly rolled in up£er air, ‘ 

Changing to day the night. • »i* 

And little stars have since appeared, • ; 

The cluster there to'goace; m * 

The primal orb is more endeared, .1 '«• 

As new ones take their place. •: * * * 

Oh, lady, from the far-obscure 1 

I’d send one little rayi ., 1 * • 

Hoping that, should its light be .pure, * 

’T would aid the dawning day. 

Mayhap, so feeble is its strength, 

The way so void and far, . 

That, wheresoe’er it rests at length, ’ 

Its light may seem to mar. - • /. - 

But if the least orbs of the night > 

Could cluster o’er the pun,. .. 1 

The disc, which now is not all bright, 

Might be a spotless one. .. 

Even thus the factory, girl may say 
What others leave unsaid; 

And, lady* read .for this, I ptray, 

What, else, would not be read. 

Smile not, as at some maniac’s*word, * 
Though speech like mine be strange; 
Advice, 1 know* )a seldom heard . .-i* ‘ 

Whereauppte courtiers range. 

But I would have thee change thy states-* ' ‘ 
Courts should*such change;allow; ’ • 

And, lady, what might great, • fJ 
May not be greataedb ndw. . 'f 

There’s better far than pomp or state . /• r 1 
To claim a sovereign’s cane —1 
Goodness should always make 1 her greats 1 
And kindness makes her fair; ■ 1 -.<* i 

Let oft thy words repeated be— 

Traced once in lines of light— 

44 Speak to me not of policy, 

But tell me, is it right ?” 




, AND 






“fa Saul also among the Prophets 1 ” 


1843 . 

A l qat. \ o\ fz) t 

C J 

Printed by Stearns 4c Taylor* 

Comer of Central and Hurd 


Address to Patrons, 

Aunt Letty, or The Useful, 

A Christmas Tale, 

Ada, the Factory Maid, 

A Fragment, 

Alison s History of Europe, 

A Swedish Cure For Duelling, 
A Letter about Hard Times, 










A Manual Labor School, 213, 281 

A Letter from Miss Martineau, *10 

An upright Judge is no respecter of 

persons, i *** 

Beauty, 109 

Books and Reading, 



Cousin Judith’s Visit to Boston, 

Cleopatra and Zenohia, 


Cousin Mary, 

Charity. A Sketch. 

Comedy at the Parsonage, 


Chapters on Life as it ^ ^ ^ 

Chances and Changes, 238 

Close of the Volume, ** 

Departed Summer Flowers, 34 

Destruction of the Jewish Temple, Ida 










Evidence of Design in Nature, 
Embroidered Scarf, 


Factory Blossoms for Queen Victoria, 1 
First Efforts of Genius, ° 

Forefathers’ Day, 

Faith and Fancy, 

Garfilena, 255 

History of the Lowell Offering, ^ 

How beautiful are all the Works of 

GoD ’ 190 

Health, g? 


History of a Tree, 24 

Hard Times, lbD 

Incidents of Adventure, 77* 10 7 t144 


Life 12 

Lafayette at the Tomb of Washington, 140 

Life’s Changes, 

My Grandfather’s Queue, 58 

No Confidence where there is no Prin¬ 
ciple, 249 

Originality, 21 

Our Native Land, 

Our Thoughts are heard in Heaven, 15& 

Our Poor Relation, ^ 

O why should the spirit of mortals be 

proud, 253 

Pocahontas, J4 

Plea for the Indian, Oo 

Poem*, JS 

Poetry. A Dialogue. l'O 

Prejudice the Arbiter of Taste, 242 

Review of American Notes, 95 

Reading, 100 

Something New, £2 

Say, where does beauty dwell, 

Solitude, *62 

Stories from the Linn-side, _ 


The Miniature, J 9 

The Laborer’s Remonstrance, *9 

The Old-Fashioned Collar, 22 

The First Grief, 43 

The Young Wife, *. . 49 

The Prospect from my Window m the 

Mill, 57 

The Victim of Revenge, 60 

The Misanthrope, ™ 

The Picture, gs 

The New Year, ™ 

The silent expressions of Nature, 19* 
The Young Widow, 

The Village Burial, JJJb 

The Male Coquette, 

The Last of the Barons, lb7 

The White Dress, or Village Aristoc- 
racy, 159 


But either my aunt has less vanity than her niece, or a happier fhculty of 
concealing it. . But to understand the sequel, we must know that her location 
was very near the forty-fifth degree of north latitude; where, amidst the 
mountains,, the “ firsft of May” never makes its appearance, except in the 
almanacs, until about the twentieth of the month, and, consequently, May is 
any thing but “ a rosy” month in reality. My aunt appears to have thought 
of this, for I find another address 


O'thou, who hast heard my plaint before,. 

Forgive my humble prayer once more— 

My cheeks, alas, the gods do say, 

Are like “ the rosy month of May.” 

No roses then do deck the scene, 

Save in small buds of brightest green; 

And scarce a flow’ret meets our view, 

Save the white-thorn and violet blue. 

But not to these will gods compare 
My rosy cheeks, they deem so fair; 

And green though lovely in its place, 

Would ill-become a lady’s face! 

# And from thy throne high in the skies, 

Didst .thou not see my saucer eyes? 

Whose beaming bright and dewy light 
Is like to onions set in night. 

1 And were my' lips fprgotten too, 

In the schedule from which you drew? 

’ 'Which, like the poppy’s bursting head, 

Just parts the green, and shows the red! 

Yet, be it fairly understood, 

This scarecrow form is still most good— 

“Good! but for what?” the gods do cry—. 

“Good! but for what?” echoes the sky— 

But frankly, let me them inform, 

’Twill keep the crows from pulling corn!” • 

Such were the first efforts of one, who has since been styled “ an origina. 
genius.” Would that the first efforts of Homer and Milton had been saved, 
that we might compare productions. But what! here is another paper in 
the same packet. It is a letter signed u Charles Mason,” and dated some 
three or four years subsequent to the time he officiated in the capacity of 
“ school-master.” I know that their manufacture of rhymes was interrupted 
by the close of his school* and departure for a distant; scene to finish his 
professional studies. And at the date of this letter, I am quite confident that 
my good aunt was more deeply interested with hopes of making a good 
housewife, than of ever becoming a literary lady. But let us read die letter* 

“ Miss Conroy: I beg you to pardon this gratuitous obtrusion. My only 
apology is, the imperious omnipotence of my own, feelings, which tease me, 
until, harassed by their continual importunity, I determined to refer them to 
you. This, be their reception what it may, will at least give a respite. 

Madam, I venture to indulge a hope, that you will appreciate the necessity 
of this unceremonious appeal to your own discretion, urged to it, as I was, 
by the impetuous rebellion of my feelings, and the miserable shifts of an 
anxious mind. Allow me the pleasure of learning, that you are not alto¬ 
gether displeased with the alternative which I have adopted: namely, of 
risking a trespass fipon thn sacred pinkbed of decorum, rather, than ruthlessly 



stifle my best feelings. I have seen you before this, and with a gaze met 
scintillations of those conquering, orbs, and. felt their thrilling power. 

Another matter; by way of apology*. I nave a mirid to paint a perfect 
model of female perfections, and want an origins)* coined from the porcelain 
of human clay, without one base alloy, spoiled by the caprice of a potter, or 
something else. Well, I know of staeh ah original, birt am in the predica¬ 
ment of the poet who lived not ten days ago. Sfach is the theme, the proto¬ 
type. But die muse .would cut the matter short— < 

For ’naught,, ohe' sayg, but close acquaintance, 

Can give success to art or fiction; 

So I must paint,with morbid faintness, 

Till you remove the interdiction. 

Do not resent this abrupt request, but give me a truce to suspense the first 
mail. And Until you give me an answer to this, (if you do npt wait too 
long,) I remain your humble admirer, Charles t Mason. 

P. S. Is it improper to .ask a lady’s love, when she holds one’s feelingd 
in utter captivity ? Is it a disgrace to her refused ? No; but the most overn 
whelming misfortune. Do jooi subject me to this punishment,' but allow me 
a correspondence, which I anxiously solicit as the other alternative. Gate 
me a truce to suspense the first mail. Allow me this indulgence, and I will 
promise to win you. ‘ ■ - .• • : ■ ■! *. . . C. ML” 

■. . / -V •' ./ ■ 

There is a love lettdr in no everyday style. •» It iaa gem among its felloWsj 
No wonder its author has become M very distinguished;” He probably prbs- 
pered not in his suit, and exchanged love for fame i < And how glad I am 
that Hatty is an old maid, for; undoubtedly, this precious relic would never 
have been preserved with such care, if the duties of -a; wife and mother had 
been her portion: in life. From her temperament and peculiar turn 1 of mind, 
I am quite stile she never 1 answered it; and*if she had desired to have given 
44 a truce to his suspense,” she must have felt her inability to have returned 
an equal number of* large words, dainty expressions, and neatly coined Com¬ 
pliments. He ought to have left for her use, some part of the dietionary and 
rhetoric. But “ a trube” for the present Before she sees this in print, per¬ 
haps I may be able to get some thing of the tale (if there were one) from her. 
But her “ first efforts” 1 have given you; and now, she id the talented 

author o f.. • • / •*/ .. . i•* .. 

What a blow! Aiint Hatty caught me with her sacred bag, ahd theC(ut4 
tents spread in all direction.For once, her equanimity was sadly disturbed, 
and we thbughfwe had^an 1 indistinct vision of a hand'coming in contact with 
some of the developments bf; our 44 selfish propensities.” Thdi sudden start 
that we gave removed us from the direct tipe her hand was pursuing;. and 
her progressive movement had commenced with puch good fwilljthafc she 
could not stop the* locomotive power instafiter , and the effects of her effort 
fell upon the lamp J i There it lips ini its scattered fragments 1 and spilled oili 
Good! The tremendous storm which this event shadows forth for, this 
region, 44 oti or about ; the*first of October,” I shall allayby lartipoil and poW-» 
deled. glass. Upon lookihg back, I perceive that I have not named the lit- 
eittry works of my auftVmore deserving notice. Arid if the printed does not 
make a fao smile of the-great ldng mark, which our.suddbn/hnove: made 
across, oaf paper; iit will rerid v 44 ’tiuthor of what a blow!” Well, let it go soi 
That , most truly, was one of her most powerful 44 efforts,” and has left a 
most indelible impression upon —the side of the^ house . , ^ ^ Kate- 



^S^.ORIE^ /ROM tflE LINN-^rl)jE> No. ,l! . 

' MINIATURE. ' . 1 

(. , ,Dfippib*4 toe i uppa thy biei . •' . , 

No floors of vain regret wje st^ew; 

Hut joy tliou canst no longer, here, . 

Sorrow, Snd care, * and anguish knbw : ‘ 1 ’ 

Oh! not for thee should tears be shed, 

. * “"fo dim the pinion fair and* bright, ” ‘ 

Of the redeemed spirit, spread ‘“j . 

Rejoicing for its upward flight.*' ‘ 

“ Wejll, I have found, you, at last,” said Major Farl^od, as ^ was ushered 
intQ the little boudoir of his, cousin Emma—a beautiful girl, over, whose fair 
brow twenty summers had passed. “ Here you are* sure .enough, buried in 
old letters full of love, I suppose. Oh! and a miniature too! iThat must 
be one of your admirets, or you would, not regard;it with;so much tender- 
nessi Will you allow me to look at it ??’ < ... 

Certainly,” said Emma; u though the original <of thatpieture is not an 
adihher of mine; for I never had an admirer, unless you call yourself one, 
which of course you will, not, as old/bachelors are not inclined to admire any 
thingi that is not strikingly handsome—at least, a bachelor such as you are, 
with a heart hardened as many .times as Pharaoh’s. Yes, cousin Frederick, 
take it, and examine it welly for it is the face of one whoni I tenderly loved.” 

But what was his surprise ^, ifmd it, not the likenesfe of a gentleman', but 
the enainelled painting of a young and beautiful girl:in the attitodeiof prayer. 
She wore a black dress adorned with brilliants; her hair was in the Madonna 
dtyle, and the face : was almost attractive onef of a! high intellectual order- 
lie gazed at it long apd. steadily .; and his thoughts went j back- to the days 
of Ins youth, \Vhen He had given a hea*t, unsullied by iheiVvorid, to a being 
of surpassing beauty ;> but where was she now ? He cast his eyes heaven¬ 
ward, and pressed, his hand upon that heart, which was fluttering to be free, 
tor join her that had entered the promised land before him. > 

Oh,she is beautiful indeed,” were his impassioned:words,.as he looked 
again uport the picture. • “ But was she good as fair? for I have often heard 
it remarked, that .beauty hides a multitude of faUltd. Will you trust me. with 
her name ? And if it would not be presuming upon your time and .patience 
too*nmchi d should like to hdar her lustory.” • !*.•»! , 

With pleasure,” was the quick• reply :of .Emma, ^ fbr I ldve to speak 

hett; and truly can I say, that she was as good ; as* beautiful. Her name 
was Lkoni Rudolf. Her parents were from the land of the myrtle and 
dranga They word very wealthy, tod Leoni was- their only child- *. Fondly 
was she ldved by -those parents ; and every thing that wealth could beptow, 
or MectiOn. suggest, was * lavished upoii their fair child. , That she might be 
happy, was the beguudng and end of their prayers ; and - it did .seem * for a 
tiiUe v that the recording angel had dipped his pen in a sunbeam, instead! of 
the qhalice of darkness* when hdr birth wfcs registered -in the > book of life. 
But a storm, was gathering to .mar the sunlshme of her future life.}* Arhalig* 
nant epidemic, in one short week, deprived her of father and: mother. . But 
that was only thd beginning of sorrow. It was her; misfortune to- be beauti 
ful and an heiress; and dearly did she pay-for. thei unsolicited;.gifts she had 
received' , 

* Lin>v—Scotch word for waterfall! 



Before her father’s death, he requested her to reade with a distant, rela¬ 
tion of her mother’s, who was soon to be married. Gladly .‘did she accept 
the invitation, which they affectionately extended to her as soon as they 
learned how sadly aha had been bereaved; andit was their study to devise 
every little act of kindness that would draw her attention from the deep grief 
that was stealing the rose from her cheek ^ and the hrilli^ncy from her eye ; 
and surely their kindness did not pass unnoticed, for she would thank them, 
again and again, and try to appear interested in the plans they were ar¬ 
ranging for years to come. 

r After the poignancy of her first grief was softened; and in a degree worn 
away, then came the admirers of her wealth and beauty. She had many 
suitors, and many offers, but she partook largely of the enthusiasm of her 
country, and none, as yet, realized her ideal image of what a husband should 
be; therefore, the offers of all were decidedly rejected. At length,'thete 
came one from a distant part of thfe country: his appearance was prepos¬ 
sessing; there was a blandness and a softness m his manners, which ever 
gains an interest in the heart of woman; he was reputed* to be of noble de¬ 
scent, and of high moral character; he was deemed an eligible connection 
for the young heiress, and one every way worthy of so'fhir a bride. He 
became the admirer of Leoni, and ii due time won a'heart that a seraph 
only rivalled. T It was no selfish love she gave : it was pure—-it was holy. 
Knowing no guild herself, she dreamed not that a shadow of sin could lUrk 
in the breast of one that was so dear to her. She had promised to be his, in 
weal and in wo. 1 • •• • *' V * 

Preparations were made for the wedding, and the guests were bidden, 
when, the day previous to the celebration of the marriage, he was arrested 
for mail rdbbery. It Was by his ill-gotten gains, that he had made so im¬ 
posing an appearance In the neighborhood where Leoni resided. 1 He Was 
tried and condemned to death, as the penalty of his crime. She went to bid / 
him fareWell. The voice of justice had condemned him ; and she, that 
young and lovely creature, was the only being in the Community who did 
not foitiake Hini in the hour of gloom. He endeavored to palliate his guilt, 
and in so doing confessed that ; he had been addicted r to the use of the ac¬ 
cursed bowl. Under thei influence of the poison, he-‘had violated law and 
• right; and *the : violated 1 law of his country required his life as a bloody sac¬ 
rifice. '• Would that some other mode of punishment niight be deemed effi¬ 
cient for the 1 protection of society, the powers of example,' and the punish¬ 
ment df the guilty, than that of a public execution. And he was executed, 
not when night would have veiled the deed in kindred darkness, but in the 
broad glare of day—in a civilized, Christian land, he was strangled by the 
instrument of the law—who, though vile, was so ashamed of his office as to 
conceal his hideous visage from the gaze of the multitude. But the wretched 
man died a penitent; and he said, a short time before the execution, that, 
had he sooner met with her, whose evdry act was overflowing with kindness, 
he should not have been the wretch he was now; and he felt that woman 
was capable of doing any thing in a good cause—that she could mould the 
actions of man into any fern she wished by the law of kindness. 

And Leoni thought she had not lived in vain, if, through her means, one 
soul had been led to the feet of Jesus. At their last meeting in that loath¬ 
some prison, he gave her a small pocket bible that his mother had presented 
to him on the eve of his departure from that deferspot; around which mem¬ 
ory loves to linger with her thousand charms, with the injunction, that, in joy 
or sorrow, it should be a consolation and a guide. Dearly did the bereaved 

one prize that parting gift ; and on one 6f the blank leaves she inscribed the 
following lines: - 

“On the sunny hill of Spain, kmg may thaft mother grieve— r . . 

He may not came ^gain,at the lash of goera oer eVp: 

She knows not that a distant land 
Gave him a felon's death; 

That the land's stern law, and the hangman's hand 
Dealt with his parting breath.” 1 - 

Though she never mentioned her sorrows^ all might see, that, like the dy¬ 
ing dove, she folded her wings closely upon the wound, to hide the ravages 
it was daily making.: She soon resumed her wonted calmness, for she had 
early learned to put her trust in,Goa, but it was the calmness of decay. It 
Was a long, long time, before the poor people, whom she had fed and clothed 
Sox many years, could believe that the beautiful Italian girl, as they, always 
called her, was dying; and they would lower their voices, when they spoke 
of her goodness and love to all. It often seemed as if an angel had wrapt 
the mantle of resignation about my early friend, she was so mild and sweet; 
but, as gold is. tried and purified by fire, so was adversity—for, 1 those 
whom Goo loveth, He chasteneth.’ Day by day, she saw the beautiful things 
of earth fading from her sight; but her words were now few, and the link 
which bound her to surrounding things, was broken* for her thoughts were 
With her heart, and that was buried in the grave of the departed, whom she 
had loved as once believing him gifted and worthy. . 

As Autumn deepened into Winter, hfer spirit fled from its tenement of 
clay. It had gone to join the angelic host, where all is pure. , 

. But why say more ? Though I love, to dwell on her unstained and lovely 
memory, her tale istoldi and thought .becomes the only medium for reflec¬ 
tion ,Vj 4 . , ; , ' v . ; . . 

“ Her history.feia sad one,”,said Frederick, as he arose to take leave; 
“nevertheless,, one of instruction, fdr it is but another instance of the 
blessed assurance our Savior has given, that those who meekly bear the cross 
He lays upon them, shall be rewarded; that He will wipe aWay all tears 
from their eyes, and that death ?hall be swallowed up in victory.” : 

“ You are sad, cousin Frederick,” said Emma, as she bade him good 
night, “ and so am I; but,foe next time you can .spore an evening from the 
.camp to spend with me, I will relate to you a story that shall ; be all of sun- 
sjune.- ; Ionb. 

. LIFE. ( 

.Life— what is life ? A scene of care— 

A round of grief, of pain, and sorrow; 

Its >rjghtpst, deorqst hope*, but sir, 

Which gild a day, and burst the.morrow. . 

Its splendid phantasy—a dream, 

That wakes to disappointment’ll pam; 

Its boasted joys-^a poet’s theme, ’ 

Which lives, and liverWt in hit brain* C. 9, 





\ stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, 

A prison and a.palace on each hand/— Byron. 

There ’s a gladsome light in Nerissi T s eyes 
As a light bark approaches the Bridge of Sighs 5 
But a moment more, and *t will stealthily lie 
On the wives which sleep ’neath her balcony : 

And though eveTy bell in that city hath tolled 
The midnight hour, and the sea-breeze is cold, 

Yet neither the chill of the night, nor its fear, 

Can shorten-the vigil she long hath kept here. 

But the innocent bear in their bosoms a charm 

Which will keep them from fears, and will shield them from harm, 

And o'er them have the spirits of Evil no power, 

Though, for others, they darken each lone watchful hour. 

And yet it would seem that a sob or a tear 
Were far more befitting fair Nerissi here, 

Than the smile which is spreading, e’en over her brow, 

And the low laugh of joyance, which bursts from her now. 

Ah! little thinks she of the dark arched way 
Beneath whose black shadows the cold waters play; 

And little she thinks of the moans which arise 

From the vaults, which can echo naught else but the sighs 

Of the victims of tyranny, wo, and despair, 

Whose fate has consigned them a living tomb there.* 

Nerissi thinks not of the sounds which may float 
On the winds of the night, nor taketh she note 
Of aught, save a merry young gondolier , 

Who is taking her heart, and herself, in his care; 

And who speaks of that bright and beautiful bay* 

Where the moon-beams, unbroken, on calm waters play; 

And o’er those bright waves their light bark shall skim, 

Till morning shall part her from love, and from 'him. 

• Oh, when the young heart is so lightsome and glad, 

*T is not easy to think that aught else can be sad; 

And, Nerissi, sparce can we warn thee, or chide, 

For self is forgotten, as aught else beside. 

And thinkest thou, not that thy lover may prove 
Unworthy of thee, of thy trust, and thy lore ? 

And that though in his heart no wrong there should be, 

Yet winds may arise, and may roughen that sea; 

And neither his love, nor his skill, may avail 
To weather, with thee, the fierce storm and gale; 

And thy bridal mantle and couch may be 

But the waves of that bright Venitian sea. / 

* The Bridge of Sighs connected the Ducal Palace with the building, in whose dungeons 
those state prisoners were confined, whose offences were to be expiated by imprisonment for life. 




But vain the attempt to throw the dark spell 
Of caution o’er her, for she loveth too well; 

And we ’ll leave her now to her, own glad themes, 

And to revel with him in love’s waking dreams. 

But, Nerissi! even in th*e have I seen 
What well may dispose me a moral to glean— 

This world—is it aught but a Bridge of Sighs ? 

•Neath which the dark wave of humanity lies— 

And Time, like the night-wind, goes wailing along, 

For he beareth the murmur of sorrow and wrong. 

Oh ! far, far away let us fearlessly flee, , 

On the gloom-shadowed waves, to that broad and bright sea, 
Whose surface is bathed in .a never dimmed light, 

Which may not be^exchanged for the darkness of night. 

And Faith shall, to us, be the gondolier 

Who, with out-stretching arms, is awaiting us here— 

Let us fearlessly trust, and he ’ll bear us away, 

Forsaking us not till the dawn of that day 
Which never is followed by evening or night. 

And then, not till then, will he vanish from eight. 

And the incense of gratitude there shall arise, 

That far, far behind is the dark Bridge of Sighs. 



I love to be here, and muse amidst these lineaments of the departed; and 
to see how brightly these forms stand forth from the dim obscurity of the 
past, though here but by Memory and Imagination are they portrayed—yet 
they have done well; and where the one hath found the task too hard, the 
other hath been ever ready, with her magic brush, and brilliant lights, and 
never hath she wrought in vain; 

Here are the good, the lovely, and the noble-hearted ; those to whom life 
was ever as a gladsome dream, and those to whom it was a scene of sorrow. 
Here is the queen, and here the subject; here the saint, and here the sav¬ 
age ; here the woman of olden time, and here the maiden of later days. 
Here are those of many different lands, and climes; the children of the 
long forgotten, and also of the recent, Past. It is good to be here; and I 
will sometimes lay aside all thoughts of the living, and the present, and come, 
as now, to hold communion with the dead. But when I speak, they answer 
me not—those rosy lips are never parted; those sparkling eyes can never 
vary in their glance; and I must commune with myself, and cherish every 
thought which may come to me amidst the stillness. 

Here is a strange, and yet a fascinating scene ; the portrait of one who 
was noble in birth, in mind, and in her destiny. There are but few of the 
roydl in our new-found world; and thou, sweet daughter of Powhatan, shalt 
here pioccde all queens, and subjects of the East. How many characters 



were once combined in thee ! The child of an emperor, and yet of a savage; 
a heathen, and then a Christian; the daughter of an Indian, the wife of a 
Briton; the foster-mother of an infant nation, and yet how soon its captured 
victim; the savior of one who could grieve, if not abandon thee; Matoaka,* 
Pocahontas, and Rebecca—how many wild associations are mingled with 
those names; thoughts of man's dark deeds, and passions; of woman's firm¬ 
ness, love, and trust; of the lights and shades which play over that era in 
our country’s story; and of the romance which may be woven into the fate 
of a forest maiden. 

Pocahontas is here delineated in the attitude which to us appears most in¬ 
teresting. Here is Powhatan's wigwam, and the chieftain is seated, in sav¬ 
age state, amidst his warriors, arrayed in belt, and mantle, and feathery 
crown. The light of the blazing pine dickers upon the roof, sides, and floor 
of the sylvan dwelling. Its dusky inmates preserve a stem, unbroken si¬ 
lence ; and every face is blank, but for the expression of strong, unwavering 
purpose. In the centre of the group is the block, and victim; for the white 
man has bowed himself to die. But whose is.this slight, childish form, which 
bursts upon the group, and lies itself, as a shield, to receive ^the destined 
blow. A murmur bursts from the compressed lips of each wild man, and 
there is a thrill throughout the stolid group. They could have seen the blow 
fall upon that devoted one, and watched his writings in the agonies of death, 
and still have sat, as did that* old assembly before their Gothic conquerors, 
and which could scarcely be distinguished from the statues which surrounded 

But for this they are unprepared, and for this they must arouse, and act. 
To some of them the girl appears as have the phantoms which flitted by their 
path in stealthy midnight march, or when, at twilight, they had roamed 
through the depths of the thick forest. There was more of fear than hatred 
in their hearts when they decreed that that strange man should die. But does 
not the Great Spirit send guardian ones to shield him ? or has he not u a medi¬ 
cine which can summon the supernatural to his aid ? or is that figure but the 
wreathing smoke, which curls in wild fantastic forms around them all. 

These are the thoughts with which they quickly start, for soon they all 
know, as Powhatan knew at first, that it is his best loved child, the little Ma¬ 
toaka. They try to * force, to coax her away, but with her arms twined 
round the stranger’s neck, she tells them, that if a blow is dealt on him, it 
first shall cut through her. There is something strange, almost mysterious, 
in this. The chieftain’s heart is touched-*—not solely by the tears and prayers 
of that young girl, hut by the fear that harm will come upon ■ himself, if 
wrong is done the pale-face. Has not the Great Spirit been whispering to 
his child ? Did not Hfi bid her thwart her father’s will ? ’T is very strange— 
but her petition’s granted, and the emperor bids the white man live. 

Such is the scene. It is Pocahontas, as she first appears upon the page 
of story; and she starts upon the historian, much as her own red warriors 
were wont to burst upon our exiled fathers. 

There is darkness, midnight, and storms. The records of history have 
been those of struggles, vexations, disappointments, privations, selfishness, 
and sometimes follies, and crimes. How beautifully does this young girl 
come, like a visitant from the ethereal world, in her innocence, trust, and 
self-forgetfulness; but she does not, like a phantom, pass “ in light away.” 
From this moment she is the friend, guardian, and savior of that little stranger 

* Matoaka was her real Indian name 3 Pocahontas, the name by which she was known to the 
whites. ' 



band. It is through her instrumentality that they have land, food, friends?, 
arid— -peace. She hears of treachery, and goes through u the deep-tangled 
wild wood,” alone, and m “the darksome night,” to tell them Of their foe* 
She dares not take one token of gratitude or love, for fear that her father 
will see it, “ and kilt her.” He whose life has more than once been saved 
by her, would give her jewels in which she may shine among her fellow*- 
maidens, but she can accept of nothing now. - 

There is nothing in the character of Pocahontas, which appeals for sym¬ 
pathy to the clannish instincts of our nature. She does not concentrate in 
her own heart the loves, hates, hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows, of her people. 
On the contrary, there is something like falsehood to her father, her kindred, 
and her race. But we love and esteem her the more for this. It was not 
that aught was wanting in her heart which dwelt in theirs, of social and do¬ 
mestic affection, or even of patriotism ; but that She had that which they (fid 
not possess:—innocence, which could suspect no evil; conscientiousness, 
which could permit no wrong; benevolence, which yearned to do good to 
the pilgrim and stranger; and disinterestedness* which could forget all 
thought of sglf in her exertions for the benefit of others. Wei never feel that 
her opposition to her father, and her race, was frftm lack of aught that is no¬ 
ble or kindly in our nature; and we wonder no more that she could never 
sympathize with her dark-browed kindred, than that the daughter of Shylock 
was false to him, and to her Hebrew faith. Pocahontas is separate from all 
her tribe, because there are none else pure, soullike, gentle, and affectionate 
like her. A lonely life must hers have been in early days, yearning for com¬ 
munion with those she could not find; sending forth the warm aspirations of 
her heart into the void around her, to be ever reminded that they are but 
wasted breath. • How she struggled to love that which was not lovely; to 
mingle with that with which she had no affinity; to learn that of which no 
one corild teach her; to worship where she could not believe. But when 
the white man came to her, as if from the Spirit Land, with his magic pow¬ 
ers, his mysterious arts, his strange yet beauteous frame, for little could she 
know that his clothing was not the gift of Nature, and the huge winged mon¬ 
sters which bore him o’er the deep, there was a trembling hope that here 
might be arrested the vague aspirings of her heart. His deeds of prowess 
are the theme of every tongue; and when they come and tell her of his 
words—how that the stars are far-off suns, and the moon a shining world; 
how that the earth is round, and people dwell beneath their feet; how there 
are lands beyond the great waters, where the people are thick as leaves upon 
the trees, the hairs upon the head, the stars in the sky, and the- sends upon 
the seashore, and “how the sun did chase the night around the earth”— 
there is a trembling hope that in these may be found companions who can 
satisfy her questioning spirit. Hitherto her life has been an isolated one- 
father, mother, friends, are all as though another race of beings— 

* “ A lily in the wilderness, lifting its pure white brow 

Amidst the weeds and thorrls around, such, Indian maid y wert thou.” 

But she is never aloof from them—she mingles in every scene of rude fes¬ 
tivity, she wails when they send forth the funeral cry, she dances with her 
maidens in the moonlight, on the forest green, but she is not satisfied: 
when alone she is still and sorrowful. Nay*, she never is alone—she stands 
by the waters, and they send forth their rough chorus; she sits upon the hill¬ 
side, and the winds chant their loud anthem ; she lies down in the wild-wood 
shade, and the leaf-harps send forth a sweet music, unheard by other ears. 



Nature is ever around her, and never mute ; but she speaketh with a strange 
tongue. The girl has been taught to worship Okee'\ but still her altar has 
ever been erected to an Unknown God . Pocahontas is no angel, but she is 
a gentle, sensitive, reflective being, where all are rude, gross, and sensual. 
She feels painfully that ignorance of those laws of Nature, and of our being, 
which is ever so oppressive to the meditative mind. And when she knows 
that another and nobler race of beings have come, to live among them, how 
quickly comes the thought that of them she can learn, in these confide, and 
to these assimilate. The white men were not what she had thought them , 
but they were a superior race of beings. She was not mistaken there. 
They could teach her much which she fain would know; they declare unto 
her the Unknown Goo, and she could not then understand their selfishness, 
avarice, contempt of heathens, and the wrongs they meditated upon her race. 

“ Blessed are always the pure in heart”—and blessed was this heathen 
girl in the . possession of a heart so open to all holy truth, so repellant of all 
of evil with which she found it mingled. 

It was always difficult for the Indian to understand why the white man 
came upon his lands. He questioned of it as did the ancient Briton, when, 
the Homan came to his island home, and Pocahontas must have lent a cred¬ 
ulous ear to the plausible reasons which they gave, for leaving splendor, 
comfort, home, and friends, to come among her benighted people. They 
would give these heathen a better religion, and how instinctively her spirit 
receives the Holy Word as truth. To her they are not colonists, but pil¬ 
grims ; not adventurers, but missionaries; and they are dependent upon her 
favor. She watches around them as a spirit of the upper world might hover 
over us—beautiful, benign, and melancholy Pocahontas—lovely, virtuous 
dignified, and happy Rebecca. 

Were a band of visitants to come to us, from another sphere, a race supe¬ 
rior in mind, and far more beautiful in person than we, whose hearts would 
yearn towards them from quickest sympathy ? whose feelings would most 
readily respond to theirs ? and by whom would their wants and wishes first 
be met? By the pure, the imaginative, the spiritually-minded. Those 
whose souls have oftenest wandered in the highest regions of the ideal. And 
those who would shrink, would quail, would turn indifferent away, would 
be the irreligious, heartless, and earthly-minded. These strange visitants 
might have powers of harm, and thoughts of wrong, but if they were differ¬ 
ent from ours, we should not, if innocent ourselves, be ready to suspect 
them of evil. 

It was thus that, in both North and South America, those who were most 
prompt in their appreciation of the powers, and most ready to extend their 
sympathies to the white man, were superior to their fellows, as surely as 
they were afterwards the first to foresee, and the most strenuous in their ef¬ 
forts to prevent, the evil which impended o’er theii; people. 

There is an interest almost sublime in contemplating the character and 
fate of these red-browed men, as connected with our pale-faced ancestors— 
these children of Nature, contrasted with the children of Civilization. When 
they came in little bands, “ a feeble folk,” without provision, shelter, or lands, 
they were welcomed, supported, and cherished, till fears were excited for their 
own safety, and preservation. Then came the deadly struggle—then stood 
they foe to foe—the one strong in civilized art and stratagem; the other 
maddened by the sense of treachery, and outrage, and nerved by a sense of 
the justice of his cause. 

It reminds one of the fable of the woodman , who took the chilled and helj> 

2 * 



less serpent to his hearth and bosom, but to receive a strength which was to 
be exerted for his destruction. Even thus the Indian took into the bosom of 
his home a creature, which was to rise with fresh and mighty power, to coil 
round him its swelling folds, and thrust at him its hydra head; to crush, 
mangle, and destroy. It was a fearful struggle—the struggle of the Lao- 
coon, most noble, though it was useless and fatal. 

There is.-something, I repeat, most touching in the manner in which they 
depart. They find themselves powerless—utterly unable to cope with their 
enemies. To remain—to hover, ghostlike, over the remains of their kin¬ 
dred—to live in bondage, aye, in communication with their conquerors, is 
degradation, misery, and worse than * death. But they must go—the pale¬ 
face shall not see them live—he shall not see them when they waste and die. 
Then comes the mournful question, “ Can the bones of our fathers arise, and 
follow us into a strange land ?” And when they go, the most sorrowful 
farewell is to these burial-grounds. 

There is a Roman greatness in this—the greatness of the Caesar who man¬ 
tled his face that none might see when first it blanched, or when the last 
convulsions passed away. Perhaps there is something veiy favorable to the 
red man in the distance from which he must be viewed—his Spartan virtues, 
his wrongs, his fate, the beautifully figurative style in which his sentiments 
are uttered, his sense of his injuries, and indignation at his enemies—in all 
of this there is something wildly fascinating in the page of history. What¬ 
ever would to us be most repulsive—his domestic habits, his social economy 
—is seldom detailed there. Yet he can throw a thrilling interest sometimes, 
even here. An Indian, seating himself upon the ground, has little in his po¬ 
sition to command our respect; but how are our feelings changed when he 
says, “ The Sun is my father—the Earth is my mother—I will recline upon 
her bosom . 15 t 

The departure of that dark race is like that of clouds, which pass away 
before the morning sun. As they rise and recede, the blackness lessens; 
they catch new glories from the orb at which they flee; they glow in pur¬ 
ple, pink, and crimson; they are tinged with gold; and when they melt in 
the far horizon, they vanish in beauty. 

And is it not a touching sight when some faint remnant of that cloud 
comes hovering backward, o’er the scene from which it rose ? u I know,” 
says Campbell, the poet, “ of no sight more touching than that of the Indian, 
who returns to break his bow-string over the graves of his fathers.” 

But our portrait has been suggestive of other, though kinged pictures— 
and, Pocahontas, have we been true in what is here ascribed to thee ? A 
historian says of her, “ Our whole knowledge of her is confined to a few 
brilliant and striking incidents, yet there is in them so complete a consis¬ 
tency, that reason , as well as imagination, permits us to construct the whole 
character from these occasional manifestations.” Even in that first scene 
when she is introduced to us, there is a manifestation of her past as well as 
present character. How was it that she, a girl among a people where wo¬ 
man was despised—how became she the favorite of that mighty king ? that 
savage Bonaparte—and a favorite possessing so great an‘influence ? It must 
have been the magic of worth, intellect, and affection, working on that stem 
man’s heart, through her whole short life, which could obtain the boon he 
granted her. They did not trifle with Pocahontas—they did not promise the 
white man’s life, and thus seduce her away, that they might work his death 
with no more molestation. Powhatan treated her not as a child—but as a 
woman. Aye, there, and then, she was treated as a man. ... ' 



And she never lessens in the esteem and love which she at first inspired. 
Her sincerity, firmness, and courage will always command the former; her 
gentleness, comprtfeion, modesty, and strong affection will ever win the latter. 
Her devotion to Christianity, her strong affection for Capt. Smith, her love 
for John Rolfe, are claims upon our sympathies as Christians, and Yengese . 
But she was not false to her own race. They needed not her efforts, her 
charities—they were then the aggressors—the murderers. She left her fa¬ 
ther because she could not witness his cruelty and treachery towards that 
feeble band: and when she was taken, as their captive, her tears could only 
be restrained by the thought that thus she might again be serviceable to them. 

That little spot, where the English first settled, will ever be hallowed by 
thoughts of her. The moss-roofed church, and grass-grown walls of that 
old fort, will be remembered long after 44 there shall not be left one stone 
upon another,” as the place where Rebecca was baptized; where, with her 
husband, she drank from the fountain of life; and where her love, for him 
and his people, was hallowed by that piety which led her to choose his peo¬ 
ple for her people, his God for her God; to live, die, and he buried among 
his kindred. ' 

The departure of Pocahontas for England was to her a most interesting 
event. That country was the El Dorado, which Fancy loved, yet almost 
failed to portray. How strange and magical must that old world have seemed 
to her; but strangest of all, most mysterious of all, that ties of love must 
there be sundered by courtly etiquette. 

She must not call Capt. Smith her father here, because, forsooth, she is 
the child of a monarch, and he is but 44 a subject of that realm.” The Lady 
Rebecca could understand the superiority of the English, she could perceive 
the resources and advantages of civilization, she must have painfully felt her 
ignorance of what they so much valued, but she could not understand their 
mere formalities; she could not perceive the advantages of Capt. Smith’s 
cold bearing. He had thought him dead—she knew not otherwise until she 
met him, when she Was 44 a stranger in a strange land,” even as he had been 
in the home of her fathers. And here the man, whose life she saved, must 
meet her with a formal grace, and will not let her call him 44 father .” 44 You 

were not afraid,” said she to him, 44 to come into my country, and strike fear 
into every one but me, but here you are afraid to let me call you father — 
but I tell you that I will call you father, and you shall call me child; and 
so I will be your countryman for ever and ever.” 

The man who had gained the affections of women of many lands, of the 
Russian, the Turk, and the French, had a strong hold upon the heart of the 
poor Indian. Her feelings mu9t have been deeply wounded, and Capt. 
Smith did not repay her disinterested love as it should have been returned. 

True, he wrote a letter to Queen Anne, commending to her notice and 
charity this lovely daughter of the forest. But, even in this, the selfishness 
and avarice of the white man is depicted. He speaks, it is true, of 44 this 
tender virgin, whose compassionate, pitiful hand had oft appeased their jars, 
and supplied their wants.” Of her rejection of heathenism, 44 being the first 
Christian of that nation, the first Virginian that ever spoke English, or had a 
child in marriage with an Englishman; a matter worthy of a prince’s un¬ 
derstanding.” He also speaks of her exceeding desert—her birth, virtue, 
and simplicity, and of 44 her great spirit, however her stature .” 

But this is not why he particularly recommends, her to the notice of the 
queen. It is because, bv a right conduct, 44 this kingdom may have a king¬ 
dom, by her meanswhereas, by a contrary course, 44 her present loVe might 



be turned to scorn and fury, and divert all this good to the worst of evil; 
but if she should find so great a queen do her more honor than she could 
imagine, it would so ravish her with content as to effect %at which her maj¬ 
esty and her subjects most earnestly desire.” 

And this was the reward of the generous, unselfish, heroic exertions of 

But in the midst of these disinterested attentions, the Lady Rebecca died— 
died as she was about to return to the land of her fathers; to exchange the 
wearisome formalities of courtly life for the unrestrained enjoyment of a 
humble home; as she was hoping to look upon her father’s face once more, 
and to lay before the aged man the child of his beloved Rebecca. 

Perhaps it was well that she died then; that she never lived to see the as¬ 
cendancy of the white man in that western home; that she never saw the 
kindred of her husband ruling where once her father held sole sway. There 
must have been struggles, heart-aches, and self-questionings which would, at 
least, have marred her happiness. 

In that island, far over the great waters, where lie entombed so many of 
the good, the brave, and royal, rest also the remains of the firsthand, as yet, 
the last, distinguished princess of .America. Ella. 


“ Give me justice, and keep your charity at home,” said Jonathan, to one 
of the non-producers, who spend the night in devising means to grow rich 
upon the earnings of those who toil early and late, and the. day, in executing 
those plans. 44 Give me justice —compensate me, adequately to my toil, and 
I shall have wherewith to supply my wants.” 

“ Refuse not the proffered alms,” said a worthy father in Israel; 44 but 
think of your suffering family. Remember that an over-ruling Providence has 
brought about your present afflictions; and that an all-wise God has kindly 
ordained that the rich should assist the poor, when the day of trouble comes.” 

44 You will never make me believe,” said Jonathan, 44 that my present ab¬ 
ject condition was brought about by the interposition of an over-ruling Provi¬ 
dence, till I have the folly to believe that God foreordained that the produce 
of my toil should add more to the interest of an idle drone, than to my own.” 

44 Have confidence in your Maker, and murmur not against His wise dis¬ 
pensations,” said the good father, 44 but be reconciled to your fate.” 

“If you would inspire me with confidence,” said Jonathan, “do not bring 
a reproach upon true religion, by sanctioning oppression, or even intimate 
that I should receive as a favor, that which ought to be demanded as a right. 
If you would reconcile me to my fate, consider the cause of the poor, and 
point out a remedy for the evils which they suffer. Look to the laws of so¬ 
ciety—look to the laws of the Statute Book; and if they not coincide with 
the laws of eternal justice, revise and correct them. See that the cries of 
the laborer ascend not into the ears of the Lord of Saraoth, on account of 
oppression. But let the peans of gratitude and praise ascend, because op¬ 
pression hath ceased ; and those who have hitherto lived, and grown fat on 
the life-blood of their brethren, share their burdens.” C. 




Gently flowed a river bright 
On its path of liquid light. 

Not like some rude, torrent's course, 
Onward with impetuous force 
O’er its rocky pavement'speeding— 
Passing beauties never heeding— 

But its noiseless way pursued 
Where the waving forests stood; 
Gleaming now soft banks between $ 
Winding now Uirough valleys green; 
Cheering with its presence mild, 
Cultured fields and woodlands wild. 
Now and then its course was hid, 

As it lightly onward sped, 

For the willow trees which flourished, 
By its kindly waters nourished, 

O'er it their long branches threyr, 

Oft concealing it from view. 

But I knew it wandered there, 

For the flow’rets fresher were ; 

And the herbage, rich and green, 

On its swelling marge was Been ; 

And the tall grass on its brink 
Lowly bent, as if to drink 
From some naiad’s crystal urn, 

While soft whispers, in return, 

Thro’ the blades low murmuring went, 
By the zephyr minstrel sent. 

Sheltered ’twas from mortal sight; 

But the day-god, dazzling bright, 

And the stars in evening’s sky, 

And the moon’s calm majesty, 

Looking from their home in air* 

1 Saw themselves reflected there ; 

. That mild stream loved heaven*9 rays. 
Though it shrank from earthly gaze. 

Is not such & pure one’s life ? 

Ever shunning pride and strife— 

Never babbling her own praise— 1 
Passing happy, peaceful days, 
Noiselessly along she goes, 

Known by kindly deeds she does— 
Often wandering far to bless, 

And do others kindnesses. 

Though herself is seldom seen, 

Yet we know where she hath been, 

By the joy her presence gives— 

By the peace her footstep leaves— 

By crushed hearts she bids revive— 
Withered hopes again that live, [fair, 
Earth’s young flowers that bloom more 
Nurtured by her gentle care. 

Thus, by her own virtues shaded, 

And by glory’s presence aided, 

While pure thoughts, like starbeams, lie 
Mirrored in her heart and eye, 

She, content to be unknown, 

All serenely moveth on, 

Till, released from time’s commotion, 
Self is lost in love’s wide ocean. 

L. L. 


Some persons cannot be persuaded to put an idea of their own on paper, 
because, they say, they can write nothing original. Originality of thought 
they understand to mean, such as no human mind ever before conceived, 
and such they utterly despair of producing, for, say they, “ let me select 
what theme I will, I always find that; some talented person has written on the 
same subject, and with such beauty and finish, as, in the comparison, would 
fill me with shame for my own meagre attempt. But are they not unjust to 
themselves in regard to their claims to originality ? If a train of thought has 
its origin in their minds, does it not belong to them as really as if no other 
mind had conceived it ? For instance, an individual, by carefully observing 



the emotions of his own spirit, comes to the conclusion that its large unsatis¬ 
fied desires are an evidence of its immortality. He afterwards finds that 
Young has expressed the same thoughts; but may he not as justly claim 
them for his own as Young ? As for clothing them in elegant language, 
though very desirable, it is of minor importance. 

Is there not a pleasure in thinking for ourselves—in following out by the 
unassisted powers of our own minds, the relations of things, and discovering 
that single truths, which, of themselves, had filled us with delighted wonder, 
are but parts of bright constellations of truths ? And shall we despise the 
results of our own labors because some other mind has accomplished greater 
achievements of the same kind ? May we not, rather, presume to greet as 
kindred souls, those into whose trains of thinking we so naturally fall ? And, 
though now so much our superiors, may we not hope that they will have no 
cause to disdain the claim when mind shall be fully developed ? 

If we are not each to think for ourselves, why has each individual mind 
the powers of reasoning* comparing and deciding on any subject which is 
presented to it? Is not the possession of these powers an evidence that we 
are not to rest entirely upon the labors of other minds ? If so, is not original 
thinking a duty ? And if this duty was performed, how very easy it would 
he io write originally. 

But originality of thought is not confined to sober truth. There are flights 
of imagination, which, though not so beneficial as the contemplation of truth, 
may with propriety be indulged. And as in fancy’s unlimited domain there 
are no beaten tracks of causes and effects, and as she is continually multi¬ 
plying her Strange creations, there, is always the probability of finding there, 
something not only original, but new. In this she may boast of an advan¬ 
tage over truth—for truth is never new. It may be discovered, but never 
created. But, let truth or fancy guide us in this wonderful world with these 
wonder-working minds, there is no fear that we shall exhaust the treasury 
of thought. E. A. L. 


Many weeks have elapsed since Augusta Herbert bade her wedding party, 
which comprised all the married people in the town. 

The elite of the place were already assembled, when Mrs. Lane was an¬ 

Upon a sofa, in an opposite part of the room, sat Mrs. Blake, surrounded 
by a clique of her particular friends. 

She was the wife of one of the wealthiest merchants in the city, and, un¬ 
fortunately, dress was the shrine before which she bowed, and the standard 
by which she measured all others. 

On seeing Mrs. Lane enter, she exclaimed, in ^n under tone, accompanied 
by a scornful curl of the lip, 

“ Do see how shabbily Mrs. Lane is dressed. Positively, I should be 
ashamed to appear in respectable company so meanly clad. There is her 
collar—I should think it was cut. in the year one ; and see the work—how 
antiquated! Why, she is a perfect fright!” 

“That she is t ” replied Mrs. Bartlet; “but I am certain that she will get 
tired of intruding herself into company, for I am determined not to asso¬ 
ciate with her.” 


44 So am I,” 44 So am I,” was echoed by some half-dozen voices, in a sup¬ 
pressed tone. 

Meanwhile the object of their ridicule, all unconscious of the effect pro¬ 
duced by her old-fashioned collar, had a kind word and a smile for every 
one.* With her the moments fled on golden wings, bearing with them the 
fragrance of intelligence; and true Christian kindness. 

Once during the evening, Mrs. Lane endeavored tov draw Mrs. Blake into 
conversation, by making some casual remark on a volume of poems, recently 
published. But just at that moment, the latter recollected a magnificent pat¬ 
tern for a ball-dress, which she described to an equally interested auditor, the 
other side of her. And Mrs. Lane passed on, thinking that, probably, Mrs. 
Blake had not read the poems, and would not like to say any thing upon the 
subject. At length the hour for separation arrived, and the lady of “ the 
old-fashioned collar” wished the bride abundant prosperity, and bade the 
company good-hight. * * * * 

It was a cold, stormy evening, and the wind howled fitfully amongst the 
wilderness of houses. But no one of that brilliant assemblage returned to a 
desolate hearth. The present, alas! is no guarantee for the future, for scarce 
had Mrs. Lane closed ner eyes in sleep, ere she was roused by the fearful 
cry of, “Fire P* “Fire!” Strangely, peal after peal, from the fire-bell, min¬ 
gled with the wild war of Nature that raged around. . 

The engines were brought, but the extreme cold prevented their use. 
And every effort of the firemen, to extinguish the flames, proved equally un¬ 
availing. Soon, the noble edifice, which was Esq. Blake’s dwelling and 
store, was wrapt in one broad sheet of flame With difficulty Mrs. Blake 
wrapt her two babes in thick mantles, and escaped from 1 the devouring ele¬ 
ment. An hour passed, and all that remained to that proud and aristocratic 
family, was the clothing in which they escaped. 

Prompted by the native goodness of her heart, Mrs. Lane sent a messen¬ 
ger to seek the sufferers, and invite them to her house. And in the interim 
she employed herself in preparations for their reception. Kindness per¬ 
formed its perfect work. And when Mrs. Blake arrived, she confessed her 
fault, and with tearful eyes besought Mrs. Lane to grant her the aid of her 
friendship and counsel, in forming a more correct estimate of persons and 
things. From this time, the two ladies were inseparable friends. * * * 

At the close of the next year, Esq. Blake had succeeded in establishing 
himself in business. His wife was still known as the accomplished, and, 
also, as the amiable and kind-hearted Christian. Orianna. 



Address to our Patrohs. In seating ourselves, for the first time, in the chair 
editorial , we are painfully aware of the awkwardness of our situation. 

We feel no disposition to inflict upon our readers, what the Indian would call, a 
•‘big talk;” and, if we had not much to say, would shorten our “salutatory” to very 
diminutive proportions. But there is much which we would here advance in behalf 
of the work which we edit, and those for whose sake we have consented to perform 
this unwonted task. 

We feel that there should be, in the long list of periodicals, one of this character; 
that though, compared with them, it may appear trifling and unworthy, yet there is a 
mission for it to perfbrm, whioh can be done by no other; that, in claiming the pa¬ 
tronage of the community, we interfere with the rights and pretensions of no one else; 



and that, to us the helping band should be,, promptly extended, for our way is not 
“ meted out, and trodden down/' but a new and unbroken path. 

What the object is, which we would fain accomplish, nee4 not be particularly speci¬ 
fied. All our readers are aware of the prejudice, which has long existed, against the 
manufacturing female* of New England—a prejudice which, in this country, should 
never have been harbored against a ny division of the laboring population, and that 
many circumstances, and the exertions of jnany different .classes of individuals,'bad 
contributed to strengthen this prejudice. We, were not surprised that, when T.he 
Offering first appeated, so many were astonished; hut we were‘ surprised that so 
many should, for,so long a time, withhold from it their confidence. In spite of these, 
however, The Offering has done much good. The involuntary blush does not so 
often tinge the faces of our operatives, when mingling with stnwgfcw, as when they 
claimed no place amid the worthy, and the educated. 

- But there may be those who object that the writers, for this little magazine, are the 
exceptions to the general rule ; that they (comprise but a very small proportion of the 
females now employed in Lowell; that the majority of them could not appear to any 
advantage before the public, &c. &c. All this is readily admitted; but we would 
also respectfully assert that the literati of our Literary Emporium comprises but a 
small proportion of its inhabitants; that the literati of our country is but a feeble mi¬ 
nority of the dwellers therein; that the literati, who shed ait unfading halo around the 
age of Elizabeth of England, were but a handful of men, amidst the crowd who owned 
her sway; that the undying literati, of the ancient, world, were very, few compared 
with the generations in which they have come ,and gone. Men have been: judged by 
the individuals who come forward in their ranks; and the literary merit of every n 
tion, era, or class of people, has usually depended mucl} more upon the merit than the 
number of its writers; and we think it far preferable that our magazine, like almost 
all others; should be composed of the efforts of the better contributors among us, than 
that it should exhibit a specimen of the powers of every girl who has fearned to write 
a composition. This is But justice to otir subscribers, to whom we would render an 
equivalent, of some intrinsic value, for that which they bestow upon us. 

But we fear that sortie- will imagine, from what we have now advanced, that we 
have a very excellent opinion of ourselves. Far from it. We bnly think ourselves 
better than many have been willing to allow, and this might be the case'without cher¬ 
ishing a spark of vanity. \Ve waive entirely all considerations of literary excellence, 
in our appeal to public patronage, for it is not upon these that our strongest claims are 
founded. But we will'endeavor to deserve the kindness of our patrons, and will shew 
our sense of it by exertions to please, if not to edify and instruct. 

And may we not hope that many, who have hitherto withheld their support, will 
pow come forward in our behalf. The Offering may this year be considered al¬ 
most as much an experiment as at first. This is the third trial,, and if unsuccessful, ' 
we must even submit, with, as much of republican grace as we can assume, to the will 
of the majority. Our subscribers may at least depend upon our honesty, and we will 
here assert, what we shall never trouble ourselves to repeat, that the articles shall all 
be the contributions of females actively employed in the mills; and our contributors may 
rest assured that their effusions shall never ‘ be submitted to the inspection of any but 
the Editress, and that all who wish may write anonymously. 

We commend our work to the favour of the factory operatives of New England. 
We should prefer to receive our principal support from them; and are particularly 
anxious to find favor in their sight. We appeal also for aid to all the bachelors, voung 
and old; and feel that we have peculiar claims upon their gallantry. Many of them 
have hitherto supported us, and we hope that they will accept our thanks for their 
chivalric generosity. We trust that we shall also meet with friends, and well-wishers, 
among the substantial yeomanry of onr country—those who are the fathers, brothers, 
kindred, and lovers, of the factory girls of New England. 

Our last appeal is to those who should support us, if for no other reason but their 
interest in “ the cultivation of humanity,” and the maintenance of true democracy. 
There is little but this ©f which we, os a people, can be proud. Other nations can 
look upon the relics of a glory which has come and gone—upon their magnificent 
ruins—upon worn-out institutions, not only tolerated, but hallowed because they are 
old—upon the splendors of costly pageant—upon the tokens of a wealth, which ihas 
increased for ages—but we cannot take pride in these. We have other and better 
things. Let us look upon our Lyceums, our Common Schools, our Mechanics’ Lit¬ 
erary Associations, the Periodical of our Laboring Females; upon all that is indige* 
nous to our Republic, and say, with the spirit of the Roman Cofnelia, “These, tkeS' 
are our jewels, 1 ' H. F. 




NOVEMBER, 18*2. 


Aim* Letty was one of the best of beings. If she had any faults, they 
were the excess of virtues. She was a pattern of industry, which the cen¬ 
sorious might have termed the spirit of avarice. She Was saving and prudent; 
always loc&ing out to be prepared for a wet day. The uncharitable might 
have said that she was so anxious to be ready for the storm, that she 
never allowed herself to enjoy the sunshine. Piety was her best garment, 
which the vain and frivolous might have hinted she kept for Sunday wear. 

But withal. Aunt Letty among the good, was the best. Her providence 
saved every thing within her reach, from being lost by the carelessness of 
others. Her strict observance of the Sabbath, and the ceremonies of the 
church, was a lesson to the thoughtless, and an example to the sober minded. 

Aunt Letty! Her reproofs and admonitions have been sown with an un¬ 
sparing hand upon the soil of my giddy brain; and, perhaps, yet may bring 
forth fruit, and lead me to repent of my many idle follies. 

One day I had been particularly unfortunate in my omissions, and worse 
in my transgressions, in Aunt Letty’s estimation; and the good eld maid 
followed me to my chamber, when I retired, to give me the benefit of her 
counsel in private. She was always careful that the severity of these “ cur¬ 
tain lectures,” should atone for the want of other hearers. At times, when 
my waywardness was so aggravating, that she could not wait to admonish 
me alone, she would give way to her serious indignation before my good 
parents. At such times my father would usually laugh at my sauciness, 
which would confirm it; and my mother would try to conceal the quiet 
smile which played around her mouth; but finding my father’s mirth con¬ 
tagious, she would interfere, by saying, “ Letty, I fear your reproofs oflly 
make Kate worse—do n’t mind her nonsense.” 

On the present occasion, she amply atoned for such interference in her 
labors of love, and closed, by saying, as she Was about to leave the room— 
44 Be grateful to Goa, that he gives you time to repent and amend.” 

u Iam thankful to God for one thing,” I rejoined, in a pet 

44 And what is that ?” she inquired, with a satisfied smile, hoping that, at 
last, her anxious care was to be rewarded by some token of amendment 

44 1 am thankful,” I replied, “that He has kept the government of the 
natural world in His own hands, instead of entrusting it to a fussy old 

VOL. III. ^ 



The door closed with no gentle violence ; and I went to sleep, to dream 
that the very power, which I had thanked God for keeping, had been given 
to— Aunt Letty. 

I thought it was morning ; and, with the first peep of dawn, I was awake. 
Not a moment was spent in one of those waking dreams which I so dearly 
love to indulge; but the instant I was aware of my own identity, I arose. 
Hastily, but with extreme car<2 and order, I arranged my own chamber, and 
then proceeded to the breakfast room. 

I was much surprised on passing the kitchen door, to see my mother, al¬ 
ready up and alone, preparing the breakfast, I saw my father also on his 
way to his office, which he was not in the habit of opening until after break¬ 
fast. But some impulse, I could not withstand, kept me from waiting to be 
surprised, and I proceeded to arrange the table with despatch, but still as 
nice as Aunt Letty would have dotie it herself. 

At an hour earlier than usual, we all had assembled at breakfast, which, 
by the way, was a much plainer meal than we were in the habit of finding 
on the table. But no one made any comment. > The meal passed in silence, 
and we all looked as though we were ashamed of our unusual habits. 

The moment breakfast was finished, my father called Tom, a boy who 
waited upon him, weeded the garden, and was at the beck of all, for odd jobs. 

“Tom,” said he, “ I can’t keep you any longer—you are useless—do n’t 
earn your victuals; and I can wait upon myself, and weed the garden. And 
the rest can wait upon themselves.” 

My father looked like a culprit as he spoke, but a power irresistable dic¬ 
tated his words. Tom cried in good earnest. He had no home, but the 
one which we had given him—no parents, no friends in the wide world. 
My father had taken him, when a little boy, six years old, and intended to 
keep him until he had attained a common education, and then see what the 
boy’s particular tact of mind, or genius might be. Aunt Letty had always 
owed Tom a grudge, and said he was lazy. But no one thought of it, for 
in her estimation, there were but few, who were not afflicted with the same 
complaint. But Tom stopped crying, and looking up like a hero : “ I can 
earn my living,” said he, and turned to go, But my father stopped him, 
and giving him some good advice, (which, however, sounded like one of 
Aunt Letty’s harangues,) added a sixpence to the little fellow’s empty 
pockets, and bade him “ God speed.” \ 

' JFpr a moment after this scene, I felt relieved of the Power, which made 
me do whatsoever it willed, and I leaped to the front door to call Tom back. 
What a.transformation ! I forgot Tom, and every thing but the scene be¬ 
fore me. 

My “ hydroranger which stood upon the steps beside the door, was a 
large squash vine filled full of little embryo squashes. The whole yard, 
which had cost Tom and myself so much labor, beside much design and 
many plans fromT my good father, now looked like a thrifty housewife’s 
kitchen garden. What a metamorphosis ! The bachelor-buttons were beans; 
the peonies, turnips; the tulips, cabbages; the China-asters, sage; the moss- 
pinks, cucumbers; the rose-bush, gooseberries; the flower-de-luce, com; 
and every thing was changed to the useful . Not a solitary blossom was left 
for ornament. 

My loud exclamations of grief, brought every person in the house to the 
door—and, “ presto—change !” my lamentations were changed to shame, and 
I stole , into the house with feelings as guilty as if I had been punished at 



The Power of Industry was again upon me ; and I Runted up my knitting 
work, which Aunt Letty had kindly begun for me, more than a year before. 

While my fingers were busy, my thoughts were again at liberty, and I 
thought of the pleasant hours I had spent in arranging my pretty yard—of 
my books—my music—my wild-wood rambles, and that brought to mind, 
that my faithful companion, good Argus, had not come as usual for his 
breakfast. And where was my cat ? Poor Kit—-had she too been banish¬ 
ed, like Tom, or had she been set to work like me ? The squeak of a dying 
mouse answered the query. Every body was busy—nothing in nature 
seemed glad, but the hens—they kept up an incessant cackle. Oh, how I 
wished I was a hen, so that I could escape the Power of Industry—the blight 
of the Useful. 

Towards noon I heard a noise as of many passing, and looking from the 
window, (for that I could do while I knit, knit, knit,) I saw more than two- 
thirds of the hired help in the town going by, equipped for a journey. They 
were followed by all of the lawyers, save my father—all of the doctors, save 
old Doctor Corey—and all of the ministers, excepting old Priest Ide, and -his 
two eldest sons were in the company. 

Every body had gone to work; and the labor had not increased in the 
same ratio as the spirit of industry. And it was not only the surplus of the 
useful that was going, but all of the ornamental. In a few hours nearly 
one half of our population had left. Old and young, simple and wise, all 
that were not absolutely necessary, was upon the move. Mother concluded 
that one of her hired girls were not needed, now that she did so much work 
herself; and in the next half hour the other was dismissed, and I was in¬ 
stalled in her place. 

Father was down in the meadow at work, and that made one of his men 
unnecessary, and John was sent off. At dinner time, he concluded to keep 
brother Dick from school, and that made a second one useless, and Harry 
was dismissed. No hired help now was left in the family, save Samuel. 
He asked Aunt Letty to speak with him in private , and the result of their 
conference was that they were to be married the next week. I felt devoutly 
grateful, that marriage was useful; and had a glimmering beam of fore¬ 
sight, or prophecy, that when Aunt Letty ceased to be an old maid, she 
would also have less time to regulate the will and actions of others. 

But in a moment, I was off to the barn to‘ find the eggs; all that we could 
get would be necessary for the wedding cake. I had not thought, for the 
spirit of industry had not willed it, to take a basket; but I must not lose 
time, so I substituted my apron for It, and began to gather up the eggs. I 
counted them as I put them into my apron, and found there was just forty, 
beside the nest eggs. Mother had but twenty hens, and Tom had carried in 
all the eggs he could find the day before. The hens’ constant cackling 
was explained—the Spirit of Industry'was busy among them also—each 
one had laid “ two eggs a day.” 

No songs or laughter was heard; men passed each other in silence; no 
inquiries were made, save to learn how much work they had done, and also 
how much hay, grain, potatoes, butter, cheese, and wool would bring. And 
I learned that all this toil, this sacrifice of social kindness, this narrowness of 
spirit, the blight of the beautiful, the absence of the ornamental, was not to 
meet the wants of man and animal nature; but to gain wealth, to acquire 
money. Fpr what? Not for fear of want—not to relieve the suffering—» 
not to surround ourselves with the enjoyments of leisure. Books were pro¬ 
hibited, with the exception of the Bible, Watts’ Hymn Book, and the Alma- 



nac. And Father had discontinued every newspaper and periodical. We 
had no time to read, and they were useless. Why then this constant activ¬ 
ity ? this constant attempt to gain more ? That we might feel the gratifica¬ 
tion of possession . For this, and to this, every aim, thought, desire and ex¬ 
ertion was made. Actual utility was not the object—it was possession of 
that shining dust, which men make a god, and worship— money. 

My father and mother, unused to such constant and severe labor, soon 
began to show signs of exhausted powers. They were weary and broken. 
The power had not been given to renovate the exhausted energies of life. 
Man, as a machine, might be kept at work until he wore out; and then, 
mu6t be replaced by a new one. And then of what use the overstocked 
granary ? the overflowing coffer ? 

One day, at dinner, my father accidentally mentioned, that the drought, if 
it continued much longer, would ruin the crop of potatoes. In five minutes, 
we were deluged with rain. 

“ O,” said he, starting up, “ why did n’t I see this shower ? I would have 
got in my hay, instead of coming to dinner.” 

“ What, have you hay out ?” asked Aunt Letty. 

“ More than ten loads,” he Replied. 

“ Why did n’t you say so?” she rejoined in the tone of a wasp. And 
instantly the, rain had ceased, and the cloudless sun shone cheerlessly upon 
the world—or at least our world. The hay was spoiled, and the potatoes 
not benefitted. 

There were moments when my mind was unfettered; when I could feel 
and scorn the spirit of our degradation; when I could remember and pity 
poor Tom. But that was not often. Even the idleness of thought was de¬ 
nied me. It took my whole time and mind to attend to my unceasing, un¬ 
remitting duties. 

To knit, to dam, or sew; to bake, to sweep, or brew, was the constant 
routine from mom till night. ***** 

It was Saturday. The world looked dreary—nothing in nature was glad 
—even the hens’ cackle of enjoyment had ceased, for their labors had ex¬ 
hausted their life, and they drooped. 

u They are useless,” Aunt Letty said, “ and must die.” 

Two had been killed for dinner, and the next Monday was appointed for 
a day of general slaughter. The old, tough, and uneatable were to be sent 
to market, while a few of the younger ones were to be retained at home, to 
make a chicken pie for the wedding. 

The morrow was Sunday; and when I could think, I thought of it as a 
day of dread and horror. It was bad enough, that we should be made but 
beasts of burden during the six days of our labor. But on the morrow the 
work would be laid aside, and the whole force of the unnatural will would 
be upon our minds. We should worship God—not with spirits of praise— 
not with grateful and thankful hearts, but with cold ceremonies; with faces 
elongated; and, perchance, a desire that the fingers might be busy, while 
our lips uttered words . I recoiled with horror, from the bitter mockery— 
the serious farce with which we should think to mock The Great Almighty. 

By the setting of the sun our labors were all completed, and at dark we 
retired-r—not to be ready by the dawn with the sacrifice of cheerful spirits to 
thank a merciful Providence for care, protection and love, but—to save 
candles! % 

By going to bed, the Power was obeyed ; and the proviso, that I should 
go to sleep, was forgotten, as there was no work for the morrow, and I lay 



thinking of the woful change of one little week. Where would it end ? 
When our powers- of execution and action ceased, should we too be useless, 
and like the poor hens consigned to death ? There was tnadnesfe in every 
thought. About eleven o*clock, I heard Aunt Lefty go to her room, and 
Samuel to his. Ah! a new light broke upon my understanding* There 
had been another cause why we had all been drilled to bod at dark—they 
wanted us out of the way. Sad as I was, I could hot but laugh, when the 
query suggested itself, whether their wooing had been done in the dark, to 
sate candies, I could not but think it was* a wise provision, upon more ac¬ 
counts than the one of saving . 

I thought- how silly Aunt Letty must feel to be courted. It was a folly of 
which she had never been guilty, even in her youth; and one which she had 
ever held up to me as the most deleterious in its influence upon young girls. 

The incubus, which had destroyed every thought of fun, mischief, of frolic 
through the week, Was - at length asleep; and in its place there was a glad, 
happy and satisfied feeling. I could not help wondering whether Aunt Letty 
felt so too, and wishing that slie might be courted all the days of her life, if 
the power she then wielded was to continue. And then I laughed again, to 
think of the unnatural pucker which Samuel’s mouth must have taken to say 

S , sweet and loving things. Could he draw his thick ftp* and wide 
into the shApe of a kiss ? 

In the midst of these laughing fancies, I bethought me of a practical pun¬ 
ishment for Aunt Letty, which I had no doubt that I might play oflT on the 
morrow, in spite of her with For feat that in the morning my mind might 
bo differently biased, I stealthily arose from my bed to make my arrange¬ 
ments at the midnight hour, when I could think my own thoughts. I had 
learned that, although Aunt Letty’s mind was alLpbwerfiri, her mind was 
not omniscient, nor omnipresent, and any thing would remain in statu quo 
that she did not think of. What I designed 1 knew would not enter her cra¬ 
nium until the moment of her punishment, and then it would be her own 
will which would cover her with shame. 

I took my knitting work from the basket, Where it lay in its nicest Satur¬ 
day cue to remain idle until Monday, and then drew my Sunday bag from 
its drawer, and placed«the knitting in the bottom, carefully concealed on the 
top by my pocket handkerchief. The needles were too long, and might be¬ 
tray me, and I broke them off to flt the size of the bag. 1 I had seen Aunt 
Letty’s fingers move too many times in meeting as if they ached from idle¬ 
ness, not to fifmty believe that my knitting would bo called into requisition 
the next day. 

After all was arranged, I crept back to bed, And went to sleep with os 
satisfied a feeling, I had no doubt, as Aunt Letty heTself that night. 

I was awake betimes in the morning, that the cows might be milked, aftd J 
every thing done in order by meeting time. The power of industry was* 
active, but it was tempered by a quiet and Sunday feeling. We .Were all 
still, arid too welary by the unwonted exertions of the past week, not to feet' 
a sense of gratitude for the rest of the Sabbath. 

At the Wonted hour, we were all prompt in our start for meeting. And 
for once, the people .were all of one mind; they could all worship at one 
house, and listen to the preaching of the same minister. Never before was 
the old meeting-house so crowded; and the many who could not get in, re¬ 
mained around the door and windows. It was pleasant to see them all meet 
together, to worship the Universal Creator. 

The services proceeded, and the singing and prayer were as usual.. When 



the sermon commenced, I could not but think, that old Priest Ide preached 
hard enough to earn his salary. The doctrinal points were earnestly en¬ 
forced ; not one could mistake what he ought to believe to ensure his salva¬ 
tion. And then he passed to die practical part. Industry, economy and 
utility were recommended, and not only recommended, but commanded. 

Aunt Letty’s lingers began to move, and there was a general stir in the 
congregation, as though all felt the weight of the truths pointed out Amid 
other exhortations, he said, 44 that the mind could be raised to God in grati¬ 
tude for His justice and power, while the hands were active in some art of 
useful industry.” 

All felt and absented to the proposition, but no one but myself was pre¬ 
pared to give a practical illustration of this truth. I know not how it was 
with others, but with my eye fastened upon the minister, that I might not 
lose a word of his excellent discourse, my hands took my knitting-work from 
my bag, and my fingers plied the needles as though my every hope de¬ 
pended upon the quantity of work I accomplished. I knit, knit, knit, but I 
was hearing every word the minister said. I know not. how long I had been 
so employed, for my mind was receiving the lesson of useful industry as 
Aunt Letty understood it I was not only receiving the letter, but illus¬ 
trating the spirit , and took no note of time. 

I was recalled to myself by a scream of the wildest terror from Aunt 
Letty. I turned to her, and oh! the indefinable agony that was depicted 
upon her countenance. At that moment, it seemed as though the whole 
congregation were rushing upon me, to sacrifice me by some unheard of 
punishment for my sacrilegious occupation. Aunt Letty had seized me by 
the shoulder, and every bone in my body quaked with fear. In my effort 
to escape, I— awoke . Aunt Letty had hold of my shoulder, and was shaking 
me (not very gently), and as I opened my eyes, 

“I thought you never would wake up,” said she. 44 It is breakfast time.” 

Was it all a dream ? I sprung from my bed, and in two minutes was 
bounding down stairs. 

44 Why, what is the matter, Kate ?” inquired my father, as I flow into the 
breakfast-parlor en dishabille . 

I looked into his face ; the expression was not of anxious care, as I had 
seen him in my sleep. I flung myself into his arms, and a heartier, or truer 
kiss of affection and love I never imprinted upon his brow, than I did that 
morning. My mother came next for my embrace, and then Dick. I was 
so glad and so happy, I was almost wild with joy. I kissed every body in 
the house, not forgetting the dog, the cat, poor Tom, and Aunt Letty, 

Breakfast was ready, but I could not eat until I had seen my flowers, and 
was convinced by ocular demonstration, that the phantasy of my sleep was 
not a reality. 

I found the sweet blossoms smiling and sparkling in the undried dew and 
morning sun. They had not changed to turnips, squashes and cabbages. 
And it was with devout gratitude—not in the spirit that I had said the same 
to Aunt Letty the night before—that I thanked the Great Creator that Hr 
had not intrusted the regulation and economy of nature to short-sighted and 
erring mortals. . Kate. 




“ Therefore, all things, whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even 
so to them.” 

One moment’s reflection will convince us, that were all to act strictly in 
accordance with this “ golden rule,” the immediate result would be, a heaven 
upon earth. And it should teach us, that the nearer mankind approximate 
to that perfection, the greater the peace, harmony and happiness of the 
world. Could we at all times act upon this principle, how much of wrong 
and persecution would be banished from among us. How many hearts that 
are how almost buried beneath the injustice of a misjudging community, 
would rise up and rejoice with renewed strength and confidence. 

To 44 deal justly” is a duty we owe to our God, our fellow-beings and our¬ 
selves. But still, how little do we realize and perform that duty! How 
very far are. our lives from being in accordance with its true spirit* We are 
ever disobeying its injunctions; ever departing from its great moral principle 
of right; and, as a natural consequence, we reap the bitter and abundant 
harvest of our folly and wickedness, in the evil and misery everywhere 
spread around. 

There is one species of injustice which I will mention in particular—for 
this reason, that many who deal justly in every other respect fail in this— 
namely, the general practice of suspecting, judging and speaking of people 
from slight external circumstances merely, and without any evidence which 
ought to convince the judgment that they are guilty. We cannot be too 
careful in our judgment of the characters of others. We are too prone to 
think harshly of their faults, forgetful that we are also weak, erring mortals, 
subject to err in a thousand ways; and when we know bow often and how 
easily we deviate from the straight path of rectitude, ought we not, instead 
of condemning without evidence, to exercise charity ? For whenever we 
harbor injurious suspicions, either towards friend or foe, they are watched 
by us with a jealous eye; and every incident that would tend to strengthen 
that feeling, though perfectly innocent, is almost unconsciously added as an¬ 
other link to the chain of circumstances which is sinking them still lower in 
our estimation; and ere long, we come to believe there is something radi¬ 
cally wrong; and we whisper it in unkind words to others, and manifest it 
in coldness and neglect to them. 

Oh, how much misery has been caused by this mode of procedure ! 
Friendships broken, trusts betrayed, and many a burning tear hath been 
called up from the secret depths of the grief-stirred fountain of the heart, as 
a sorrowful witness of its soul-harrowing power; and young pure spirits 
have been blighted, like the early bud of spring time, by the injustice, not of 
enemies only, but of chosen friends. 

There are few that can pass through the world unscathed by the scorching 
fires of slanderous tongues; few that have not felt the withering up of many 
of the better feelings ^of their nature, arising from the knowledge that their 
purest motives, their noblest and most disinterested actions, have been either 
mistaken or misrepresented, and brought to bear against them as proof of 
their selfishness or hypocrisy; and those who have experienced the agony 
that will pierce the heart under such circumstances, can hut sympathize and 
console those in a lik^ situation. 

There is too little of charity exercised among us, towards those who have 
gone astray; and even many of those who profess to have been baptized in 


spiritual love, are sadly deficient in this respect; they seem almost eager to 
denounce and crush an erring brother; and instead of attempting to reclaim 
him by mild persuasion, and loosing the chain that hath bound him, their 
harshness is but linking him more firmly and closely in its iron grasp. 
When, on the contrary, had he received kind treatment from those whom ne 
had reason to respect, all his best feelings would have been called forth; 
and his love of virtue, like a waning akar-fire, would have been rekindled in 
all its former purity and brightness, aud the incense of a renovated and 
thankful spirit have arisen in joy and praise to the throne of our Heavenly 

To illustrate the power of this benign principle, I would point you to die 
reformed inebriate. He was^seen but a few months since, tottering through 
the streets with bloated form and bloodshot eyes—his health, his peace of 
mind, and reason almost destroyed. Look at him now, and what a change! 
His step is firm and steady; his frame healthy and robust; and his coun¬ 
tenance is beaming with happiness and intelligence. You can scarcely be* 
liove hfinrr to be the same being whom you so lately beheld plunged in lowest 
depths of degradation and sin. Still it is true ; and the change has been ef¬ 
fected by the power of human sympathy and love. Through this he was 
made to realize his situation, and to know that there were many who yet 
cared for his welfare, and who were anxious to assist him in the work of 
reformation. His hitherto slumbering energies were aroused, and the purer 
desires of his nature, so long dormant, were brought into action; and with 
the assistance of true-hearted friends, combined with his own exertions, he 
arose and shook himself from the strong grasp of the foul fiend, to whom he 
had been an unwilling slave, and declared himself once more a man . And 
he is again respected and beloved. 

- Is not such a consummation desirable, both by those who have departed 
from the true way, and those who continue therein > and is it not well wor¬ 
thy their combined efforts? We trust that this unjust principle of con¬ 
demnation will yet be completely banished from our midst, and the spirit of 
charity reign triumphant in every heart; and it becomes us, one and all, fo 
step forth and do our duty with unfaltering perseverance; and if we have 
been remiss in the past, may we strive for the future to act conscientiously 
and in accordance with the gospel requirements of justice and mercy*. 

E. E. T. 


The great Creator, in the formation of this world, had a vast design in 
view ; for, “ in the beginning, the earth was without form and void; darkness 
was upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God moved upon the face 
of the waters.” His Almighty Power called a world from naught. In the 
dark regions of chaos and old night, the voice of God was heard, saying, 
44 Let there be light, and there was light,” “ and all the morning stars sang 
together for joy.” 

In every work His wisdom shines in unrivalled beauty. His name is writ¬ 
ten indelibly upon every particle of created matter: The sands of the sea¬ 
shore, the tall trees of the forest, the herbs of the field, and every tiny flower 
that blooms to waste its sweetness unheeded by the careless passer-by, speaks 
forth the all*wise providence and skill of the Divine Hand that Wrought them. 


Every blade of grass that springs up beneath our feet, wears the image of 
the handiwork of its Creator. The high mountains that rear their lofty 
peaks to the clouds, covered with perpetual snow, exciting the wonder and 
admiration of all who gaze upon them—the everlasting hills and sunny vales 
all wear the impress of their Maker’s power. The mighty torrent that dashes 
down the mountain’s side, and over fearful precipices, overturning all that 
impedes its progress; the noble river that winds its way over craggy rocks, 
forming beautiful cascades as it falls from rock to rock in noisy grandeur, 
inspiring the mind with the grand and sublime in Nature; thence winding its 
way over fertile plains and verdant vales till it reaches its ocean bed; the 
little rivulet that glides over its pebbly way, uniting its soft music with the 
whispering winds~-all, all speak in silent accents, the harmonious design of 
the power that made them. Every living creature manifests the grand de¬ 
sign of the great Creator. The fierce beasts of prey that roam the forests; 
and those of more gentle mode, that are domesticated for the use of man; 
and every fish that swims the oceans, seas, lakes and rivers; and every bird 
that flies in the air, and every little insect, share alike the protecting care of 
their common Creator. 

The wonderful goodness and design of God is seen in the beautiful ar¬ 
rangement of the seasons. Lovely Spring appears with gentle aspect, ar¬ 
raying all nature in beauty—filling the hearts of all with joy and gladness. 
The husbandman prepares his ground and sows his seed, which in due time 
springs up and is watered by gentle showers and refreshing dews. The 
lovely plants put forth their leaves, bud and bloom to cheer the hearts of the 
children of men, and vie with each other in a beauty of texture, which it is vain 
and impossible for mortals to imitate. Summer succeeds with fleeting steps, 
and completes the scene which Spring began, and loads the trees and vines 
with luxuriant fruit to greet the tastes of man; and beautiful fields are wav¬ 
ing with golden grain, just ready for the reaper’s sickle ; and all nature bows 
beneath her choice productions. Autumn, with its seared and yellow leaves, 
next enters our list, and is hailed with joy for its many blessings consequent 
upon prudence and industry. The golden harvest is gathered into overflow¬ 
ing barns and storehouses, for the benefit, with many other preparations, of 
old Winter, who comes on with his Icy train in noble majesty, greeting all 
that impedes his way with chilling frost and bright mantles of pure white 
snow; and in his course imparting many pleasures in defiance of his dreary 
aspect. Each season, in its turn, has its peculiar cares and pleasures, and 
through aU, the wisdom of God is displayed in perfection. 

The beautiful harmony of the heavenly bodies, as they perform their va¬ 
rious revolutions, is truly great. See with what precision each moves in 
its own orbit without intersecting that of another—thus to roll on till Time 
shall be no more, displaying the skill and design of God. 

Nature rejoices in the presence of her Maker, declaring, in language too 
expressive to be misunderstood, that there is a God, and none but M the fool 
hath said in his heart, there is no God.” Who, in the contemplation of Na¬ 
ture, can but wonder and admire ? Who can be so ungrateful as to refuse 
to acknowledge the infinite power and majesty of the all-creating Hand ? 

In all the vicissitudes of human life is seen the great design of God in his 
mercy to mortals. In His infinite power He gives prosperity to many who 
pay no regard to His divine mandates; but we should not envy them their 
good things, for it is said in scripture, that 44 the rich man received his good 
things in this life, likewise Lazarus his evil things*” It is also said, that 
44 it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich 


man to enter the kingdom of Heaven.” This should teach us not to set our 
hearts upon things here on earth, but to “ lay up treasure in Heaven, where 
neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through 
nor steal.” 

The poor and afflicted, who put their trust in God, are supremely blest, 
for they have a cordial for their fears here on earth, and hopes of a never- 
ending rest of peace ttnd joy in Heaven; for God refineth His children in 
the furnace of affliction, thereby fitting them for their heavenly inheritance. 

In all things we see the wonderful design in Nature, to show forth the 
glory and majesty of the great Creator, and to lead our hearts to Him who 
is able to save to the uttermost. In view of the works of Nature, we see 
that God made every thing to fulfil some vast design; and we are constrained 
to exclaim, with Cowper, 

“Deep in unfathomable mines 
Of never-failing skill, 

He treasures up His bright designs, 

And works His sovereign will.” Annaufe. 

* , 


It seems but yesterday, that we hailed thy approach, fair Summer ! with 
thy sunny clouds and refreshing showers; and flowers bright and beautiful 
to please the eye of the beholder ! But where art thou now ? 44 Hark! 

hark!” a voice whispers, 44 gone, and numbered with the things that have 
passed, away, are the few fleeting months of Summer, and with them have 
departed many dear friends, pleasing scenes, that can now only be remem¬ 
bered with sadness.” 

There was one bright scene—it was a bridal party-'-and all looked so 
happy and cheerful, that it seCmed that Sorrow could never have the con¬ 
fidence to enter there. But alas! it came too soon ; the bride, the loved, 
the cherished one, has laid down to rest with the Summer flowers. 

And another, a young man that was fast twining the wreath of fame about 
his brow, when the stern admonisher pointed to the flowers, and told him 
that, with .them, he must go. And his twin sister, a lovely girl, just blushing 
into womanhood—loving, and beloved by all that knew her, she too has faded, 
and gone ; but the brightest flowers of Autumn are .blooming above her grave. 

And yet another, an aged man, of fourscore years and ten, how earnestly 
did he pray, when the cold winds howled by his door, that he might again 
refresh his eyes upon the fair .flowers of Summer, for they had ever been 
his peculiar care. His grayer was answered, as the last rose withered, and 
the fragrant leaves were scattered to the passing breeze, the old man laid 
down resigned, and, like a child tired of its play, soon fell asleep ; and let 
him rest sweetly there, for his labors have been hard enough to merit a quiet 
repose. • * 

We might still go on, and tell of many more scenes bright and glowing, 
sad and melancholy—-but enough ; who can look upon the flowers as they 
bud, blossom, and wither, and not consider them emblems of passing men; 
childhood the bud, manhood the blossom, and old age the withered, flower.. 
Ere the fairest hopes have been nipped by the cold winds of Autumn, 
44 whoso readeth, let him understand” the lessons of the Departed Summer 
Flowers. Rebecca. 





Now the morning sun, on the old church tower, 

Is throwing its crimson light; 

And a shadowy form, at that early hour, 

Is roused from the slumbers of night. 

He sitteth him down in the grave-yard dank, 

’Neath the cypress, old and tall; 

Where the gloomy nightshade groweth rank, 

And the weeds overtop the wall. 

An aspect all ghastly and pale he wears. 

But he hath neither pulse, nor breath; 

And the quiver of darts, that he ever bears. 

Proclaims that his name is— Death. 

Alone, seated there on the cold, damp'ground, 

Amid the mementoes of wo, 

Hpw mournfully strange is the fearful sound 
Of his muttering, wild and low. 

“ ’T was a good day’s work, and they’ve dug the graves 
For the victims of yesterday; 

How joyously now each dark yew waves, 

As in glad sympathy. 

We well may rejoice, for I have stilled 
The wailings of woes and of fears;* 

I have broken the cups that I found were filled 
With misery’s bitterest tears. 

The first that I found on the yestermom 
Was an aged man, and lone; 

A wandering outcast—forsaken, forlorn, 

And shelter, and food, having none. 

Then I wrapped, with my shroud, his wasted frame, • 

As my merciful hand he blessed; 

And a gladsome smile o’er his features came 
When I bade him lie down to his rest. 

And next, a sadder sight was seen, 

A girl who was weary of life ; 

This world must ever look dark, I ween, 

To the mother, who is not a wife.- 

Then, as all other friends forsook, 

On me, in accents wild, 

She called; and, in my arms, I took 
The mother, and the child. 

I saw a matron, wan, and pale, 

A vile inebriate’s wife; 



She was too gentle, and too frail. 

For Fate’s relentless strife ; 

I was about to pass her by, 

But she faintly whispered Death; 

| met her mild imploring eye, 

And then—I took her breath. 

The drunkard looked, with a stricken heart, 

On the relics of his bride; 

He screamed—then wildly snatched my dart, 

And they laid him by her side. 

' But I, for to-day, have another plan; 

I will go where they wish me not, 

To the haunts of the proud, and prosperous man, 
Where 4 The Terror King * now is forgot. 

To them it shall be a horrible day, 

And the strong by fear be made weak; 

In vain they ’ll implore me to turn away, 

And obey me, at length, with a shriek.” 


The church gleamed forth, through the golden flood 
Of mom’s increasing light; 

And the glittering spire, above it stood. 

In a sheen of glory bright. 

Now, merrily out, from that old church tower, 
Rings the chime of the marriage bells $ 

Wo! wo! to'the bride! if the coming .hour 
Her young heart with rapture swells. 

She is standing there, midst her bridal maids, 

A merry, and “snow-white choir,” 

With the orange bloom in her shining braids. 

But quenched is her eye’s bright fire. 

And eveT it growefth more sadly wild 
As the bell more loudly peals; 

And that face, which once was so soft and mild, 

An emotion strange reveals. 

They have waited long for the wished-for smile > 
They have checked each rising tear; 

They have striven forebodings to beguile; 

And have lulled each fancied fear. 

But see! from that wild despairing eye, 

A joyous light brilliantly gleams ; 

As when, at eve, o’er the Arctic sky, 

Th’ Aurora so transiently streams. 

She hath caught a glimpse of the phantom dark. 
Who intrudes on the festive hour; 

Tet little do those around her mark 
That Death’s in the bridal bower. 



44 For she sees a hand, they cannot see, 

Which beckons her away; 

She hears a voice, they cannot bear. 

Which bids her not delay." 

4t O Death! O Death! I gladly will go, 

For thee have I waited long j 

And thy voice, which, to others, brings often but wo, 
Is sweeter than marriage song. 

They have never dreamed of the misery 
I had hidden within this breast; 

They have little thought there was agony 
That could make thee a welcome guest. 

And when, by others, bade to wed, 

I felt my fate was sealed; 

So faint was every power, and dead, 

Naught could I do but yield. 

Thou wonderest, Death ! but bethink thee now 
Of a fair and noble youth, 

To whom I had breathed my earliest vow, 

I had pledged my love, and truth. 

Thou hast broken the bands we in secret had wove. 
Thou hast snatched him rudely away; 

But the vows which we made are recorded above. 

And I *11 wed with him to-day. 

Yes, lay me quickly down by his side. 

His own and unperjured one; 

For I never could be a faithfhl bride. 

But to thee, and him alone." 

44 1 will go,” said Death, « where there’s been no past 
The joys of the present to dim; 

To the infant all sorrow but transiently lasts, 

And life ever looks brilliant to him.” 

So he went where a child, in its innocent charms, 
Was sporting in joyous play ; 

And he took the babe from his mother’s arms. 

To carry him far away. 

44 O Death! O Death ! thou art foolish now; 

That young boy knoweth not thee, 

Thou hast laid thine hand on his fair white brow, 

And it gently stilleth his glee. 

Thy shadow is passing over his sight, 

But he thinks it the twilight hour; 

It darkens now, he believes it is night. 

And still have thy terrors no power. 

He scarcely st&rteth thy voice to hear, 

Believing he ’* chanted to rest, 

And calmly, as thou wert his mother dear, * 

He has laid hio* to sleep on thy breast.'* 



“ I will go," said Death* “ where they ’U know me well, 
Nor my voice be unconsciously heard; 

They shall shiver, and shrink, at my merciless spell," 
And tremble with awe at my word/' 

Where a mother sat, midst her household band, 

That Terror King must go. 

u O stay, I pray thee, Death ! thine hand, 

Deal not at her a blow. 

Her cheek is blanched, but not with fear. 

As she listens to thy command, 

And without a sigh—without one tear, 

She has taken thee now by the hand." 

M O Death ! O Death! I knew thou wonldst come, 

That thus sudden thine entrance might be, 

I never have looked <on this earth as a home, 

Or aught but a troubled sea— 

And the city, to which life's frail bark Bails, 

Is Jerusalem the new; 

While we or with kind, or with adverse gales, 

That haven should keep in view. 

Thou, thou, O Death ! art the pilot kind 
To guide the mariner home; 

Assisted by thee, my Savior I ’ll find j 
Jesus! to Thee I come. 

Yet ere from the loved ones I past away, 

I would bid them a fond farewell; 

I would speak of the joys of a dying day 
As too blissful for mortal to tell. 

My husband, weep not! for the love of years 
May not pass with the fleeting breath; 

We have journeyed long through this vale of tears. 

Nor divided can be by Death. 

My children, weep not!—though the grave looks drear, 
And fearMly dark to your view, 

Yet to me 't is a portal, all bright and clear, 

To*a mansion created anew. 

And from thence I will watch, if permitted it be, 

O’er the ones I have cherished on earth; 

I will mingle unseen, and noiselessly, 

With the band at my household hearth. 

But if this may not be, there's a watchful eye, 

That never can slumber, or sleep; 

There’s & Friend, and Preserver, who 'll ever be nigh, 
My orphan’d ones kindly to keep. 

Now, Death! I will willingly go with thee, 

For thou c&nst net enchain me long; 

And to Hik, who my mare Deliverer will he. 

Shall he lifted the joyful song. 


For I shall live in that terrible day 

When the skies tike a scroll have fled; 

When the very earth shall have passed away, 

And when even Death is dead” 

“I will go,” said Death, * where the Christian’s hope, 

And faith, have never been known ; 

And those, whom I call, through my valley must gto'pe 
Unguided, and alone.” 

Where a young man stood, in a gorgeous hall. 

Death aimed his relentless blow; 

He means that the jhyous carnival 
Shall be changed to scene of wo. 

Must he leave that young and beautiful bride ? 

Must he leave that princely state ? 

Mast he go, from this splendor and this pride, 

On thee, dread King! to wait ? 

Must his eyea be sealed to the pageant proud, 

They now are preparing for him ? 

Must his ears be closed to their plaudits loud ? * 

The shout, and the choral hymn ? 

m O Death! O Death ! thou ’rt a welcome guest, 

Though I deemed not that thou wast near, 

But I willingly Jay me down on thy breast, 

And thy voice I rejoicingly hear. 

Thou most kindly hast Come to keep me from shame, 

From contempt, where they 'd gladly deride; 

Thou alone canst preserve my newly won fame. 

And the love of my innocent bride. 

Thou knowest not, Death! of the fearful past 
Thy victim had long been concealing; 

That at hand Was the day for stern justice, at least, 

And that were too dark for revealing. 

It was life , and not death , which would bring a dread, 

To him, who, in youth’s thoughtless prime, 

By the arts of the wicked was recklessly led 
To folly*, ah yes, and to—-crime. 

The crime was concealed, but the envious now 
Are madly displacing the shroud; 

Their efforts will cease, when they learn, Death, that thou 
The lofty one suddenly bowed. 

Now my wife shall ne'er know that a felon’s lot 
She shared so unconsciously here; 

And the wreath which, with life, from my temples had dropped, 
Will be evergreen over my bier.” 

“ I witl go,” said Death, “ where crime and despair 
Have never as yet caused a groan; 



To seclusion, so peaceful and happy, that there 
' Nor shame, nor remorse can be known.’ 1 

To a strange old turret the tyrant” went* 

Where, afar from the world’s rude din* 

The life of a student was happily spent 
By the wise old man within. 

And calmly up the philosopher stood, 

And welcomed the spectre 'grim > 

He was ne’er to be brought to a trembling mood* 

Even Death could not terrify him. 

41 0 Death! O Death l thy form I can. tell* 

Though I never have seen thee before > 

But, in books, I have studied thee long; and well* 

. And I wish for their teachings no more. 

I have tired of all they call wisdom on earth, 

I have found it but vanity; 

To but vain desires can it ever give birth* 

And from these I would gladly he free. 

I have entered the temple of Science to find 
But its outer court open to me; 

Eor it ne’er is permitted a mortal mind 
To fathom her mystery. 

Yes, knowledge, to me, has been like a cave 
In which I must enter alone 
In the light, which my flambeau so fitfully gave, 

Its spars, and stalactites shone— 

There was beauty there, but it transiently gleamed. 

There was splendor, contrasted with gloom, 

When I grasped at the gem which most brilliantly gleamed. 

Its light would then cease to illume. , 

I have striven to thread its devious ways, 

. * But’t was labor spent vainly by me, 

They have never proved aught but a labyrinth maze* 

My reward but perplexity. 

I found myself mocked, when some inner retreat 
I thought my hard laboro had crowned. 

With beauty undimmed, and with riches replete, 

’T was beyond an impassable bound, 

Life now is, to me, but a wearisome coil* 

Its fctterB a festering chain, 

Its labors are each but a thankless toil, 

Its pleasures are empty and vain. 

I have stood, like a boy, on the wave-beaten shore 
Of a broad and boundless sea ;t 

* Tyrant —this word is here used in its almost obsolete signification, as one possessing un¬ 
limited power, but not necessarily implying abuse of it. . 

| <«I seem, to myself, like a boy picking up pebbles upon the shore, while the vast ocean of 
knowledge lies undiscovered before me .”—Sir Isaac Newton. 



There were treasures untold in the vast depths before, 
But the stones on the strand were for me. 

I would fain overleap those barrier waves, 

And descend to the regions below ; 

Of its coralline groves, and gera-brightened caves, 

Of its beauty, and wealth, would I know. 

Tes, Death, I will go—for I've beard them speak 
Of a world that is better than this; 

The faith they believed, I derided as weak, 

To know it were true would be bliss. 

I gltdly would drink at the fountain where 
The taster shall thirst ne’er again ; 

Can the soul’s deep yearnings be satisfied there ? 

O Death, have they hoped it in vain ? 

But the question, pondered most long and deep, 

Shall be dblved over the breathless clay. 

If we lie down to an endless sleep. 

Or wake to eternal day.” 


Now the evening sun, on the old church tower, 

Is throwing a halo bright; 

And its slender spire, in that radiant hour, 4 
Stands up like a spear of light, 

While out from the tower the clear solemn sounds 
Of the vesper bell pealeth aloud, 

A dark form flits o’er the new-made mounds, 

Like the shade of a passing cloud. 

He sitteth him down in the grave-yard dank, 

’Neath the cypress old and tall; 

Where the gloomy nightshade groweth rank, 

And the weeds overtop the wall. 

While seated there, on the cold damp ground, 

He muttereth deep, and low; 

That strange wild voice' breathes a fearful sound, 

Like the wail when the night breeies blow. 

“My day’s work is done, and they’ve dug the graves 
For those I have taken to-day; 

And the dark-leaved yew now mournfully waves 
O’er the buried of yesterday. 

A matron I took, both now, and then, 

A damsel I took, and a child; 

There were young men taken, and each called when. 
Life’s midday sun had just smiled. 

There were old men too—but the task was in Tain. 

I allotted myself for this day; 

My terrors were treated by all with disdain, 

And they gladly went with me away' 




There ’s a Power above which the mind can bring 
To receive me joyfully ; 

As it ple&seth Him can t have a sting. 

Or the grave a victory. 

I ’ll accomplish the task He’s assigned to me, 

For the work is not chosen, but given. 

And, henceforth, will the faithful messenger be 

Of the Hot* One of Heaven ” H. F. 


Although our minds are constantly dwelling upon the changes of human 
life, and though, upon the wings of each passing hour, is borne the truth that 
all things are changing, fleeting, and passing away, still it would seem from 
the avidity with which we listen to the tale of something new, and the interest 
manifested at the relation of any unusual circumstance that has transpired, 
as though the aspect of our everyday life was seldom marked by change. 
To the young, those who have just comrhenced acting their parts in the great 
drama of human life, there is a powerful charm in novelty; but in propor¬ 
tion as age comes on, and the mind loses its zest for what once afforded its 
highest enjoyment, and the sober realities of life appear before us, no longer 
glowing with the bright coloring of youthfnl fancy, We too often reject every 
thing novel in its character, clingipg tenaciously only to those opinions, the 
truth of which we have tested by actual experience. 

The world would advance but slowly in knowledge, were it not for this 
principle, which seems to have been implanted in the human mind, a desire 
to seek out, and bring to light, new truths; to make some discovery which 
shall add to the comfort and happiness of mankind. The mind of man was 
made for action—strong, vigorous, and resolute action ; and should he follow 
on, year after year, in the same beaten track that his fathers have trodden 
before him, diverging neither to the right hand nor to the left, he would not 
fulfil the end designed by the great Originator of mind. But I did not in¬ 
tend, when I commenced this article, to write a- homily upon the mind, or 
the capabilities thereof. 

When I seated myself at my table to write a communication for the 44 Low¬ 
ell Offering and Magazine,” the first question which proposed itself was, 
44 Upon what subject shall it be ?” I must, I thought, write 44 something 
new,” for in these days of literature, when so many bright gems of intellect, 
and thought, are flashing upon the world, an article of inferior value without 
some novelty would scarcely be noticed.’ And there is nothing which will 
sooner damp the energies of a young aspirant for literary fame, than to have 
her first productions slighted. My subject then, was the first thing to be de¬ 
cided upon. There were 44 the beauties of nature,” the pleasures of home, 
hope, memory, the stars, the ocean, the birds and flowers; these, and various 
others, came up in array before me, but they had all been so often, and so 
amply descanted upon, that it seemed presumptuous in me to think of offer¬ 
ing any thing upon any of them. I could think of no subject, which I had 
not, at one time or another, seen written upon, and I was obliged to come to 
the conclusion to write, as I was moved by the spirit within, and leave new 
ideas for wiser heads to advance, and for the favorites of Genius to present 
you with 44 something new” , Clara. 





The beauty of a North American sunset was streaming through the thick¬ 
ly wreathed flower-vines, that shaded the open windows of an apartment in 
a cottage, in the suburbs of one of our large cities; the room was richly 
and tastefully furnished, rare exotics filled the vases, and loaded the air with 
fragrance ; a harp of curious workmanship, and polished gilding* occupied a 
part of the room, over which hung a guitar, with its ribbons fluttering to the 
passing breeze. Specimens of statuary from the most celebrated sculptors, 
were arranged in every niche, and the glowing paintings of an Italian artist, 
ornamented the walls; the floor was covered with a carpet from the Per¬ 
sian loom, and the bright flowers would well vie with those that bloomed 
amid the trellis-work around the cottage. The sofa was carved rose-wood, 
covered with cut velvet, and the chairs were of the same materials, the tables 
were of'white polished marble; that in the centre was strewed with richly 
bound books, and many were clasped with gold ; fine engravings, and the 
latest music helped to make up a variety that would please the most fas* 
tidious taste. 

In a stuffed arm chair, with a tiny foot encased in a wrought slipper, rest-, 
ing on an embroidered cricket, sat a young mother, watching the quiet 
slumbers of her child, the heavy window drapery was looped back, and the 
slight wind, as it passed to and fro, raised the light auburn curls, that shad¬ 
ed the brow of that fair babe, as it rested in its innocence on the lap of its 
mother, and the mother, O she was a lovely creature! Would I could de¬ 
scribe her to you, as she sat there in her madonna-like beauty, and all around 
tinged with the last rays of the setting sun. But I forbear, for it would re¬ 
quire the pen of one more gifted, to do her justice. SHe was very happy ; 
sorrow had never crossed her pathway. Nursed in the lap of luxury, her 
every wish bad been bountifully supplied; she had been united to the man 
of her choice, and, with her hand, she gave him the richest boon a woman 
can bestow—a pure, and affectionate heart. Hour after hour would she 
listen to the playful prattle of her little Adelia, or sit with her in her arms, 
while sleeping, as I have faintly described her. And many were the plans 
she formed, in her day-dreams, for the future education of her child ; and 
many were her fears that her affection might lead her to indulge faults that 
should be severely' repremanded, is difficult to frown upon those we 
love. It had never crossed her mind, that her child could die, or that the 
kingdom of heaven was composed of beautiful innocent flowers, like the 
one that rested on her bosom. ***** 

In the room I have before described, there was a change ; the bright sun¬ 
light no longer streamed through the windows, for the blinds were closed and 
craped, and an awful stillness seemed to sadden all arpund* The super¬ 
fluous ornaments were removed from the apartment; the centre table was 
no longer loaded with books and music, but upon it was placed a coffin of 
ebony, in which reposed the tiny form of the fair Adelia; her hands were 
folded across her breast, and were filled with flowers, fit emblems of one to 
pure, for surely sin had never rested there. It was a beautiful casket, but 
the jewel had been taken to shine in the diadem of Him, whose name is 



Love. And the mother too, she was there, but so pale, so sad, so full of 
grief that you would scarcely recognize her. She stood gazing on all that 
remained of her cherished child, and, like Rachel of old, “ refused to be 

And yet who could ask a mother to dry her tears, when there is such a 
touching sweetness in them, as they fall upon the face of her babe, ere it is 
borne to its last resting place ! It is a scene that none can look upon with¬ 
out imbibing its influence. It is here that woman displays the strength of 
her attachment, which man can never realize in all its fulness. It is peren¬ 
nial, dependent on no climate, no changes; but, alike in storm or sunshine, 
it knows no shadow of turning. How insignificant, how valuless then to that 
young mother, appeared the pomp and splendors of the vain world! She 
wished for none of the displays of wealth; all that she asked was, that her 
child might be laid quietly in a retired spot, where she could visit its grave, 
and, in silence, enjoy the luxury of weeping unseen, save by Him who sees 
all things, and knoweth the secrets of all hearts. * * * * 

Again there was a change—the windows were thown open, and all looked 
bright and cheerful in the apartment which I have before described. A large 
family Bible had taken the place of the coffin, on that highly polished table, 
and there sat the mother, carefully perusing the pages, that had, for so 
many years, been laid aside fitf a fashionable annual, or some other work 
of as trivial worth: there was a calmness resting on that beautiful face which 
told that.religion, the one thing needful, had been added to a heart full of 
love and affection: She was reading from the life of Christ, where He says: 
“ Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is 
the kingdom of heaven.” She had just returned from the grave of her little 
Adelia, (for she still loved to call her by that name,) over which she had 
planted the honeysuckle and willow. It was within an enclosure, and truly 
it was hallowed ground—the foot of profanity dared not encroach upon its 
quiet repose. But she no longer grieved that God in his wise Providence, 
had bereaved her, for sensitively did she feel that if Adelia had lived, an 
idol would have been raised to the exclusion of her God, and of that holy 
religion that had so soothed her aching heart, and calmed her sorrow ; and 
which had taught her to look upon the beautiful things in nature, with such 
a different feeling. Now all was fair, for all was the work of God. And 
the few short years that had passed had brought to her mind a lesson that, 
at one time, she thought she could never learn, but now it was easy; it was 
contained in these words : “ O Lord, Thy will, not mine, be done.” 

“ Thou that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, 

And hear his prayer’s low murmur at thy knee, 

And o’er his slumbers bend in breathless joy, 

Come to this tomb ! it hath a voice for thee ! 

Pray—thou art blest—ask strength for sorrow's hour, 

Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower. 

Thou that art gathering from the smiles of youth, 

Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold, 

All the heart’s depths before thee bright with truth, 

All the mind’s treasures, silently unfold ; 

Look on this tomb!—for thee, too, speaks the grave. 

Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope he gave.’ r 





’T is beautiful—to see 
The hills, and hedges green, 

With flowerets peering on the lea, 
To decorate the scene. 

*T is beautiful—to see 
The fragrant summer rose, 

Beneath the smiling canopy, 

Her radiant charms disclose. 

*T is beautiful—to see 
The youthful mind explore 
The field of science, wide and free, 
For learning’s priceless store, 

More beautifully bright— 

To see the blooming youth 

Turn from the shade of Error’s night, 

And seek undying Truth. 

No sight so, near divine 
Can we, on earth, behold, [shrine, 
As man, that turns from Mammon’s 
To seek the spirit’s gold. 

O, bliss without alloy 
To know our sins forgiven; 

'T is this that fits us to enjoy 
The beautiful in Heaven. M. R. G. 


44 O, Cousin Judith! how glad I am you have come home again,” said 
Lucy Arnold, as she rushed into her cousin’s room, a few moments after she 
returned from Boston, where she had been spending a few weeks, visiting 
her friends. “ But you look weary and tired ; however, I am so glad to see* 
you, that I cannot wait for you to rest, for we have been very lonely without 
you; and little Martha has taken such good care of your flowers, that she is 
sure you have brought her a great wax doll; she has watered them every 
day, and the slip of geranium you planted a few days before you went away, 
she has pulled up twice a day, to see if it had taken root; and she wonders 
why it does not grow as well as when you took care of it. Your little cana¬ 
ries she has fed till they are both sick; and she has done so many more 
kind things for you, that she feels confident you will reward her with a 
handsome present. 

And then there is Mr. Stiffy*—excuse me for calling names, but then, he 
is so stiff—I am sure he has worn out one pair of Wellingtons, in coming to 
inquire if Miss Judith had not returned yet ? And then he would go away 
muttering , 4 Very injudicious to let a young girl spend so much time in Bos¬ 
ton ;’ and he presumed that you were attending the theatre, and flirting with 
the beaux, and doing many more such things, that he considered very unbe¬ 
coming in a young lady, and one that was engaged too. But for all his 
whims and odd notions, I do love him a little, just for your sake, Cousin Ju¬ 
dith ; and then he brings me all the new books to read, as soon as they are 
issued from the press, for which I am very much obliged to him; and, by 
the way, he has left something for you since you have been absent: see, 
here it is,” throwing open the drawing-room doors, and presenting to view a 
beautiful harp—one that Judith had been long wishing for; 44 and,” she con¬ 
tinued, while a clear ringing laugh filled the room, 44 after all, Stiffy has a 
taste for beauty and music, I can plainly see as the blind man said, or he 
would not have selected my pretty cousin for a companion, and a harp, piano, 


cousin Judith’s visit to boston. 

and lute, for her to amuse him, when he returns from looking over the ar¬ 
rivals, and the rise and fall of stocks. But now, I will have done with my 
nonsense, if you will tell me something about your visit.” 

“ O, that I will do with pleasure,” said Judith; “and Stiffy, as you call 
him, need not have been under any apprehension. My engagement was 
very generally known, which, of course, prevented my receiving very par¬ 
ticular attention from any one. Soon after my arrival, I met with two young 
gentlemen, whom I had formerly seen in B. They were very pleasant, 
wellbred young men, and kindly offered their services to show my friend 
and myself the lions of the city and its environs; and, I can assure you, we 
were very highly gratified, and long shall we remember those kind friends 
who contributed so much to our enjoyment. I will give you a slight sketch 
of the places we saw. We first visited Fresh Pond, and Mount Auburn, that 
4 city of silence,’ that 4 garden of graves,’ that 4 valley of peace.’ In return¬ 
ing thence, I chanced to be seated by a foreign gentleman, and a traveller; 
he was very social, and in the course of conversation, he told me that he had 
visited all the European cities, but had rarely found more to excite his admi¬ 
ration than in our comparatively youthful city of Boston, and its environs; and 
that few spots could compare in natural beauty, with our lovely Mount Auburn. 

In the evening, we attended MissH. F. Gould’s Complimentary Concert , 
and there, for the first time, I heard the celebrated Mr. Dempster. I was in 
raptures with his music; and that night, my dreams were, 4 1’m blind, O 
I’m blind,’ and many other songs that he sang, with a pathos that went to 
the heart. The next morning, at the breakfast table, I was told he was a 
married man : the charm—not of his singing, but of one of my dreams— 
was dispelled. 

Then, we visited the incipient city 4 East Boston,’ with its public gardens 
and splendid Maverick House ; and so on to Chelsea, with its hills and fine 
springs; Charlestown, with its Prison and Convent ruins ; and the classic 
grounds of Cambridge, and its unique church; Salem, with its antiquities; 
Jamaica Plain, with its rural beauty, reminding one of Johnson’s Rasselas, 
also attracted our attention. And then we attended an exhibition of the 
blind at Mount Washington House, South Boston. The Bunker Hill Monu¬ 
ment we visited, and the Navy Yard; and there we went on board a large 
ship-of-war, lying in the dock, that mounted seventy-four guns; and the 
Museum was not forgotten—and there I saw many beautiful paintings, and 
much fine statuary, that will require a long time to describe particularly to 
you; and we saw at night a fire, which was truly splendid—the burning of 
some oil stores; but I did not attend the theatre, neither did I flirt with the 
beaux, so my friends need feel no anxiety in that respect. And last, but 
not least, we saw the Election Day festival, and the Governor, 4 Honest John 
Davis,’ and highly was my young friend pleased with his appearance. She 
had never been in the city “of notions” before, and every thing to her was 
new—even the old State House; and the statue of Washington, by Canova, 
drew as mueh praise from her as ever was bestowed upon the same form, 
sculptured by Greettough, and placed in the rotunda at the Capitol. She has 
a very correct eye, and will often discover beauties where I should not think 
of looking for them. The young gentlemen I have before mentioned, left 
nothing undone, which could contribute to our enjoyment; and I would that 
I could fully express my thanks to them for their polite attentions.” 

“ O look, Cousin Judith,” said Lucy; “ here comes the Wellington boots, 
and the gold-headed cane.” * * * Isabella. 




History of the Lowell Offering. The question has been frequently asked of 
us, 44 What first suggested the idea of the Lowell Offering ?” 44 Who did it ?” “ How 
came you to think of it?'’ These questions have been answered in former numbers 
of the Offering; but as all of our present readers have not Been those answers, and as 
they were never very minute in their details, we will endeavor to satisfy our friends 
by communicating our personal knowledge of this affair. 

If we remember correctly, it is now nearly three years since the Pastor of the Sec¬ 
ond Universalist Society in this city established, what he called, an Improvement 
Circle. The regulations were as follows: Meetings were to be held every alternate 
week in thevvestry of his church—a box was provided in which communications might 
be dropped unperceived—if names were appended, they were to be withheld at the 
wish of the writer, or the discretion of the reader, who was invariably the projector, 
or founder of the Circle. If the articles were anonymous, it was no objection against 
their forming part of the entertainment for the evening. 

Your Editress, ladies, was invited to join this Circle. She was not then acquainted 
with a single individual in the society in which it was formed. Although she had re¬ 
sided several years in this city, her personal acquaintances were few in number. The 
young lady, by whose invitation, and with whom she attended the Circle, was but a 
new friend. She did not write at first, nor indeed until she had ascertained that in¬ 
dividuals of all denominations were welcome to join it. These meetings were at first 
very fully attended, but as the novelty passed away, the number of attendants de¬ 
creased, though the number and value of the contributions were gradually increasing. 

The articles were at first such as are usually heard in Academies, on 44 composition 
afternoon.” The themes were Hope, Friendship, Happiness, Spring, Summer, Au¬ 
tumn, Winter, Morning Meditations, and Evening Reflections, &c., &c. 

We have casually heard that the leader of the Circle himself wrote some of the ar¬ 
ticles signed Julia, Helen, Emma, Maria, &c.; which had the desired effect of setting 
the real Julias, Helens, Emmas, Marias, &c., to thinking what they might do. 

The gentlemen were at liberty to contribute io the Circle, but they were of no great 
assistance. Those who were not engaged in the Mills were also contributors, but it 
was soon found that the principal interest of the meetings depended upon 41 the factory 
girls.” Some of the articles were thought worthy of publication, and something was 
said about sending them to some newspaper. Indeed, some Editors requested the fa r 
▼or of publishing them, but they were still retained. We do not know when the idea, 
of collecting them together, first suggested itself to the leader of the Circle. At all 
events, it was not until after the contributions became more varied in their character. 
At the commencement of the Circle, they were all of a serious cast. We were the 
first to write an article which might create a smile; but after people found that they 
might laugh in the Circle, they had a great desire to be kept in such employment. 
There were, at length, so many articles of a promiscuous character, that it was thought 
they might form a pleasing variety in a little book. This was the first idea—a little 
bound volume, comprising a selection of the best articles from the two Improvement 
Circles, connected with the Universalist Societies in this city; for one had been 
formed, or revived, in the First Society, after that in the Second was in 44 successful 

The little book was talked about in whispers, and kept a profound secret among a 
great many of us; and to tell the truth now, we mean all the truth, we did not really 
believe it would ever come into being. We did not believe our articles would do to 
print—that they were good enough to be put in a book. But there was one who 
thought otherwise, and who began to fear that a book would not be just the thing, 
after all.. Articles were written monthly, or semi-monthly, by those who were con¬ 
stantly improving, and after a book was once published, it would remain as a specimen 
of what 44 factory girls had power to do.” 

Then a periodical was spoken of, and it was even suggested, that toe should edit it 
“ We — the editor ”—the idea was very awful— toe 44 should as soon have thought of 
building a meeting-house.” We shrank so sensitively from the proposal that it was 
not urged, and the projector of the work became its Editor. We bad, however, the 
pleasure of contributing a large mite, and of deciding upon its name. 

We shall never forget our throb of pleasure when first we saw The Lowell Of¬ 
fering in a tangible form, with its bright yellow cover; nor our flutterings of delight 



as we perused its pages. True—we had seen, or heard the articles before; but they 
seemed so much better in print. They appeared, to us, as good as any body's writings. 
They sounded as if written by people who never worked at all. The din and clatter 
of the Mill had not confused the brains of the writers, and no cotton fozz had obscured 
the brightness of their ideas. The Offering was well received by the public, or, at 
least, it would have been, if people had not been so confused, and perplexed, and 
mystified, and unbelieving. 

The first number was an experiment, and a successful one—the second, third, and 
fourth, appeared at irregular intervals, and then it was thought best that it should be 
permanently established. Hitherto it had been sold singly, or given away, and there 
had been no subscription list. With the fifth number commenced a new series, dif¬ 
ferent in form, and materially improved in outward appearance. We had engravings, 
and music, and something was said about stated compensations to the regular con¬ 
tributors. But it seemed very wicked to us—some of us—to receive money for the 
little articles written for the Improvement Circle. This difficulty was overruled after 
a while, with most of the writers. 

About the time that the new series of the Offering appeared, the Operatives' Maga¬ 
zine was also established. This differed from the Offering, by receiving communica¬ 
tions from both sexes, and from those females who had left the Mills, with the con¬ 
tributions of factory girls. After a time, however, the gentlemen's articles were 
discarded, and the Magazine passed entirely into the hands of the young ladies—they 
owned, edited, ancl published it. 

At the close of the second volume of the Offering, the Editor, being about to leave 
the city, sold it to the printer of the Magazine, stipulating that its character, as a non¬ 
sectarian work, and a repository of articles, entirely written by females actively em¬ 
ployed in the Mills, should be faithfully preserved. The Magazine was also purchased 
from the ladies, and both works united in one by the new proprietor. We were re¬ 
quested to edit it—notwithstanding some strong objections, we at length consented. 
Our reasons were, that we thought it would be for the advantage of the girls that it 
should be edited by one of their own number, and though perfectly aware of our own 
deficiencies, we thought we could do as well, or better, than any one else. We wish 
the Offering to subserve the interests of the factory girls—we have toiled with them— 
we have endured privations with them, and our sympathies are entirely with them. 
We would raise them, as a class, in the estimation of the community, by increasing 
their self-respect. We shall deal with them faithfully, and perhaps sometimes se¬ 
verely, but we trust always affectionately. 

Factory girls have their fruits, as well as their virtues. The latter we shall point 
out to the community, the former to themselves. We should like to influence them 
as moral and rational beings—to point out their duties to themselves, and to each 
other. Our field is a wide one, though many subjects are excluded. With wages, 
board, &c., we have nothing to do—these depend upon circumstances over which we 
can have no control. One thing we must observe, and it is that, in our opinion, it is 
much easier to instil a feeling or self-respect, of desire for excellence, amoug a well- 
paid, than an ill-paid, class of operatives. There is a feeling of independence, a de¬ 
sire to form and retain a good character, a wish to do something for others, to maintain 
their individuality, and to be of some service in the world, which is necessarily con¬ 
nected with even “the root of all evil," and the parent of much good. 

We have said that we are to be non-sectarian, but we may be religious withal. Our 
subscribers and contributions are now of all denominations, and of all characters. 
The Offering is, perhaps, read by more different classes of individuals, than any 
other publication. But it is written, not only by, but for, the factory girls; and we # 
wish to have contributions from the witty and the wise, the serious and the sprightly. 
We would blend the useful with the pleasing; the virtues of Aunt Letty with the vi¬ 
vacity of Kate. We would do this from principle—we wish to make our little maga¬ 
zine attractive—to gain, as readers, those who would shrink from a periodica] devoted 
merely to the useful. This should have, and shall have, its place; but we wish to 
reach those who have been accustomed to find their only amusement in silly books, 
and scurrilous papers. The young crave amusement—the laborious need and deserve 
it. We are willing and desirous to contribute to innocent pleasure, and if we are ever 
injurious, it will be because we have been mistaken in our method of doing good. 

H. F. 



DECEMBER, 1842* 


“ My dear,” said a young husband to his wife, u you will keep the hat 
that Miss Pensbram sent for your inspection this morning ? I think it very 

44 But what do I want of it?” replied the wife ; u I seldom go out, except 
to my morning rides, and I have had two new bonnets already, for this sea¬ 
son. You surely,” she added, with a faint smile, 44 do not wish me to be¬ 
come a milliner’s walking advertisement ?” 

41 1 am happy,” rejoined the husband, 44 to have you adopt any new mode 
or fashion that reminds me of the sweet face I was wont to know; and I 
think this hat makes you look more like yourself than any one I have seen.” 

44 Why, Charles!” interrupted the lady, “you will make me think that 
you regret the loss of my beauty, even more than the loss of my health.” 

The husband did not reply; but, taking up his hat, turned to leave the 
room. “You will keep the bonnet, will you not?” he asked, as he .closed 
the door without waiting for a reply. 

The wife rose from the couch, on which she was reclining, and walked to 
a mirror, where she stood in abstracted thoughtfulness, scanning her own 
pallid features. 

We need not inquire the cause of the lady's ill health. With our Ameri¬ 
can females, and their in-door lives, there are causes enough to banish the 
bloom from their cheeks. The great care, both of themselves and their 
friends, seems to be, that the free air of heaven “visit not their cheeks 
too roughly.” 

This error has awakened the attention of the philosopher and philanthro¬ 
pist ; and now we are wont to see our young ladies seeking air and exercise 
m morning walks, and our delicate married ladies endeavoring to obtain the 
same benefit in morning rides in covered and air-tight carriages. The east 
wind blows, or the air is damp, and both are pronounced alike injurious. It 
may be that it is so—we will not dispute the medical faculty—but are not 
those who dare the ills of both the most healthy ? 

44 But those who can do so, are not so delicate,” interrupts the carefully- 

True; but they might have been, had as much pains been taken to spoil 
their health, and impair their constitutions. 
vol. hi. 5 



And then, the “ walks” of our young ladies. With mincing, slow, and 
genteel gait—perchance watched by the careful eyes of a governess, that 
they do nothing that may commute their genteel breeding. An elastic bound 
of health and joy, would be a vulgarity not to be pardoned. Not a step is 
taken that could displace a single fold of their attire; and a snail might blush 
to find himself so rivalled. They might take air, did not their thick veils 
prevent it from touching their faces. But to call their pace “ exercise ”—it 
may be the exercise of the prim rules of gentility, but it hath nothing to do 
with that labor which invigorates the system. Verily, it seemeth to me, that 
my countrywomen are the victims, and sacrifices, offered upon the altar of 
false gentility. 

Isabella Ransom, the young wife of Charles Britton, was a victim to some 
of these manifold causes of ill health. With her, it had not, as yet, assumed 
the u hectic flush,” which embellishes while it destroys; but the bloom of 
her cheek had withered, and the purity of her complexion had been de¬ 
stroyed in the first stages. 

Before she became an invalid, when health and life coursed through her 
veins merrily, to the accompaniment of her own joyous feelings, she had 
become the betrothed of her husband. His love had not been won entirely 
by her beauty; but it is certain that without it she never would have en¬ 
gaged the passing fancy of Charles Britton, which afterwards ripened into 
loyal love, and devoted admiration. And the lady’s remark, that he “re¬ 
gretted the loss of her beauty, more than that of her health,” had more of 
truth than he would have acknowledged, even to his own heart. 

Charles Britton was generous, warm-hearted, and honorable; and when 
he saw the beauty of his heart’s idol fading before the confirmed power of 
ill health, not a thought entered his mind of breaking the engagements which 
bound him to her. But still, there was a twinge of regret, when he stood 
with his bride beside him, pale and sallow as a “ wierd crone” of the chim¬ 
ney’s smoke. In his choice, he had not been actuated merely by the desire 
to possess a pretty doll, for his own amusement, and the envy and admiration 
of the public. He valued the truth and purity of Isabella’s character; he 
loved her confiding trustfulness; and, more than all, he appreciated the de¬ 
voted affection which she bore towards him. 

He was not insensible of the value of the gem of moral and mental worth 
* of his wife’s character; but he asked also, that the casket might be as bril¬ 
liant as the jewel it contained. 

It were impossible fully to analyze his feelings. He would have shrank 
from it himself. They were not positively wrong ; and the line of demarca¬ 
tion was perhaps, as far from strict right and justice. The trust, love, and 
confidence of married life, are matters of too sacred delicacy to be smelted' 
in the crucible of philosophical analyzation. Thoughts that have no shape—* 
desires that cannot be clothed in words, may enter the imagination, and, like 
a breath upon the mirror’s surface, tarnish the clearness of wedded happU 
ness; and yet, no wrong intended—no sentiment of injustice have an abiding 
place in the heart. 

The young wife stood long before that mirror, and with bitter pain scan¬ 
ned each lineament of her faded form and features. At first, she did not 
weep. Her feelings were too painful, too much of dark despair and misery, 
to allow of the relief of tears. To feel the warm current of her blood curdle 
at her heart’s core—to feel the agonizing conviction that her own beloved 
husband’s affections depended upon the color of her cheek, and the contour 
of her form, it was not anger, not accusations of injustice, that rose in her 
breast, but deep, deep, bitter grief. 





She felt that the tie which had bound him to her was not love, but duty, 
or what the world calls honor; that the profusion, which had been bestowed 
upon her, had not been thte offerings of affection, but decorations to make 
the unsightly endurable. 

46 1 should have thought this,” murmured she, as she turned from the 
glass ; “ I knew his ardent admiration of the bright and beautiful; I knew 
that in eyery thing he worshipped it. Fatal, fatal mistake, that I have 
made.” And she flung herself again on the couch, in a paroxysm of tears. 
This burst of passion relieved her; and then she more calmly reviewed the 
matter. She might have mistaken her husband’s import; his manner was 
Aot unkind, but—but— And it is ever upon that “ but” and w if” that hangs 
the misery of doubt and suspicion. And, perchance, although there was 
something of truth in her suspicions, with her the whole matter rested upon 
the simple fact, that her husband had not expressed in sufficiently ambiguous 
terms his wishes, for the nerves of a delicate invalid. 

I know not why, but husbands, after they have been married a year, and 
sometimes, half of that time, forget that during the process of winning, one 
half of theirdanguage has been hyperbole; and that it will take time to use 
their beloved ones to plain, unsophisticated truth. To this simple fact, one 
half of the domestic discords and disunions owe their origin. I will not here 
enter into a discussion of the merit of winning and wooing with sober, dis¬ 
passionate truth. I suspect that love would be divested of more of its 
fascinations and charms than would be wise to dispense with, were all de¬ 
ceptions banished from both parties, and an unvarnished tale of common- 
sense substituted ill their place.. The theories of some rhodem philosophers 
upon this subject, will not, I think, meet with much sympathy in practice, 
especially from my readers, however all may admit their truth in the ab¬ 
stract. There is too much enjoyment in this mutual deception, even if it 
brings unhappiness in its train, to be lightly, or easily abandoned. Mankind 
may change their religion, or their political institutions, but the old-fashioned 
way of wooing has stood a long test of its practical utility, and will not be 
easily supplanted by modem Inventions. 

Bless me! to think of seeking and selecting a wife with the same cool, 
dispassionate scrutiny that you would buy a horse! First examine the 
soundness, the fitness, and ascertain whether the lady has been well trained 
and broken to the bit and rein; and then see whether a fair mutual bargain 
of concessions can be made. WJiy, the very preliminaries would frighten 
the little blind god from the affair, even if the ladies would consent to the 
innovation of being treated as less than angels before marriage. And, by 
the way, we remember of a philosopher who has said, that “one fact is bet¬ 
ter than a dozen theories”—and we have in our mind’s eye at this moment, 
the result of one of these philosophical unions. The gentleman is all honor, 
all truth and sincerity. The lady possesses every virtue that the husband 
asked, or anticipated. Nothing mars the peace and kindness for which they 
bargained; and nothing is wanting to make their lot truly enviable, save that 
Cupid had nothing to do with their courtship ; and the boy has been in a pet 
ever since, for the insult upon his powers, and will have nothing to do with 
their wedded life. But this digression hath but little to do with the sorrow 
of the young wife. 

Isabella was not one to reproach her husband, even if she had felt any 
bitterness towards him, which, assuredly, she.did not. She felt grieved, but 
not angered ; and now that “ they twain were one flesh,” she knew that her 
part was silent endurance. Before her husband returned, she was calm, and 



almost cheerful. Not a trace of the bitter grief, which lay quivering in her 
heart, appeared upon her countenance. Her resolution was fixed; and a 
few hours of suffering had aroused the latent energies of her nature. 

After the evening meal had passed, Isabella left the room for a few mo¬ 
ments ; and when she returned, was equipped for a walk. 

“ Where*are you going ?” asked Charles, as he rose for his hat. 

“ No, no; do n’t get your hat,” interrupted Isabella; “lam only going to 
see Aunt Hepsy, and can well dispense with your company.” 

“ But did not Doctor Allen say that you must avoid the evening air?” 
asked the husband, as he resumed his seat. 

“ Something like that,” she replied; “ but I have not seen Aunt Hepsy 
for a long time, and she may want something.” 

“ Send Margaret to see, and do not go to-night.” 

“ I had rather see for myself.” And so saying, she left the room. 

Charles resumed his paper; and as Isabella had not returned when he 
finished it, he took his hat, and sauntered to Esq. Davis’s office, and getting 
engaged in a political discussion, it was long past the usual hour of retiring, 
when he returned home. 

Isabella was asleep, or at least feigned it; and thus passed their first sep¬ 
arate evening since, their marriage. 

“ Do you ride to-day ?” inquired Charles, as he rose from the breakfast 
table the next morning. 

“ No,” replied Isabella; “ I promised Aunt Hepsy to call there again this ’ 
morning; and when I return, I will call upon Mrs. Converse. I have not 
called there these three months. I admire Mrs. Converse as much at home 
as I do Mr. Converse in the pulpit.” 

“ Well, my compliments to Mrs. Converse. Shall I call, to return with 
you ?—you may be fatigued.” ^ 

“ No; it will be unnecessary.” 

And thus several months passed. Isabella was almost ever engaged 
where her husband’s attendance would be unnecessary; or, if too ill to go 
out, confined herself to her own room. There was not much improvement 
in her health. Care, anxiety ^pr sorrow, silently brooded over, are not the 
best specifics for an invalid. Tne new bonnet had not been worn, save a 
few times to church. 

To church! that theatre in America for fashion ! Yet libel, or heresy, as 
some may deem it, custom has rendered ^fashionable attire a necessary ad¬ 
junct to public worship. Piety and devotion may mingle there too; but, 
from the pulpit to the door, it is so ladened by display that you may not 
single out the worshipper from the exhibiter. 

Charles both felt and noticed that his wife was not with him often ; that 
of all his friends, she was the stranger. But it all appeared so natural: 
there was no appearance of avoidance, no opportunity for inquiry, nor any 
thing to base such an inquiry upon. She was kind, ready and sympathizing 
towards him, and his cares ; but of herself there was no communication, 
no complaint; and the visits of her physician, she had vetoed entirely as 

What was it ? He dare not accuse her of caprice: her quiet, calm dig¬ 
nity forbade the imputation. Not an act, or word, betrayed less- love, less 
kindly regard; but he was impatient and restless, whether .with her or ab¬ 
sent ; and he plunged more actively into his pursuits to save thought. 

And Isabella? The grief which nestled in the depths of her heart, was 
known to none, save her God. To Him she petitioned for that grace which 



alone can sustain the sorrowing. To Him she learned to bow in meekness, 
trusting that what seemed good in His sight, was sent in love and mercy. 

It was Autumn, and a rash exposure in a cold storm, brought a prostrating 
fever upon Charles Britton. Again was Isabella his unwearied companion 
and nurse. She knew not fatigue, nor felt the delicacy of her own health. 
She only remembered that his life was in danger, that he was her own be¬ 
loved husband, and that in a sick chamber, love and kindness are of more 
worth than the most dazzling beauty ever bestowed upon mortal. 

It was night, and the crisis of the fever approached. Wildly, in his de¬ 
lirium, the sick man tossed and raved. At his bed-side, outwardly calm, 
stood the young wife, soothing the phrensy of his brain, and administering 
every prescription of the physician. Doctor Allen watched the crisis of his 
patient with her, and as, towards the morning, the sick man sunk into a 
slumber, he insisted that she should retire. 

44 This sleep,” said he, 44 is natural; and I am sure that Mr. Britton will 
awaken with every favorable symptom. Seek rest now. I should have in¬ 
sisted upon it before, but I fek that your anxiety would hardly admit of it. 
But feel perfectly assured of a hqppy issue of the fever. Nay ; you must 
go,” he added, as she hesitated to comply, 44 your duty to your husband, as 
well as yourself, demands it.” And putting a lamp into her hand, he gently 
led her to the door, and closed it. 

The sun had risen before the sick man awoke from his refreshing slum- 
bere. He looked around his chamber with a conscious glance, and, as hifr 
eye rested upon the doctor, the latter approached to give him a restorative. 

44 You feel better,” said the doctor, in a soothing and encouraging tone. 

44 Yes; where is Isabella*?” * 

44 I have made her go to seek SQme rest. But here, take this, and keep quiet.”. 

He obeyed, and again sank into a slumber. The doctor called an attend¬ 
ant, and after giving his directions, said, 

44 1 will be in again in two or three hours ; and if Mrs. Britton does not 
awaken before I come, do not disturb her.” 

It was near ten o’clock before the doctor called, and Isabella had not 

44 She was almost exhausted,” said he to the girl, after her answer to his 
inquiries for her mistress; 44 but you may go up now, and see if she is awake. 
I almost fear to have her sleep so soundly too long.” 

In a few moments the girl returned, with the most terrifying alarm de¬ 
picted upon her countenance. 

44 O, doctor!” she exclaimed, 44 1 fear”— ■ 

The doctor put his hand Upon her mouth, and pushed her from the room. 

44 What is it ?” said he, in a low tone, as he closed the door. 

44 1 am sure she is dead !” returned the girl; and in an instant Doctor Al¬ 
len was by Isabella’s bed. There certainly was cause for the girl’s appre¬ 
hension. She lay on the floor in front of the bed, and wholly insensible. 
The doctor placed her upon it, and, applying restoratives, sent the girl for 
more attendance. After giving the necessary orders for the moment, he 
turned to Margaret. 

44 This,” said he, 44 must be kept from Mr. Britton, and you must stay 
with him. Come.” 

The girl followed him, and, after giving her his orders, he turned to Charles, 
who had faintly inquired if 44 any thing was the matter.” 

44 1 find,” said the doctor, in answer, 44 that Mrs. Britton is quite exhausted, 

5 * 



and have ordered her not to leave her chamber to-day. Yon must keep 
quiet, and not talk. Margaret will take good ©are of you, and I will be in 
again in an hour or two.” 

He left the room, and cautiously sought the other chamber. * * * * 

The next day, Charles became importunate to see Isabella. 

44 Can’t she,” said he, 44 come into the room ? If she is only wearied out 
by watching, she can lie on the sofa, and Margaret can wait upon us both.” 

The doctor endeavored to expostulate, but it only irritated him, and he 
left the room. In a few moments, he returned, bearing a slight burden in 
his arms, which he laid upon the bed beside the convalescent. He started, 
with an exclamation of surprise, as the doctor turned back the shawl which 
enveloped it, and disclosed the face of an infant. 

“You must be content,” said he, “ to receive a visit from your daughter, 
instead of your wife.” 

Charles’s feelings, as he looked upon the little unmeaning lump of mor¬ 
tality beside him, were far from the delighted tenderness of a father: he 
only remembered that he was a husband. 

44 And Isabella ?” said he, looking up to the doctor. 

44 She is as well as could be expected,”. replied the doctor, in the common 
parlance—which means, she may die, or she may recover, or any thing else. 

In truth, the doctor, at that moment, despaired of her life; but before 
Charles was able to leave his room, she was out of immediate danger. 

Charles’s first visit was to his wife’s chamber. He had seen the babe 
several times, had watched with curiosity to see it open its tiny blue eye, 
and had attempted to kiss it, but it was not Until he saw it nestling in its 
mother’s bosom, that he felt the emotions of a father in viewing his firstborn. 
He could not realize before*that it was his child: 

Isabella slowly recovered; and as she sat one day with the child in her 
arms, and Charles by her side, he said, 

44 Had not the child better be put out to nurse ?” 

44 Why ?” replied Isabella, and her lip quivered. 

44 1 fear it is too much for you ; you do not gain strength fast.” 

44 Do not ask it,” she rejoined, as the tears trembled in her eyes, and fell 
upon the unconscious face of the babe— 44 do not ask it, unless,” she added, 
as the tears rolled faster down her face,. 44 you fear that she may not be so 
healthy and fair by receiving her nourishment from me.” 

44 So fair ! my wife ! what”— 

44 My ill health,” she interrupted, 44 you know, has ruined my complexion, 
and I did not know but you feared that the babe might imbibe the same 
impurity of blood.” 

44 It was of you, not the child, I was thinking.” 

She raised her eyes, and met the same glance that had oft made her heart 
thrill before she was a wife, or doubted her husband’s affection. 

44 You do love me, even if I have prematurely faded,” she sobbed. 

44 Did you ever doubt it ?” he replied, as his arm passed round her waist, 
and her head fell upon his shoulder. 44 How much dearer as my wife, the 
mother of my child, than even as my beautiful betrothed.” 

After that, there was no more misunderstanding—no more doubts; and 
that confidence which begets happiness in married life, did what the art of 
Doctor Allen failed to do. It restored the bloom to Isabella’s cheek, and the 
elasticity of health to her step. Happiness, the cosmetic, and the pure 
exercise of the affections, the materia medic a, to renovate from nervous 
debility. Grace. 




Mother ! weep not o’er the new-made grave 
Of the child, who was taken so soon from your care, * 
Come not again where the young willows wave, 

Breathe here no more the broken heart's prayer; 

This is no place for the sigh and the tear, 

•Thine infant has risen*—it lieth not here. 

.Father! who prayest, as never before, 

That strength may be given to drink of this cup; 

The joy of thme age, of thy being, is o>r, 

Thy hope has been taken, but still bear thee up—- 
Bend not In agony over this bier, 

Thy son has arisen—he lieth not here. 

Sister ! who seekest, in twilight and gloom, 

The plaoe where the loved and departed doth lay, 

Though the form is now resting within this dark tomb, 
And, mouldering to dnst, is now the cold clay— 

Yet, life for thy hope, and death for thy fear, 

Thy brother has risen—he lieth not here. 

Brother ! who comest, at even-tide, 

To mourn for the friend of thy childhood and youth, 

The dead and the living by faith are allied, 

And the grave is now whispering this gladdening truth, 

14 Weep not for him, who once was so dear, 

Thy friend has arisen—he lieth not here.” 

Maiden ! who comest and breathest thy moan, 

Bending in agony over this dust, 

Hope for the future i and this shall atone 
For the stroke which has shaken thy love and thy trust— 
Faith bids thee look up, where he will appear, 

For the loved one has risen—he lieth not here. 

Widow'! who gaaest far over the deep, 

Shrouding the form which sank there to rest, 

’Neath the blue waves the earthly may sleep, 

But the spirit has gone to the land of the blest— 

Those waters will evermore chant to thine ear, 

Thy husband has risen—he lieth not here. 

Christian ! wherever a grave hath been made, 

On whate’er spot may a monument rise, 
tn whate’er place may a corse have been laid, 

Thence there is pealing this chant to the skies, 

Loudly it soundeth, and ever more clear— 

“ The spirit has risen—it cannot lie here.” 





“ I venerate the pilgrim’s cause. 

Yet for the red man dare to plead, 

We bow to heaven’s recorded laws, 

He turned to nature for a creed.” 

Happy New England! well may our thoughts^ wander back to the little 
band, who, under Providence, laid the foundation for all our blessings. Many 
and severe were the trials they encountered. They suffered from the want 
of food ; and sometimes from the piercing cold of winteT they had no shelter. 
They had every thing to fear from the ruthless tomahawk of the savages, by 
whom they were surrounded. And is it not probable that they were some¬ 
times depressed and disheartened by the idea, that they should soon be swept 
off by the ills with which they, were encompassed ; and that the object for 
which they had forsaken friends, kindred and home, would be lost? But, 
placing their trust in that Being, who was amply able to protect, they strug¬ 
gled through hardship, toil and suffering, and prepared for their posterity, the 
inestimable advantages which we enjoy. And let it not be forgotten, in the 
plenitude of our national prosperity, that the pilgrims once wandered here 
amidst poverty and distress, and that the soil has been watered with pilgrims’ 
tears, and stained with pilgrims’ blood. 

Here once lived another and a different race of beings. The green ma¬ 
jestic forests, and the pleasant hunting grounds of the red man, once oc¬ 
cupied the places of our thriving farms, and busy towns and cities. The rich 
plains and vaileys of New England, were once the property of the Indian* 
He was found by the pilgrims in a state of barbarism, “a poor uneducated 
child of nature.” Unaccustomed to acts of kindness and affection, and a 
stranger to those sympathies which soften the heart, and render sweet the in¬ 
tercourse of civilized life, he seemed to have surrendered himself entirely to 
the guidance of strong and active passions. A being of excitement, happy 
only when engaged in his favorite amusements, hunting, fishing, and warring 
with hjs enemies. They were strongly attached to their original modes and 
habits of life, and nothing has been sufficiently powerful to counteract the 
prejudices they have ever felt to civilization and refinement. For the red 
man, the treasures of science never had been opened; for him, the light of 
divine revelation had never shed its glory. Directed only by the imperfect 
light of nature, they acknowledged and worshipped the Great Spirit, and firmly 
believed in a future state of existence. With an unshaken reliance upon his 
protection, they fearlessly pursued paths beset with difficulty and danger. 
The Indian’s idea of a Supreme Being was the most remarkable trait in his 
character. To the skeptic it furnishes an unanswerable argument. The red 
man’s religion was not the result of fear, for he knew no fear; or of educa¬ 
tion, for he was untutored. It proceeded from the silent teachings of nature, 
and bears the impress of truth. But where now shall we look for the red 
man ? The forests have disappeared, the deer and the buffalo have forsaken 
the plains, and the smoke from their wigwams can no longer be seen. As 
the whites have advanced, the Indians have been destroyed, or thrown back, 
till, far away, in one section of our land, are collected together the few scat¬ 
tered remnants of the race. Again, and again, have their lands been coveted 
by the avaricious, and by them surrounded and pressed upon, until, disheart¬ 
ened by repeated and ineffectual efforts to resist the strong arm of the op- 



pressor, and finding their numbers greatly reduced, and themselves weakened 
by the vices introduced among them by the whites, they were at length com¬ 
pelled to bow to the will of their invaders, who, pointing far away to the set¬ 
ting sun, told them that there they must find a home and a grave. Slowly 
and sadly they have forsaken their dear native homes, and resigned to the 
“ pale faces ” the hallowed land, where repose the bones of their ancestors. 
The hopes of the red man are nearly extinguished. The pride of his spirit 
is broken, but the injustice he has received from the white man, still rankles 
in his bosom. And what reparation shall be made for the unprovoked wrongs 
that have been heaped upon the natives «of the soil ? Let their uncultivated 
minds be taught to appreciate the high value of civilization and learning; and 
let the enlightened Christian point them to 44 the Lamb of God, who taketh 
away the. sin of the world.” J. S. W. 


Directly below my window passes the combination of nature, and human 
invention, forming a canal, whose smooth surface sparkles beneath the rays 
of the sun, with countless emanations of brightness, as it flows calmly and 
slowly, but steadily on, in its undeviating path Of usefulness, like the move¬ 
ments of many among the most useful and excellent members of society. 
On the opposite side, stands an establishment for the construction of various 
kinds of machinery, used in different parts of the country, adding much to 
the interest of our “ growing, city.” Here many of the stronger sex find 
appropriate and profitable occupation; and, in all the dignity of their supe¬ 
rior endowments, are kept, as many as can find employment, in labor and 
confinement at least no less irksome than that of any factory girl. A little 
farther, is a smaller establishment used for similar purposes. Beyond these, 
and the green yard adjoining them, and meeting, in my view, the glorious 
horizon, I see smiling white cottages, interspersed with fine young trees, re¬ 
freshing to the eye, and beautifully displaying the taste and industry of our 
good citizens. As seen in the distance, in the spring and summer months, 
they sometimes remind me of large and beautiful buds of white roses, half- 
concealed by their green leaves. 

At the left, I have a glance of the railroad cars, as they pass, carrying, to 
and fro, many of the strangers who visit our 44 American Manchester” on 
business, or for curiosity and pleasure. At my right and left, I have a de¬ 
lightful prospect of hilisland trees, together with the pleasant habitations of 
my fellow-beings. There are also, scattered in different directions, the 
spires of seven churches—all pointing upward, as if to direct our thoughts 
and aspirations above this beautiful, but fading earth, to bright scenes of en¬ 
during felicity. 

44 Not much of a prospect, after all,” says some lover of the sublime and 
romantic. True, it exhibits no mountains towering high, with “ravines 
deep,” or 44 reposing lakes,” nor splendid castles, and magnificence of art, 
nor yet the most pleasant portion of our own goodly city; but it has enough 
of beauty in nature and art, to call into exercise a perception of the beautiful 
and subUme, and to cause me often to wish a poet’s eye, or a painter’s skill. 
Enough without, or within, my window to caU for heartfelt gratitude, in re- 



minding me that I have a residence in an enlightened and Christian land ; 
and enough of nature’s loveliness, to lead the mind “through nature up to 
nature’s God.” And how can I forget this awfully glorious and. sublime 
subject of contemplation, in full view of seven church spires, including, in 
their number, the steeple towering above the sacred walls, within whose 
loved enclosures I have chosen to worship; where I have so often listened 
to religious instruction with delight, as it came in language of persuasive and 
convincing eloquence, from lips uttering the effusions of a pious and benevo¬ 
lent heart, warm with the love of God and man, and glowing with intense 
interest for the welfare of immortal spirits; where, while bowing with the 
children of God, we have often realized with the poet, 

“ Rich dews of grace come o’er us, 

In many a gentle shower, 

And brighter scenes before us 

Are opening every hour.” M. T. 


Here it is, enclosed in the envelope in which it was placed so many years 
ago, and upon which, in my grandmother’s hand-writing, are the words “ My 
Dear Husband’s.” Here, in this old reliquary, it has been kept for many 
long years, just as she braided and arranged it on the morning of his death. 
And while his body has been mouldering in dust—while his remembrance 
has been fading from the earth—while she has failed, decayed, died, and 
mingled also with her kindred earth, this queue is soft, bright and brown, as on 
the day she severed it from his head. While all things else have been chang¬ 
ing, withering, and passing away, this only relic is fresh and unchanged. 

I never saw him, but this braid of hair, 

4< Which once was his—which now is mine,” 

was as real, as much a part of himself, as that which has mouldered to ashes. 

It looks to me as it did to those who looked upon it while he lived and moved 
among them, excepting, always, the difference which associations can create 
in all things, which claim our attention and thoughts. It looks to me as it 
did to her who preserved it, in its brown hue, while her own was thinned and 
whitened by age, save that she looked at it through eyes blinded by tears of 
affectionate remembrance. But I will moralize no longer over my grandfa¬ 
ther’s queue. I will place it again where it was deposited, nearly half a cen¬ 
tury ago, but I must still indulge in some few reminiscences of my grand¬ 

There is still in existence the full length portrait of Madam G., a stately 
dame “ of the old school,” and the wife of a wealthy merchant of one of our 
New England towns. She had no children, and when, one night, a little boy, 
wrapped in a damask cloak, was brought and placed within her arms, she 
resolved that her nephew should be her son. My grandfather was a preco¬ 
cious child; and at the age of twelve years he was fitted for college : he en¬ 
tered at thirteen, was afterwards suspended a year, for letting his room to a 
disorderly party of students, and refusing to disclose their names, and grad¬ 
uated at eighteen. His kind protectors were dead, and he, young, sanguine, 
and inexperienced, was left with a fortune at his command. He studied no • 

MV grandfather’s queue. 


profession ; he did not fulfil his uncle’s probable intention, by becoming a 
merchant. He married, ere he became of age, his guardian’s daughter, and 
was soon the father of two little girls. Then he became a widower, and at 
the age when young men usually begin to think of finding a sharer of life’s 
joys, and divider of its sorrows, he was seeking for a mother to his orphans. 
He remembered the playmate of his school days, at Dummer Academy, and 
selected my grandmother for his second bride. At this time he was very 
handsome, a fine scholar, and in every respect an accomplished gentleman— 
my grandmother was handsome, accomplished, and very intellectual, and life 
appeared to them divested of its sorrows, and lavish of its joys. 

The bright scene darkened*—wealth departed, carrying friends, and many 
of the wonted sources of pleasure; and he, whose life had been spent in men¬ 
tal culture and refinement, must use his powers and attainments in th$ ser¬ 
vice of his fellow-men; receiving as his reward, a maintenance for himself 
and family. He opened a school, and was successful in his new vocation; 
but while years passed on, in honorable industry, a blight was settling upon 
his spirit. He felt that he had fallen, that he was a degraded man ; though 
honorable and upright in the extreme, though willing to devote himself to his 
family, yet his pride was excessive, and his sensibilities acute. Those who 
do not acquire property, know not well how to manage it, when acquired by 
others, and the inherited estate was lessening every day. His mind became* 
unbalanced, and he died insane. The Masonic Lodge, of which he was Mas¬ 
ter, buried him with every honor, and he was lamented as an amiable and 
honorable man, though he had been obliged to labor for his support. 

There are one or two anecdotes still related of him, illustrative of his char¬ 
acter, and of the spirit of the times. Before his marriage he had secured for 
himself the best accommodations at a public boarding-house. One day he was 
requested to give up his room to an officer, who had just arrived in his Majes¬ 
ty’s American possessions, and, like a true John Bull, must have the best of 
every thing, and the privilege of turning up his nose at that. In vain my 
grandfather remonstrated against the purposed ejection from his apartments, 
the Englishman must have his room. My grandfather was too indignant to 
let him lodge quietly in the bed from which he had been forced, and resolved 
to cool the Englishman’s spirits, and quench his pride, with a pail of cold 
water. This was expeditiously applied in the middle of the night, and the 
Englishman was glad to get away from the Bay State, probably -carrying 
with him to England, the report, that, in America, the barbarians were in the 
habit of drowning strangers in their beds. 

From this time my grandfather had a dislike to English officers, which 
was increased by their airs of superiority, and contempt of every thing colo¬ 
nial. He felt himself as good as if he had been bom the other side of the 
Atlantic, and was once determined, if he could not share their sport, he 
would spoil it. 

The English officers had once made great preparations for a dinner of 
turtle-soup. Monsieur Combshell had been abducted from his native home, 
and placed in a large hogshead, guarded, during the night, by a great dog. 
My grandfather hired a negro to release the turtle from “ durance vile,” and 
bought a quarter of beef to occupy the dog’s attention, while has was being 
transported from the hogshead to a boat in waiting. Then the released cap¬ 
tive was gratified with a boat ride, all “ in the stilly night,” and finally re¬ 
turned, safe and sound, to his native element. The next day all was ready, 
the host, waiters and guests, all—but the turtle-soup. Annette. 





u Oh, Blanche! do look at this beautiful boquet, that has been left for me,” 
exclaimed Avice Howard, as she entered the back parlor, where Blanche, 
her more than cousin in kindness, was arranging decorations of gold lace and 
blonde for a grand party, that was to be given by Mrs. Sinclair, the follow¬ 
ing evening. 

“ They are beautiful indeed,” said Avice, u but who sent them ?” 

u Oh, that is what I cannot inform you; William said, when he brought 
them* into the drawing-room, that a gentleman left them for Miss Howard ; 
but, alas! his name is a mystery.” 

w Who can it be ?” soliloquized the laughing Avice, as her eyes again rest¬ 
ed upon the delicate flowers. “ It may be the same that sent that elegant 
English annual, on Christmas eve; and the set of pearls for the new year’s 
ball; and the same too that sings the “ Flower of Dumblane,” so often un¬ 
der my window, accompanied by the guitar. But then, how should a stran¬ 
ger be familiar with my tastes and fancies, and know that the “ Flower of 
Dumblane,” was my favorite song. Yet it seems that the gallant unknown 
is acquainted with the fact. He knows even how dearly I love it, for he 
dwells slightly upon the other strains I most admire. But God forbid, that 
my fate should be like Jessie Monteith’s, notwithstanding the charm that Tan- 
nahill threw around her name when he sang 

“How lost were my days, till I met wi’ my Jessie, 

The sports o’ tne city seemed foolish and vain; 

I ne’er saw a nymph I could c&’ my dear lassie, 

Till I met wi’ my Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane. 

Though mine were the station o’ loftiest grandeur, 

Amidst its confusion I’d languish in pain, 

And reckon as naething the height o’ its splendor, 

If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flow’r o’ Dumblane.” 

“ Well, well, Avice,” said Blanche, “ do n’t perplex yourself to unravel the 
mystery, and it will all terminate as you wish, by-and-by, and you must as¬ 
suredly give your inamorato credit for much taste in the selection of flowers, 
and without doubt, if read aright, they are emblematical of love’s sweet tale \ 
for the poet says, 

“ Flowers are love’s own offering, 

To the beautiful and dear,” 

and right glad should I be if some knight-errant would just send me one of 
Flora’s brilliant offerings.” 

“ But you shall share them with me, dear Blanche. This white rose will 
be in beautiful contrast with the dark waves of your hair.” 

“ Nay, my pretty cousin,” said Blanche, “ they were not designed for me, 
so I will not deprive you of your fragrant gifts.” * # # 

It was a calm evening in early spring; innumerable stars spangled the 
dome of heaven, and all things looked bright and fair upon earth; it would 
scarcely seem, on such an evening, that aught unholy could visit the mind 
of man; but it was even so. 

In a large and richly furnished apartment, at one of the fashionable hotels 



in the city of B., was seated a gentleman who might have numbered thirty 
“winters. He was turning over a book' of prints, that he designed for the next 
present to Miss Howard. “ She is young and beautiful, too,” he said mu¬ 
singly, “ and Will be easily won, if I plUy my cards skilfully, and then her 
aristocratic o}d father may boast of the bright escutcheon of which he is so 
proud, but an indelible stain shall mar its brightness. He enclosed the book 
in an envelope, and there was something fiendlike in.'the frowri that gathered 
on his bro\r, and the bright flashing of his eye, as he rang the bell, which 
was soon answered by Alessandro, his servant. 

“Leave this at Mr Howard’s, for his fair daughter,” he spid, handing the 
package, M and be sure that you answer no questions.” 

44 Yes, sir,” was the response, as the door was closed. 

Mr. Howard was one of the oldest inhabitants of B. He could honorably 
pride himself upon his even noble descent, and the high respectability of all 
his connections. He had passed the prime of life, before he chose a partner 
to share his joys and sorrows, and scarcely had two years winged their rapid 
flight before she was. called to join the angel choir, leaving an infant daugh¬ 
ter, as a legacy to her bereaved, husband. The little Avice was the image 
of her departed motherland, as she grew older, her father would often say 
he believed he worshipped her with almost a sinful idolatry. He was wealthy, 
for the early part of his life was spent in accumulating a fortune for old age, 
and there would a smile of joy pass over his pallid features, as he thought 
that besides guiding his daughter in the paths of virtue, he could bestow upon 
her all the blessings of wealth. And how affectionately did she repay his 
kindness! If he was sad, she would sing him the songs he loved to hear; 
and if weary, she would rest his head upon her shoulder, and twine her slen¬ 
der fingers in his silver hair, and they were all the world to each other. 

She had just entered her seventeenth year at the commencement of this 
tale, beautiful as a houri, and pure as a seraph. She seemed too beautiful 
to die, but &las! it is ever thus; the fairest flowers are the first to fade, and 
a sunbeam passes quickly away. Musjc with her was a passion, and often 
had she listened to the deep', clear voice that wafted by, in such sweet mel¬ 
ody, on the evening breeze; and surely, she would say, one that can call 
forth such heavenly sounds must be all that is good. She knew not that 
there was another lesson 'to Iearn-^“ that man could smile and smile, and 
even sing , and be a villain strll.” 

Blanche Sherburne was an orphan, the only child of Mr. Howard’s sister, 
who died while on a tour through Europe, and with her last breath she dic¬ 
tated a letter to her brother, entreating him to be a father to her child ; and 
well had he fulfilled the trust reposed in him. Blanche, it is true, was sec¬ 
ond in his affections, but everything else she shared equally with Avice, and 
to her she had ever been like an elder sister. If there was to be a ball or a 
party, Blanche must select the ornaments, and none were dressed in better 
taste than were the beautiful daughter and neice of Mr* Howard. 

The evening at length arrived for the long talked of party, and there could 
not have been a more propitious one for the meeting of the young and gay. 
Midnight came, and with it all the little world of B. to Mrs. Sinclair’s, or*at least 
a favored portion of it, to the exclusion of all the rest. The proud, the fair, 
and the young, thronged the stately haHs, enchanting with music and beauty. 

In the deep recess of a window, Stood Captain Fitzherbert; the dark shade 
was dispelled from his brow, and his lips were wreathed with .their most fas¬ 
cinating smiles. He looked long and steadily at the motley crowd, until he 
saw Howard, with his fair daughter leaning on his arm, enter the room. 



“ la ‘.she not beautiful ?” *he exclaimed, and ashade of better feeling passed 
the djemon 41 his heart, its be thoughtjgf the wife and little o/ies he had left 
in a foreign land; but it was momentary, for the lofty form of Howard ap¬ 
peared to. hem in all the pride of manhood, and it almost seemed that they 
again stood on the shores of India, when Howard had branded him with the 
epithet of liar, and called him a poor menial. * “That was our first meeting, 
but he does hot recognize in the commander of the Louis. PMllippe,tho friend¬ 
less youth he then so grossly insulted,, and I must,be revenged.” 

He’ left the recess he had occupied for the last half* hour, and made his 
way to the’ sofa, where Ayice was seated. They had often /net before, and 
the lather had manifested no slight degree 6 f pleasure in witnessing the marked 
attentions of the frank and handsome stranger. • .. 

“ Ah, good evening, Miss Howard,” said Fitzherbert, as he appeared, and 
took the small white hand that was not withdrawn, and gallantly torching it 
to his lips, “I sparely promised myself the*pleasure of meeting you this 
evening \ Will you take my.arm,” he continued, “I see they a,re preparing 
for a promenade?”’ Alas.1 she did take his offered arm, and he took her 
yoting heart- ’ • . 

Time passed on, and the dark-eyed stranger as he was called, became a 
constant visitor at Mr. Howard’s. To Avice he appeared all her heart had 
ever dreamed of honor, frankness, and intellectual superiority,.and her father 
looked upon him as the star that was to light the pathway of his only , cher¬ 
ished ohe. * And what a star! . 

. But we will not follow him in his guilty career ; suffice it to say, he teas 
revenged.;. the daughter of a proud house .had fallen, and a saint might have 
fallen within a net so artfully woven. . ‘ • 

The Lbpis‘Phillippe had sailed for the East Indies,, but before her depart¬ 
ure Fitzherbert asked Howard if he refnemberOd the poor menial, whom he 
had .once insulted on the shores of India. “ 1 am that one, but I must bid 
you good mor^ihg,” at the same time raising his hat, “ as I set sail this hoar, 
to visit my wife and. children before* a longer voyage,” and, as he stepped 
on deck, he left all that load of deep and untold misery behind. 

Oh.!. it was a fearful sight, to see that old man, with his silvered hair, 
.bowed down^with grief, for the daughter was a maniac. 

Blanche . was almost broken hearted at the work * which an unprincipled 
man Had made in that happy-home, which was once an earthly paradise; 
but “ all things Work together for good,” was her motto, and this may be the 
means of bringing my .dear uncle to a knowledge of the truth, that he must 
look to a higher source, than the pride and .paltry .things of e.ajth, for that hap¬ 
piness which satisfies the heart; and that he may be led in future to judge 
’ men from what they are.; not from the wealth they possess, or the proud 
name.that distinguishes them. . . 

• “The girl was dying—youth and beauty, all • 

Men love, or women boast of, was decaying; 

And, one by one, life’s finest flowers did fall 
Before the .touch of death, who seem’d delaying, 

’ , As thongh he’d not the heart at once to call t 

* The maiden to his home.” 

Months passed away, and the-slight form of AvioC, daily, becoming more 
shadowy, seemed like a heavenly spirit, which, having performed its mission 
on earth, melts into a misty wreath, then disappears forever. The father 
could Hot endure the thought of a separation from his beloved child; night 


after night he watched by her couch, when others slept; and his-glance never 
wandered from the burning spot upon her cheek, the sign- of the fire, that' was 
consuming her vitals. * * * 

. Again it was a bright spring evening. • In a gorgeously furnished chamber, 
dimly lighted by a single shaded lamp, that threw its feeble Tays upon the 
dome-covered couch, reclined A vice Howard, struggling between life and 
death, A white arm, fingers snowy taper and .transparent,* ^ere reposing 
amongst the folds of fringe and flowers. The outlines of he* limbs, coiled 
up as though in uneasy slifmber, varied each instant their restless attitude* 
Moisture was upon her brow, and her dark hair contrasted mournfully with 
the ghostly ^paleness df her snowy skin. Her father was bending over her,- 
when he heard.the door softly open ; it Was the physician $ and. when the 
old man saw him, his whole frame* trembled. , His finger was on his lips, and 
jthey receded many paces from the silent chamber, before either spoke. 

“ Oh! tell me,” said the father, “that you can save her,- and I will* Hess 
you with my latest breath; and wealth shall be ydurs, wealth that Cleopatra 
never dreamed of, if you will but save my child.” 

. “ I will do all in my power,” was the quick answer of Dr. M., as he brushed 
the tear from his cheek; but to tell you the plain truth, I think she is beyond 
the reach of human skill.” ' .. 

A deep sigh was the only answer of the agonized parent,.arid they en¬ 
tered the sick room together. .* She was changed • Reason had again re- 
sumed her. empire, and for the first-time for many long, wearisome months, 
she recognized her father. She motioned him to her side. “Father,” she 
commenced; “will you forgive me, and bless me, ere I die ;’ for. I feel that 
my sands .are nearly run.” • 

The old man’s heart was too full for utterance.; she threw open her arms 
to embrace him, and brought down his silvered hair to her bosom; he raised 
his head, and again and again pressed his lips to her brow, and all was for- 
.given. Yes; Long before she asked it. She.expressed a wish raised. 
up, that she might speak with greater ease, for she felt she was fast-sinking 
into that deep sleep, that knows np waking. Fervently she prayed for her 
enemies, that they might seek forgiveness from God, well knowing that He 
would forgive them, as freely as she had done, and after she had bade them 
all a solemn and touching farewell, and had commended her aged parent to 
the safe keeping of Him. who knows all hearts, she sank back, fainting; . but 
her father’s arm supported her, and once again her eyes unclosed, and rested 
on his face, as she said, “ It will not be long; we shall soon meet again be- 
yPnd the dark valley and the shadow, where al) will be light and peace, and 
tyhere it will be a pleasure to say , 4 Thy will, O Lord, be done.’ ” 

Wearily her eyelids dropped, and a shudder passed through her frame. 
Then all was. still—her father bentiover her, and touched her lips. ' They 
were cold in death. Then chme the frightful truth to his mind that he held 
a corpse in his arms, and that cojrpse, his beloved daughter. ... 

# ' # V * ■ * • • #. ' 

Several months slowly rolled on their course, and in due time,# new mon¬ 
ument was raised in a beautiful cemetery, “a city of graves,” . It cohsisted 
of a broken*column, on the side of which blossomed a wild rose,;torn and. 
trailing upon the ground; and upon it were inscribed the fcllowirig lines: 




f May 4th, 18—, 


Aged 19, 

Only daughter of John Howard, Esq. 

44 Hush ! ’t is thou that dreaming art, 

Calmer is her gentle breast. 

Yes! o ; er fountain, vale and grove, 1 
' Leaf and floWer hath gushed her love; 

But that passion, deep and true, 

. Knows not of a last adieu.** 

Blanche predicted truly; Mr. Howard became an altered man. From a 
proud overbearing aristocrat, he became an humble follower pf Christ, for¬ 
giving as he hoped to be forgiven. 

And Fitzherbert—he too, the cruel one, the despoiler, has changed—from 
a daring profligate, he has been led to “ drink at the fountain of living wa¬ 
ters,” and bitterly has he repented, even in .dust and ashes, for the Revenge 
he sp calmly meditated upon the innocent and lovely daughter, for an insult 
from the proud father. 

But the. old man has long since been gathered to his kindred, and his vast 
wealth, after providing generously for Blanche, was bequeathed to an Asy¬ 
lum for the unfortunate. 

And spite of all the suffering which Blanche has witnessed and endured r 
she still can stand beside that broken column, and lay her hand upon the 
monument which has since been raised at its side, and say in faith, “ All 
things must work for good.” Ione. 

Miss F. :—As an instance, to what uses the good and the beautiful may be perverted, 
permit me to offer the following Parody upon the 44 Old Arm-Chair,” by Eliza Cook, 
for insertion in your magazine. The Parody, I think, can be as generally appreciated 
for its truthfulness, as the original has been for its beauty and pathos. 



I fear it! I fear it! and who shall dare 
To chjde me for fearing that dark arm-chair ? 

I *ve dreaded it long, and with fearful cries— 

I *ve bedew’d it with tears, and embalm’d it with sighs; 

' Fear shoots with a thousand pangs through my heart; 

Not one will yield, not a tremor depart. 

Would ye learn the spell ? my jaw was broke there t 
And a horrid place sure is the dentist’s arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour, from my teeth I have scream’d, 

But of the dentist's power, I never bad dream’d— 

My mother,—she charm’d away every fear, 

With threatening words, and a blow on the ear. 

She scorn’d that her child such.a coward should be, 

And said that there ne’er was a ninny like me ; 

And she taught me—but what, I cannot declare^ 

Though 1 learn’d not of her, to dread that arm-chair. 

I sat, and I dreaded it, day after day, 

As my teeth grew black, and began to decay; 

And I almost died, when I learn’d to feel 
The jaw-breaking pain, inflicted by steel. 



Tbe rack, and the scaffold, cannot have the power 
TV) equal the torture of that fearful hour, 

When I learn’d how much my timper could bear, 

As they held me fast in that dark arm-chair. 

’T is past! ’t is past! but I think of it now 
With a quivering lip, and a throbbing brow; 

Twas there I kick'd! it was there 1 cried, 

And my shame will come like a lava tide. 

They said it was folly,'and deem’d me weak, 

As the scalding drops flow’d down my cheek; 

But I fear it, I fear it, and never can bear 

The thought, or the sight, of the dentist’s arm-chair. Quizziana. 



Turning from the slender form of the Indian princess, all destitute as it 
appears of any exterior mark of royalty, it is dazzling to look upon these 
queens of the East. Cleopatra and Zenobia, though differing in their 6har- 
acter, nation, and exploits, yet seem united in our sympathies by some simi¬ 
larity of personal graces, and by their tragical fate. In the persons of these 
beautiful, and accomplished, oriental females, have been concentrated more 
of wealth, splendor, pomp, and elegance, of all that can seduce the senses, 
than will ever be witnessed again. They may be considered the imperso¬ 
nations of female sovereignly ; the proof of what woman will do when she is 
woman , and uninfluenced by any circumstances but those of her own crea¬ 
tion. They looked not back upon the past, for precedents, for they were 
among the first to rule their kingdoms with a woman’s sway; they looked 
not arotfhd them, for example, support, or sympathy, for they were too far 
removed from all contemporaries to avail themselves of aught of these; and 
mayhap they looked not forward, to the future, for applause, approval, and 
a posthumous fame. The institutions, and religions of their clime, and age, 
were rather adverse'than favorable to the develcfpement of characters like 
theirs, and could not exert an influence corresponding to the modifications 
they received in return. They were women; acting with woman’s impulses,, 
and strengthened with a woman’s ’'will. 

Hence their reigns, while they were rulers, were like a splendid triumph; 
one long-extended show of riches, pomp, and grace; a dazzling display of 
the wealth of the Orient, as exhibited with the utmost elegance and taste. 
They lived in the present, surrounding themselves with the rare, the costly, 
and the beautiful, and it is the remembrance of what they were then, rather 
than an indelible impression stamped upon their kind, that wins a place in 
every portrait gallery, whether of painter, sculptor, poet, or historian. It is 
in early morning that the clouds are pink, and purple, and gold : that earth 
puts on her diamond robe, and flowers send up their sweetest incense, and 
every shrub, and tree, and grove, is studded with its varied jewelry ; but it is 
not then that the shrub sends forth its shoots; that the grass is preparing its 
blade for the mower, or the seed-vessel ripening for the harvest. The glit¬ 
tering and beautiful are sometimes allied with the enduring and useful, but 
seldom in the history of nations, or their rulers. 

Here is the Egyptian queen, as portrayed by the master-qroet; and was 
there ever, before, so enchanting a union of splendor and grace ? Royalty 
6 * 


is . behind her ; a ruler await? her coming; and idolatrous -worship is all 
aro.und her. • '* . : . 

. “ The harge she*sat in, lilse a burnished throne, 

■ * • '■ Burned on the water: the stem was beaten gold : • * 

•-Purple the-sails,'and so perfumed that \ . . 

; * , The winds were lovesick with them ; the oars were silver; 

‘Which to the time of flutes-kept stroke, and made 
. * The water,,.which‘they beat,; to fallow faster, 

• ’ Als amorous of their strokes., For her own person, 

* * It beggared all description :* she did lie 

• In her pavilion (cloth of gold/ of tissue) 

• O’er-picturing that Venue,’where we see, . : ; 

The fancy out-wort nature : on-^fLcli. side her, . 

• ; Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, . 

-With diverse-colored fans, whose wind did seem • 

- • To glow the delicate cheek which they did coOl,— 

Herr gentlewomen* like the-Wereides, * v 

‘ So many metmaids, tended her i’ the eyes, 

• . And made their bends adorning : at the helm • 

A seeming mermaid pteers ; the silken tackle 

Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, 

That yarely frame the office. From the barge 

• / .A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 

. .Of the adjacent wharves. The city cast 

• * -Her people out upon her; and Antony, 

. jEnthrohed in the market-place, did sit alone, 

• .1:' Whistling to the air \ which, but for vacancy, 

Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 

• "And made a gap in nature.” 1 , , . 

Such, was this* fascinating sovereign, this syren queen, conquering by sub¬ 
duing; appealing -wholly to the senses ; binding, with her. magic spell,, the 
reason, awakening the fancy, and. enlivening the imagination, by her con¬ 
summate arts and graces: Such was she* as she took such .pains to appear 
to. “ Noble Antony,” the triumvir of Rome, and ? by such .arts, to* be con¬ 
verted to a.slave of M Egypt.” 

There never yet was queen who effected so much by female tact, and 
blandishment,, as .Cleopatra. It was not alone by hdr superior intellect, but 
by her captivating powers that she won, that then unwonted place for one 
of her we.ak sex, a seat upon her father’s throne; a divided power with 
Ptolemy, her brother. With any other^partner-his deficiencies might not 
have ever glaringly appeared y but with the lovely girl, whp; even, then, was 
versed .in all of feminine accomplishments, who was also learned in Grecian 
lore, .who could hold audience, herself, with the representatives of ten dif¬ 
ferent countries, who so .charmingly united vivacity and grace,-mental activity 
with girlish languishment, who-had a talent, all her own, to mould so many 
to.her will, contrasted with his sister, young Ptolemy was qot a monarch. 

/ The pageant and insignia of royalty were too . pleasing, too necessary to 
Cleopatra, for the development of her peculiar powers, for her to remain a 
second to one. so much inferior! That she was devoid of* sisterly affection, 
is not probable, when.she would so readily yield to other love, but no passion 
iji hejr was superior,to ambition. There are. always friends to justice, and 
foes to beauty, intellect, and fortune. Cleopatra did not usurp .ascendancy 
without opposition. She was always brave when m.ental courage only was 
.required, and resolved to submit to no dictation. Then, when her country 
.was convulsed with factions, and Rome was called upon to decide between 
the rival kindred, then, for the first time, did. she show, to what she could de¬ 
scend, as -she “had shown before to what she would aspire. Gaining by 
stratagem an audience with Caesar, she disarmed him of all the qualifications 



of ari impartial judge, by transforming him into a lover. From that time 
until the murmurs of his indignant soldiery, penetrating even the palace of 
the luxurious queen, aroused him from the enchanting dream, was the great 
Roman the slave of the Egyptian girl. It was by contributing to his pleasure 
that she preserved her own power, and gained a mastery over the master 
of the world. 

But when he Was gone, and there was naught for her to do but to “.rule 
over Egypt,” she did it wisely and well. Her country prospered, and she 
could read in the magnificence to which she trusted, much to preserve her 
influence over her people. 

With the diadem of Isis on her .brow, and the robe of the goddess encir¬ 
cling her form, it is not wonderful that, with her grace, and accomplishments, 
she should retain the adoration of subjects, whose regard was never excited 
by sterner attributes. Then came Pompey, and then another brave Roman 
owned the magic of the Egyptian’s sway. But we have portrayed her as 
she first was seen by stem Mark Antony, the rough warrior, the hard Ro¬ 
man, and truly did it need seductions, such as hers, to subdue the man, whose 
pulses long had ceased to beat to the quick impulses of yduth. Cleopatra 
did not exert her powers in vain, and again was a Roman leader^ bewitched 
by the sorceries of this syren. The spell was long and strong upon him, and 
never broken; but once Mark Antony aroused from slumber. The dream 
was lurking in his brain, even when, in distant Rome, he made the lovely, 
modest and virtuous Octavia his bride. One would think that, with so pure 
a cup of happiness at his lips, he would never have turned again to the in¬ 
toxicating draught. And one might think it strange that she could conde¬ 
scend to drink again at the bowl of pleasure, with him. From the time of 
their reunion, when he forgot his duty to himself, to, his country, his noble 
brother-in-law, and wife, to revel in luxury with her, who forgot the dignity 
of a woman and queen, to join with him in revelry—from that moment there 
are darker shadows, on the shifting scenes, than heretofore have mingled 
with the dazzling lights. But when Mark Antony rose from his syren’s arms, 
to meet the just avenger, when Octavius and Antony were to decide, in blood 
and battle, whether his duties were to be abandoned, and the rights of others 
outraged, with impunity*: then Cleopatra shew, as she had shown before, that 
she could share the trial with those who shared her pleasure; that she would 
not abandon in the storm those with whom she had basked in the sunshine. 
She brought forces to her lover; she brought him ships and men; for she 
could remember that he had given her kingdoms and crowns. If she had 
kept aloof from the combat her cause must have been the gainer, if not Mark 
Antony the victor. It was not courage that led her to the battle-ship. It 
was dread— r it was that craven fear which could not allow her protector from 
her. sight; which could not wait, and meet her fate alone. But her physical 
timidity overcame her mental powers, and “ in the midst of the fight, when 
vantage, like a pair of twins, appeared,” she fled, and “ Antony flies after 

“ Experience, manhood, honor, ne’er before 
Did violate so itself.” 

Cleopatra loved Mark Antony, with all the love her heart could feel; and 
even in the midst of her shame, anguish, and fear of impending ruin, there 
was some little consolation in the assurance that he too loved her, as well as 
he could love—that though Octavia lived, and onq was in her grave, his u ser¬ 
pent of old Nile ” could spread her wile around him still. Now she knew 




that there was strength in her flower-wreathed chains, and that it was not all 
hyperbole when he said 

' M Thou knewest too well 

My heart was to thy rudder tied, by the strings, 

And thou should *st tow me after ; o’er my spirit 
Thy full supremacy thou knewest: and that 
Thy beck might, from the bidding of the gods, 

Command me." 

Cleopatra never could win respect, even in her days of comparative inno¬ 
cence, but in these last sad scenes we cannot wholly refuse our admiring 
sympathy. True, as danger thickened, and ruin pressed upon them, she 
gave herself up to excess of pleasure; but she was not wholly selfish, and 
she and Antony were two of a band “united in death” True, there was 
loud mirth, and gay revelry, at Antony’s birthday feast, but her own she 
kept in silence and sadness—true, as the fatal tragedy drew near its close, 
she fled to an asylum, which she knew could afford no safety to him; but 
when the doom, he could not long avert, was hastened by his own hand, and 
in the belief of her death, she did not refuse him the privilege of dying near 
her. With her own hands, the “ hands which kings had trembled kissing,” 
all distended, and convulsed with the exertion, she helped to draw the dying 
man into her tower; she wiped the death-damp from his brow, and kissed 
his quivering lips, and received his latest breath upon her own. True, she 
condescended to ask favors of Octavius, but it was that she might bury An¬ 
tony with honor, and that Egypt, the patrimony of her father, might be given 
to her children. True, she sought death, but it was as a relief from igno¬ 
miny. She, who had hoped to reign in Rome, and be acknowledged mis¬ 
tress of the world, may be excused if she shrank from being there exhibited 
as a captive. 

The asp had done its poisonous work, when the Roman burst into the 
chamber of death; but the crown was then upon her head, and the royal 
robes lay in rich folds upon her stiffening form. One handmaid lay already 
dead at her feet—Another was dying, while arranging the diadem upon her 
brow. Can we not agree with her in her answer to the Roman’s question.— 
“ Charmian, was this well done?” “ Yes, Roman ! it was well-—for such a 
death was meet for such a queen.” 

We should not judge this ancient heathen queen by those pure rules, that 
high standard, which should govern the actions of a Christian matron. We 
always do injustice to any person, by taking them from their age and coun¬ 
try, and judging them by the rules of right and wrong which are the stand¬ 
ard of another. Cleopatra was one of the most fascinating of women, and 
she did—what women are always wont to do—she exerted the power she 
possessed.—She was the unwcdded wife of Caesar, Pompey, and Mark An¬ 
tony, but her favors were not bestowed upon inferiors, and to two, at least, 
she was faithful till death—to all she awarded the constancy they deserved. 

Educated, as she was, in a corrupt court, with no good guide, and no true 
faith, who can tell to what, under other influences, her superior talents, and 
fascinating powers, might have been directed. 

As she is, she stands one by herself—and to be judged by no laws, but 
those which are common to all mankind. In the long line of Egyptian sov¬ 
ereigns she is as a fairy in some old gallery of armored statues, fixing the 
attention of all by her bewitching loveliness; though among them seeming to 
be not of them, and leading the beholder to doubt whether she be, indeed, a 
vision, or reality. 

To be concluded. 



Autumn sere! I love thee well, 

Though thy w: ruing whispers tell 
44 Winter hovers near”— 

And the forest tops among, 

Drowning oft the wild third's song, 
Shrieks the north wind drear. 

Rich hues deck the woodlands now; 
Leaflets on the trembling bough, 

Brighten as they fall: 

Thus our loved ones pine’ and fade, 

And seem lovelier far when laid 
’Neath the silent pall. 

Gaily smiles the blushing Spring, 

When the low-tuned zephyrs bring 
Breath of new-blown flowers; 

With a ringing, cheerful voice 
Calleth she, 44 Rejoice ! Rejoice 1” 

All the sunny hours. 


Thou, of aspect grave and staid, 1 
In thy rustling robe arrayed, 

Crowned with withered wreath; 
When the boding winds rush by. 

Then thy voice, with mournful sigh, 
Saith, 44 Prepare for death!” 

Autumn sad ! though Spring is gay, 
Thy hoarse tones, and brown array, 

' Are to me more dear; 

For thou mindest me of one, 

Who, with kind, yet fearless tone. 
Warns when danger’s near. 

Call not that a faithful friend. 

Who can smiles and flattery lend. 
When’t is well with thee; 

But who checks thy giddy way, 

Bids thee turn from earth away, 

These the true ones be. L. L. 


Home in a boardino-house. Home in a boarding-house is always different from 
home anywhere else; and home in a factory boarding-house, differs materially from 
home in any other. This difference is perceptible at the first entrance. There is a 
peculiarity 44 all its own,” in the great domicil, which usually shelters us. One might 
readily see by its accommodations, or rather its 14 fixings,” (we beg pardon of Dick¬ 
ens) for they are not always acknowledged as accommodations, by the party most 
directly concerned, that it cannot be exactly a home, but only a place to eat and lodge 
in, a sort of rendezvous, after the real home, the daily habitation, is abandoned. This 
is tacitly acknowledged, by the cognomen of the room, which is the only one common 
to all the boarders. This is the dining-room—or, more properly, the eating-room, for 
breakfast and supper, as well as dinner, are demolished in its precincts. This is al¬ 
ways amply furnished with chairs and tables, though but little of anything else, for, 
amidst all our deprivations, we have never been deprived of the privilege of sitting at 
our meals. Chairs, chairs—one, two, three,.four, and so on to forty. It is really re¬ 
freshing, sometimes, to go where there is only now and then a chair. This pleasure 
we can usually enjoy, by leaving the dining-room for our chambers, where there is 
not often a surplus of this article of furniture; but then there are always plenty of 
trunks, boxes, &c., which will answer for seats, and the bed is easily persuaded to stand 
proxy for a sofa. 

But these are all trifles, compared with the perplexities to which we are subjected 
in other ways; and some of these might be remedied by the girls themselves. We 
now allude to the importunities of evening visitors, such as pealers, candy and news¬ 
paper boys, shoe-dealers, book-sellers, &c., &c., breaking in upon the only hours of 
leisure we can call our own, and proffering their articles with a pertinacity which will 
admit of no denial. That these evening salesmen are always unwelcome, we will not 
assert, but they are too often inclined to remain where they know they are considered 
a nuisance. And then they often forget, if they ever knew, the rules of politeness 



which should regulate all transient visitors. They deal about their hints, inuendoes, 
and low cunning, as though a factory boarding-house was what no boarding-house 
should ever be. 

The remedy is entirely with the girls. Treat all of these comers with a politeness 
truly lady-like, when, they appear as gentlemen, but let yopr manners change to stem 
formality when they forget that they are in the company of respectable females. 

Never encourage evening traders, unless you see some very good reason for so do¬ 
ing. The reason usually given is, that they can trade cheaper with these men, than 
with the storekeepers of Lowell. There is competition enough among the shop¬ 
keepers to keep things at a reasonable price, and good articles are seldom purchased 
cheaper of a pedler. “But,” say others, “ it is much more convenient for us, if we 
can be suited at home, to have our things brought i^s, than to go out for them.” Even 
where this is true, it should be remembered that each buyer is interrupting the occu¬ 
pations of one, two, or three dozen girls. 

But it is not wholly by traders that we are imposed upon. Sometimes an impudent 
charlatan, calling himself a practical phrenologist, intrudes upon us with the assurance 
that he can tell us what we are, even better than we know ourselves. And as far as 
they have any actual knowledge, or a tolerable Yankee faculty of guessing, they abuse 
it, to pander to the vanity of those who are ready to believe they are possessed of 
every virtue and talent under the sun, because the phrenologist tells them so. 

But phrenologists are not alone in their attempts to impose upon the credulous fe¬ 
males of Lowell. As an instance we will here insert an account of a professor's 
visit to a boarding-house home, premising that it was written “long time ago,” and 
that the individual, to whom it refers, has not recently been in Lowell. The picture 
may slightly border upon a caricature, but when the article was read at the Improve¬ 
ment Circle, the parties concerned were readily identified. We do not think it wrong 
to employ either reason, or ridicule, to banish intruders like him. 

One or two evenings since, after leaving the tea-table, I repaired to my chamber, to 
prepare to go out. As I was engaged in some of the preliminary exercises of the toi¬ 
let, I thought that, amidst the confused chorus of female voices, which reaohed me 
from the lower rooms, I could discern the more gutteral tones of a specimen of the 
other gender; and as it continued to increase in force,and emphasis,my curiosity waa 
aroused to know from whom proceeded this admirable flow of harmony and eloquence. 

“ Pray, who is down stairs, talking so earnestly ?” said I, as my fellow-boarder 
opened my door. 

“ It’s old--,” replied she, naming a notorious professor; “ he’s trying to get 

some of the girls to attend his lectures. Run down now, if you want to see him, for 
I suppose he ’ll go away soon.” 

I had heard considerable about the gentleman, and felt quite a portion of Mother 
Eve’s frailty prompting me to “ go and see for myself;” and so, as did the Queen of 
Sheba, when she wished to satisfy her own eyes respecting the wise monarch of old, 

I resolved to enter the august presence. There was no time to be lost, for, judging- 
from the quick intonations which had assailed my ears, I expected that “ business 
was to be done in short metre;” so, hastily twisting together the locks which were 
dangling around my face and eyes, and sticking them all together, with a comb, at 
the top of my cranium, I descended, bare-armed and shoeless, to the place of exhibi¬ 
tion. I dropped, unobserved, into a chair near the door, from which I had an excellent 
view of the scene and actors. The professor, a tall, stalwart man with a frock-coat, 
and—but I will not stop to describe him, for I presume many of you have seen him, 
and the rest may be assured that he is a sort of a unique, a non-descript, whb would 
require the pencil of a Hogarth, or the goose-quill of a Boz, to do him justice; and a 
sight of whom is certainly worthy of some effort; but I will endeavor to give you 
some slight idea of the deportment of this highly refined, and exceedingly intellectual, 
gentleman , in a factory boarding-house. He was vehemently holding forth to three 
girls, one of them the inmate of a neighboring tenement, when l entered. 

“ Now, ladies,” said he, showing his teeth, and rubbing his hands together, and 
then wringing them, and twisting them all manner of ways; “ now, ladies, only 
think—two shillings—only two shillings for a ticket, which will admit you to a whole 
course of my lectures—did you ever see any thing so cheap in your life—now you 
will go, wont you now ?” 

“ 1 have been once to ^our lectures,” replied M., “ and I dofl’t ckre about going 

“ When did you go?” asked the gentlemen. 

“ When you lectured in the Methodist meeting-house,” was her'reply. 



“ Oh, that was just after I had been burned out ; I had lost almost all my things 
then—had n’t half so many as I ’ve got now. Now I know you’d like to’go, and see 
my new pictures. Now should n’t you ?” and he shew his teeth again, in what he 
intended should be a most winning manner, and wrung his hands with renewed energy. 

u I do not care about going,” returned M. 

“ Well, these ladies will go, now I know they will,” said , he, turning to the other 
two, and the ivory was most bountifully displayed ; “ only think, ladies, only'two 
shillings, for a whole course—there could n’t be any thing cheaper now, could there ? 
Why, the old witch there, Madame Adolph, asks you half a dollar for telling your 
fortunes; doing nothing only jest telling your fortunes; and when you go to the Cir¬ 
cus, you have to give twenty-five cents. Now you see I do n’t charge but two shil¬ 
lings for a whole course of six lectures, only think now, not fourpence ah evening, 
and you ’ll get some ideas now that you ’ll never get rid of as long as you live. 

Oh dear! how dry I am, talking so much—wont you hand me some sweetened 
water, ma’am .?—have it pretty Bweet, ma’am. I took three dollars over to Mrs. H.’s, 
and didn't have to talk half so long as I have here ; only think now, only jest two 
shillings, for six lectures, and you ’ll get some ideas that wHl last you always—two 
shillings, that’s always my price.” 

“How many are there in your class?” asked B. 

“Four or five hundred, ma’am—why they come from all the houses along here, the 
landladies and all, ma’am. I have six or eight from some of the houses, and did n’t 
have to talk half so long as I have here. Yes, ma’am, I’ve got four or five hundred, 

“ Then you’ve got enough without me,” replied she, flouncing out of the room. 

“Oh stop, ma’am,” cried he, following her, so swiftly that he shew his 
teeth, and rub his hands, “stop, ma’am—there ’ll be plenty of room; you wont be at 
all crowded, ma'am;” but she was already out of sight, and hearing. 

“ Well, ladies,” said he, as he returned to the room, not in the least disconcerted, 
and showing his teeth, and rubbing his hands, as amiably as ever, “ now you will go, 
wont you ?—you two may go for fifty cents. I put it down so low because you , 
ma’am,” said he, turning to M., “have patronized me before. Oh dear, how tired I 
am, talking, and dry too,” he added, drinking a tumbler full of molasses and water, 
which looked as though, in compliance with his request to have it “pretty sweet,” it 
was about “ half and half.” 

“ Now, ma’am,” he recommenced, after drawing a long breath, “ you see how cheap 
I put you—that’s because you patronized me before, and I do really want you to see 
my new scenery, you can’t think how splendid it is—I know you ’ll never repent it 
as long as you live, and you see how cheap I put you—that’s because you went be¬ 
fore, ma’am. You and thid lady may go for fifty cents ; only twenty-five cents apiece 
—did you ever see anything cheaper, ma’am ?” 

“ I do not care about going,” replied M. 

“ Well now, ma’am, you’d better go. I know you will like—you can’t help it— 
every body likes my lectures that go to hear ’em,” and he grinned again, and rubbed 
his hands, and poured out some more molasses and water. 

“ Oh dear, my lungs are sore, talking so long. 1 ’ll tell you what I ’ll do, ma’am; 
if you ’ll get three of your friends to come with you—any three you choose—I ’ll let 
you have a ticket that will admit four persons for a dollar; that ’ll let you in for noth¬ 
ing, ma’am. I ’ll call you nobody, ma’am—that’s because you patronized me before, 
ma’am—and I do want you to see my new pictures; did you ever have a better offer 
than that, ma’am? Only think, you ’ll get all yours for nothing—did you ever see 
any thing cheaper in your life—now you will go—won’t you now?” and he grinned 
again, and sipped some more molasses and water.. 

“Why now, madam,” said he, turning from M. to the ‘stranger girl,’ “if you ’ll 
only come, you ’ll see things that you never saw in all your life before; the sun, and 
moon, and planets, and eclipses and the little insects magnified as big as a hoss , ma’am, 
and you ’ll see the great comet, with a great tail to it—and the eclipses come on, and 
go off, jest as if you was away up in the sky—and you ’ll see the moon,with her sharp 
horns, and how she looks when she is magnified—and you ’ll see the sun to be inhab¬ 
ited jest like this earth —folks there fifty miles high—and the dark spots—them are the 
shaddersy and you ’ll see the mountains—and a little grain of sand magnified as big as 
a goose egg—now you will go—this lady ’ll tell you that I speak the truth—she’s pa¬ 
tronized me before, and I ’m well known here, ma’am; you will go, wont you now ?” 
and he grinned again, and twisted his hands together, and then drank some more mo¬ 
lasses and water. 

“ I will go if M. will go with me,” she replied. 



“ Oh, she will go, wont you now ?” said he, turning to M., “ only fifty cents for 
you two, and if you ’ll get two more, you may all go for a dollar—I ’ll call you nobody, 
ma’am, that's because you patronized me before, when I lectured at the Methodist 
meeting-house—did you ever see anything cheaper—and here’s my books—only a 
ninepence a piece, if you ’ll all go to the lectures—full of pictures—only look here— 
and here’s the very things that you will see—all in a book, that you can carry home 
to show to your friends, and then keep it forever—see here *s a drop of water magni¬ 
fied—got twelve thousand living creatures in it, and all of’em different—twelve thou¬ 
sand, ma’am, and I don’t know how many more—and here’s a fly with five hundred 
eyes, all over his body—and here’s the animals in vinegar, as big as a goat, 

with horns to ’em, and you ’ll see ’em sticking their horns into one another—and here’s 
the little things that bite and torment you so,” said he, turning to a flea, I presume, 
and he rubbed his bandstand showed his teeth, and drank some more molasses and 
water. “ My lungs are really sore talking so much. I did not talk quarter so long 
at Mrs. H.’s, and I took three dollars there—now you will go, won’t you? what ’stwo 
shillings? jest nothing at all. I know you make good wages, ma’am, and fifty cents 
if you will both go, and only a dollar if you will get three more—that’s because you 
patronized me before—and I do really want you to see my pictures, ma’am—now you 
may get any one to go with you that you ’re a’mind to—a beau, if you have one—have 
you got one ? if you have just bring him with you, and you can set there together— 
and you ’ll see the eclipses—the eclipse of the moon—and the great shadder will come 
on to it, that’s -the shadder of the sun; now you will go, wont you? You got any 
beau to bring with you, hey ?” and he displayed the ivory more lavishly than ever, and 
rubbed his hands with tenfold ardor, and then he drank again at the molasses and 
water. Just then he happened to espy me, and, with a fell swoop, he pounced upon 
what he thought would be a new disciple. 

“ Now you will go, wont you, ma’am ?” and he grinned till his mouth extended 
from one ear to the other, “only think it will be only two shillings for six lectures, 
most entertaining things you ever heard of, you could n’t spend your time more agree- 
ably. Now there’s Mr. Wilbur come here to lecture, but he’s got to go away again, 
because my lectures have put his completely down. I have n’t a word to say against 
him; he ’b a clever man enough, but he ha’ n’t got any tact—now you will go and 
hear mine, won’t you, ma’am ?” 

M I cannot,” was the decided reply. 

“ Why, what is the reason ?” said he. 

M I have got four looms to attend to,” said I, after endeavoring to think of some 
other reason. 

“ Well, ma’am, these lectures will be in the evening you know,” and he grinned 
most graciously upon me, and then he rubbed his hands again, and sipped some more 
molasses and water. 

“ I have many engagements for the evening,” I replied, “ beside being usually very 
much fatigued.” 

“ What do you do, ma’am ? do you write ? Do you write for the Lowell Offering?”. 

“ Sometimes,” was the cool reply. 

“ Well, how much do they give you ? how much do you make? as much as two 
hundred dollars a year—and you ’ve got now a thousand dollars in the bank as likely 
as not—and you’ve got a mind, ma’am. Now it’s of no use for those folks that have n’t 
any minds, to try to learn any thing—but you’ve got a mind, ma’am, (in a whining 
sing-song tone,) God has given us Faculties, which we ought to improve—immortal 
souls which will never die, and we should cultivate our minds by becoming acquaint¬ 
ed with the wonderful works of nature, spread everywhere around us,”—but just then 
he caught a glimpse of another transient visitor, who had entered the door, and, dart¬ 
ing at her, he again went through with his evolutions. 

But I will weary you no longer—it may Suffice to say that M. and one more of our 
boarders consented to go, to get rid of him. But he entreated of her to use her influ¬ 
ence with her other fellow-boarders, whom he deeply regretted that he could not see, 
and then after promising—no threatening —to make us another visitation at some meal 
time, when we should be in, he drained the pitcher of the molasses and water, put on 
his farewell grin, pocketed his cash, and rubbed his hands together till he was out of 
the house. 

“Comments are unnecessary.” 


akt» mag Asians. 

JANUARY, 1 8 4 8. 


1 was proud. The scathkigs of misfortune withered the parent tree, and 
. the nestlings, which it sheltered, were scattered. I could not brook a callous 
look, or a careless word, from those who had bowed, or envied, and I sought 
a distant scene, where none might know that life had ever other hopes, than 
the humble ones at which I then might aim. A mother’s smothered sob, 
and a sister’s uncontrolled grief, were the last sounds that reached my ear 
from the home that had nourished my infancy, and sheltered my childhood. 
But I turned not. Pride-—deep, indomitable pride, sent me forth into the 
world to learn to live, to bow, or to die. 

Youth’s sweet and holy affections, its bright anticipations, its trust, and its 
confidence, were all garnered into the urn of the Past. Proudly, and as cold 
as proud, I sought the struggle of life, its anxieties and cares, and their re¬ 

To learn to live, was to create new hopes, to arouse new sympathies, aftd 
to awaken new affections. To live is, to hope; to fee!, to love. Lifer, with 
its emotions, severed from the past, its aspirations unconnected with the fu¬ 
ture, is a paralytic existence. The spirit which animates, or the life Which 
is* is not of yesterday, of to-day, nor of to-morrow; h exists forever. And 
an object, which concentrates, and confines our aim to the present, stagnates 
our progression, and palsies our action. Onward, onward is the law written' 
upon human nature. Hope connects us with the future. And whdn we 
cease to hope—when we exist but to eat and sleep, which are ever-present 
wants—we eat not for the morrow—we sleep not for the future—^then we 
cease to live, in the true meaning of life, 

I had ceased to hope. The future had naught for me: in the waves df 
the Past were buried all the sweet sympathies which bind heart and kind. 
Pride, with its moral sirocco, had desolated the soul, I was alone ! Alone ! 
and amid the recesses of a desolate heart the sound reverberated $ the echo 
answered, “ lone!” 

And could Z learn to bow ? Could my proud soul cringe, or play the 
sycophant to its equal humanity ? J bom to my fellow worm ! I had hot 
learned to bow to the Great Cause who fashioned me; my heart rebelled* 
against His punishment; and I scorned the puny lordliftg, who arrogated 
the power* and claimed the reverence, due to Jehovah \ 

vox.. in. 7 



And yet, to live, in the general acceptation of the term, man must submit, 
and yield to his brother man; he must learn to be a slave, to crouch to him 
to whom circumstances have given, or his own tact has secured, more of the 
luxuries and possessions which exalt man with man. 

Man makes the adventitious matter, the substance pertaining, the man— 
his life the time, or period to gain it. And with man, he who accumulates 
and gathers together wealth, possessions, and money, lives a true life. Is it 
so with God ? He has given us intellect, emotions, and affections. The 
Christian world receive their ritual as His inspiration. And doth that vol¬ 
ume teach the Idea, which men cling and bow to, as the Great Good ? 
Christendom professes Christianity; it is actuated more by the principles 
which were inculcated by the Prophet whose shrine is at Mecca. The Bible 
teaches 44 love to’ 1 their 44 neighbortheir actions proclaim their considera¬ 
tion for his possessions. Could I but scorn their hypocrisy ? Could I but 
turn in bitterness from their mockery, which said 44 God,” but knelt to 
4 Mammon ?” The example of Jesus Christ taught that gbodness was great¬ 
ness ; the example of men, that greatness was goodness. 

I looked into the pages of Inspiration, and found truth and purity incul¬ 
cated ; I looked into the hearts of men, and found deceit and vice. I turned 
again to the instructions of Wisdom, and found unity and harmony; among 
men, I found strife and discord. In the one, I found beauty and sublimity; 
in the other, deformity and grovelling inclinations. 

Was the error in their Creator? Had He made man incapable of be¬ 
coming what He had commanded him to be ? The idea was preposterous. 

I scanned still deeper the mystery of the human heart; and it seemed 
that men even sought with words to cheat the Great Almighty ? They 
might be sincere in their belief—they might think that their appreciation of 
truth was correct; but, if the Sacred .Volume taught truth and duty, but few 
men lived true lives. Scorning, as 1 did, the great mass, for their opinions 
I had no respect. It was of their acts I judged. I had learned that it was 
easy for men to say good things; I asked that they should also perform them. 
Words were as wind; acts spoke the deep principle. I Risked no sympathy 
for myself; but I looked to find it exercised by others, for others. They 
had bonds of union; I had none. **♦* *#*♦ 

Years passed; and I again stood beneath foe roof that had been my home. 
There I had known love, kindness and affection. When I had rushed forth 
into the turmoil of the world, my departure had caused sadness and grief. 
Was my return greeted with joy ? A stranger had'met me. I knew that 
my mother, and my sister, (the last ties of kindred) slept beneath the sur¬ 
face of the grave-yard. And yet, an impulse, or destiny I could not with¬ 
stand, had sent me there to see how much my callous soul could bear, I 
shunned not the infliction of mental agony; I refined foe torture of my spirit; 
I sought the home of my childhood, when I knew that every voice foal; had 
created the melody of its happiness, was hushed in death. 

I stood by the graves of the loved ones ; I asked why they were taken, 
and I was left ? If they had lived, they might have done good; I had pur¬ 
posed none—r-had accomplished none. Why the fruitful tree cut down ? 
Why the barren one still spared ? Yes, I even presumed to question the 
goodness of the Great God ? 

There, above the graves of the sacred dead r I still stood, in the might of a 
proud and haughty soul, and dared to ask why it was so! 

; And then came the hallowed influence of the kindly affections—the mem¬ 
ory of the past, when I was too happy to be proud. My soul melted within 



me. It seemed as though they still lived, and hovered in love around my 
head; that God had, in His mercy, but removed them fVom the trials and 
temptations of this life to the enjoyment of perfect bliss. Should I murmur,, 
and rebel because He had done so ? I had; and why ? Because it af¬ 
flicted me. My pride and sorrow were rebuked. The selfishness of my 
grief, the more than selfishness of my pride, I now saw. 

I could not but mourn our separation, but I knew that it was Love as well 
as Power, that had bereaved me; and in that hour, the bitterness of life 
passed. I learned to bow in humble resignation to the will “ of Him who 
cannot err.” , 

I had been stricken; but it was necessary to humble the rebellion of my 
proud heart. I had been left alone in the world; but was it not necessary 
to enlarge the sphere of my affections ? I had loved those who were my 
own so much, that I forgot u love for my neighbor.” The dead had been 
my world. I had even forgotten to love God. 

Humility was my first lesson of true life; and, humbled, I learned to 4>e 
resigned. And when I learned resignation, I knew and felt love. And to 
love Jehovah, begets love for the beings whom He has created: and I 
ceased to be a misanthrope . 

Death had taught me life. And when I again sought and mingled with 
my fellow-men, I had learned that the carpings of criticism were not of love; 
that in seeking for the errors of others, I had not corrected my own; that 
to me^also, were the commands of faith, love, and duty; and the practice of 
these was life. God, by the blessings of His chastisements, had taught me 
to live; and to learn to live is to learn to die . Grace. 


Axn hast thou passed away ? 

So like the cloud that gilds the summer sky ? 

Or like the flowers that bloom but for a day,' 
And then, at eve, in scattered ruin lie. 

Yes, time with thee is o’er— 

Thy days are numbered, and thy spirit ’g fled 
To greet thy Saviour, on that sunny shore. 

And thou art Bleeping with the dreamless dead. 

No more doth thy sweet voice 
Salute our ears, when timorous morning wakes; 
Nor dost thou round our hearth rejoice, 

When pensive eve her starry sceptre takes. 

Thou ’st yielded up thy breath— 

Those lips, that spoke sweet oracles of love, 
Are chill’d by the transforming wand of death, 1 
Yet still we trust thou ’rt praising God above. 

Free from turmoil and pain, 

For thy short pilgrimage did heaven-ward tend; 



’T were sacrilege to wish tbee here again, 

“That life is long that answers life's great end.” 

Down, where the mighty rest, * 

Thou now art sleeping, in an ocean tomb, 

While liquid monntains roll above thy breast, 

Where mortal ken can never pierce the gloom. 

For thee no sculptured stones, 

Or storied urn, can ere direct the eye, 

Where peacefully repose thy mouldering bpnes, 

On which to breath ..affection’s purest Bigh. 

It matters not to tbee 

That thy long rest be where the sea-gods sleep. 

Or at thy home, beneath thy favorite tree, 

Where kindred bosoms o’er the turf might weep. 

A monument is raised 

For thee, in many a bosom’s bleeding shrine; 

And often has griefs bitter fountain laved 
That sacred spot, where tenderest fibres twine. 

Mournful that home has grown, 

Where purest friendship ruled the passing hour; 
Ftfhereal sadness there its shade hath thrown, 

And wreathed her cypress garlands round its bower. 

Amidst the festal glee, 

Where youth and beauty throng the gilded halls, 
There, deep remembrance often turns to thee, 

And silently thine image oft recalls. 

Oh, thou of sterling worth, 

In whose deep heart the gem of truth was shrined, 
Alas! can worth like thine be called from earth. 
And the surviving bear it not in mind ? 

But time will still our cries; 

It tempers love, and moderates our grief; 

With lenient hand it wipes our weeping eyes. 

And hope-to-meet-again brings sweet relief. 

When Christ shall ope the grave, 

And the deep sea unlocks its charnel door, 

When friend and foe, the good man and the knave, 
Shall, eye to eye, see them they’ve known before; 

O, Men, we hope to meet 
Our long lost one, our brother and our friend : 

God grant thy spirit then, our souls may greet, 

And seal us Hfs, for bliss that knows no end. 

M. B. G. 




A few years since, in the course of a journey by stage-coach, I stopped 
to change stages, at a pretty village in the vaUey of the Connecticut river. 
In the sitting-room to which 1 was shown, I found two young ladies, whom I 
soon learned were to be fellow-passengers for a portion of my remaining 
journey. > Their acquaintance was soon made; and in the midst of our fa* 
miliar chat, the landlord entered the room: 

“ Ladies,” said he, “ it is but fair to inform you, that you will have an 
English traveller, and 4 celebrated book-maker, for your companion this 

“ Of the Trollope order ?’ r eagerly inquired the youngest of my new ac¬ 

“That remains to be ascertained,” answered the landlord; “but I have 
given you fair warning, and if you get into his book, you must not blame 
me.” And with a laugh, and a courteous bow, he retired. 

“ Good!” exclaimed the fair querist of the landlord, the moment that the 
door was closed. 44 1 never anticipated the distinguished honor of figuring 
upon the pages of any book; but if I do not get noticed by this English 
journalist, it will be because I have not wit enough to manufacture some in¬ 
cident so entirely outrageous that he will decide it to be a purely American 

“ But surely, miss,” I remarked, “ you would not give a stranger an er¬ 
roneous and unjust impression of our mannere, or,intelligence?” 

“ A John Bull could not conceive a just impression of any thing found out 
of the south part of that island, called Great Britain,” she rejoined. 

“ At any rate, we may profit by their pointing out our errors to us.” 

44 It does not become them so to do; and I question, miss,” she continued, 
“ whether impertinent reproof ever did, or ever will do any good, either to 
communities, or individuals. To illustrate the position of these foreign scrib¬ 
blers : Would it not be the very height of rudeness, for a man to enter the 
house of a stranger, uninvited , and not finding the regulations to his taste, to 
say, 4 Here, sir, I am not pleased with many things that I see. Your house 
I like, the furryture is very well, but every thing is horribly arranged. This 
piece ought to be in that room; that picture is hung completely in the shade 
and thus go on until every thing' was, or, as he suggested, ought to be, revo¬ 
lutionized. And then go farther; 4 1 am not pleased with your servants. 
Some of them are dunces, the rest knaves; and I assure you,.no man of 
sense would allow them to serve him. Neither am I pleased with the dis¬ 
posal of your property. That dividend in right belongs to this son—those 
shares to the other—and of what use to you is your real estate ? Give this 
farm to this neighbor’s son—and that tract of land to another. Gratitude is 
one of the strongest ties of our nature, and by bestowing these benefits upon 
neighbors, you will call forth a deeper and stronger affection than your own 
children will requite you with, for the good that you do them. And thus 
continue enumerating his possessions, and suggesting their proper disposal.. 
What do you think? that if some unimportant suggestion was just, that the 
whole mass of impertinence would be listened to, with a pleased counte¬ 
nance, and a 4 thank you, Sir,’ or that the impudent meddler would be kicked 
down stairs, with the admonition that when his opinions were wished, they 
would be solicited? Well; nations are but families on a larger s_*ale,. 



and, wo to the foreign wight, in any nation, who presumes his advice to bet¬ 
ter its institutions, manners or customs.” 

“ I have hardly time,” I rejoined, 4 - to correct the fallacy of your illustra¬ 
tion. The coach is at the door ; but you have not attempted to justify the 
imposition which you have avowed your intention of perpetrating.” 

44 I have no intention or justifying it,” she replied. u I am ambitious of 
•getting into print, which I have no hopes of doing unless I die, or get mar¬ 
ried. I need not wait for either event, if I can make this gaping English¬ 
man believe that I aip a prime American specimen . I believe that 4 uncle 
. John Bull ’ calls him clever. I want 4 brother Jonathan * to call me 4 cafe. 1 
•But I perceive that I shall not have any of your assistance; promise me, too, 
that you will not interfere.” 

“ Upon the condition that I am not, in any way, appealed to, or referred to.® 

44 Agreed,” she rejoined, and turning to her companion, who had remain¬ 
ed perfectly silent during our colloquy, 44 Sarah,” said she, 44 you must assist 
me if I want. I have not thought what unheard of barbarism (alias Amer - 
tcanism) I shall perpetrate, for the sole use and behoof of this collector of 
curious specimens. I have this to console me, that even if my imagination N 
is not very active, as our fellow passenger is an Englishman, he will be able 
to masticate and swallow as much as a boa constrictor.” 

44 AH ready!” interrupted the landlord, throwing open the door. 

As we passed out, I saw my talkative companion speak for a moment 
aside with her friend; and then they followed me to the coach. 

Determined not to have any part or lot in the matter, I enveloped myself 
in impenetrable silence, and drawing my veil closely over my face, waited 
to see the denouement of the scene. 

It is unnecessary to describe thd English traveller; he has since shown 
that he noted not my presence, and I can be excused for forgetting aught of 
him, save that he was there. 

A silence ensued for several miles, and I began to hope that my fair lady’s 
•courage was not quite equal to her will; but when I noticed the keen, intel¬ 
ligent manner with which she scanned the traveller, my mind misgave me, 
and half fearing, half amused, I awaited the result. 

The traveller remained silent, as we have since learned, depending more 
upon his power of observation, than trusting to die authority of a 4 demo¬ 
cratic ’ licensed tongue, whether in a feminine or masculine head. This, 
evidently, was not what his 44 fellow passenger ” had anticipated, or wished. 

I could see she began to grow uneasy, and after casting a glance at me, and 
then at her friend, she abruptly, but in an indifferent tone, remarked, 

44 That’s rather a pretty bonnet of yours, miss.” 

But I must remark, that if the traveller here referred to, was as literally 
correct in all his descriptions of American incidents, as in the dialogue which 
ensued between the two ladies, we assuredly have but very little to complain 
of, respecting his veracity. In relating the dialogue, I shall use his own his¬ 
tory of the affair, save a little correction of the phraseology, which I do not 
remember verbatim et literatim , as he has recorded it. He says: 

44 But now to my fellow passengers—both young, both good looking, both 
ladies, and evidently strangers to each other. One had a pretty pink silk 
bonnet, very fine for travelling; the other, an indifferent plush one. The 
young lady in the plush, eyed the pink bonnet for some time; at last Plush 
observed, in a drawling, half indifferent way, 

44 That’s rather a pretty bonnet of yours, miss.” 

44 Why, yes, I think it is rather pretty,” replied Pink. 


1 * 

They both paused, and the lady, whom the traveller had named Pftisto, 
was evidently endeavoring to collect her assurance, and command her cotm- 
tenance. After a few moments, she again commenced. 

44 Would you have any objection to part with it, miss ?” 

u I don’t know ; I have not had it but three days.” 

44 Indeed ? I should have supposed that it had been worn longer—per¬ 
haps it rained.” 

44 It has not rained, nor should I have been obliged to have worn it, even 
if it had—it’s not the only bonnet I have, miss.” 

44 Well, I should like to exchange, paying you the balance." 

44 That’s an awful thing you have on, miss,” said Pink mischievously. 

44 1 rather think not, but that is as may be—what will you take ?” 

44 1 don’t know—what will you give ?” 

44 My question takes the precedence.” 

44 Well, then, five dollars.” 

44 Five dollars! and my bonnet! two would be nearer the value—but its 
of no consequence.” 

44 None in the least, but I know the value of my bonnet." 

44 We ’ll say no more about it.” 

44 Just so.” 

And Plush put her head out of the window, to conceal the smile which 
She could no longer restrain. She saw that the traveller’s attention was en¬ 
gaged, and that was her aim. After a successful effort to command her 
countenance, she said, as if talking to herself, but sufficiently audible for 
him to hqar, * 

44 1 should not mind giving four dollars, but no more." And then she 
turned from the window. 

Pink heard the remark, but feared to encounter the eyes of her friend, 
lest their mutual mirth should spoil their sport, and she turned to the oppo¬ 
site window, until she could subdue her risibility. * 

44 1 would take four dollars, if it was offered,” she remarked in the same 
tone, and with the same tact of her companion. And then she resumed he* 
former position. 

44 Did you think of taking four dollars, miss,” inquired Miss Plush. 

44 Well, I don’t care, I have a plenty of bonnets at home," replied MisS 

44 Well,” rejoined Plush taking out her purse, and offering the money. 

44 What bank is this, miss ?” 

44 Oh, it is right—Safety Fund money.” * 

The two ladies exchanged bonnets, and Miss Pink pot the balance in her . 

A few moments after, the traveller took put his note book, and after mak¬ 
ing a few memorandums, replaced it in his pocket. 

Miss Plush’s mirth at this juncture, I thought would have betrayed her de¬ 
sign, but she subdued it before the traveller had done with his memorandum 

We separated from our English journalist at the next stage, where the 
bonnets were resumed by their original owners. 

44 What do you anticipate from your bargain ?” I inquired of my young 

44 Oh,” she replied, 44 undoubtedly, he will suppose it a characteristic spec¬ 
imen of American propriety , and possibly may add that it is a usual method 
of American ladies, in buying bonnets. Or perhaps that our milliners thus 



senft out their pretty apprentices to dispose of their stock in trade. At any 
rate, no American will believe that such a circumstance did occur, and they 
will credit it to his invention, and deep love of truth”— 

44 The stage for »■■■ — - is ready,” said a porter, putting his head into the 
door. And 1 parted from my young bonnet speculators. 

The interpretation which was put upon the transaction has been long be¬ 
fore the public, and—but— 44 WeHl say no more about it,” Kate. 


Curiosity is an innate principle possessed by man, which manifests itself 
in a desire to gratify the mind, by continually making new discoveries. Its 
j&enith is not, like that of instinct, coeval with our existence, but like knowl¬ 
edge it is progressive. 44 The more we know, the more we wish to know,” 
is an ancient adage ; and it is curiosity which stimulates us with a desire to 
know more. Thus we see that, as we advance in knowledge, our curiosity 
also increases. Curiosity has been justly denominated one of the most prom¬ 
inent characteristics of a vigorous intellect. To the student, it is the charm 
of study. A person who. does not wish to gain information, may, and must 
certainly, always remain in ignorance. But one who has a desire to increase 
in knowledge, will be prompted by curiosity to persevere, and by this means 
he will find himself continually increasing his store of knowledge. It may 
be truly affirmed, that almost every improvement that has ever been made, 
or ever will be made, in the arts and sciences, must be connected, in some 
degree, with curiosity. We frequently hear individuals say, 44 now that my 
curiosity is excited, l will search into the thing.” In such instances the motto 
44 Pll try,” should always accompany curiosity ; and an individual, prompted 
by these stimulants, will seldom fail to accomplish his design. 

The mind of a Franklin is not to be satisfied by being assured of the sim¬ 
ple fact that circumstances are thus and thus ; and it is curiosity that prompts 
Buch an intellect to search out the hidden treasures of knowledge,and doubly 
enjoy the feast, by communicating to others an acquaintance with the why 
and wherefore. When Sir Isaac Newton observed an apple failing from a 
tree, he felt curious to know what power brought it downward ; and he la¬ 
bored until he was er^bled to communicate to the world, a knowledge of 
that power which retains our earth and her sister planets in their respective 
places. But the influence which curiosity exerts upon the minds of different 
individuals is not always the same ; many persons pervert the benefits which 
they might otherwise derive from this manifestation of the mind. They do 
this by indulging in an idle curiosity, or a propensity to be always asking 
some trivial question, an answer to which could not possibly benefit them, 
and • to which it is exceedingly perplexing for others to listen ; especially so 
for those who do not wish to spend time in talking much about nothing. 
When curiosity leads us to inquire into a subject, we should first let reasqp 
teach us whether it ia worthy of our investigation. S'. F. L. 




“ How many scenes of by-gone days Will old pictures bring to mind,” 
thought Ada Morely,asshe turned her eyes from examining an old painting, 
by an Italian artist. It was a Gothic church, almost concealed by the rich 
foliage that surrounded it; in the rear was the grave-yard, in country style, 
for it appeared to be a rural scene; a little to the right stood the parsonage 
house, for, in olden times, such a house was considered a necessary appen¬ 
dage to the church itself; the woodbine and jessamine were carefully twined 
about the trellis work that shaded the door, and on each side of the smoothly 
rolled gravel walk bloomed the fairest flowers of the sunny south. 

“ How like my own dear home it seems,” mused Ada, as she turned to 
take a second look, “ only those old trees are wanting where I played in 
happy childhood, unconscious of the dark and obscure road that lay before 
me, for then naught but sunlight danced in my pathway, and catching but¬ 
terflies, chasing grasshoppers, gathering flowers, and watching the bees, was 
my task for. the day. And all was peace within the interior of my early 
home, as I saw it then; but I saw not all, for to me everything looked too 
bright and joyous. 

“ Shall I describe to you an evening, as I remember it, under the shade 
of those old trees. It was a summer evening, so calm, so still, that the slight 
stir of the foliage seemed like the rushing of tiny feet, as if the fairies were 
holding a festival there. My father, mother, and infant sister, were seated 
on a long bench, that extended from one tree to another; my venerable 
grandfather occupied the great arm chan*, an heir loom, which had been in 
the family for centuries; his chin was resting on a huge cane, his compan¬ 
ion from Warsaw, for he was from Poland, the land of the brave; a smile 
lighted up his intelligent countenance, as thoughts of happier days passed 
through his mind, and I was skipping about with Lure, the house dog, load¬ 
ing him with flowers, to see him shake them off at the feet of the veteran; 
then he drew me to him, that I might sit down by them, to which gentle 
force I cheerfully yielded; at the same time asking my grandfather what he 
was thinking about.” 

4i I was thinking, my dear,” said he, “ how like sentinels these old trees 
look, clothed in the glittering moonlight, and bidding defiance to the loud 
pealing thunder, and the quick flashing lightning; and see how beautifully 
that one looks, waving its long slender arms, to keep all intruders at a dis¬ 
tance ; and, as they cast their lengthened shadows far down the avenue, do 
they not resemble a standing arm)', perhaps to guard the frontier, or it may 
be to weep by the tomb of Kosciusko.” 

“ But, grandfather,” said I, “ will you not tell me something of Poland, 
and why you came here ?” 

u Certainly, my child, but not now: it is too sad a story for one so young 
to hear. - I will only say, at present, that America is very dear to me, on 
account of my lamented countryman, the brave and noble Koscuisko. Here 
I have the satisfaction to know that I am in the land of the free; and though 
I may be buried far from kindred and friends, it will be with the knowledge that 
it is upon the soil where the name of Kosciusko will ever be remembered, 
and where fallen Poland will ever be dear, for here are the sons of liberty.” 

The old man ceased speaking, choked with emotion, for I had uncon¬ 
sciously stirred a fountain, which lay deep in his breast, and that had long 
slumbered. * * * * 



How many changes have passed over me, since that evening of light and 
shade; all that sat with me there, are now laid low in the grave-yard, that 
so much resembles the one in the picture, and for long years have I been 
a wanderer from that spot, for I cannot bear to see it in the possession of 
strangers; no, I cannot stand by, and calmly see all that should be mine, 
enjoyed exclusively by others, f am not philosopher enough for that; 
but I would wish that when my spirit takes its flight to a 44 better land,” my 
earthly remains may repose in that old family tomb, around which I used to 
plant the earliest and the latest flowers of spring and autumn, while, to watch 
them, was my morning and evening care. ^Though we may be wanderers 
and aliens in this world of ours, there is a time coming, when we shall all 
be gathered together in that House where there are 44 many mansions,” and 
the pure in heart will wander no more, for there will be no oppression there, 
or separation of friends from friends. Isabella. 


Is it alone in the imagination of the poet, in the wild dreams of fancy, the 
eye of the painter, or the mind of the sculptor, that beauty dwells ? Has it 
no substantial abiding place amid earth’s sublunary objects ? In our own 
fair land, can we behold no traces of its existence ? or must we soar away 
to other climes, where brighter skies and fairer flowers adorn the landscape ? 

There is beauty everywhere amid nature’s works; whether it is reflected 
from the calm and placid lake, or gleams forth in the mild radiance of the 
evening star; among the hills and dales of New England, or on the broad 
fields and fertile prairies of the far off West. We see it in the early spring¬ 
time, when the gentle showers, and bright sunshine, call forth each sprout¬ 
ing bud of forest glade and glen. In the long summer hours, scenes of 
beauty meet our eye, wherever we may roam, nor are traces of it wanting 
amid the varied hues which Autumn presents. It shines forth at early morn¬ 
ing, and at the silent evening hour, when the beauties of this lower world 
are shut out from our view, by the darkness which surrounds us. Then we 
can turn our eyes above, and behold it imaged in the stars of heaven. That 
sweet lay of the poetess contains much of truth, that 44 there is beauty in all 
our paths,’’ and could we but feel contented with our lot, and resigned to 
whatever \he will of Providence might direct, though the smiles of fortune 
rest not always upon us, or the voice of friendship fail upon our ears, still, 
though clouds might be round and about us for a season, the light of hope 
would ever and anon break forth, to guide us to a haven of peace and joy. 
Wherever there is a thankful spirit, and a contented mind, there does beauty 
dwell; beauty, such as fades not in an hour, and which neither the power of 
disease, nor the hand of time can e’er destroy. Claba. 

If team be shed 
O'er the early dead. 

Let them not be tears of sorrow; 

Though calm is their sleep, 

Though silent and deep, 

Yet the grave shall have its to-morrow. 




v (See Plate.) 

pa’rt first. 

’Twas summer night, and brightly fell 
The moonbeams in the fairies’ dell; 

And,'though it scarce was noon of night) 

Tet, in the brilliant flood of light, 

A fairy band might there be seen, 

Around their lovely elfin queen. 

And still, as night hours passed away, 

The group increased, and seemed more gay ; 

For sprites came flitting to the vale, 

Like leaves which float on autumn gale— 

So light the rustle of each wing, 

Which bore a form to that bright ring. 

Some of the elves came down from above, 

Like the moonbeams which fell through the shadowy grove j 
Some stole up from the thickets deep gloom, 

Like tiny ghosts raised from the last dark home; 

Some tripped over the glittering sward, 

With voices, and steps, in chiming accord; 

But the nosiest band, with mirthful shout, 

From the temple-ruins came trooping out, 

With their slender wands to the full moon raised, 

Whose magic tips in the soft light blazed, 

As forth from the lofty columns they danced, 

The moonlight over their fair forms glanced, 

While the gauzy wings, which they wayed in pride, 

With Luna’s rainbow hues were dyed. 

So lightly they tripped over rock, moss, and vine, 

They seemed like a group of shades to entwine— 

The shadows of sculptured beauty, which there, 

On the columns shone through the balmy air. 

But their voices were full of a mischievous life, « 

As they rose in the din of a mirthful strife, 

Till, at length, they joined in a chorus of sound, 

Which rang through the arches, and floated around; 
u Away, away, from the ruins old, 

- Where the shadows are dark, and the stones are cold ; 

Where the satyrs come, with their mocking glee, 

To spoil our sport, and harmony. 

Then away, away, over field, and fell, 

Where our queen awaits, in her mossy dell, 

For summons are sent, to every sprite, 

’ To join her ring, ere morning light.” 

A quick glance shot from the queen’s bright eye, 

As the noisy throng came hurrying by, 

But they quickly fell in the brilliant ring, 



When she raised her wand, and shook her wing; 

Their fluttering pinions were laid to rest, 

And each wand was crossed, on its owner’s breast. 

But she, the queen of that elfin band, 

Was the loveliest nymph of the fairy land, 

Like the moon, in a circle of silvery cloud, 

Stood she, so beautiful and proud; 

Or a glittering rock,-in the ocean wave, 

Whose base the sparkling foam-wreaths lave, 

So seeded she in the midst to stand, 

While round her danced the merry band. 

And when they ceased, her soft voice fell 
Like the echoing chimes of a distant bell, 

Yet it made them sad, though never, till now, 

Had she brought a shade o’er an elfln brow. 

“ Sisters! ne’er shall ye meet again 
In ruined arch, in dell, or plain— 

Ne’er shall ye meet, and join in song, 

For me, as queen of the fairy throng. 

Yet many a night have we blithely met, 

Often we’ve danced till the pale moon set— 

But never again shall ye all be seen 
To cross your wings to me, as queen. 

Yon mouldering arch was high and bare, 

Where clustering vines are scrambling there; 

The moon peeped not through the*pointed roof, 

The screeching satyrs were ever aloof; 

The lofty trees, which circle this vale, 

Were slender withes on the grassy dale, 

When I was crowned the chief of this band, 

When I was ihade queen of fairy land. 

To-night we part, and moonlight shall come, 

To bathe in brightness our lonely home; 

Far, far, away, each fairy must go, 

To the land of drought, or the land of snow, 

Or wheresoever she chooses to roam, 

• But forget not e’er the deserted home. 

And when the buds, which but just appear, 

Have blossomed, and died, and fruit has been here; 
When fruit time has passed, and leaves have decayed, 
And the wintry rains through the branches have strayed, 
When the buds have again peeped forth from the bough. 
Then, then, we will meet, as we meet even now. 

Then she, whose time has been spent the best, 

Shall be chosen the queen of all the rest— 

She, who the noblest trophy shall bring, 

Shall take my place in the fairy ring. 

Now, sisters, away ! for the moon grows pale, 

Away, away, from the elvin vale ; 

Twelve times that moon shall wax and wane, 

Ere, on this spot, we meet again.” 





“ Yet the world will see * 

Little of this, my parting work, in thee, 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the reed 
From storms a shelter,—give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine,— 

Give the parched flower a rain-drop, and the meed 
Of love is kind words to woman !” 

It was a Christmas eve, in merry England, and gaily chimed forth the 
evening bells from the far-distant churches, to summon ^the many worship¬ 
pers to their respective temples, dedicated to the Father of Him whose birth 
they were called to celebrate; and how many of the young and fair had 
looked forward to this evening, as a bright spot in their existence. Perhaps 
some gay party, or ball, was the theme, or the social meeting of dear friends, 
or it might be the return of a long-absent lover, who had been to foreign 
climes to fight in the defence of his king and country. But with all the 
pomp and splendor with which England, in her glory, can array herself, h 
cannot bring peace to the wounded heart; and how many such throbbed al¬ 
most to bursting, beneath the embroidered mantle, ot star of brilliants; and 
in how many that the world calls happy, could we be allowed to penetrate 
the deepest recesses of the heart, should we find the fire quenched upon the 
altar, and Hope, that bright messenger, sleeping or fled, and, in its place 
Misery brooding with Despair. ' 

It is well that the world sees not all—but to my story. 

I have said it was a Christmas eve, and far away from the noise and din 
of that great city, the metropolis of a mighty kingdom, where grandeur and 
poverty are placed side by side—in a quiet dell, was situated Ashton Hall } 
around which, bloomed much of the rural beauty, for which England is fco 
justly distinguished. It was an ancient pile, one of the few where the Gothic 
and Doric styles of architecture are blended. 

But hark! there is music there ; the low soft breathing of a lute, accom¬ 
panying a voice as'sweet and clear as the carol of a bird, and lights are flit¬ 
ting to and fro, and fairy forms, ever and anon, glide by the unshaded case¬ 
ments ; a festival is there, but we have naught to do with that. In a retired 
part of the building, in a high wainscotted apartment, hung with tapestry, 
upon which was wrought a variety of grotesque forms, that probably had 
cost a life time of labor, was seated a merry group of children. The fur¬ 
niture in the room, to say the least, had seen a century, yet all looked com¬ 
fortable, and happy, and the cheerful wood fire, that burned brightly on the 
hearth, lent an additional lustre to the sparkling eyes, that were assembled 

At length an elderly lady entered, upon which all the children sprang from 
their seats, and, as it were with one voice, exclaimed, 

“ Oh, grandmother, 

* We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year, 

With your pockets full of money, and your cellars full of beer.* M 



44 Oh, you little rogues,” said the old lady, laughing, 44 would you not ra¬ 
ther my pockets should be filled with sweetmeats, and my cellars full of ap¬ 
ples and pears?” 

44 Never mind the sweetmeats, grandmother,” said a slender, animated- 
looking girl, 44 or at least not now, for do you not remember that you have 
promised to tell us a story this evening ?” 

44 Well, well,” said the old lady, 44 what shall it be ?” 

“ Oh! let it be a history of that picture, that hdngs in your dressing-room,” 
echoed some half-dozen voices, 44 called 4 The Painter’s Last Work,’ for we 
have heard Aunt Rosiiine say that she can remember when you looked very 
much like it.” 

It wasThe portrait of a beautiful girl, just entering upon womanhood; a 
profusion of dark curls shaded her brow ; beautiful dark expressive eyes, the 
very mirrors of thought, with long fringed eyelashes, giving to the expres¬ 
sion a softness which nothing else could impart; the features were small, 
and rather Grecian in their regularity ; her slight delicate figure was arrayed 
in the Italian costume ; near her stood an English nobleman, of lofty bear¬ 
ing, and it appeared that to him she was showing a small painting, and as 
he gazes indifferently upon it, a tear is stealing in her eye. 

The design of the picture was truly poetical, indicating rare talent3, and 
deep thought. 

44 As you wish,” said the old lady, pensively, 44 it is a story of sunny Italy, 
and one that I have long wished might rest in oblivion; nevertheless, if it 
will make your young hearts glad on a Christmas eve, you shall hear it.— 
The original of that portrait was an Italian sculptor, possessing also talents 
for poetry, and music; she was a gifted being, and all who knew her loved 
the bright-eyed Inez Rossini. Among the many who visited her studio, was 
an English nobleman; she did not at first notice him, but he came often, 
and again and again bestowed much praise upon her work; but to herself 
he was cold and distant, as moonlight resting on a marble monument; as if he 
had said it was not woman’s appropriate duty to use the chisel and the brush. 

44 Time passed on, and it was rumored that the fair and gifted daughter of 
Italy loved the cold and reserved Englishman, and when others extolled her 
talents, she would say, 4 What avail my lofty gifts ? they cannot bring me 
happiness. Have 1 not loved, and vainly striven to bind one true, trusting 
heart to mine, where I might find a resting place for all this treasure of af¬ 
fection ? Rut let me pour my soul away in one last work, something that 
may speak to him, when I am gone, of the pure and lasting love he threw 
from him, as he would cast aside a faded flower, or a withered wreath.’ 

44 Night after night, she worked by the midnight lamp, praying for power 
to impart the history of her own being, *to the brow that she was forming. 
4 And thou shalt \Vear my form and features, only more fair, as if it were 
touched into a lovelier being, by the glow that dwells within my heart, ma¬ 
king my very wo beautiful to his sight, when I have passed away. Oh ! 
would that I could throw into this picture a voice, low and sweet as the mur¬ 
muring rill at the close of a summer day; or a thrilling voice of song, to 
pierce the cold clay that surrounds his heart, that was surely made for love ; 
but no, that cannot be. 

‘ Where’er I move, 

The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me, and around ! Too well they know, 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well, 



When there the blight hath settled;— but I go 
Under the silent wings of peace to dwell; 

From the slow wasting, from the loneljr pain, 

The inward burning of those words— “ in rain,” 

Sear'd on the heart—I go. * * * If I could weep 
Onoe, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 

Pouring my heart forth, ere I sink to rest! 

But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth’s gift is fame. Yet I was formed to be 
So richly blest! With thee to watch the sky, 

Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh; 

With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept ev’n as part of our sweet air along, 

To listen silently;—with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days. 

This had been joy enough.* 

But alas ,the smallest boon, if solicited by woman, is out of place. How 
fair thou art, bright form of my imagination, and yet a little longer, and all 
will be over. It will soon be passed ; and he, on whom my heart has be¬ 
stowed its richest treasure, shall know not what was given, he cannot know the 
deep love that dwells in the Italian maiden’s heart. 'But oh! m£y he not/ 
in the distant future, when others praise my worthless fame, that might have 
been all his.own? Oh! is it not worthless, since if cannot win for me the 
resting place I ask; for what are the plaudits of an admiring world, if the 
one adored object, that is all the world to me, looks coldly on ? May he not, 
I sometimes dream, be led to exclaim, ‘and such was the being that truly, 
devotedly loved me.” ' 

“ The work was at length completed, and it was pronbunced the greatest 
masterpiece that was ever executed by a female artist. Many came to ad¬ 
mire it, and among others, the English nobleman. How attentively did she 
watch his every movement, as if she would read the workings of that hedrt, 
that was all a mystery to her! He quickly recognised the resemblance, and 
his dark brows knit, and his lips became more firmly compressed, for his 
pride revolted at being made the subject of a fancy sketch, for the public 
eye to gaze upon; he muttered something of the imprudence of woman, and 
left the studio. She turned to look after him, but saw him not, for she felt 
the blood rush to her heart, like a mighty torrent; her brain became con¬ 
fused, almost to bursting, and strange figures flitted before her. It seemed 
as if her delicate statuary had been transformed into aged figures, with ani* 
mated life and motion, and moving thqir attenuated forms around her, in im¬ 
itation of a fairy dance. Her fine paintings had deserted their richly gilded 
frames, and had arrayed themselves before her wjth all the terrors of an 
Austrian army. She shrank hack, and gave a low moan, then burst into a 
wild maniac laugh, that contrasted strangely with her usual gravity of man¬ 
ners—in short she was mad; reason had been dethroned, a lingering fever 
followed, and, in her moments of* insanity, she would call on him, who was 
enshrined within her heart, to terminate her existence; and, at other times, 
she would bestow every endearing epithet upon him. He visited her often, 
for his indifference had not alb been real, though she had deemed it thus; 
for, in truth, he loved the Italian maiden but had sought to extinguish that 
love, as he had been informed that for many years her faith had been plight¬ 
ed to a Spanish gentleman, who boasted a long line of noble ancestory,whose 



riches princes might have envied; and he had, in part, received correct in¬ 
formation, though she was not actually betrothed. Their parents being am¬ 
bitious, were extremely desirous to promote the connection—and had circu¬ 
lated the story, well knowing that the noble Spaniard would, at any moment, 
marry the beautiful but portionless artist; and Inez might have complied 
with the wishes of her parents, had she never seen the fascinating English*’ 
man. And how happy was he to learn that her heart was not anther’s, and 
how anxiously did he watch her returning reason, and recovery to. health. 
And then came the mutual explanation, the parents consent to their union 
was obtained, and next was the bridal party, and separation from friends and 
home.. Think not that she left them all without a pang, all the classic relicts 
of her own loved Italy, and all the dear objects that had been her compan¬ 
ions from infancy. But she bade them all adieu, to accompany him, her 
‘bright particular star.’ And proudly did he bear his portionless bride to 
his old ancestral halls, and for many long years 4 The Painter’s Last Work* 
took a conspicuous place in that richly stored picture gallery, the resort of 
the gifted and the good, and she who had executed that rare painting, was 
all devotion to her lord and lover, though he never exercised authority, for, 
after he became an old man, he was heard to say, that though the object of 
his early love had lost all that personal beauty,which had been once so greatly 
admired—for where is the stoic that can look upon beauty with indifference? 
when, with it, are connected goodness of heart, and a cultivated mind—often 
was he heard to say that the fire burned as brightly upon love’s altar, as it 
did on the day they were betrothed. 

44 And, my children,” said the old lady, in conclusion, 44 the subjects of 
that picture have lived a long life of happiness, in bestowing happiness upon 

44 But,” said a chorus of voices, 44 you have not told us who the lord and 
lady were, that stiff occupy their places on the canvass, looking as beautiful 
as when they were first touched by the master spirit of an Italian artist.” 

I 4 1 know I have not,” responded the old lady, 44 for my memory does not 
serve me, at all times; but here comes your grandfather, he will tell you all 
about it.” Iohe. 


I love the shining myrtle tree, 

Its branches green and fair; 

But'no more may they wreath my brow, 
Or deck my braided hair; 

The yew-tree and the cypress will 
Their mouhiful branches spread 

Above the spot where I repose, 

Among the early dead. 

Oh! could I know, that when I fall, 

As falls the early leaf, 

One gentle sigh of thine woijld be 
Breathed for a lot so brief; 


One tear from sweet affection's fount 
Be o'er my memory shed, 

It would not seem so sad to lie 
Among the early dead. 

But no, the thought of me will ne'er 
Bedew with tears thine eye, 

Will not e’en check thy merry laugh. 
Or cause thy breast a sigh. 

A fairer form now shares thy love, 

And gaily wilt thou tread 
Upon my lowly resting place, 

Among the early dead. Marab. 

* Written by one who, we fear, will never recover from her present disease. 



Do you not think my Cousin Mary was beautiful ? yet 1 know not why 
you should, unless it is because her name was Mary. I have seen all sorts 
of Marys; the toll, and the short; the thick, and the thin; the ashy white, 
and the florid red; yet never do I see the name of Mary in a book, but it 
comes associated with some picture of gentle retiring beauty, such as was 
hers who sleeps beneath a marble stone, in our village burying-ground. And 
that name is also connected with higher thoughts than those of mere per¬ 
sonal loveliness. The Marys of Scripture—what visions of spiritual beauty 
cluster around their names, from the purity, and trust, of the virgin mother 
of our Lord, the holy love, and unwavering resignation of the listener of 
Bethany, to the remorse, devotion, and confiding faith of the Magdalen—it 
is all high, ennobling, moral beauty. There are Marys also in history— 
Marys of a queenly line, and almost unearthly beauty, and other Marys of 
story, and of song. There is the Mary of Cowper, the Mary of Burns, of 
Byron, and of him (I have forgotten his name) who wrote the sweet “La¬ 
ment for Mary.” It ,is also linked with other and dearer thoughts, for who,' 
among us, has not a mother, sister, daughter, or at least an Aunt Mary; at 
all events I feel quite confident that you have each a Cousin Mary. Yes, I 
have now a Cousin Mary, but not the cousin of whom I intend to write. I 
have not her, except in memory, and from that she will never be lost. 

My Cousin Mary was young when I was grown a woman; and I love to 
think of her now, as when 1 watched her then, maturing in the seclusion of 
her lowly, peaceful home, like some sweet violet in its shady bed; and 
when I marked the still and modest girl, mingling with the noisier and more 
fhirthfui beauties of our village, I saw that it was not in those gay circles 
that Cousin Mary was to find her happiness. My Aunt Polly (Mary was named 
for her mother) was hardly the right one to be entrusted with the charge of 
one so gentle and affectionate as her pretty daughter. She was married 
young to my Uncle Obadiah, and all of her sisters (there were eight of them) 
had found partners for life ere they had reached their twentieth year; ana 
she seemed to think that every female, at least ,all related to her, were bom 
to be married. Mary was taught to think that the only proper sphere of wo¬ 
man was the domestic circle, and that as a wife alone could she be truly 
happy, and respectable. For this end was she educated, and every thought 
and faculty were early directed to a preparation for thaf station which she 
would undoubtedly occupy. 

It may not here be amiss to give an account of the course which was con¬ 
sidered necessary, in those old times, to prepare a female for the important 
duties which would then devolve upon her. To make good bread, butter, 
and cheese, were of course fine qua none; and there Vere many other things 
nearly, if not quite, as indispensable. They must know how to card, spin, 
and weave; knit footings, skirts and drawers; make soap, sausages, candles, 
beer, and their own wedding-cake ; color the boys 9 summer frocks, and trow- 
sers with yellow-oak bark, and do many dther things, of which a modem fine 
lady has probably never heard. Early in life the daughters of a farmer 
44 well to do in the world” commenced that course of thrift, economy, and 
forethought, which rendered our mothers fit partners for the sturdy yeomanry 
of New England. Where there were several daughters, the work was di¬ 
vided between them, according to their different capacities, or inclinations; 

c oamm #*rar* 


one doing the carding, another the spinning, and another the weaving, while 
a fourth assisted her mother to wash, bake, and brew. If the farm was large, 
and the family too small to do all of the work, Some poor neighbor’s daugh¬ 
ter, Hitty, Sally, or Dolly, was hired to assist them. She was never called 
a servant, or dorrfestic, but spun, eat, and slept with the daughters of her em¬ 
ployers, and very often became the bride of their eldest son. Jonathan, Hen* 
ekiah, Eliphalet, or whatever else his name might be; at all events usually 
nladte her the subject of his initiating exercises in the mysteries of gaHaiitry, 
such as sitting on the bars, while she was milking, waiting to carry her pail 
for her, and beguiling the time by talking about w father’s crops, steers*, and 
heifers,” or the state of his meadow and woodland, and similar interesting 
subjects. Perhaps if he was naturally romantic, or really smitten by the 
charms of the fair damsel, his conversation would take a more elevated turn, 
and he would talk about the moon, or may be of the stars anddouds. ‘ These 
attentions were often followed by those of a more pointed character, such as 
waiting upon her to and from singing schools, meetings, weddings, and merry¬ 
makings ; and it was often the case that, when the mother was called upon 
to part with one daughter, her sort was ready to bring her another. 

* But I must not too long digress from Cousin Mary. She'was an only child, 
and, as her father’s farm was a small one, no other help was considered neces¬ 
sary in the performance of their household duties. Before her twelfth year was 
Completed, she could spin, cook, and wash as well as her mother, and make 
full as good butter. Patch-work quilts were already completed, done in .what, 
in our* modern way of speaking, would be called mason-work, or perhaps 
mosaic. Indeed, girls in those days often exercised themselves in all the 
figures of Euclid, while making their quilts, though they were wholly un¬ 
conscious of these practical illustrations of geometry. Cousin Mary was the 
Only girl I ever knew, who had two quilts, made in the fashion of what is 
Called “ Job’s troublesand there used to be an old saying that no one who 
ever commenced such work would live to complete it. I am happy to be 
able to inform all who may wish to exhibit such an evidence of industry, that 
they need not fear, from this* cause, an untimely death, for I have known 
Some who have lived to mature years, and slept under a weight of u troubles” 
of their own making. 

' As MaTy had hQ brother or sister, she enjoyed the same privileges as the 
daughters of their more Wealthy neighbors, and was allowed as much wool 
mid flax as she Would make up ; and her future •marriage portion was to be, 
like theirs, not so much a criterion of her father’s wealth, as of her own in¬ 
dustry. She worked like a' beaver, and had not only the requisite pillow¬ 
case full of stockings before she was engaged, but also divers rag-mats, 1 'and 
strip carpets; blue and white woollen coverlids, and a huge pile of blankets, 
sheets, and pillow-cases. She had also towels, and table-linen of her own 
weaving, done in patterns manifold. There was hukkabuk, diamond, bird’s- 
eye, lock and compass^ lemon and orange peel, chariot wheels, seven stars, 
nine snow-balls, true lover’s knots, and many others. She had from child¬ 
hood possessed a little flock of geese and hens, of her own rearing, the pro¬ 
ducts of which were some feather beds, and sundry articles, which she had 
purchased, with the eggs sold at the village store; among which were a-silk 
gown, a chip hat, a fur tippet', and a pair of gold ear-knobs. These articles 
Were of course kept very choice, and only worn upon particular occasions. 

Mary was, I think, about eighteen years of age, when she first received 
the attentions df Daniel Parsons. He was the younger son o i a wealthy far¬ 
mer, and tny Aunt Polly was much pleased with the prospect * of a match) 

crow JURY. 


which she thought would conduce to the happiness and advantage of her 
daughter. She was continually talking about it to Mary, and expatiating 
upon the felicities, and increase of dignity, appertaining to the marriage 
state. Though I think that my aunt did well to prepare Mary’s thoughts for 
an event which would probably occur to her, yet such constant disquisitions, 
as though it was something inevitable, were not judicious. It would have 
been better to have taught her that marriage, though an event that might 
possibly, or would probably, yet was not one that must, assuredly, constitute 
her future happiness ; and that misery and degradation were not necessary 
concomitants of a single state. r 

But so it was, and Mary was taught to consider herself a wife in prospec¬ 
tive ; and, from the time that Daniel Parsons began to make his stated weekly 
visits, she looked upon' him as her future husband. But she did not feel in 
any hurry to marry. O no; a courtship of a dozen years was, in those 
days, considered nothing out of the way; and for seven years was Cousin “ 
Mary the affianced one of Daniel Parsons, without people’s troubling them¬ 
selves about the time when they should be man and wife. At length the 
customary observations were made, that they should think it was high time 
that Daniel and Maiy were married, and they saw nothing in the world to 
hinder, and wonder was expressed that the courtship had not come to a crisis 
before. And, then there were suspicions, and surmises, and doubts, and 
fears, and some thought that they never would be united, and others that they 
never had intended to be, or that Daniel could do far better, or that Mary 
should remain single, to take care of her parents, in their declining years. 

Such observations, of course, were more frequeutly made when Daniel 
expressed his determination to leave home, for a time, and seek his fortune, 
or obtain a better acquaintance with the world, in the city. Aunt Polly was 
not at all discomposed at this. She was glad that Mary was to be left with 
her a short time longer, though still pleased at the thought of resigning her, 
at some future time, to an enterprising husband. Whatever Cousin Mary 
felt, she staid nothing—at least, nothing expressive of much feeling upon the 
subject—and I supposed, as did many others, that if Daniel should not return, 
or should find a more pleasing partner in his new place of residence, she 
could easily withdraw her affections from him, if not transfer them to some 
one else. But we did not give her credit for the warmth, and constancy of 
feeling, which she realty possessed. I had supposed that to be a wife, a 
housekeeper, to go about a home of her own, as ste now did about her fa¬ 
ther’s house, was her highest aim. But how much was I mistaken. Because 
she was reserved, and concealed the strength of her feelings, I presumed 
she did not possess it; and when some months had passed away, and no 
Daniel returned to Cousin Mary, and she still went on with her accustomed 
household duties, as busy, and apparently as cheerful as ever, I supposed 
that she had forgotten him, as he had probably forgotten her. 

Sometimes I would ask her when she was to be married, and her reply 
would usually be, “ Never: why should I wish to leave this happy home ? 
I can never have a better one.” But Aunt Polly would'always call out, “ I 
am glad that Mary does not wish to leave us yet, and that Daniel does not 
think of marrying at present. It is pleasant to think that we shall live to¬ 
gether awhile longer.” 

I knew that Mary did not correspond with Daniel, but the few letters, 
which he wrote to his parents, were always forwarded, by them, to her, and 
lie received accounts of her health and welfare through the same medium. 
They were both unaccustomed to the use of the pea, and it was, in those 



days, a stranger thing for country lovers to correspond than to neglect it ; 
so that circumstance, of itself, occasioned but little uneasiness. 

But at length Daniel returned, for a short time, to his father’s house. 
Every body was upon the watch to see how matters would go on between 
him and Cousin Mary. I must confess that I sat down to my chamber win¬ 
dow, with a feeling of more than usual solicitude the next Sunday evening 
after his arrival. I thought of the many times when I had seen him, on his 
w winding way,” just about sundown, with his hair nicely brushed, his hand¬ 
kerchief tied about his neck in a neat square knot, his shoes well greased, 
and his very walk bespeaking an errand of unusual importance. And there 
Cousin Mary would sit and wait for him, in the best fore-room, with her pink 
calico gown on, and a white Vandyke, and her best morocco shoes, and all* 
things around her arranged with even more than ordinary care. 

1 thought of all this, but I felt that a change had now come over the spirit 
of Daniel’s dream. He had learned to wear a watch, cravat, and long coat; 
could smoke cigars, and sing songs; wore pomatum on his hair, and 44 Day 
& Martin” on his boots; and was altogether quite a spruce young gentleman. 

But he did not go near Cousin Mary that day, nor the next, nor even the 
next; and when they did meet, it was as strangers, rather than those who 
had once been lovers. At length, Daniel went back again, and country gos¬ 
sips loudly proclaimed the fact that Mary was a deserted girk Aunt Polly 
said she did not care; Mary was far too good for him, and she knew^of many 
others who would be glad to marry her, and she doubted not that she would 
soon find a better husband. I said nothing to my cousin about it. I felt 
that she would be better pleased if this subject were entirely dropped, and 1 
do not approve of the meddling which is so common in all love affairs. 
Where ther^ is happiness, let them enjoy it in that peaceful quiet so dear to 
every mind of delicacy, and where there is misery and disappointment, let 
the wrung heart recover itself in secrecy and silence. 

But though, upon one subject, I said nothing to Cousin Mary, I watched 
her as closely as I could, without offending her. I saw enough. She talked, 
and laughed, and worked as much as ever, but her form began to waste, her 
hands grew thin, there was a hollow circle around her eyes, and when she 
thought herself unobserved, the smile was changed to a sigh. At last Aunt 
Polly sent for me to come there, for Mary was sick. She did not know 
what was the matter, but thought she had taken a violent cold. I went, and 
found her seated in her little chamber in an attitude of the deepest dejection. 

44 Mary,” said I, as I raised the head which had rested on her hands— 
44 dear Cousin Mary, tell me what is the matter ?” 

44 Nothing,” said she— 44 nothing in particular. I cannot work, and my 
mother is alarmed about me. Nothing is the matter but a headache, and 
that mil soon be oarr.” 

She uttered the last words in a low impressive tone, and I calmly replied, 
44 Mary, you must tell me all. I can at least sympathize with you, and per¬ 
haps advise and console you. I know some things now, for I at least have 
not been wholly deceived.” % 

44 Oh,” said she, bitterly, 44 1 have tried to deceive you all. I have been a 
hypocrite this long time, but I can be one no longer. My strength and 
spirits have utterly failed me. I do not sleep ; I have had no quiet rest for 
months; I can do nothing now but die. I shall sleep soundly then, and not 
till then.” 

44 Mary,” said I, earnestly, 44 you must not talk so; you must not feel so; 
you must overcome this; you can do it, and for your parents’ sake, who 



have no other child but you, and for your own sake, you must not give way 
to this weakness. Rouse yourself, and be as though this had never happened. 
Be yourself; you have the kindest of parents, an excellent home, and many 
friends. You are young, and life should still be dear to you. It is dear 
when you have once thrown off this worse than weakness, and become what 
you once have been.” 

44 That time will never be,” was Mary’s bitter reply. 44 It cannot be. I 
know all that you would say, and more than you could say. I have tried to 
rouse myself, but my efforts have been like those of a miserable dreamer. 
I try to aw r ake, and to be once more in the happy world about me, but 
the dreadful bands still keep me down. I am like one in chains, and when 
it seems for a moment as though I might burst them asunder, the effort only 
convinces me more surely of my own weakness. Do not tell me that I can 
overcome this, for I assure you that 1 cannot . I despise and hate myself 
for it, but I can do nothing but pray for rest and peace in the slumber of 
the grave.” 

44 Tell me, Mary, all that has happened, and let me know what has thus 
depressed you.” 

44 1 cannot tell you all, nor but very little. When I first began to suspect 
that Daniel might prove untrue, I felt as though such suspicions were the 
suggestions of the adversary, and would not harbor them. I kept hoping on, 
and hoping against hope, and satisfying myself, by every reasoning, that I 
had been unjust to him; and putting the construction which I most wished 
upon his absence and silence; and at length, when he returned, I avoided a 
meeting as long as possible that I might not know that my fears were true, 
that I might not be deprived of all hope ; and when I did see him, I tried so 
hard to appear indifferent, though I feared that the truth must sometime be 
known. But he did not know then that I felt it, nor did any one. I returned 
that evening to my parents, and sat and tried to talk with them, and to ap¬ 
pear as thc^rh nothing had disturbed me; but when I laid my head upon 
my pillow^Vwas with the wish that I might never raise it again, and then 
my brain began to whirl, and the blood kept boiling into it, and sounds like 
the crash of buildings, and the yells of wild beasts went through my ears, 
and then I lay like one almost benumbed, and conscious of naught but life 
and misery.” 

Mary was not naturally romantic, she had never read novels, and I felt, 
as she poured forth her feelings in the quick earnest language of passion, 
how deeply she had loved, and how much she had been wronged. I trem¬ 
bled as she opened her heart to me, for there is no frankness like that of a 
reserved mind when it has once thrown aside all concealment. 

44 Mary,” said I, at length, 44 1 see that you cannot yet become indifferent, 
but ,you must change your feelings. Learn to despise him for his fickleness, 
and hate him for his cruelty.” 

44 1 cannot,” said she ; 44 1 feel myself too unworthy and despicable to de¬ 
spise any one ; and I cannot hate—it is not in my nature; neither do I wish 
that a love which has made me happy, and which might have gladdened a 
long life, to change to that dark passion as I am about to enter another world.” 

She buried her face in her hands, and I could say nothing more, for I felt 
my own more turbulent spirit rebuked by the meekness of the gentle girl. 
I had seen love come upon others, brightening with its sunshine their young 
existence; and I had seen disappointment follow, like a tempest, bringing 
darkness and desolation in its train ; but it passed away, and all again 
was green and beautiful: but upon Cousin Mary it had come like the with- 



ering blight, which penetrates the very earih, and carries destruction to every 
root and stem. I saw that for her 44 the life of life” was o’er, and life had 
naught but death in store. Yet no one else “knew it, no one suspected it, 

44 for every string had snapped so silently—Quivered and bled unseen.” 

A physician was called to her, who said that the symptoms were those of 
consumption, but she might be saved by judicious care and watchfulness. 
From that time I did not leave her, but we spoke no more upon that one 
subject. I endeavored to arouse and cheer her, but in vain. She had ex¬ 
erted herself as long as possible, and now she wished to be left in peace. 
Once I brought to her the child of a neighbor, with the hope that its innocent 
playfulness would effect what I had not been able to perform, but she turned 
away from it, and Lsaw that there were tears in her eyes. Yet I could not 
see her die without making one more effort to save her. 

She was reseiwed; she had concealed, even from me, the strength of her 
attachment to her lover. How probable then that he was totally unconscious 
of it; her pride had enabled her to appear indifferent, he perhaps thought 
her cold and heartless; at all events, he could not know how every idea of 
future happiness had been linked with thoughts pf him ; how that affection 
was inwoven with every fibre of her heart; if he knew it all, he certainly 
must return to her. I wrote, without her knowledge, a letter to Daniel,Par¬ 
sons, and it had the desired effect. Be was soon with us, and when he be¬ 
held the wan cheek, and sunken eye, of Cousin Mary, his heart smote him 
for the ruin he had wrought.' His former affection returned, and he wished, 
if possible, to restore her to happiness. 

44 But you deceived me,” said he to her; 44 1 thought that you cared but 
little for me, and therefore I put your feelings to the test; and,when I left 
home the last time, it was with the assurance that you never had really 
loved me.” 

44 1 saw that a change had taken place in you,” was Mary’s reply, 44 and I 
thought it greater than it really was. I could not bear that you Sho uld think 
I cherished a feeling which was to meet no return. I ibeliev^Plhat your 
love was gone, and only wished to hide my own till I rested with the dead.” 

44 You must not talk of dying,” said Parsons to her. 44 You shall live, and 
we will yet be happy.” 

He was indeed resolved that if affection, and the most constant attention, * 
could restore her, she should yet be his; and again a roseate glow came 
upon Mary’s cheek, and a sparkle to her eye, but they were flickering and 
evanescent. Preparations were made for their marriage, and the journey 
which was to follow it, and from which was hoped the most beneficial re¬ 
sults. The day was fixed, and all was ready, but it was as I had feared— 
the excitement, the reaction of feeling had been too great, and on the very 
evening appointed for the wedding they bade each other a last farewell. 

We clad her that night in white robes, but they were not those she had 
prepared for the bridal; and when we had arrayed her in garments for the 
grave, he who had thought then to have been her husband, came to look 
upon her as she lay in the sleep of death. He lifted the shroud from the 
lifeless form, and gazed long and earnestly upon that countenance which 
never more might beam with love, and hope, and trust in him. He shed no 
tear, but his face was pale as that of the dead, and his lips quivered as he 
pressed them, for the last time, to the marble brow; then, gently replacing 
the shroud, he turned away, and never looked at her again. He l^ps been 
true to her memory, and the most beautiful monument, in our buryin'g-ground, 
is that which marks her last resting place. Faithfully are all the duties of 


9 * 

his life performed, but when I see him now, with a countenance, which, 
spite of its calmness, bears the impress of an enduring sorrow, I cannot but 
regret that he must have received so severe a lesson, before he could under¬ 
stand the heart of Cousin Mary. • Betsey. 


Received from Bixby & Whiting— 

American Notes for General Circulation. By Charles DicJcens. The author 
of these notes could not have chosen a title more significant of their ultimate success. 
His book has been more generally circulated, and eagerly perused, than any work of 
the kind ever before published. Preachers have extracted portions of it, to give point 
to their discourses; and factory girls have stolen glimpses at its forbidden pages during 
their hours of labor. Reviewers have criticised it with unmerciful severity, and boys 
have laughed over it in the quiet of their humble firesides. Gentlemen of the most 
cultivated intellect, and “maidens of low degree,’' have read it with equal interest, 
though may be from different motives. But while some have risen from its perusal 
with feelings of grateful regard, for him who has again exerted his talents to amuse 
and instruct them, a greater number have repaid him with unmerited abuse, and un¬ 
qualified disapprobation. Some complain that he has not always told the truth ; but 
none can convict him of intentional falsehood. There is evidently a style of exag¬ 
geration in his descriptions, as when he complains of the bespattered carpet at the 
President’s mansion, and the cloud of foam which emanated from the windows of the 
Tailroad cars; but no false impression will be conveyed to those accustomed to the 
author’s usual manner of narration ; and we do not believe there is a woman in the 
land, but will bless him, from the bottom of her heart, for his ridicule of a filthy prac¬ 
tice. Some complain that, where it is the truth, it has not been told in a kind spirit, 
and that if Dickens had not been out of humor, he would not have said some of these 
disagreeable things. In the book itself we see nothing like malice, no evidence of a 
wish to injure, or inclination lobe unjust. If it is true that he has said some things, 
under the influence of disappointed feelings, which would have been withheld in the 
event of a different issue, it only confirms the old saying, “ Make a person angry with 
• you, and he will tell you the truth.” Dickens has told* us truths which it is well for 
us to know; he has pointed out faults which it would be well for us to correct; and 
errors which it would be well for us to avoid. There is no individual from whom we 
should be more willing to receive rebuke than fi;om him. As a foreigner, he could 
more easily perceive our national faults, than we can ourselves, and no idea can be 
more erroneous, ©r injurious, than that, as a nation, we are faultless; and no opinion 
more foolish, than that a foreigner should never presume to express his disapprobation 
of any of our habits, or institutions. As an author, Dickens stood high in our regard, 
and as such he has written nothing which need lower him in our estimation. His 
book, say some, has proved, that if a genius, he is not a philosopher, nor a philosophi¬ 
cal genius, but, if this be true, it has disproved nothing which we should have taken 
for granted before. We are in no particular need of philosophical disquisitions upon 
our government, &c. De Tocqueville, and Miss Martineau, have done considerable 
already, and if this be not enough we shall probably soon have more from Lord Ash- * 
burton, and Viscount Morpeth. 

As an Englishman, Dickens has been fearless and unwearied in exposing, in his 
peculiar manner, the abuses and corruptions of society at home. This alone should 
have given weight to his strictures upon us, and have enabled us to bear them cheer¬ 
fully. The same kind feelings and genuine sympathy which impelled him to select, 
for the leading characters, of some of his tales, such unfortunates as an orphan girl, 
and work-house boy, is distinctly seen in the work before us. The poor emigrants, 
the inmates of our asylums, the occupants of our prisons, and other places of discipline, 
have attracted much of his attention, and figure largely in his book. A great share 
of this respectful sympathy has been accorded to us, and none have received a more 
unqualified encomium than the factory girls of Lowell. We trust that we feel 
grateful for his kindness, and proud of his approval; but we fear that we do not de¬ 
serve all his commendation, that we are not worthy of such flattering compliments. 
He says, “ Firstly, there is a piano in a great many of the boarding-houses.” That is 



true, but not in a great proportion of them. (( Secondly nearly all these young ladies 
subscribe to Circulating Libraries.'* We fear that nearly dU. do not thus subscribe* 
though very many are supporters of other libraries. M Thirdly, they have got tip f 
among themselves, a periodical called The Lowell Offering." The Offering was 
got up by individuals from among themselves, and N they perhaps are worthy of our 
author’s applause, but the proportion of those factory grirls who interest themselves in 
its support is not more than one in fifty. Still it is right that all should share the 
credit, if the general rule is a just one, to judge of a body by their prominent indtvid- 
uals. We are glad that Dickens saw so much to please him in our u city of spindles," 
and regret for their sakes that so broad a line* of distinction must be drawn between 
us and our sister operatives, across the Atlantic. «Heaven speed the day when senti¬ 
ments, more worthy of enlightened Britain,shall prevail among her rulers, and justice 
and generosity shall guide their counsels. 

With a very few extracts we will close. He says, speaking of the Lowell opera¬ 
tives, their pianos and books, “They will say ‘ these things are above their station * 
I would beg to ask what their station is. ft is their station to work. And they do 
work. They labor in these mills, upon an average, twelve hours a day ; which is un¬ 
questionably work, and pretty tight work too. Perhaps it is above their station to 
indulge in these amusements, upon any terms. Are we quite sure that we, in Eng¬ 
land, nave not formed our ideas of the station* of working people, fVom accustoming 
ourselves to the contemplation of that class os they are , and not as they might her 
We can only refer to one or two more passages which struck Us. He says, “Cant as 
we may, ana as we shall to the end of all things, it is very much harder for the poor 
to be virtuous than for the rich; and the good that is in them shines the brighter for 
it,*’ &c. &c. His remarks upon the abuses of our press, the low character of many 
of our newspapers, and the distrust so prevalent in the “ popular mind" here, are wor¬ 
thy of our serious attention ; and he is not far out of the way in his description of our 
smart men. “ 4 He is & public nuisance, is he not?* 4 Yes, sir.’ 4 A convicted liar?* 
4 Yes, sir.* 4 He has been kicked, and cuffed, and caned ?' 4 Yes, sir.’ 4 And he is 
utterly.dishonorable, debased, and profligate ?’ 4 Yes, sir.’ 4 In the. name of wonder, 

then, what is his merit ?’ 4 Well, sir, he is a smart man.' ** 

Dickens has been accused of ingratitude, for the hospitality which was so kindly 
extended to him, but he has shown himself more truly worthy of it than if he had 
cajoled and flattered us, in the style which alone would have satisfied the majority of 
our countrymen. We like him the better because he was not to be bribed by a cus¬ 
tard pudding, or a leg of roast turkey. More anon. 

The new year. Greetings for the new year are ringing in our ears, as we seat 
ourselves to pen an editorial for our January number. Since our last appeared before 
our kind patrons, we have commemorated several anniversaries, and the last we have 
kept has been mingled with somewhat of sadness. The new year oomes to us, as 
ever, with new hopes and fears, with new pleasures and responsibilities, but it also 
comes bearing, not the renewal of the gifts which it has been wpnt to extend, but 
holding forth its verdant treasures, of a totally different kind. We little thought, 
when we hailed the year “Forty-Two^* that, ere its expiration, we should have dared 
to assume the labors and responsibilities which bring us, now, before our readers. And 
ere the present year has passed, if life and health are spared, some change as great, 
and fraught with other influences, may have passed over us. Friends may have de¬ 
serted, hopes may have withered, fortune may have frowned, responsibilities may 
have heavily weighed upon us, and difficulties may have increased beyond our powers 
of self-support. 

It is reflections like these Which give a pensive tone to our greetings for the coming 
year. But 'whether, or not, the kind wishes of others, for ourselves, shall be real¬ 
ized, we can cordially and earnestly extend to them, and to all our patrons, the usual 
courtesy, and wish them all 44 A happy new year." 

And may not this be, to us all, an eventful year ? Whether the theological specu¬ 
lations of some of our fellow-countrymen are proved, or exploded, it still may be a 
year of great things, of mighty changes, of revolutions which may have a perceptible 
influence upon our whole country. The new year comes to us on a holy day—its 
greetings are mingled with Sabbath musings, and its reflections are tinged with a sa¬ 
cred light. May it depart, as it has come, peacefully, sacredly, and joyously; laden 
with an urn of innocent delights, and giving plase to a new comer of aspect as se¬ 
rene, of presence as delightful. May we all live to greet it, if not to greet each other; 
and if another year should find us all far sundered, may it And us all prepared to-ap¬ 
preciate it more truly, and meet it more worthily. II. F. 



FEBRUARY, 1 843. 


44 Oh, mother, I wish I had a finished education,” exclaimed Ada Somners, 
as she closed a book of popular poems. 

44 Why, my daughter, do you wish for a finished educatioh ? Have you 
tired of study, and do you wish to throw aside your books ?” 

44 No, mother, I do not want to throw aside my books—for from them I 
derive my greatest pleasure and consolation—but I want an education that 
will enable me to write like Hannah More, Mrs. Hemans, and Mrs. Sigourney.” 

44 Well, Ada, I am glad to hear you express such a wish; perhaps it was 
by close and diligent study that Hannah More, Mrs. Hemans, and Mrs. Si¬ 
gourney acquired the ability to execute such productions as have issued from 
their pens.” 

44 Dear mother, they had the means to enable them to improve their talents, 
while I have neither time nor money.” 

44 Say not so, my child, while you have an hour’s leisure, but improve 
every moment to’the best advantage, for 4 time is money,’ as it is often said ; 
and, my daughter, remember that God has given as much, if not more, to 
you, than you well improve; and if you possessed the wealth of Croesus, it 
would not impart one moment’s happiness independent of the benign influ¬ 
ence of Religion; but it would be a source of evil, and unhappiness. Now, 
my child, cultivate a mild and generous disposition, and a well-regulated 
mind, trusting in a Providence that is ever right, and you will possess true 
and imperishable riches, that 4 the world can neither give, nor take away.’ ” 

44 Think not, dear mother, that I wish to murmur or complain. No!—far 
be it from me; for I too highly prize those noble and holy principles which 
you have labored to instil into our youthful minds, to repine at our lot, hum¬ 
ble as it is. I think that I possess a priceless treasure in my beloved mother, 
and dear sister—a treasure for which a throne, and imperial diadem would 
be but a poor substitute. Although I am a factory girl, and am called to 
labor from early morn till late at eve, yet when my task is done, I can return 
to all that I hold dear. This beautiful cottage presents charms, to my de¬ 
lighted fancy, which are indeed as balm to my weary heart. And, mother, 
you know that I dearly love my books and flowers.” 

44 My daughter, may you ever possess a calm and persevering mind, and 
be content with that which God ever has and ever will bestow upon you; for 

VOL. HI. — 



patience and peseverance accomplish vast things. And may you never cease 
to put your trust in the ever true and living God ; seek always His presence 
by faith and prayer. And may He ever prove a kind Friend and Comforter 
to you, which He most assuredly will, if you put your trust in Him with a 
true and faithful heart.” i 

Ada Somners was the elder daughter of a poor, but respectable mechanic, ! 
by the name of George Somners, who by honest industry obtained a good 
livelihood. Plenty was in his home, and many of the destitute acknowledged 
the bounty of his hand. His father died when he was but a mere boy; and, , 
from that time to the day of his death, he contributed to the support of his 
invalid mother, and two younger sisters; and well did they repay him in 
kindness and attention. This was indeed a family where love dwelt in its 
purest form. Love was the golden chain which bound their hearts together. 

An injury inflicted upon one was always deeply felt by the whole. 

Mr. Somners became acquainted with the daughter of a respectable farmer, 
proposed for her hand, and was accepted. His bride was received with de¬ 
light by his mother and sisters, who had often urged him to marry. Soon j 
after the sister married well, and left their brother’s home. It was then 
that Mrs. Somners could well appreciate the worth of her daughter-in-law; 
and often did she bless The Lord that He had bestowed so worthy a com¬ 
panion upon her son. Mr. Somners realized all the happiness that he had 
anticipated with the partner of his joys and sorrows; and within four years 
after their marriage, two lovely daughters crowned their felicity. Much 
pleasure and happiness did those fond parents anticipate in the society of 
their children. But alas! how short-sighted is man! Little did they think 
that death was so near! Little did they dream that the King of Terrors 
would so soon enter their little circle, and snatch away their guide and leader, 
blasting in the bud all their well-laid schemes, and fondly-cherished hopes 
and prospects! But so it was. A short and distressing illness of one week 
numbered Mr. Somners with the dead. The young widow was almost fran¬ 
tic with grief, and was as one that would not be comforted. In the joyous 
hours of her youth, she had not felt that she needed a Savior; and now she 
could not go to Him, and pour out her sorrows at the foot of the Cross, and 
receive comfort and consolation from this blessed injunction, u Daughter, be 
of good comfort.” She wished to die, and be laid by the side of her dear 
and much-loved husband, for her protector was stricken, her companion had 
gone ; 44 her idol was shattered, her earth star had fled.” Kind friends were 
about her, who placed her children before her, and entreated her, for their 
sakes, to be calm, and repress her sorrows. The sight of those lovely inno¬ 
cents recalled her wandering senses, and drew forth the tender sympathies 
of a mother’s heart; she encircled them in her arms, and clasped them to i 
her bosom, saying, 44 For your sakes, my helpless ones, my precious jewels, 
will I rouse all the energies of my mind.” From that hour, a new era j 
dawned upon her, and she was practically another being. From that hour, j 
*he was led to put her trust in Him who is God of the widow, and the 

Every thing in, and about her habitation reminded Mrs. Somners forcibly 
of .her loss, and caused moments of sadness in the hours of her loneliness; 
therefore she thought it proper to change her place of residence. Having 

heard much respecting the new manufacturing establishment at — 2 -, she 

resolved to make that her future place of residence. Accordingly she rented 
a small white cottage upon the bank of the river, which was a very pleasant 
situation, and one that commanded an extensive prospect. To the house 



was attached a small garden, the produce of which served partially to sustain 
the family. Being an expert sempstress, Mrs. Somners obtained as much 
work as she could possibly perform, and by these means supported her fam¬ 
ily comfortably. The children were kept at school for several years; they 
both gave early indications of uncommon talents; and often did the. teacher 
tell Mrs. Somners that Ada ought to be kept at school, for she was very at¬ 
tentive, and would easily acquire an excellent education; and advised her, 
by all means, to keep her at school till she might be qualified for a teacher, 
her turn of mind being better adapted to fill that station than any other. 

Ada possessed a sanguine temperament, combined with a strong constitu¬ 
tion, and was able to perform the tasks assigned her with ease. She was a 
very sensitive girl, possessing a strong original mind, and partaking a little 
of the romantic turn, which was, however, overbalanced by her love of solid 
philosophical studies. Whatever was placed within her reach, was mastered 
with a firmness, and perseverance that would well become one of riper years. 

Helen, her sister, was naturally of a bright, active and intelligent mind, 
possessing more of a nervous temperament, with a very delicate constitution, 
which seemed in a measure to deprive her of the advantages that Ada en¬ 
joyed ; yet, whenever her health would permit, she made rapid progress in 
study. She was of a highly romantic turn of mind, delighting in the sublime 
and beautiful, in* poetry and polite literature. Being fastidious, even tQ a 
fault, her sensitive mind shrank from the gaze of the low and vulgar, in 
whose society she was sometimes unavoidably thrown. 

Long and unremitted labor undermined, at length, Mrs. Somners’s consti¬ 
tution ; a long illness succeeded, from which she never fully recovered ; and 
it left her in rather embarrassed circumstances. Although but a child, Ada 
participated in all her mother’s trials; and her active mind busied itself in 
forming schemes to assist her in her difficulties. The only one from which 
she derived the least idea of success was, to enter the factory as an opera¬ 
tive. Long and earnestly did she entreat her mother’s permission to do this. 
At length, Mrs. Somners reluctantly consented. Ada obtained a place ; and 
by diligent industry won the good opinion of her employer, which she had 
the good fortune to retain for many years—he proving a kind and disinter¬ 
ested friend. 

Having been early taught the principles of Christianity, which were prac¬ 
tically illustrated by the religious tenor of her life, and being naturally of a 
timid and retiring manner, Ada escaped the snares spread to allure her feet 
astray. Her young associates often urged her to go with them to scenes of 
mirth and festivity, which she always declined, choosing rather to spend her 
evenings at home with her mother and sister, in their retirement, enriching 
her mind with “ scholastic lore”—for all her leisure hours were spent in 
study. Her longing soul thirsted for knowledge, and she was determined to 
acquire an education, if possible* Often did the tolling of the midnight bell 
find her perusing the work of some celebrated author, or enriching her mind 
from the/ storehouses of ancient and modern literature. She was fully 
aware that 

“ A little learning is a dangerous thing; 

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; 
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 

Fired, at first sight, with what the muse imparts, 
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 



While, from the bounded level of our minds, 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; 

But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise 
New distant scenes of endless soience rise.'’ 

Thus passed some of Ada’s youthful days; yet they were not all sun¬ 
shine—no, far from it!—dark and lowering clouds of adversity and disap¬ 
pointment o’ercast her path. Professed friends proved false, and betrayed 
their trust, and fortune frowned; yet she murmured not. Hope, like a beau¬ 
tiful bird with golden plumage, hovered o’er her way, and led her onward, 
cheering her with a promise of 44 the better land.” Faith’s bright star ever 
beamed upon her path, to guide her, through life’s adverse storms, to the 
never-changing shores of immortality. Although afflictions clouded the 
mom of her existence, and sorrow almost broke her heart-strings, unknown 
to all save herself, and The Searcher of hearts, yet she was happy— 
happy in the assurance that The Father of spirits was her friend, and one 
that would never forsake her. 

Ada highly prized her home; it was her delight; in it were those of 
whom, of all on earth, her heart loved best. She was the idol of that home; 
and often did her mother gaze in tenderness upon her fair and noble brow. 
Her sister almost worshipped her for her gentle sweetness, thinking her 
happiness complete whenever she could have the pleasure of her company. 
Earnestly did they pray that no false intruder might again enter their peace¬ 
ful home, to mar its happiness. 

Often might Helen have been seen, seated by Ada’s side, with a face in¬ 
dicating anxiety blended with mirth, eyes sparkling with delight, listening 
with fixed attention to the explanation of some perplexing sentence in her 
lesson, which she did not fully comprehend,knowing that she could perfectly 
rely upon her sister’s opinion. Often would she exclaim, 

44 How glad I am, Ada, that you are so kind as to assist me in my studies; 
and then I can ask you as many questions as I choose, which I should not 
dare to ask my teacher.” 

44 Dear Helen, I am ever pleased to assist you, and hope you will ask my 
assistance whenever you think proper.” 

Brighter prospects opened to Ada’s view, for there was one who had seen 
her, and in every action learned to appreciate her worth. But I must hasten 
on, and draw the veil over that scene, and leave her in happiness ; for how 
uncertain are earthly enjoyments, and expectations. Annaline. 


Ours is an age of books; and if our eyes are open, we must almost of 
necessity, read . No one, at least in our favored New England, can com¬ 
plain of the want of means to gratify an intellectual taste, for they are within 
the reach of all in greater abundance, and, if possible, in greater diversity, 
than the supplies of physical life. 

But while the deep seas of human thought are casting up for us things 
precious, and things vile, it becomes us to use discrimination, that we may 
select only what is valuable, and reject what is worthless. The importance 
of this is felt when we reflect that it is chiefly by the intercourse of mind with 



mind that character is formed. And who can say that our books may not 
exert a greater influence over us than our associates ? But by what test 
shall we decide the merit of books ? Even the same that we should apply 
to our associates. Are not those books the truly valuable, whose tendency 
is to elevate our moral and intellectual nature ? which inspire us with a love 
of truth, and incite U3 to walk worthily of the dignity of immortals ? 

If this is a just criterion, how large a portion of books must be condemned 
as the mere froth of excited fancies, which can never satisfy the soul’s un¬ 
dying thirst; or as polluted streams, from poisoned fountains, which must 
prove fatal to those who drink therein. While we avoid these, let us rejoice 
to avail ourselves of some of the many pure intellectual streams which are 
so freely flowing around us, Let us fill the deep fountains of our own souls 
from these mighty waters, and so commingle our own humble streams of 
thought with them that we may at length truly call them all our own; or, 
in other words, let us gather around us a choice circle from the good and 
wise of all ages, and commune with them until we can appreciate and de¬ 
light in the truths which they teach; and until our own spirits have become 
so assimilated to theirs, that we may unpresumptuousiy style them “ our own 
familiar friends.” Dorcas. 

Philip saith unto him, “ Lord, show us thb Father, and it sufficeth 

us.”—John xiv. 8. 

O, have ye not seen Him, ye doubt-stricken souls? 

In the deep greenwood scene, where the wild water rolls; 

Where the cataract fo&meth, majestic and free, 

His voice you may hear, and His wonders may see. 

Tou may see Him when Spring, with her mantle of green 
Over hill, vale, and meadow, is fair to be seen; 

When her robe, of white daisies, is spread o’er the vale, 

And the bright yellow cowslips begem the green dale. 

His smile you may see in the soil vernal shower 
That bespangles the foliage, while kissing the bower; 

His beauty is seen in each floweret that blows, 

From the violet of blue, to the lilac, and rose. 

Tou may see Him when Autumn hath loaded the plain 
With her bright golden corn, and her rich waving grain; 

When her sere leaves with hectic hath colored the ground. 

And the oak scatters acorns profusely around. 

Yes, “The Father” is seen, at Night’s silent noon, 

When her dark mantle shrouds broad Creation in gloom; 

When her silvery lamps pale at Morning’s pure ray, 

And the soft dewy breeze fans the bright god of day. 

Tou may see Him, ye faithless, at twilight’s dim close, 

When evening invites drowsy day to repose; 

When His children, in faith, to the altar draw near— 

Then “The Father” is seen, and his presence is dean 



His voice you may bear in the prattling rill— 

In the rustling of leaves, when alone on the hill; 

His music you ’ll hear in each soft soothing breeze— 

Hx rides on the whirlwinds, and ruleth the seas. 

Hb ’s with you, ye faithless, in sickness and health, 

When goaded by fame, or when pampered by wealth; 

Hs 's with you, ye abject, who labor to gain 
A pittance for life, bound in slavery's chain. 

His soul-cheering Spirit, the brightest and best, 

Shines benignly on those whom the world hath oppressed; 

Where the lone broken-hearted unbosoms his care, 

With the unction of healing “The Father” is there. 

Behold now “ The Father” —look up to His face— 

He *s above you, beneath you, and fills every space ; 

Believe it, ye faithless—O, trust in His word, 

Nor say in your hearts, ye would fain see The Lord. 

Te have seen Him : to Him let your orisons rise; 

He's the Father of all men—His throne is the skies; 

No more let your bosoms with anguish be riven— 

Te have seen Him on earth, and may meet Him in Heaven. 

M. R. G. 


How beautiful, and yet how striking, is the thought, that the most won¬ 
derful operations of nature are effected without the noise and tumult attendant 
on the works of man. At the beginning of day, we behold the sun sending 
his beams to the utmost verge of creation, pouring light and life on all the 
earth; and at its close, the moon, with all the hosts of bright creatures that 
surround her, take up their nightly vigils, looking out from their azure home 
like faithful sentinels guarding well their place of trust—yet no uproar marks 
their onward courses. The seasons of u bud and blossoming, and fruit and 
snows,” follow each other in regular succession, yet “ borrow not a word” 
for all the change they bring. The refreshing dew falls upon the thirsty 
soil, giving a livelier tint to the little floweret in our pathway, and lending 
a deeper green to vegetation all around, yet how gently, how silently it 
comes down to earth. Shall we not then, as we contemplate the silent course 
of nature, list to the voice which speaks in her works, and borrowing the 
language of poesy say, each to his own heart ? 

u Sick of the vanity of man, 

His noise, and poinp, and show, 

I 'll move upon great Nature’s plan, 
And silent work below. 

With inward harmony of soul 
I '11 wait the upper sphere, 

Shining, I ’ll mount above the pole, 
And break my silence there.” 

S. J. H. 





It was a gray autumnal day, and a light drizzling rain lent an additional 
gloom to surrounding objects. In a retired part of the city of L., in a room 
neatly furnished, sat a young lady negligently attired in a morning dress; 
she spoke not—her cheeks were not bedewed with tears—her grief was too 
intense for weeping. It was that silent sorrow which wears the life away. 
At last she arose, and with tottering steps approached the table in the centre 
of the room. A coffin had been placed there, of plain mahogany; she drew 
aside the pall, and opened the lid, and the first time, for many long hours, 
her voice was heard, and these were the words she uttered, 44 Oh! I could 
stand here always;” and then the tears fell thick and fast upon the cold, in¬ 
animate face of her first and only love. It was her husband. She had 
been married nearly two years, and had been blessed with one child, a boy, 
the miniature image of him who was now before her, cold in death. 

It was a bright morning in early Autumn, when the steamboats from the 
East came puffing and hurrying into the harbor of New York; and then 
came the noise and confusion of 44 A cab?” 44 A^coach?” u A cab?” 

44 Shall I take your baggage, sir ?” said a cab-driver, stepping up to a 
pleasant, benevolent-looking gentleman, with a lady leaning on his arm, in a 
plain dress, but of rich materials; she was not handsome, and yet thefe was 
something in her countenance, that made you wish to look upon it again. 
44 No,” was the quiet reply of the gentleman ; 44 but I should like a coach, 
if there is one on the stand.” A coach soon made its appearance; and after 
it had been duly crowded, came the inquiries, “Where will yon be left, 
sir ? Where will you be left, sir ?” And to the pleasant gentleman, 
44 Where will you be left ?” 44 At the Howard House,” was the reply. 
There he was at length safely deposited, for a few hours, until the boats 
started for the city of Penn, for he was travelling South for his health; and 
there he proposed passing the Winter months, as the most celebrated of our 
northern physicians had assured him, that this afforded the only hope of pre¬ 
serving his life, for the hollow cough was heard, and the hectic flush was 
upon his cheek, and many of his friends predicted that he was the marked 
victim of consumption. The lady was his wife, though in delicate health 
herself, and but just arisen from a bed of sickness, where death had nearly 
claimed her as his own; yet, when her husband was advised to try the effect 
of the balmy South, she would not listen to the plan that any other should 
accompany him but herself. It was in vain she was told that her health 
would not admit of such fatigue, for when was a devoted woman ever known 
to shrink from hardship, when the beloved of her heart was in danger ? 

They departed from their northern home; and when they arrived in Prov¬ 
idence, he was so ill that she feared they must return, and wholly relinquish 
their proposed residence £t the South; but he was anxious to proceed; they 
entered the boat, and from that moment he appeared better; he was ever, 
cheerful and gay; and when the bell rang, and his young wife, to gratify 
him, seated herself by his side, at the table, but not to partake of food, for 
her heart was too full for that, he was as liberal of his stories and Ion mots 
as in by-gone days. They arrived safe at New York, as we have before 
related, and took lodgings at the Howard House. His health continued to 



improve, and with high hopes and bright anticipations, he commenced writing 
a letter to his friends. He wrote a page or more, and then said he would 
lie down and take some repose, and finish his letter when he arose; but din¬ 
ner being announced, he made his hasty toilet, to meet the promiscuous com¬ 
pany of a fashionable hotel, and offered his arm to his wife. As they stepped 
into the entry, his eye rested on some of their baggage, that the porter had 
carelessly placed in the passage-way, and at the same time raising his foot 
with considerable force to remove it from his way, he fell; the alarm was 
soon given; they raised him, and laid him upon the bed he had so lately 
left, but he never spoke or breathed again. All possible means were used 
for his restoration, but Death had there placed his seal, and it could not be 
withdrawn. His wife was almost frantic with grief; she called on him, by 
every endearing epithet, to speak once more to her, but he was now deaf to 
the voice he had always loved so well—that voice, which, sleeping or waking, 
to him had ever been as music. Then the truth, the fearful truth, fell upon 
her heart, 41 he is dead and for the first time, she felt that she was alone, and 
a stranger in that great city, and that he whom she had loved with all a wo¬ 
man’s tenderness, had gone to render up his account to the Great Judge of all. 

She consented that a post mortem examination should take place ; and it 
was found that his disease was upon the heart, and one which unavoidably 
causes sudden death. 

To the credit of the Howard House be it said, that the landlord and his 
wife were to that bereaved one as if she had been their own daughter; 
every thing was done as she wished. The letter which her husband had 
commenced just before his death, the gentleman kindly finished, and sent it 
to his friends* that they might meet the widow and all that remained of the 
son and brother, in the city of B. He also offered the services of his first 
clerk to accompany her thus far, which she with many thanks, accepted; 
not that she feared to travel alone with the dead—no; death had no terrors 
for her now—but the delicacy of her health would not admit of her travel¬ 
ling without a protector. 

They arrived in B. without accident, and found her friends waiting to re¬ 
ceive her. The only words she uttered on meeting them were, 44 Oh, Henry! 
is it thus we meet ?” And throwing herself into her brother’s arms, she 
wept like a child. Then her tears were dried, and she was ready to depart 
again for L. She arrived a few hours before the corpse, and seated herself 
in the room we have described, at the commencement of this tale, and as we 
have before said, spoke not until the coffin rested on the table. Then she 
arose, and looking upon the loved face, exclaimed, 44 Oh ! I could stand here 
always !”****♦ 

In a short time, she sent for her child that had been taken into the country, 
and intrusted it to the care of a widowed sister during the absence of its un¬ 
fortunate parents. And now did she lavish upon him all the love she had 
before bestowed upon the father. She had, in his infancy, given him the 
name of Charles ; it was now changed to John, the name of him who was 
in heaven—for she never spoke of him as being dead, but-always as being 
in heaven; and well might she believe that was his blest abode, for without 
exaggerated praise to the departed, we can say, that seldom is so pure and 
true a spirit found on earth. He was the widow’s and die orphan’s friend, 
and in works of charity the left hand knew not what the right hand did. She 
was never weary of caressing her infant boy, for he was a sweet promising 
child; and she yet looked forward to long years of happiness, when he 
should become a man; and she fondly anticipated teaching him every thing 



his father loved; but alas, sorrow and disappointment are ever the lot of 
some, for 

“ I saw that young mother in tenderness bend 
O’er the couch of her slumbering boy ; 

. And she kissed the soft lips, as they murmured her name, 

While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. 

Oh! sweet is a rosebud encircled with dew. 

When its fragrance is flung on the air; 

So fresh and so bright to that mother he seemed, 

As he lay in his innocence there. 

But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form. 

Pale as marble, and silent and cold, 

But paler and colder her beautiful boy, 

And the tale of her sorrow was told; 

But the Healer was there, who had stricken her heart, 

And taken her treasure away: 

To allure her to Heaven, he had placed it on high, 

And the mourner will sweetly obey. 

There whispers a voice—’t was the voice of her God— 

I love thee—I love—PASS UNDER THE ROD.” 

Yes, the little one died, and again she was alone. Oh! it was very hard 
to part with him, but she knew the treasure had been lent to her for a time, 
and that The Father had a right to recall what He had given, when to His 
infinite wisdom it should seem best. In the deep agony of her feelings, she 
threw herself on her knees before that little corpse, and fervently prayed 
that she too might be taken to dwell with those she most loved. But it was 
ordained otherwise. God well knew that He must take away her idols be¬ 
fore she would permit the Master Spirit to work in her heart. * * * 

Would you see the monument she has erected to the father, and the son ? 
Go to the L. cemetery. More we cannot tell you. A great and most im¬ 
portant change has passed over The Young Widow. Though we always 
deemed her most exemplary in her excellence, yet now her goodness is of a 
different character. She is the ministering angel to the poor and needy, and 
has that sympathetic kindness, so soothing to a wounded spirit, that all feel 
better and happier for her being with them ; and she has that love for all 
which must proceed from a deep fountain, which is supplied from on high. 
She is willing to bear the cross; and, since that prayer for death, she has 
never been heard to murmur, and always meets her friends with a smile and 
a pleasant word. She is beloved by all who know her, and by many called 
beautiful: and of what does beauty consist, if not in the expression of good¬ 
ness of heart, and purity of spirit ? And surely she possesses these. We 
might go on still longer, and never become weary in speaking of her. 
We loved her when she was betrothed, we joined the gay festival when 
she was a bride, and we were the first to greet her after she became a 
mother. We joined the sad train that bore him, who was all the world to 
her, to his last long home, and we saw her child laid by his father’s side. 
We have seen her amid poverty and sickness; we have seen her in joy and 
sorrow ; we know she is beautifnl and good ; we know that God loves her, 
and that she has —“ Passed under the rod.” Ione. 




The stillness of death had settled over the pleasant village of T. All the 
beauties of Creation seemed wrapped in silence and gloom, and every voice 
breathed accents of sadness, when the mournful peals of the village bell pro¬ 
claimed that Death had made his entrance in their midst. Had he marked 
for his victim the aged one, whose every tie had been severed—who had 
ceased to dream of earthly hopes and joys, and whose spirit yearned for that 
rest, where naught of grief or pain might reach him ? Ah, no! he had laid 
his fearful hand upon one who was in the power and strength of manhood; 
one who anticipated many years of happiness and prosperity, and who had 
already commenced a career, which promised to place him among the hon¬ 
orable and distinguished of his countrymen. He had been beloved by his 
friends and associates; respected by his townsmen; and he was the pride 
and the boast of his party. A few days before, he had left them with the 
sparkling glow of health upon his countenance, and with a heart elated with 
bright visions of future eminence, to take his seat with the legislators of his 
country. He had been returned to them—but how changed! That once 
stately form now reposed upon its bier; the impress of death was stamped 
upon his brow ; those eyes were now closed in a dreamless sleep ; and those 
lips, from which the spell of eloquence had so often rung, were now sealed 
for ever. He had gone from them rich in intellectual lore, but there were 
temptations in his path, for which this furnished no antagonist influence. He 
had failed to protect himself with sufficient moral power and independence 
for a safe guide through every trial, and he fell, a victim to the unhallowed 
and fatal practice of duelling. Upon this altar, the foundations of which are 
pride and revenge, and which is raised in arrogant defiance of all the nobler 
principles of the mind, which always ought to exert dominion over thinking 
man, he was willing to offer that precious gift of God, the boon of life. For 
this, he consented to consign those, who, in his calmer moments, were as 
dear to him even as his own existence, to a life of hopeless and unmitigated 
sorrow. For this, he was willing to incur the awful guilt of the homicide; 
and for this, that infatuated and deluded one was willing to brave the dis¬ 
pleasure of his God, and to rush unbidden into His presence. 

The irretrievable step was taken—4he deed was done—the spirit had 
passed away, and naught was left to the weeping friends but the now dim 
and desolate temple it had once inhabited, and which was now recei\ing the 
last sad office of mortality. Mournfully swelled the heavy sound of the fu¬ 
neral knell upon the air, as the long procession darkened the churbh-yard, 
and gathered around the deep, damp grave. At the head of the grave stood 
the grief-stricken family of the departed ; on their countenances was depicted 
a sorrow too intense to be described—a sorrow too deep for sympathy, and 
too sacred for observation. The last solemn rite was performed ; the inani¬ 
mate form had been committed to its mother earth, where it would soon 
mingle, earth to earth, and dust to dust; the spectators looked, for a moment, 
on the agony of the stricken few, and turned them away, feeling that grief 
like theirs could only be borne under the all-supporting arm of Jehovah. 

This is no ideal picture, but a stern moving reality, which comes to us in 
the sad tale of the death of one of our own legislators. Alas! that they, 
who would scorn to bow at the footstool of monarchy, glorying in the name 
of freemen, and chosen to act for a nation’s weal, should thus prove them- 



selves voluntary slaves to an unholy, tyrannical custom—a custom which has 
often caused the bitterest draught of anguish and distress from the cup of 
human wo; a custom to which the sweetest affections, the dearest hopes, 
and the brightest visions of earth have been offered as incense, and which 
tramples upon every thing that assimilates man to the beings of a purer 
world, and impresses upon him the stamp of greatness. But for this, his 
voice might still have resounded in the halls of legislation, and his memory 
might have been enshrined in the hearts of America’s sons, with grateful 
recollections, as long as the rich legacy of freedom remains to them. But 
the angry embittered two forgot their duty to themselves, to t^eir fellow-men, 
and to their God. They heeded not “ the still small voice” amid that whirl¬ 
wind of passion; they acted not like men, for all that gave them a title to 
the name of man—all by which he claims ascendancy in the scale of being, 
was disregarded. In consequence of that reckless, wandering step a mourn¬ 
ful curtain has been drawn over the earthly existence of one, and, until his 
name be lost in oblivion, he will be remembered only with pity and censure. 
The other passed unscathed by mortal weapon ; but must not his heart be 
pierced by those unseen, corroding wounds, which conscience inflicts ? Can 
peace or happiness be an inmate of his bosom ? Even if he has sought and 
obtained the forgiveness of God, will not his cup of bliss on earth be con¬ 
stantly mingled with sadness, and regret ? How deeply impressive is the 
lesson, that ail our governing principles of action be drawn from Virtue and 
Piety. Without this protection, we sink; with it, we may steadily face every 
bleak storm of adversity and temptation, and it will be a safe and a sure 
guide to a haven of eternal rest. J. S. W. 


It was a cold, dreary, wet day in March, when I took my seat in a stage¬ 
coach, in the interior of one of our New England States. The coach was 
nearly full, but no one of the passengers presented any particular interest 
for study, save a young naval officer, in the United States uniform. He 
was good natured, but vain, conceited, and a coxcomb. He had travelled 
some upon the Eastern continent, and that, with him, was proof positive that 
he was “ a gentleman, and scholar.” Nature had given him a comely coun¬ 
tenance, and well-proportioned form; the United States had furnished him 
with a uniform and commission; and the whole, weighed in the balance of 
his empty cranium, was conclusive evidence of his superiority to any one 
whom he would be liable to meet in a stage-coach, on a rainy day. More¬ 
over, amid the orange groves of Spain, he had learned to make— love, with, 
and upon, the sweet-toned guitar; and this extra accomplishment was the 
ne plus ultra testimony that he was irresistible with all of the softer sex—at 
least, in his own estimation. Of his rank, his name, business, and connex¬ 
ions we were soon informed. Of his anticipations, his intentions, and qual¬ 
ifications upon the guitar we were fast becoming enlightened, when, at an 
inn where we changed horses, a new passenger was added to our compact 

The new addition to our company was a lady; and as she passed from 
the door of the inn to the coach, we all had the opportunity of noticing her 



outward adornment—our first, if not only criterion of respectability, when 
judging of a stranger, whether we meet him in church, street, or by the 
wayside. We could only arrive at the conclusion that the lady was rather 
tall; that she wore an unfashionable, large, but close blue silk hood; and 
that her cloak had evidently seen better days. It was not a long cloak of 
the last year’s style, nor a short one a la mode; but it was too short for a 
long cloak, and too long for a short cloak. It was apparent that the lady 
had outgrown her cloak, or had on the cloak of another and shorter person. 

The cloak, or the hood, or both combined, made our young officer forget 
his gallantry apd his story. Scarce any part of the lady’s face was visible, 
save her eyes, and those she kept intently fixed upon her muff. There was 
nothing of embarrassment or bashfulness in her manner, and the strict si¬ 
lence which she observed, might as well have been attributed to hauteur , 
(had it not been for the cloak and hood) as to want of confidence, or intelli¬ 
gence. The officer might have had some faint glimpse that such was the 
case, for in the midst of a tale of sunny Spain, and the lovely maidens of 
Adalusia, he paused and made some side remarks upon the ill nature of en¬ 
tering a company, either in coach, or car, and preserving a total unbending 

“ Good nature, at least,” said he, “ would prompt us to add something to 
the general social feeling, and to exert ourselves for the pleasure of those 
whom we chance to meet as fellow-passengers, where the roads are so intol¬ 
erable as we find them to-day, and the weather so unpropitious.” 

But nothing disturbed the lady’s equanimity, or induced her to open her lips. 

The last part of our journey for the day, was to be performed by railroad. 
But to our annoyance, the cars had been gone five minutes, when we arrived 
at the depot. Every one expressed his regret and disappointment, save the 
lady of the cloak and hood. She still remained silent; and we all might as 
well have done so, for aught that our lamentations would have done towards 
removing the evil. Horses have not been invented, that will overtake a 
railroad car; and the directors were too important, or too wise, or too poor, 
to start an extra train for one coach. ' 

Scolding, or fretting do no good, and the coach carried us to a hotel, the 
driver assuring us, for a certainty, that we should 44 all go in the morning.” 
There assuredly was some coolness, if no comfort, in the assertion, and we 
received it with all the philosophy of 44 it can’t be helped.” 

In the sitting-room, the silent lady removed her hood and cloak; and a 
fairy’s wand could not have effected a greater transformation. 

She was tall, but so admirably proportioned, that to have taken any thing 
from her height, would have detracted from the general effect. A more 
perfect outline of figure, or a more elegantly developed bust, I never saw. 
And then there was such grace in every movement, that the most untutored, 
and unobserving must have felt, if they could not have seen it. Her face 
was a perfect oval; and although deficient in color, yet color would have 
made it far less ideal. She exhibited in face, form and manner, what my 
imagination had often pictured as 44 queenly grace and majesty.” There 
was nothing, to call pretty, but all was so perfect, so finished, and so noble, 
that nothing could have been added ; and any thing detracted, would have 
marred the whole expression. And now, when I call her up to my mind’s 
eye, I can truly say, so high and noble appearance I have never seen pos; 
sessed by any other woman. 

The officer accidentally entered the room; and his astonishment was so 
great, and the change so unexpected, that he started back with an exclama- 



tion. The lady was as courteous and urbane in the sitting-room, as she had 
been reserved and unsocial in the coach. The brilliancy, aptitude, and yet 
perfect propriety of her conversation completely enchained our admiration, 
and made even a deeper impression upon our young hero of bloodless battles. 

He soon, by his assurance and management, contrived to engross her at¬ 
tention wholly. His guitar was produced, and—as the lady professed all 
ignorance of the instrument—he proffered his assistance in teaching her to 
call forth sweet melody from its strings. 

The instructor was indefatigable in his assiduity; and the pupil profitted 
by the anxiety and care bestowed upon her. Before the hour for retiring 
arrived, the lady could play many bars, in several different tunes, with as 
much grace and precision as her teacher; and, to a close observer, it ap¬ 
peared evidently more the want of will than the want of ability, that she did 
not perform the whole piece. 

The officer was enchanted. He had learned that the lady’s destination 
was Boston, where (as he informed her) he purposed to remain some weeks. 

The next morning he was all attention, in spite of the hood and cloak; 
and the lady remained as gracious as the previous evening. Our first stage 
was sixteen miles, which, in a car, we passed almost unconsciously. I was 
to stop there, which I almost regretted, as I ever love to witness the closing 
scene of farce or comedy. To my astonishment, the lady also followed me 
from the car, quietly taking her seat in the carriage which was to convey us 
from the depot. 

The officer followed us, evidently chagrined; but the lady was so bland 
in her parting compliments, that he scarce knew whether to press his inqui¬ 
ries farther, or to add his farewell with all the nonchalance which he could 

44 Good morning, sir,” said the lady, for the third time ; 44 I fear the cars 
will leave you.” 

“Let them go,” he impatiently returned. 44 May I not hope to see you 
when you arrive in Boston ? Pardon me, but I have not learned your name, 
or residence : am I too presuming in soliciting permission to call upon you ?” 

44 My husband , sir, would be most happy, 1 doubt not, to make your ac¬ 
quaintance,” returned the lady. 

But before the sentence was finished, the thunder-struck officer darted for 
the cars without an adieu. A quiet smile passed over the lady’s face, as 
she turned her eye and met mine. A moment’s inflection, undoubtedly, re¬ 
minded him how much his hasty retreat betrayed, for, as the cars started, 
he put his head out, and bowed his farewell to his mischievous tormentor. 



We are too apt to think of beauty as consisting in those waving outlines, 
those gorgeous tints, that harmonious shading, with which poets and critics 
have identified it.—But a deeper insight into the secrets of the natural world, 
a more reflective glance upon the visible creation, will change our feelings 
—will correct our erroneous impressions. We shall then see evidences of 
design which are the hieroglyphics by which the initiated learn of love, and 
which, to them, are ever the symbols of a beauty, to some invisible, but to 
them prominent and enduring. H. 






The year had passed, and moonlight fell 
As brightly on that lovely dell, 

As when, beneath its silvery light, ' 

The fairies danced that parting night. 

The sward was spread with freshest green; 

The earliest flowers bedecked the scene, 

And o’er it Night had spread a haze, 

That seemed of Luna’s woven rays. 

No sound was heard, save where a rill 
Went murmuringjlown the neighboring hill, 

Or when a faintly whispering breeze 
Stole through the tops of shadowing trees. 

But when the moon had mounted high, 

And told that midnight hour was nigh, * 

From far was heard a shivering sound, 

Like many wings for that vale bound. 

When softly on the evergreen bough 
The snow-flakes fall, so lightly now 
Dropped in the vale each elfin form, 

As many and white as the flakes of a storm. 

They are there—all there—No—the ci divant queen 
One broken link in the ring has seen, 

And as o’er the group her keen eyes fell 
One form she missed—it was “ little Sel.” 

“ Is there e’er a fairy can bring to me 
Some tidings of little Selanie ?” 

But the question she asked, of every one, 

Was answered by each with “ No—none, none;” 

And Therna (a sprite for patience not famed,) 

The wishes of others now loudly proclaimed. 

“ The night wanes fast, and surely we ween 
That Selanie never could be our queen; 

We wrong not her if to wait we refuse, 

And without delay our queen we will choose. 

Let Follia, the lovely and daring, begin, 

Let her tell her tale, the crown she may win.” 

Each fairy turned, and her keen eye glanced 
At the brilliant form, as it forward danced; 

And when she stood in the midst of the ring, 

A rustle was heard from each beautiful wing. 

But silence she bade, with her wand raised high, 

Though she scarce could command with that laughing eye; 
Yet all of the fairies their plaudits repressed, 

And each fluttering pinion was laid to rest. 



44 Sisters dear, would ye know where I went, 

When a live-long year must be wisely spent? 

Know ye the hermitage far on the hill, 

Near the rocks, which are laved by that tinkling rill ? 
Where a gray-bearded scholar has spent all his life, 
Without e’er a chicken, a child, or a wife 5 
Ye know it well—it was there I hied, 

Resolved to give that old hermit a bride. 

I donned the garb of a village maid, 

I went to the little old chapel and prayed; 

I counted my beads, and crossed my breast; 

I acted the penitent never at rest; 

So artful and surely my plans were all laid, 

That old Father Sanctum my dupe was soon made; 

And often I beard him for me breathe a prayer, 

Though months passed by ere he spake to me there. 

But, at length, one mom from the altar he rose— 

4 My daughter,’ said he, 1 for thy sins, or thy woes, 

Dost thou kneel each morn on the cold damp stone, 

And weep and sigh in the chapel alone ? 

Thou art very fair: Hast thou been betrayed ? 

For Grief, not Guilt, on that young heart has preyed; 

And if thou to me wilt thy sorrows reveal, 

The balm I may give, which the deep wound will heal.* 

Then I dried my tears, and ceased my wail, 

And told the old saint such a piteous tale, 

That he wept, as if his heart would soon break, 

And fell on his knees, to pray for my sake. 

I told him that I was the destined bride 
Of one, more than my equal in rank, wealth, and pride; 
But that none of my thoughts to this earth could be given, 
And I ne’er would be wife, save the bride of high Heaven. 
I told him that I to the lone chapel came, 

As a shelter from those who were urging his claim; 

But I feared that I soon might be taken away; 

They had learned where I came to weep, and to pray. 
Then I fell at his feet, and with tears I besought 
An asylum with him, till the past was forgot; 

Until my betrothed with another should wed, 

Or, if that might not be, till my tyrants were dead. 

From his quivering lips a blessing came, 

A thrill of joy went over his frame, 

He lai<{ his hand on my upturned brow, 

And said, * My angel-child art thou.’ 

A welcome he gave to his lonely hut, 

We both went in, and the door was shut. 

Months, months passed on, while I tried my arts, 

For his was the oldest and hardest of hearts; 

Yet I would not give up, I did not despair, 

For I was determined to conquer there. 



Surely, though slow, was the change to be, 

And, in time, the old man thought of nothing but me; 
His mind I had firmly chained down to the earth, 

And strange-coming thoughts in his bosom had birth. 
At length my sweet boy plainly offered his heart, 

He said that from me he hever could part; 

He told me of wealth beyond the far seas, 

Which he would reclaim, if me it would please; 

But I would not list till he offered his hand, 

Till he promised to make me a dame of the land, 

Till he’d broken forever the hermit’s vow, 

And the nuptial wreath had placed on my brow. 

The bridal ring on my finger was placed, 

When I suddenly turned, and my lover I faced: 

‘ The garland and ring to the glen I will take, 

As trophies of conquest which Follia can make; 

And if e’er a token won harder is seen, 

The fairy who brings it I ’ll gladly hail—Queen! 

To prayers, and to penance, I ’ll gladly leave you; 

My sisters are waiting—now, Graybeard, adieu !’ ” 

The fairies laughed, as well they might, 

At the mischievous trick of the little sprite; 

But, though they loudly clapped their hands, 

There were none who offered to cross their wands. 
And they quickly called for others to come, 

And tell what they’d done away from home. 

The naughtiest elves had now grown bold, 

And many a tale of folly was told, 

By those who’d despaired the crown to obtain. 

And said that all effort was “ labor in vain.” 

So the passing time they had tried to enjoy, 

And let wiser fairies their time well employ. 

Though some had been harmless in all their wild play. 
Yet more bad in mischief their time whiled away ; 

And they told how they’d banded together to make 
The ponderous bell of the old church shake, 

So that when its loud clang reached the rustics’ home, 
They thought that the end of the world had come. 

And some had stripped the long gray moss, 

With their little hands, from the wayside cross; 

And those who passed thought an omen was sent, 

Of judgment fierce, of dreadful portent. 

And some had swept at night all the dew 

From the farmer’s fields, where the best grass grew; 

His heart grew sad as he saw it decay, 

And he marvelled much that it withered away. 

Some with their busy hands had torn 
The germs away from the spears of corn; 

While the owner wondered much at the blight 
Which came on his crops in the stilly night. 



Some had rifled the orchard of seeds, 

And some had planted the garden with weeds; 

And the noisy band which had often played 
In the temple ruins, to that haunt strayed. • 

Gaily they danced, with mirthful song, 

Merrily swung on the tendrils long; 

And oft, on the night air, such uproar would float, 
That even the fiend himself took note. • 

But some had done better, though never an aim, 

Or purpose firm, their rambles could claim; 

But when a good service was found in her way, 

Why, once in a while, a kind fairy would stay. 

The cottager’s wife arose to complete 
Her dreaded task, but’t was finished so neat 
She wondered much if aught but a fay 
Could charm the hard work so swiftly away. 

The neat maid rose, delighted to view 

The sixpence bright, which was dropped in her shoe; 

And many a poor old heart grew light 

As it scanned the gift of a little sprite. 

But the moon was growing faint and pale, 

And no more could they list to a fairy’s tale; 

So they all resolved, ere morning’s light, 

To leave their choice for the morrow’s night. 


No. in. ZENOBIA. 

It is pleasant to turn, from Cleopatra, to Zenobia, the Queen of Palmyra 5 
her character is of a higher order, and, though she may not interest us more, 
yet she interests our better feelings; there is more to admire, and our ad¬ 
miration is not mingled with so much of disapprobation, and with naught of 
contempt. In her there was less of sorcery, but more, far more, of true 
talent, genius, and energy. If she did not captivate so readily, it must have 
been because she disdained exertions to win. With more of personal beauty 
than the Egyptian, with more accomplishments, and true refinement, she 
lacked no less native grace and fascination. But she could not stoop to arti¬ 
fice ; she could not bend herself to the tastes of the rude, and sensual. She 
was severely virtuous, in the limited sense of the term, if not in every sense. 
She was magnificent, dazzling, and ambitious; she wished not only to be a 
queen, but to do something, which might make good her claim to royalty. 
If portrayed as she oft appeared to her contemporaries, and would wish to 
appear to posterity, it would not be reclining in voluptuous ease, with the 
chaplet of a goddess on her brow, with Cupids, Nereides, and Syiphides at 
her side, with the melody of flutes, and the ripple of waters stealing on the 
perfumed breezes—O, no—here she is with a helmet on her head, with bur¬ 
nished armor glittering o’er her frame, with the battle-lance poised gracefully 
in her hand, and her stately war-horse prancing proudly beneath his royal 



burden; while the fires of a daring spirit, and the softer emotions of an af¬ 
fectionate heart, are mingled in her “ divinely expressive eyes.” Her soft 
dark locks, escaping from the iron circlet, are floating on the breeze; and 
the enchanting smile, which parts her mouth, shows the teeth which were 
almost believed to be pearls. Around her are the Syrian, the Greek, the 
Roman, the Egyptian, the Arab, and the native Palmyrene; and these dis¬ 
cordant troops are resolved into one mighty indivisible force by the magic 
of her smiles and frowns. 

In the distance is faintly discerned an advancing foe. Afar, through the 
thin blue haze, which lightly rests upon the desert, is seen the mighty cara¬ 
van, which breaks the monotonous profile of the level waste. As the long 
columns emerge from the boundary of land and sky, each warrior’s form 
increases in size, and assumes a more formidable aspect. At their head is 
Aurelian, the stern and mighty Emperor of Rome, the conqueror of savage 
Goths, and ruler of tumultuous Italians. There is the strong vindictive Au¬ 
relian, opposing his talents and energies to an Oriental female. No wonder 
that, spite of the terror of his name, the prowess of his arm, the vastness of 
his resources, and the almost hopelessness of the struggle—no wonder that 
thousands resolved to confront with her the commander of Roman legions. 
That sweet though powerful voice falls on their ears, like the notes of the 
silver clarion, and every heart beats high with fearless enthusiasm. 

And there is Palmyra, u the city of Palms,” reflecting from its long lines 
of pure white columns the fiery rays of an Eastern sun, while the thousand 
shadows of bending trees, and the glittering spray from hundreds of jutting 
fountains, mingle in strong contrast with the rich soft flood of sunshine. 

There are graceful forms, arrayed in rich costume, threading those straight 
and wide-paved streets—females, in gay aerial drapery, are stealing through 
the miles of sculptured colonnade—there is beauty, wealth, and every where 
the visible effects of a wonderful taste, which could change the details of 
every-day life into the semblance of a fete-day gala. O, why can they not 
be permitted to remain in peace, in the magnificent city which they have 
raised from the arid desert ; and to luxuriate in the wealth and loveliness 
which they have created, from resources which interfered not with the rights 
and privileges of any nation, unless it were, indeed, the right and privilege of 
Rome to rule the world. Light hearts grew heavy, and bright eyes grew 
dim, as the fierce siege was pressed—but still those eyes could flash with 
brilliance, and those hearts were relieved of much of their sadness when 
near their queen. Fierce spirits softened as her tones of gentleness fell on 
their ears, but their wild enthusiasm could not be repressed when that sweet 
voice aroused them to vengeance, patriotism, and strife. Her Arab bands, 
like the flerce tornado of their own deserts, swept by the foemen’s camp, 
and swift and sure as the lightning’s scathe was the mark they left behind. 
But though Palmyra had bravery, enthusiasm, and a Queen who could mould 
all passions to her will, and avail herself of every resource she possessed, 
yet her resources were not comparable to those of the Emperor. Every 
energy of that great warrior, was bent upon the subjugation of Zenobia. He 
was resolved that there should be no u Augusta of the East,” that the purple 
robe should not envelope the limbs of a Palmyrene. And though the satirists 
of Rome laughed their Emperor to scorn, as one who waged ignoble war, 
yet he was a far better judge of the military genius of Zenobia, and the 
glory to be won by a trial at arms with her, than were the poets. To him 
it seemed far more ignominious to permit one independent sovereign to rule 
her kingdom, unawed, and unopposed, than to crush it by brutal force* She 



had defied him also; she had questioned his ability to take what he had been 
so arrogant as to demand. u Those who laugh at me,” said he, M know little 
of this woman; they speak too as though Zenobia opposed me with her 
single arm.” 

Though the arm of Zenobia could never have directed those awful engines, 
with which, from the wails of Palmyra, were scattered death and destruction, 
yet it was she who nerved the arms which might wield them for her. 
Though her jewelled armor, and glittering helmet, could slightly protect her 
from the Roman, yet the lights which glittered over them were reflected 
back from thousands pf burning eyes, and the sight of her infused new 
strength into her determined supporters. 

But all their zeal, courage, and loyalty to her were of little avail against 
the determined and vindictive Emperor. And when Zenobia’s last noble 
and heroic effort, in behalf of Palmyra, resulted in her own captivity, the 
knowledge of that event fell like a paralysis upon her noble-hearted people. 

Had she possessed the artful qualities of Cleopatra—could she have de¬ 
scended to the degrading efforts by which the Egyptian Queen seduced a 
Roman Emperor, no doubt the savage Aurelian could as easily have been 
transformed into a gallant lover, as Caesar, or Mark Antony. But though a 
conquered sovereign, she was still a Queen—not one born beneath the 
shadow of a throne, and nurtured in a palace, but one to whom the true in¬ 
signia of royalty had been granted by Nature; and to her alone she was 
indebted. u Thou, who hast conquered, do I acknowledge my sovereign,” 
said she with a subdued dignity which could ennoble a captive. Her modest, 
though self-respectful deportment, could even impress the enraged Aurelian. 
The blood for which his worn soldiers thirsted and supplicated, he permitted 
not to stain his sword. The life, which had caused the death of many of his 
tried warriors, was not taken as a ransom for theirs. Zenobia was permitted 
to live. Alas! that one other as dear to posterity should have been sacri¬ 
ficed for his devotion to her. 

But Palmyra must feel the vengeance of the aggressor. That city of en¬ 
chantment, which had almost sprung into existence at her command, and 
blossomed, even in the desert, beneath her smile; that city must be doomed 
to expiate, in blood and ashes, the sin of opposing Rome. 

Hundreds of years have passed away, but they have found and left it deso¬ 
late. The sirocco of Arabia has borne its sand clouds over it, or buried its 
columns beneath their shifting shroud. The sun has poured his unbroken 
rays upon its ruined temple, for thousands of cloudless days, but no incense 
has gone up from the deserted altars; from thence no voice of praise shall 
ever greet his rising. The long unbroken lines of snowy colonnade still lift 
their slender pillars to the skies, but every shaft is now an obelisk. Desola¬ 
tion triumphs, where once Zenobia reigned—Zenobia, which then was but 
another name for graceful mirth, for refined magnificence, for warm affec¬ 
tions, and noble aspirations. 

Yet Zenobia was but an Arab—her father the chief of a desert tribe ; and 
her lofty spirit was nurtured amid the free winds, beneath the cloudless skies, 
and under the fearless influences of Arabia. To be “ a patient household 
drudge” had been her lot, if even her transcendant beauty had been unmin¬ 
gled with a worthy spirit. But, for once, the casket was but a fitting shrine 
for the priceless jewel, and, for once, an Oriental maid is to assert even her 
claims to mental superiority. When death had freed her from the master to 
whom her girlhood had been sold, she became the wife of Odenatus, a chief 
of Palmyra—then but a mighty caravanservi, the resort of the merchant and 



pilgrim, though still hallowed by the remembrance of him who first dedi¬ 
cated its pure springs to the service of the stranger, and trafficker. Hal¬ 
lowed it now is, throughout the East, by the recollection of him who is still 
remembered as the wisest king , and who built u Tadmor in the desert.” 

But though Zenobia could ride to battle by her husband’s side—though 
she could even instruct him how to war with the old monarchies of that old 
world, yet she had tastes for higher and more congenial pursuits; tastes 
which needed but opportunities for developement, and the wealth which con¬ 
quests could bestow—which needed but these to change the brilliant dreams 
of a lovely woman to beautiful and enduring realities. 

The transient encampment became a city of temples, palaces, fountains, gar¬ 
dens, and porticoes, which war and time have not been able wholly to destroy. 

The nations of the Orient bowed to the sceptre of Palmyra, and hailed its 
mistress as their Queen. And when she raised, alone, the standard of the 
murdered Odonatus, it needed but that single arm to move them on to vic¬ 
tory. Different nations resolved into one mighty people beneath her rule, 
and warriors of many climes pressed under her banners. The Greek came 
with poetry, philosophy, and the arts; the Arab came with burning zeal, 
with eloquence, fiction, and song; the Roman, with his stern bravery, and 
severe taste; the Syrian, with his love of splendor, show, and Oriental cere¬ 
monial ; all united with the graceful, light-hearted, genuine Palmyrene in 
affection, patriotism, and devotion. Her sceptre seemed a magic wand, 
which transformed these discordant bands into a united family of brothers. 

And she too was*changing—she sat at the feet of the noblest spirit of the 
age, and drank at the purest fount of intellect. From the Roman she learned 
to discipline her armies; from the Egyptian, to mingle solidity with the airy 
fancies of her architects; from the Persian, to dazzle with gorgeous show, 
and banquet with queenly pomp ; but of the Greek she learned to enrich the 
mind, of Longinus she learned to rule her spirit, to support prosperity, and 
prepare for adversity. She learned to avail herself of sources of happiness, 
and true grandeur, of which even that terrible reverse could not deprive her. 
And over all these accomplishments, these lofty attainments, were ever rest¬ 
ing those native and peculiar graces, which signalized her from all others, 
and constituted the charm of the Palmyrene. And all she did was done so 
quickly—not more than half a score of years elapsed, from the time she was 
sole sovereign, ere she was a captive. What noble trophies might she have left 
behind, had life and peace been hers. M I would,” said she, as she sat with 
her purple robe clasped with brilliants to her waist, and her bare arm raised, 
with the innate consciousness of mental strength—“I would, indeed, that the 
world were mine, and feel within the power to bless it were it so.” 

But even her world was not to be spared—the little world which she had 
created, and which proudly owned her as its sovereign. It may be that in 
her researches into the history of nations, and rulers who were gone, she 
had prepared for a downfall, which was possible—that she had schooled her 
own proud spirit to bear calmly with injury and oppression. 

Even in her days of joyous pride and strength, she had studied the past; 
she had drawn up, for her own use and advantage, a history of the times 
which had gone; and could those annals have survived to coming genera¬ 
tions, perhaps, as a literary work, this specimen, of the first female historian, 
might not have compared unworthily, with the memento of that latest one, 
who was laid the first to rest in our own Mount Auburn. 

And yet the attainments of a faithful narrator, seem almost at variance 
with the other accomplishments and occupations of Zenobia. 



But when we leave her as a fallen Queen, we also resign the lovely wo¬ 
man, and talented historian. Her last appearance on the page of history, 
when, with unsandalled feet, and fettered limbs, she walked before that 
splendid chariot, in which she had vaunted she would enter Rome, when she 
was exhibited in that long procession, which might, perhaps, have been “a 
triumph” t^Aurelian—this last sad scene in the close of the fitful drama. ' 
Though, in the brilliant constellation of the past, she is more like a meteor, 
than “a bright enduring star,” yet she has left a remembrance which cannot 
vanish from earth. 

“ Queen of the Desert! in that name there seems a thrilling spell; 

It floats across the poet’s heart, like a mighty trumpet’s swell; 

I see a countless multitude in flowing robes arrayed ; 

I see the glittering scimelars, and the banners broad displayed; 

I see the horses, black as death, with long manes flowing wide, 

And hoofs that spurn the burning sand, in their tameless power and pride; 

I hear the wild horn shrilly blown, I hear the cymbals clash, 

And, with a shout, I see the troops to the fearful conflict dash, 

Each horseman striving for the prize,—smiles and approval won 
From her who bade the pageant be,—a peerless Amazon. 

Queen of the Desert! at the words another dream is framed, 

A stately woman sits enthroned, Queen of the waste proclaimed; 

Her palace riseth proudly up midst deserts bare and old, 

And her presence chamber doth display 4 barbaric pearl and gold;’ 

Her maidens, gathered from the world, like flowers from many a land, 

With silver-woven veils, behind and round her footstool stand; 

She only with uncovered brow, and an unquailing eye, 

Beholds when loyal subjects wave the flashing sabre high; 

She only sits, untrembling, with calm majestic mein; 

While turban’d thousands bend the knee to hail the Desert Queen.” 

Zenobia long survived the wreck of her kingdom, and power. Had she 
yielded life, when all else was taken, this total dissolution of the majesty of 
Palmyra must have claimed the notice of the historian. But his unbroken 
silence is like a deep earnest voice in her favor. Though she walked a liv¬ 
ing monument of Aurelian’s prowess, with golden chains upon her arms, 
where Cleopatra, her predecessor, if not her ancestor, was carried in effigy, 
with the golden asp upon her breast, yet even his vindictive triumph could 
not degrade her. It was a saying of Longinus, that 66 nothing is truly great 
which it is noble to despise,” and when his teachings came back to her, like 
a solemn echo from the tombs, when the light, which had shone upon her in 
the palace, streamed full into her prison, divested of its former dazzling 
glare, then she would see how great was its brightness. Her proud spirit 
was never crushed, or she would have striven for a secondary reputation, 
in “ The Eternal City ;” but in the sanctity of her deep retirement, she must 
have cherished truer and nobler views, of the true destiny of man, of the 
worthlessness of wealth and power, of the superior grandeur of mental at¬ 
tainments, of the ever-increasing value of philosophical acquirements and 
capacities, than she could have done ere 

“Palmyra, central in the desert, fell.” 

Perhaps it would be wrong to leave this glorious woman without a tribute 
to her superiority over other sovereigns of that age, and even most of those 



of any age, in freedom of mind, in toleration. Hers was ever an inquiring 
mind, seeking truth in the past, the distant, and the mysterious. But all 
who wished could worship in an inherited and settled faith. She listened to 
the Gentile, as he taught her of the deities of wood, of mount, and stream, 
but she also hearkened to the Jew, as he told her of the One only God. 

There were teachers in Rome of a new and despised religion when Zeno- 
bia was taken there a prisoner, and it was a religion peculiarly adapted to a 
lofty mind, and wounded heart. It was a religion which brought joy to the 
mourner, and a promise of deliverance to the captive. It may be that she 
heard of it in her seclusion, that she learned to obey its precepts, and receive 
its consolations; that something better than mere philosophy became her 
support, that she ceased to sigh over her u marble waste” when her thoughts 
were fixed upon an Eternal City; and that she ceased to regret an earthly 
diadem in her anticipations of a crown which should never pass away. 



In her shroud the cold earth Iieth, 

And, like those who vigils hold 
O’er the couch of one who dieth, 

Stand the tall trees, dark and old. 

See ! like funeral train they ’re weeping ! 

Mark, where fell the frozen tear! 

There the sweet young flowerets sleeping, 
Sleeping in their early bier. 

Through the leafless branches stealing, 
Low and mournful murmurs come; 
Now, like choral voices pealing 
From the forest’s ancient dome. 

Hark! ’tis Summer’s dirge they’re sing- 
She, who late sat smiling here, [ing ! 
Joy and beauty round her flinging, 

Wields no more her sceptre near. 

Wherefore mourn ?—she is but sleeping! 

When the frost-king yields his sway, 
From her snow-hung chambers leaping, 
She will bloom as fair as aye. 

Thus shalt thou, O faithless mortal, 

Burst the icy bands of Death; 

Pass his dark and ponderous portal, 

Bask in Eden’s balmy breath. L. L. 


Before the enemy can tell 
The weakness of thy citadel, 

Hasten to the place of prayer! 

For hallowed thoughts assemble there, 
In long and bright array. 

True sentinels that shall patrol, 

And guard the temple of thy soul, 
Through all the solemn day. 

They go and come, at thy command, 
Then set thy watch, ft valiant band, 

So undisturbed thou fray’st retire, 
And feed the sacrificial fire 

In thy “most holy place.” 

Thy sanctum is the deep within 
Thy penitential prayers here bring 
For incense, offer praise. 

Thus while'in reverence bending low, 
Within thy heart a fire shall glow; 

It is the Holy One, who came, 

In olden time, in sacred flame, 

To grant His people’s prayer. 

So shall His present love, and peace, 
Forever in thy soul increase 
The bright Shekinah there. 





Forefathers’ Day. We had intended in our last, to have noticed the several an¬ 
niversaries, which had been observed after the issue of the preceding number, but the 
article was deferred for want of room. Perhaps our remarks upon Forefathers’ Day 
may not now be out of place. We had thought it almost forgotten, but were happy 
to see that it was observed by the New Englanders in New York, and by one society 
in Boston. The Twenty-second of December should always be “a white day in our 
lives.” Its remembrance should not be like a flitting phantom, never really with us, 
and never a reality; but it should be like some bold statue, firm, beautiful, and ever 
in its place, always commanding our attention, and attracting our devotion. The 
22d and 25th of December are days not by us to be passed unheeded by; and our own 
lonely contemplations should not be wholly superseded by the more gladsome reflec¬ 
tions suggested by social celebrations. 

Of the latter anniversary we will now say nothing. Our churches have been opened, 
our altars decorated, our pastors aroused, our choirs enlivened, and our large congre¬ 
gations doubtless gratified, and instructed upon this day. And it is meet that it should 
be so. It is well that Christians should honor the day, by many believed to be the 
birthday of our Lord; and at all events, a fitting season to recall and commemorate 
his advent. And this has been fitly done; but how few have commemorated the 22d 
of December! the anniversary of the day 

“ When first the thoughtful and the free— 

Our fathers—trod the desert land.” 

Are the descendants of the Pilgrims becoming forgetful of the birthday of religious 
freedom ?—aye, and of civil freedom also—for the step they took, upon the platform 
of Liberty, led to a broader ground than even they themselves conceived. “ The first 
party in Christendom,” says Robert Vaughn, “ to advocate religious freedom—I mean 
to advocate it fully, and consistently—was this party of outcasts; and because, in this, 
they were wiser than their generation, they were long despised by it.” And oppro¬ 
brium has not yet entirely completed its task—the despised of 1620, are the calum¬ 
niated of 1843. Even the long-buried dead are not allowed to “rest in peace.” In 
the words of Young— 

“ What guilt 

Can equal violations of the dead 7 
The dead, how sacred!” 

And O how sacred the memory of such dead. Little had they to bequeath to us, their 
posterity, but their fame, the noble principles which brought them exiles over the great 
waters, and “freedom to worship God.” All that they brought, and all that they 
found, have they left to us unstained, and let us religiously preserve the holy bequest, 
and, while we so jealously maintain our liberties, may we never suffer injustice to 
their memory. Their good name is left for us to shield and guard, and may we never 

u Hear unmoved the taunt of scorn— 

Or mark the stranger’s jaguar hand 
Disturb the ashes of our dead— 

The buried glory of a land 
Whose soil with noble blood is red, 

And sanctified in every part.” 

But while we thus hallow their memory, we do it, not thinking they were faultless. 
Good men were they, but they were men , and they erred ; still we may, with the filial 
reverence of the sons of Noah, go backward, and cast the mantle of charity over their 
frailties. Even in their worst derelictions from what we regard the path of right, 
were they true to the high principles they cherished, and the mission on which they 
came. We reverence them, not because they cherished some peculiar doctrines, but 
because in the devotion and faith with which they embraced those doctrines; in the 
intrepidity with which they maintained them, despite all of obloquy and persecution; 
in the self-sacrificing, self-forgetting, and heaven-supported energy, with which they 
bore them “across the Atlantic’s roar,” into a rude forest temple, whose fanes of 
standing oak, and fir, and pine, were meet pillars for the sanctuary of those iron men; 
and in the stern resolution with which they laid all soft affections, all yearnings for 
the mild, the joyous, and the lovely, upon that altar—we reverence them, because in 
all this we see that they were true men; true to themselves, to the faith they cher- 



ished, and the God they served. If we have a better faith, does it make us better 
Christians? Are we as true as they to the God of our fathers? Are we doing, for 
generations yet to come, what the Pilgrim fathers did for us? If not, then let us re¬ 
frain from casting the stone, or uttering the reproach. 

But what did they do ? Let the voices which daily ring o’er every hill, and up 
from every dale; which echo from every rock, and mingle with every breeze; let 
these answer. 

“ Hark to the shouts of praise rejoicing millions raise; 

Gaze on the spires that rise, to point them to the skies, 

Then, if ye can, ah, then forget 
To whom ye owe the Sacred debt— 

The pilgrim race revered! 

The men who set faith’s burning lights 
Upon these everlasting heights, 

To guide their children through the years of time.” 

It is their true spirit of independence which we are to cherish and revere; that 
spirit whidh spurned all spiritual control, and defied all spiritual tyranny ; that spirit 
which despised the mockery of a gorgeous ritual, and derided the pretensions of a 
pampered priesthood; that spirit which questioned not the high, the noble, nor the 
learned, for information upon the all-important subject, but went, for counsel and sup¬ 
port, to the Throne of Grace, and the depths of their own sanctified hearts; and is not 
this worthy of reverence and imitation ? It is; and we do cherish it. Almost un¬ 
known to ourselves are all the Puritan influences under which we act, and which are 
reacted upon us; and while we “behold, in liberty’s unclouded blaze,” a light which 
is to lighten the earth, we are too prone to forget when it was brought, a tiny flicker¬ 
ing spark, to these bleak shores, and here they reared its sanctuary amid the ice, and 
sleet, and rocks, and snow, that it might be inaccessible to the cupidity of the grasping, 
and the tyranny of the oppressor. The men who did all this could not be the weak, 
yielding and soft hearted. No ! the virtues and sentiments, which stern necessity 
left alone for them to cultivate, were too adverse to the mild, the soft, and gentle. 
They were rigid, austere, and sometimes morose. But they had been made so by op¬ 
pression. They were, mayhap, hard hearted ; but those hearts had been seared by 
the brand of the persecutor, and all kindly feelings must have somewhat withered be¬ 
neath that deadly simoon of hate and violence. 

And while we sit so comfortably, beneath our own vine and fig tree, do we remem¬ 
ber with sufficient gratitude those who planted them in haste, and fear, and terror, 
though not without hope; and who watered them with sweat, tears, and blood? We 
are reaping the harvest so painfully sown. Still it is true that the seeds, so industri¬ 
ously implanted by our fathers, may have sometimes ripened into fruit, which, could 
they have foreseen, the sight would have filled them with dread, and anguish. But, 
different as we may be from what they were, and what they would have washed us to 
become, still let us, like them, be true—true to ourselves, as depositories of a sacred 
trust; true to ourselves, as the guardians of liberty ; true to ourselves, as children of 
the Puritans. Other and milder men may have planted colonies in other and milder 
soils; but who, like them, could have braved for conscience’ sake, the terrors of a 
New England winter? of “the tempest and the gale?” There is not, to my mind's 
eye, a nobler specimen of “moral grandeur” than “ that pale pilgrim band,” sending 
“ their hymns of lofty cheer” up through the leafless forests of New England, on the 
22d of December. Had they landed on our shores in the balmy month of June, or 
amidst the gorgeous beauty of August, or beneath the serener skies of our sunny Sep¬ 
tember, we might not wonder that they should have been content to make here their 
abiding place. But it was in winter, and amidst poverty, famine, suffering, and deso¬ 
lation that they came, 

“ Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
The ark of freedom and or God.” 

In conclusion, can we not all unite in the poet’s prayer: 

“ When we, and ours, have rendered up our trust, 

And men unborn shall tread above our dust, 

Then let the song to Him begun, 

To Him in reverence end: 

Look down in love, Etkhkat. Ok* 

And Thv good cause defend; 

Here, late and long, put forth Thy hand, 

To guard and bless tne Pilgrims’ land !” 

H. F. 



MARCH, 1 843. 


“ It is singular to me, Mrs. Evans, that a lady of your sense of propriety 
should be so intimate with that fire-fly—I declare I do not know what else to 
call her—Miss Barnard. I always tremble when I am where she is, for fear 
of what she will do, or say next,” remarked the languid and genteel Mrs. 
Allen, in the course of a morning call upon the lady she addressed, whefe 
some five, or six individuals were present, besides the ladies named. 

44 I think,” replied Mrs. Evans, “ that Miss Barnard never surely gave you 
any cause to fear that she would say an ill-natured, or ungenerous thing of 
an absent person.” 

44 1 am sure that her sarcasm and irony is ill-natured,” replied Mrs. Allen 
hastily, and coloring. 

44 But she always levels it at those present ,” rejoined Mrs. Evans. 

44 And 1 always suppose,” continued Mrs. Allen , 44 that one who will say 
a severe thing to my face, will say a worse one behind my back.” 

44 Mrs. Allen, I think you are in an error,” rejoined Mrs. Evans. 44 Those 
who will say untrue things to our face, merely for compliment’s sake, gen¬ 
erally will not hesitate to say untrue things of an opposite nature behind our 
backs to gratify their spite, envy, ill will, or perhaps to balance, in the great 
scale of right, the pretty falsehoods which they have perpetrated. On the 
contrary—those who say a severe thing to my face because it is true, I cer¬ 
tainly can reasonably hope will not say any thing worse than the truth behind 
my back.” 

44 But even a true thing may be ill-natured,” remarked Dr. Davis. 

44 1 admit it,” replied Mrs. Evans; 44 but when a true thing can be said to 
our injury, the fault must be our own.” 

44 Well, then,” continued the gentleman, 44 1 believe you must allow me to 
say some true things of your absent friend. For my part, I think it not only 
erroneous in us, but a wrong to her, to tolerate her total contempt of the 
opinions of others. Miss Barnard appears to me to possess an unpardonable 
heedlessness of consequences, an unfeminine desire for notoriety, and the 
supposition amounting to certainty, that the eccentricity, which she affects, is 
the seal of superiority—” 





“ A formidable catalogue, surely,” interrupted Mrs. Evans; “ and did I 
not know that she in truth possessed a very humble opinion of herself, I too, 
perhaps, might join in your censure. But the very eccentricity, of which 
you complain, arises in a great degree from a want of a proper estimation 
of herself. Awaken her benevolence, and not a thought of self, for the time 
being, remains in her mind ; arouse her indignation, and self is the predomi¬ 
nating influence in her actions. But individual opinion of character is far 
from being a correct criterion of justice. We all look upon our brother 
through our limited knowledge of his motives, and the darkling shadows of 
our own prejudices. Your particular impressions I cannot combat; we all 
have fancies and tastes peculiarly our own, and for which, in a certain de¬ 
gree, we are not amenable. A man may be every thing that is just and 
good, morally and intellectually, and yet be personally disagreeable to us. 
For this taste, or preference, we cannot be answerable, and yet, it is due 
ourselves that we yield him in justice all that belongs to him, while it may 
be equally his misfortune and ours, that he does not please us.” 

“ I was not questioning Miss Barnard’s power of pleasing—I was disposed 
to censure her want of prudence, propriety, and if you will allow me so to 
say, her folly,” responded Dr. Davis. 

“ Prudence, propriety, and folly all have questionable significations,” re¬ 
joined Mrs. Evans, “determined according to the age, the country, and the 
society where they are applied. A Chinese, or Mahometan propriety, as 
applied to females, would be an American, or English impropriety. By 
what rule of right shall we decide these questions ?” 

w I am not disposed to go into a laborious and far-fetched investigation of 
the matter,” returned the doctor; “ if you please, we will only consider the 
propriety which should characterize an American lady.” 

“ Very well,” responded Mrs. Evans; “ and by what rule should an 
American lady be governed in these questions ?” 

“ If she is so unfortunate as not to possess common sense, and an innate 
sense of propriety also, let her be governed by the general tone of society,” 
answered Dr. Davis. 

“And that, we shall find,” rejoined Mrs. Evans, “will differ in almost 
every community, and, I may say, in every circle and clique. As we are 
so unfortunate as not to have a court to decide, as a universal umpire, our 
questions of etiquette, almost ever circle decides these questions to suit their 
own taste and convenience.” 

“ We will not make the question one of merely conventional usage,” re¬ 
turned the doctor. “ As you have remarked, we have no courtly tribunal to 
which to refer this question, but we have a higher one; and it is peculiarly 
an American lady’s prerogative to blend a Christian’s sense of justice, right, 
and truth, with the polished courtesy of her manner.” 

“ To ‘ be courteous,’ to 4 be kind,’ just and true, then, should be the char¬ 
acteristics of a lady’s character and manners?” 

“ Certainly so.” 

“ According to your definition, then, a lady is more or less a lady by the 
possession or the want of these attributes ?” 

“ In my estimation, she is. But why do you thus refine upon terms ?” 

“ To be frank, sir, I think your judgment defines this question when thus 
catechised, but that it is your fancy, or if you please, your taste, which de¬ 
cides the matter in social intercourse. To make an application: Miss Bar¬ 
nard is kind, just and true, but not always courteous, and you dislike her. I 
.could mention another lady of your acquaintance, who certainly is very de- 



ficient in kindness, justice and truth, but her conventional courtesy is unri¬ 
valled ; you admire her, and point her out as a pattern of perfection. By 
which, or what rule shall I judge you ? But I will not press you for an an¬ 
swer, but ask you instead to name some of Miss Barnard’s violations of 

44 You compel me to mention an incident which came under my own ob¬ 
servation. In the course of my professional duties, I am often in obscure 
and unfrequented parts of the city ; I see poverty, disease and vice united ; 
I see much, from which a lady of refined sensibility would shrink in disgust; 
and yet, in one of our worst alleys, I met Amelia Barnard this morning un¬ 

44 You might have been mistaken, doctor,” remarked Mrs. Cushing. 

44 1 was disposed to think so myself,” rejoined the doctor, 44 when I first 
saw her issue from the entrance of one of the meanest hovels; and, to be 
positive that my eyes did not deceive .me, I crossed the street, and met her.” 

44 Did she not appear abashed when she saw you ?” inquired Mrs. Haviland. 

44 No,” returned the doctor; 44 she paused as if she was intending to ad¬ 
dress me, but as she met the displeased expression of my countenance, which 
I did not care to conceal, she changed her intention, and passed on with a 
haughty look of scornful defiance.” 

44 If I could have so far forgotten what belonged to myself as to have gone 
into such a place,” remarked Mrs. Allen, 44 1 should not have gone there for 
any good.” 

44 1 will not dispute you, Mrs. Allen,” returned Mrs. Evans, pointedly, 44 but, 
still, another person might have sought out the poor, the miserable, and the 
vile from the purest motives of benevolence. Besides, suspicion is not tes¬ 
timony. It is but legal justice to believe a person actuated by pure intentions 
until he has been proved guilty of wickedness ; and a partial exercise of that 
quality which ‘thinketh no evil,’ I sincerely believe would not deteriorate, in 
the least, from the dignity and purity of our own motives.” 

The door opened, and the entrance of Amelia Barnard interrupted Mrs. 
Evans’s remarks. She was somewhat excited by the injustice of her visitors 
towards her young friend ; and if she had not been interrupted, would have 
added some still more pointed remarks, for the particular edification of Mrs. 
Allen and Dr. Davis. 

In her salutations, Amelia at first did not notice the doctor, but Mrs. Evans 
corrected her forgetfulness (if forgetfulness it was) by remarking, 

44 Amelia, Dr. Davis honors us with his presence.” 

44 Doctor, pardon me,” rejoined Amelia, 44 1 was aware of your presence, 
but your absence would have been so much more agreeable to me, that I 
was half-disposed to imagine the matter as I wished.” 

44 For once, Miss Barnard, our wishes strongly coincide: your presence 
will make my absence agreeable to myself.” 

44 Thank you, dear gallant doctor!—do go,” returned Amelia. 

He rose to comply, but Mrs. Evans interposed, saying, 

44 Doctor, I cannot allow you to retire, until you have an explanation from 

44 And for what,” interrupted Amelia, 44 am I bound to give Dr. Davis an 
explanation? He is neither my guardian, nor lover.” 

44 Amelia,” interposed Mrs. Evans, 44 will you gratify me by telling why, 
and wherefore, the doctor met you in so questionable a part of the city, this 
morning ?” 

44 Mrs. Evans,” replied Amelia, 44 you know it is but a pleasure for me to 



gratify you , but why do you ask this here ?” and she glanced around upon 
the company. * 

44 Dr. Davis has mentioned meeting you there, as an instance of your want 
of a sense of propriety.” 

“ And where was the impropriety of my visiting the wretched, the desti¬ 
tute, and the sick ?” 

44 Perhaps you have to learn, Miss Barnard,” answered Dr. Davis, w that 
Quixotic benevolence is as questionable as a want of kindness; and to see a 
young lady alone, in search of an adventure, in the place I met you this 
morning, was assuredly an impropriety, not to call it by a harsher name.” 

“ And so, forsooth, if accidentally, or providentially, a case of destitution, 
and want, comes to my knowledge, I must go and consult the wisdom of the 
whole city (Dr. Davis included) upon the propriety of the act, before I shall 
dare give a starving child a piece of bread and butter ? Or, perhaps the 
honorable gentleman present would have me make an application to the Sa¬ 
maritan Society, of which, I believe, he is secretary. 1 once made such an 
application. The directresses, to whom I made my statement, were favora¬ 
bly disposed to mjr petition, and issued their notice for a meeting of the 
society, at the earliest day that their by-laws permitted. At' the meeting a 
committee was appointed to investigate the matter, and make a report at the 
next meeting. The report was favorable, and an appropriation was made; 
and at the expiration of three weeks and four days, I had the satisfaction of 
knowing that the claimants, to whom I had directed the attention of the so¬ 
ciety, were to receive its bounty. But happily for them, there were some 
few individuals, whose alms did not of necessity pass under the inspection of 
an associated body—else they would have died before relief reached them. 

I do not mention this circumstance as detracting from the high and noble aim 
of any benevolent society—but associated bodies, like dignified persons, have 
to pass every thing through so many pros and cons , that they do not arrive at 
their conclusions soon enough to prepare the breakfast of a destitute family.” 

“Undoubtedly,” remarked Dr.Davis, “lam to suppose that you were out 
on that errand, this morning ?” 

“ You are at liberty to suppose what you please, sir; although, if you should 
suppose a charitable, instead of an unjust thing, it would be remarkable.” 

44 But, Amelia,” interrupted Mrs. Evans, 44 you have not complied with 
my request, and explained to me, why you were where the doctor met you.” 

44 Pardon me, pardon me, my dear Mrs. Evans,” she replied, dropping in 
a kneeling posture at that lady’s feet, 44 but Dr. Davis, with his 4 dignity,’ 

4 propriety,’ and 4 the world’s opinion,’ always makes me forget every thing 
kind, or obliging, as much as his pills would make me forget every thing 
sweet, or palatable.” 

Mrs. Evans playfully put her hand over her mouth. 44 Forget Dr. Davis,” 
said she. 

44 Would that I could, but—” Mrs. Evans held up her finger. 

44 Oh, dear! I cannot tell the tale as I should—I’m out of humor. But 
this morning, about half-past seven, I noticed a little boy, not more than four, 
or five years old, on the sidewalk crying—not with the passionate anger of 
childhood, but with the grief of maturer years. I went to him, and asked 
the cause of his grief. 4 1 am so hungry,’ he replied, looking up into my 
face, very piteously. I believe he was ragged and dirty, but I led him into 
the house, and put some food into his hands, and he immediately started for 
the door. 4 Stay and eat it here,’ said I, 4 and I will give you more.’ 4 Mary 
is hungry too,’ said he. 4 Who else is hungry ?’ I inquired. 4 Mother is 



hungry, but she do n’t cry,’ replied the little fellow. Well, what; should I 
have done ? Uncle had gone to his office, and there was nq one in the 
house, save Margaret; and she, good soul as she is, is as great a stickler for 
propriety as Dr. Davis himself. I could not wait, or rather did not think, to 
go and consult the mayor about the propriety of taking a basket of eatables 
to some hungry children, but started off without advice, or counsel. I found 
hunger, sickness, and want of every kind, and I came here for you to help, 
or propose some plan for the farther relief of this destitute family. Shall I 
have your aid ?” 

w I have been unjust to you this morning, but as an atonement, allow me 
to provide for the present necessities of your protogees—I noticed the door 
from whence you came. And, in justification of myself, I must say, that you 
are so singular that it is almost impossible to decide, from your actions, 
whether you mean good, or evil. And as just as you are, allow me to ask 
\ if it is not our duty to 4 avoid even the appearance of evil ?’ ” 

“ When the appearance of evil exists in the imagination of the accuser, 
rather than the actions of the accused, I know not how we well can avoid it,” 
returned Amelia. ' 

“But, Miss Barnard, it is a duty we owe ourselves, our friends, and soci¬ 
ety, that our manner does not allow our motives to be misconstrued. The 
world judges of us by our actions. Others cannot be supposed to know our 
promptings to act, or our intentions in what we do, unless the action of itself 
is an explanation,” rejoined Dr. Davis. 

“ And so,” returned Amelia, “ it is positively necessary, if I intend a good 
action, that I should draw out all the whys and wherefores in glaring capi¬ 
tals, for the benefit of the world, that 4 whoso readeth, may understand,’ to 
make my act, as well as intention, good ? Let me tell you, that I have no 
great estimation of that benevolence, which requires to be published to make 
it praiseworthy. And moreover, as for me, I care but little for what the 
world thinks, or what it says.” 

44 We should care for the opinions of others,” remarked Dr. Davis; 44 we 
are in the world, and with it, not independent of it. It is in vain to tr to 
make ourselves independent of our kind, or independent of aught in the great 
chain of creation. Each, and every one of us, is a link in the grand chain; 
and it is a very great error to suppose our little link is independent, or can 
break from the connection. We can twist ourselves into a knot; but that 
only impedes our own progress, rather retarding or changing the great on¬ 
ward movement.” 

“ Well, well,” interrupted Amelia , 44 you may prove thrice over, that my 
humanity hitches me to humanity, but for all that, what the world may say will 
never cause me to do, or leave undone a thing. I care for what Mrs. Evans, 
my uncle, Mr. Tolman, and a half-dozen I could name, say; but when you 
lump them up with the world, their influence ceases. Tell me a thing is 
wrong , or it is right, but do n’t tell me that the world will think thus, and so. 
Truth came to save the world, but die world received it not; and if numbers 
are a true criterion of right, then, in the days of our Savior, the Jews were 
right, and the Apostles wrong.” 

44 Although number does not make right,” rejoined Dr. Davis, “ yet truth, 
supported by collective evidence, is stronger than that given by individual 

“ With the world” said Amelia. 

44 Yes, if you please,” continued the doctor , 44 with the world. And it is 
tn the world where we wish to establish truth—not in heaven; in the hearts 

11 * 



of men — not with Him, who is truth. Hence, we may conclude, that the 
combined efforts of ten individuals will produce greater results than those of 
a single individual. Therefore, it is our duty to throw our balance into the 
great scale of progressive truth, rather than attempt to play the pigmy giant 

“But, doctor,” returned Amelia, 44 these 4 combined efforts’ must be car¬ 
ried out by individual action ; and would it not be still better to have every 
man his own committee to transact his own business of benevolence, justice, 
and truth?” 

44 In a certain degree, every man must act for himself, but when we apply 
these principles to the efforts of public reformation, or instruction, we are 
too prone to consider the world just as you do—something which does not 
concern us. The old adage tells us, that 4 what is everybody’s business, is 
nobody’s.’ And in general efforts, we must have general, concerted, and 
regulated action.” 

44 Oh, dear!” exclaimed Amelia, 44 1 do n’t want to be one of a thousand.” 

44 And, yet, it is allthat you can be. -I am one, you are one, and we all 
severally count but one; but united, we make a hundred, or a thousand ones.” 

44 But my Creator gave me,” persisted Amelia, 44 individuality, and it is my 
right to retain it. If He had intended us merely for corporated action, why 
not have blended us into one indivisible whole ?” 

44 Truth, justice, right, and love are one indivisible whole,” continued the 
doctor; 44 and for the advancement, discovery, diffusion, and application of 
these great principles of our existence, our efforts should be one great indi¬ 
visible whole; but vanity, folly, and the desire to be pre-eminent above our 
neighbor, breaks and wastes the concert of our action. And, Miss Barnard, 
your fault is this desire for pre-eminence, for notoriety, for singularity ; but 
bear it in mind, that we may be very odd, but that may not be, to be very 

44 And yet,” said Amelia, 44 you will allow, that when the general tone of 
society gives us courtesy for sincerity, and hypocrisy for truth, that one is 
necessitated to be very odd, to be true.” 

44 But,” said Mrs. Evans, who had remained silent during this long collo¬ 
quy, 44 is it not mere words that separate you ? Is it not mere matters of 
forms and ceremonies^ not principles, which divides man from his brother 
man ? Our aim is all the same: we all are seeking to advance truth, mo¬ 
rality, and virtue, and consequently man’s happiness, and well-being. We 
stop and contend with our brother—not because his desire for the same ob¬ 
ject is not as ardent as our own, but because he wants to do his way, and we 
ours. Would it not be well to. remember, that we are as far from him as he 
is from us ? and that perhaps the true line is equally distant from both ? 
We should remember, that 4 though we have the gift of prophecy, and un¬ 
derstand all mysteries, and all knowledge ; and though we have all faith, so 
that we could remove mountains, and have not that charity, which is love, 
we are nothing.’ The mutual exercise of this principle of charity, would do 
more towards breaking down the barriers which separate one from another, 
than aught else. Indeed, its true exercise removes the mountains of our 
own prejudice and injustice.” Grace. 

Though all the virtues great may be, 
The greatest far is charity. 




Yes, they are indeed beautiful. Every true heart will respond to the sen¬ 
timent ; for, as we wander forth, amid Nature’s works, our minds are filled 
with the most glorious conceptions of His power and wisdom, as displayed 
in the work of creation. Every variety, and form of beauty, which the mind 
can conceive, is there displayed. In every thing which we behold, we can 
discern some beauty. Water is one of the beautiful works of God’s creation. 
There are many persons who love to look upon it when descending from the 
clouds, accompanied by the loud roar of thunder, and the swift flashes of 
lightning, darting through the horizon. Others will gaze upon the waters of 
the foaming cataract, as they rush, headlong, over the precipice, into the 
depths below, with feelings of awe and admiration. But I love better to 
wander by the silent river, or by the banks of some gently murmuring rivu¬ 
let, and behold how quietly its waters flow on, unruffled by the storms which 
agitate the bosom of the ocean. Then the desire would arise in my mind, 
that my life might pass as peacefully, and a voice would seem to say, “ Let 
hot the storms of evil passion fall upon thy head; keep thyself free from the 
waves of contention, and strife; 

4 Then thy life shall gently pass, 

Like a peaceful river, 

Till thy happy home, at last, 

Welcome thee for ever.’ ” 

Snow, too, is beautiful. It is used in the Holy Scriptures, as an emblem 
of purity. And well it may be, for it is a lovely sight to view the clear 
whiteness, without a shade of color; and from this we form some idea of the 
robes of angels, which are said to be of purest white. 

As we behold the sun, moon, and stars, daily and annually performing 
their accustomed rotations, we are constrained to say, they too are beautiful. 
Although we descry innumerable beauties in the dazzling splendor of the 
sun, which is truly called the “ King of day,” and the moon, as she comes 
modestly forth at night, clothed in her borrowed light, attended by her train 
of glittering stars, yet Nature presents even lovelier scenes. As we wander 
through the wild and pathless forest, our minds are led from “ Nature up to 
Nature’s God,” and we delight to contemplate the sublime spectacle, which 
is there presented to our view. Is there a person who does not feel his heart 
glow with gratitude, and pleasure, as he contemplates the goodness of his 
Creator ? Is there not, to the reflecting mind, much of beauty and attraction 
in the prospect which the wild forest presents ? There is a rich feast for the 
eyes, in the gigantic and graceful beauty of the outspreading branches of 
the lofty oak, which, for ages, and from the same spot, has looked upon the 
heavens, and witnessed the changes which time has wrought in the country 
around them. There, too, is the poplar, and the pine, towering in their 
strength and pride, while the dependent vine twines around them for support. 
Is it not a lovely scene ? The sweet music of the warblers fills the air; and 
while the world around is full of care and strife, naught but sweet music, 
and gentle breezes disturb the harmony and repose of the wild forest. 

“ The bright, bright flowers,” they too are beautiful. They bloom but for 
a season, and then fade and die; they are too lovely, too beautiful long to 
abide the storms which come upon the earth. They teach us lessons of ho- 



liness, of our frail existence ; they tell of the angels of that bright and better 
land; pure and holy are their teachings, for they speak of heaven, and of 
that Being who created them. Truly may we exclaim, 44 How beautiful 
are all the works of God,” for 44 He hath made every thing beautiful in its 
time.” L. 


A Paraphrase on 1 Corinthians xiii. 

Though we should speak with tongues of 

And with the tongues of angels too, 

And yet have not the priceless gem 
Of Charity , that’s ever true, 

As sounding brass we have become, 

Or like the cymbal’s tinkling hum. 
Though we have gifts that can unfold 
The many prophecies of old, 

And every mystery to our mind 
Is known by wisdom well refined; 

And faith’s bright banners o’er us wave,* 
So that we can life’s dangers brave; 

And bid the mighty ocean lave 

The mountain heights with briny wave, 

And heed not Charity’s soft call, 

It will not profit us withal. 

Though we may give our goods to feed, 
And warm, and clothe the poor in need; 
And spread our bounties o’er the land 
And sea, with an unsparing hand; 

And give our bodies to the flames 
To justify our works, and aims, 

And yet of love are destitute, 

It will not give us good repute. 

For Charity is truly kind, 

With peace and gentleness combined; 

She suffers long, and vaunteth not, 
Though by the world she is forgot; 

She envies not, nor is puffed up, 

But deeply drinks of Wisdom’s cup: 
Unseemly Bhe can never be, 

But pure, and chaste, and ever free; 
From worldly selfishness she shrinks— 

Is not provoked—no evil thinkB: 

For base iniquity she grieves, 

And utters loud her warning voice; 

The paths of love she never leaves, 

And in the truth must e’er rejoice: 

She bears, believes, and hopeth still, 

And strives to do her Maker’s will. 

Kind Charity can never fail, 

She must, and ever will prevail. 

Though all things else shall cease to be, 
Wisdom, and knowledge flee away, 

Tet love we surely still shall see 
Triumphant through eternal day. 

O’er faults she spreads her gentle wings, 
And hides a multitude of sins; 

Of peace and harmony she sings, 

And life, indeed, with her begins. 

Faith, Hope, and Charily, these three 
Abide in perfect unity j 
But true, the greatest of the three 
Is soul-inspiring Charity . 
j On earth below, in heaven above, 

Most sure true Charity is Love; 

We ’ll know, through all eternity, 

That all in all is Charitt. 
i L. A. B. 


It was a calm, quiet, and lovely evening, that I wandered among the hills 
and valleys, and seated myself beneath the outspreading branches of an old 
oak tree. The landscape around me presented an appearance of unequalled 
splendor and loveliness. The tall trees of the forest, towering towards the 



high heavens, waving their branches at every motion of the wind, were beau¬ 
tiful, and the flowers, 44 the glad children of the earth” which breathe to us 
lessons of instruction and holiness from above, they too were beautiful. The 
last rays of the departing sun still lingered upon the mountain tops, and the 
evening songs of the blackbird and thrush were heard, mingling with the 
sweet music of the waterfall. But soon their songs were hushed, and the 
moon and stars appeared, the bright and twinkling stars, 

“ That every night come forth, 

And softly breathe their silvery light 
Upon the quiet earth.” 

And oh! how beautiful they seemed. 

44 The sunny Italy may boast 
The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 

And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise : 

I only know how fair they Btand 
About my own beloved land.” 

There, amid the deep silence that reigned throughout the fragrant bowers, 
the wild forest, and all around, over hill and dale, as I sat gazing upon the 
lovely objects around me, sad but pleasant thoughts came over me, that we 
must bid adieu to a world so fair and bright, and leave behind us our dearest 
friends, never again to return to them. But the reflection came, that they 
would soOn follow us, where we could join together in singing praises to 
God, in a fairer world than even this, for it is inhabited by the pure spirits 
of the “just made perfect.” Let us not mourn then, when called to leave 
this world, for it is the will of 44 our Father in Heaven.” L. 


I depart, * * * 

Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by, 

When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. 

Though the strain’d mast should quiver as a reed, 

And the rent canvass, fluttering, strew the gale, 

Still must I on. * * Childs Harold's Pilgrimage. 

How few there are that would say with Byron, 44 My native land, good 
night!” Go where we will, there is a secret chain that binds the heart in¬ 
dissolubly to the land of our birth. Youth, with its passion, pride, and all 
the indignant feelings that accompany it, vanishes when the gem, that has 
given all the brilliancy to the crown, begins to grow dim—when the light is 
flickering in its decline—when the hoary head of age thinks of that last rest¬ 
ing place, where it wishes to sleep in peace from the ravages of Time. 
What heart, we would ask, can dispel the charm, or break the band that 
leads us back willing captives to the dear home of our youth? the grave of 



our fathers ? How calm and quiet then appears the sunny spot where we 
spent our childhood—dearer, by far, for the distance that separates it from 
us, and the familiar scenes that memory is ever presenting to our fading 
sight! Though, in former years, in a burst of passion, or even while medi¬ 
tating calmly, we might have sworn an eternal separation, we might, with a 
heart overflowing with bitterness, have said sincerely, farewell to our native 
land, yet the near approach of death puts to flight all animosities. The last 
act of Byron is a striking evidence of the undying ardor of this feeling. In 
his t anger, he had vowed that England should not contain his ashes, yet in 
his last moments, Italy, with its orange groves, and fascinating beauties; and 
Greece, the home of his adoption, the bright “ land of battle and of song,” 
the country he hoped one day to see free, and all the sweet climates in 
which he had wooed the phantom, pleasure, seemed tame to the little nook, 
the lovely spot, where his boyhood had sported. And truly has it been said 
by another, that the heart of the great poet melted in affectionate remem¬ 
brance, and owned its allegiance to the mighty power of Nature, while he 
ordered the final disposition of his remains. It is something which neither 
time nor space can obliterate, and the love we bear our u Native Land,” is 
even more powerful than ambition, or the love of fame, for dust must mingle 
with kindred dust. 

M Something too much of this:—but now *t is past, 

And the spell closes with its silent seal. 

Long-absent Harold reappears at last; 

He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 

Wrung with the wounds, which kill not, but ne’er heal; 

Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him 
In soul and aspect, as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind, as vigor from the limb; 

And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.” Inez. 


It must not be—it must not be— 

My fate must ever be alone; 

*T were grief to link thy destiny 
With one who all is Sorrow’s own. 

I know I laugh, and the gay jests 
Oft linger lightly on my tongue— 

But who can tell where misery rests, 
Beneath a merry mantle flung ? 

Ah no! the thought were worse than wild; 
For me to wish is mildew blight, 

For I, alas! am Grief’s own child, 

And joy and hope are dark in night. 

No; as it is, it must not— 

The half-formed wish must be as air; 
Though to be near and dear to thee, 

Often has been my fondest prayer. 

But to Fate’s mandate I must bow— 

The Fate that bids me from thee sever—■ 
But every blessing on thee now, 

And every good be thine, for ever. 







“ My mother! look not on me now, 

With that sad, earnest eye; 

Blame me not, mother—blame not thon 
My heart's last wish—to die ! 

I cannot wrestle with the strife 
I once had heart to bear; 

And if I yield a youthful life, 

Full hath it been of care. 

There *s nothing in this time of flowers 
That hath a voice for me, 

The whispering leaves, the sunny hours, 

The young, the glad, the free— 

There’s nothing but thine own deep love, 

And that will live on high; 

Then, mother, when my heart’s above, 

Kind mother?—let me die.” 

44 Ah ! good morning, Edward,” said Frank Allerton, as he met his old 
chum on Chestnut street, dressed in the latest fashion, and sporting a gold¬ 
headed cane; “ I am happy to see you, and congratulate you upon your 
good fortune in bird-catching, especially when the wings are tipped with 
gold, and there is a fine cage to sing in; all this must be very pleasant to 
beguile your weary hours. But, do tell me, Ned, if a striking contrast does 
not often rise before your mind’s eye, between the fascinating heiress and 
the 4 flower of the South,’ as you often called her ? Truly, there is much to 
admire in that delicate flower—such retiring modesty, and still so much deep 
affection; but, alas! she knows little of the world, or at least of men and 
things, having been educated in a convent, and seen only the bright side of 
the picture. But then, with all her beauty and goodness, I suppose you 
thought there was one thing wanting still, and that you have found with Clara 
Manning—for I have been informed that she is the most wealthy heiress jn 
New Orleans; and that is saying much at the present time, when money, 
and jiot merit, appears to be the criterion by which the world judges of char¬ 
acter and distinction.” 

44 Nay, you should know me better,” exclaimed Edward, in answer to his 
friend’s reproof, u than to think that I should marry for the glittering dross ; 
and as for Maria Waldo, to whom you have just alluded, I will own that once 
I did think her very pretty, but then, I never paid her those marked atten¬ 
tions which indicate a more than common interest; and surely you will not 
accuse me of seeking to win her affections, while I had resolved not to be¬ 
stow mine in return.” 

44 Surely not,” answered Frank, laughing sarcastically; 44 there could be 
no design on your part, in bestowing your undivided attention upon a lovely 
girl for three years, and exclusively monopolizing her society. But I am in 
haste, this morning,” continued he, 44 and must bid you adieu, wishing you 
all the joy that can be purchased with gold.” 



Edward Moreton and Frank Allerton were classmates in college, and 
friends, notwithstanding the dissimilarity of their characters. Edward 
wished to be a man of fashion, a gay gallant, and he attained the envied and 
noble distinction at which he aimed; but Frank's ambition was of a different 
nature: his object was to do good to his fellow-men; and though his plain 
and sincere mode of expression was sometimes almost abrupt, yet there was 
that kindness of feeling, that goodness of heart, which secured to him the 
respect and love of all who knew him; in short, he was a man of truth, and 
even the gay belle, and heartless votary of fashion would endure a rebuke 
from him. 

It was near the close of a Summer’s day, that the mild breeze of the balmy 
South was wafting its fragrance through the open lattice of a neat cottage in 
the vicinity of New Orleans; the grounds around were in a high state of 
cultivation, the flowing vines, that were carefully twined in festoons in the 
rear, displayed a refined taste, forming a beautiful arbor, in the centre of 
which a fountain of cool water was sending up its dancing spray to meet the 
bright rich sunlight. It was on such an evening, that a single horseman 
might have been seen, wending his way up the closely-shaded avenue that 
led to the cottage. There was a cast of sadness upon his countenance as he 
alighted, and gave his horse to the servant, with the inquiry, “ How is Miss 
Waldo to-day ?” 

“ Oh! misses very bad—git no better,” answered the black, brushing a 
tear from his eye. 

The gentleman stepped into the hall, and sending in his card, was soon 
ushered into a neatly-furnished room ; a couch occupied one side of it, near 
a window, upon which reclined a lady of surpassing beauty; by her side lay 
a guitar; she had just been trying to touch die strings to a favorite air as the 
gentleman entered. On the table near her were scattered a profusion of 
books, most of which were poems. There were also strewed various little 
masterpieces of female ingenuity, in which the fairy fingers of Maria were 
especially formed to excel. She extended her emaciated hand to greet her 
visitor, and a smile played about her beautiful mouth as she thanked him for 
his remembrance of the poor invalid. For a moment the color faded from 
her cheek, then it flushed with crimson, and at last she buried her face in 
the cushion, and sobbed aloud. 

44 Is this the bright flower, that a short time since was so admired—so 
sought for,” thought Frank Allerton; for it was he who was Maria’s sympa¬ 
thizing friend in sickness and sorrow. 44 But oh!” he exclaimed, almost 
aloud, 44 when I first saw her, she was a lovely creature. Youth, and hope, 
and joy sat smiling upon her brow, the very image of some dream of beauty, 
so bright and fairy-like—it seemed as if, to her, the very consciousness of 
existence was joy—as if c she might almost fear to think how glad she was.’ 
I left her with a heart as light as was her fairy figure, and dreamed not that 
a blight could ever cross the pathway of one so fair and gifted; for she was 
a child of poetry and sentiment, and regarded the world as a fair page, where 
the ideal and. the true were beautifully and harmoniously mingled. 

Years rolled by, and I returned to see that bud of beauty a victim of neg¬ 
lect, a mere plaything for a worldling, the forgotten toy of a man of fashion, 
who worshipped only at the shrine of Mammon, and whose haughty heart 
knew no law, save that of self, and esteemed naught so much as his own 
imagined superiority. But alas! it was her misfortune to give her young 
affections, and all the trusting love of woman’s heart, to one so unworthy.” 

In vain the kind-hearted Frank sought to cheer her drooping spirits; his 


‘ 183 

benevolent exertions were too late. Day after day she had lived on hope, 
until she was weary of hoping, and then came despair—for to a sensitive, 
and delicate mind there is no medium. Oh, .when will man, proud man, 
learn not to trifle with the affections he does not prize! When will he learn 
that the heart is a sacred thing—that it is cruel mockery, a deep and deadly 
sin to sport with its pure emotions, for the mere momentary gratification of 
proving his own power! Oh, who shall tell how many a bright bud of 
promise has been thus nipped by the destroyer ? Who can tell what deep 
sighs have been breathed from many an agonized heart, and how many char¬ 
acters, that might have lived to bless and adorn the world, have been the 
prey of those insidious tyrants, who have put forth their power but to destroy, 
and gloried in the fascination, which enabled them to spread desolation in 
the pathway of those whom the Father of all had designed that they 
should cherish and protect. 

I will sketch the early history of Maria Waldo, who was one of the many 
victims at the shrine of man’s vanity. She was the only daughter of a weal¬ 
thy planter, and, as is the custom in the Southern States, she was sent to a 
convent, to receive an education ; she had been there two years, when her 
fhther was taken sick, and died. Upon examining his affairs, it was found 
that he was insolvent. The widow and daughter retired to the little cottago 
I have before, described, followed by two or three blacks, who had been born 
in the family. It was soon after their removal to the cottage, that she be¬ 
came acquainted with Mr. More ton. She received from him all those tender 
and delicate attentions that the most engrossing love could desire, but yet he 
never committed himself; and, while he scrupulously avoided the tcordsy his 
manner said all which devoted love might prompt; and she fondly believed 
herself his chosen one, and yielded to him her heart’s best affection. He 
was coldly going on, enjoying this new triumph, this added tribute to his 
powers of fascination. He had tried, and with entire success, every art of 
which he was the master, to gain her affections; he was ever by her side, 
at home and abroad; and yet, without one pang of self-reproach, he would 
calmly say he had neither wish nor thought upon the subject, beyond the 
amusement of the present hour, and certainly he was not in fault if she had 
given her love unasked , without even a promise of a return, for he had never 
told her that he loved her. In words he never had : but may not actions 
and looks sometimes speak in a far louder and more emphatic manner to the 
heart, than words ? Is language the only medium of expressions for the 
deep and burning emotions of the heart ? But his actions and words were 
both a mystery, for while she was fondly believing in her heart, that he 
was truly devoted to her, not by any mere form of words, but by his constant 
devotion, and untold proofs of affection, she heard of his engagement to 
Clara Manning, the rich heiress. It was long before she would be convinced 
of the truth of such a report, for it is hard to believe those we have truly 
loved are unworthy of our regard. She was a delicate flower; the world’s 
turbulent motion was too rough for her; she had launched her all on life’s 
troubled sea; her frail bark had been wrecked, and rifled of its treasure, and 
sent back a worthless thing. She drooped gradually at first; then came on 
the quick consumption; and she was often heard to say, that she could not 
live, and see him giving to another the fond devoted expressions of love he 
had formerly bestowed upon her; but she was willing to die, for she knew 
there was a better land, where all could enjoy true happiness. On the very 
day that wealth and splendor did their utmost, to grace the nuptials of the 
cold, haughty, and selfish Moreton, her pure spirit took its flight, and Frank, 



the true friend, was the last to leave her dying couch, and bear to the heart¬ 
less worldling her parting words of forgiveness, with the sincere prayer for 
his happiness, and the wish that he might never know the anguish of unre¬ 
quited love. She restored all the gifts he had bestowed upon her during her 
happier days; then she bade a final adieu to her last and only friend, whose 
love had never failed, her kind and 'affectionate mother. And oh! it was 
sad indeed for that mother, to part with her beloved child; she had hoped 
against hope, that her cherished one would yet recover, but too soon she 
found that Death had placed his seal upon her, never to be removed. # # # 

Again it is evening. In one of the most splendid mansions in New Or- . 
leans, there is a grand festival, a gathering together of the bright and beau¬ 
tiful. It was a festival surpassing all others in magnificence, for it was given 
by the father of Clara Manning, in honor of her marriage with Edward 
Moreton, who was considered by the world, as one of its brightest ornaments. 
The large drawing-rooms are thrown open, and shining like the arch of 
heaven, with innumerable starry eyes; gems and flowers contribute their 
paler lustre, and voices, low, sweet, and musical, are everywhere heard, 
mingling their tones of joy. Many are the gay cavaliers, unvanquished in 
the battle-field, who are now subdued by the bright glance of beauty. All 
is gorgeous and dazzling. In the centre of a gay group, leaning on a splen¬ 
did harp, with her dark eyes raised, as if in triumph, sat the bride; the thick 
eurls were flung back from her proud brow, and there was much of sarcasm 
in the smile that played about the mouth. By her side stood the adoring 
husband, when a servant handed him a note ; he glanced at the superscrip¬ 
tion, then, crushing it in his hand, hurried from the apartment. It was from 
his old classmate, Frank Allerton, giving him a touching narrative of the 
death of Maria, and of the prayers she had offered up, that Heaven might 
guard and bless him. And then, quoting the words of the poor sufferer, 

M Alas! you know not what it costs me now to confess! I had only one 
hope in life. It was that you yet retained some feelings of interest for one 
who was so truly youre, but even that is denied me. Now I go where no 
earthly hope, no love of earthly friends, can pursue me, through the dark 
valley to the regions of light and love.” She solemnly warned him not to 
deceive her whom he had promised to cherish and protect, and not to place 
too much confidence in the power of wealth to purchase happiness. She 
then bade him a long and last farewell. 

What were the feelings at that moment of the proud man of the world, I 
attempt not to portray; but he soon returned to the brilliantly illuminated 
rooms with a face all smiles, and even the most penetrating might have been 
baffled in their conjectures. Time passed on ; Moreton found that he had 
Indeed gained wealth, but not happiness; the imperious spirit of his wife em¬ 
bittered all domestic joys, and his lot was one of gilded misery. Truly w is 
the path of the transgressor hard and often did he, who had sacrificed 
himself at the shrine of wealth, and had suffered a still more costly sacrifice, 
the affections of a pure and trusting heart, upon the altar of his own vanity— 
often did he bitterly regret, that he had not, like his friend Allerton, by the 
exercise of his really fine talents, won his way to professional distinction; 
and cherished, as the idol of home, the fair Southern flower he had so ruth¬ 
lessly destroyed. 







Loitg ere the midnight moonbeams fell 
In the shadowy depths of the fairies’ dell, 

The ba!nd had met, and soon began 
The gifts of the rival claimants to scan. 

With earnest words, and anxious mein, 

Were claims advanced to be the queen, 

For those who now their trophies brought 
With toil the royal crown had sought. 

Fair Anthea came, with sparkling eye, 

And first addressed the fairies nigh. 

“ Sisters, I dreamed not that I had a power, 

Surpassing your own, which a conquest could gain; 

Victory may not be mine in this hour, 

My efforts to please may have all been in vain: 

There are fairies more able and daring than I, 

But she who is weakest, and humblest, may try . 


There’s merit in effort—if faint are the hopes 
Which nerve to endeavor the arm that strives still. 

If darkness surround while onward it gropes, 

Say, have ye no boon for the unswerving will ? 

It is not the queenly tiara I ask, 

But thanks for a long and difficult task. 

I knew how ye prized the buds and the flowers, 

Which, fragrant and lovely, bedeck our sweet vale; 

The children of sunshine, of dew, and of showers,, 

Whose blighting ye mourn, whose presence ye hail. 

Blit a lovelier blossom than florist e’er knew, 

Is the gift, my loved ones, which I now bring to you; 

In a garden, afar, in an Eastern clime, 

I have passed my long year of toil, and of care, 

And the flower to which I devoted that time 
Was a rose, with whose beauty naught else might compare. - 
Oh, sisters, scarce can ye know the sweet thrill 
With which I present ye this proof of my skill. 

I sprinkled its leaves with the earliest dew, 

I watered its roots from the clouds of the sky, 

I shielded its buds from the sun’s blazing view, 

And watched that no harm to its tendrils came nigh; 

The gardens of Persia can never have seen 
A rose, which so truly of flowers is queen.” 

As the piodest fairy now finished her tale, 

She raised from an urn a magical veil, 



And disclosed to their eyes a lovelier flower 
Than fairies had ever beheld, till this hour. 

A shout of delighted approval was heard, 

And scarce was a fairy, but gave a kind word; 

Yet Crystallen called it a fr&il worthless thing. 

And hastened in triumph her trophy to bring. 

Oh, never in mines, or in princes’ rich store. 

In mountain caves, or on ocean’s broad floor. 

Or even in fairy haunts, had been seen 
A gem so befitting a fair elfin queen. 

’T was a diamond bright, whose radiant blaze 
Might almost eclipse the moon’s brilliant rays; 

And it seemed, when viewed by a fairy’s quick eye. 

Surpassing in lustre the stars of the sky. 

But still there gleamed forth from the fairies’ eyes, 

As they viewed the gem, less joy than surprise. 

M Sisters!” said Crystallen, fl may I not hear 
The word which for all my past toils will atone ? 

Is not your sympathy given to cheer 

For labors in darkness, in damp, and alone. 

Yon glittering Btone in a cavern was made, 

Where never a beam of moonlight has strayed. * 

And long, with my wand, its crystals I turned 
Ere the faintest beam of radiance came, 

Then I toiled and watched, till with splendor it burned. 

And the light shone forth like a living flame ; 

No flickering radiance dazzles your sight, 

*T will shine for aye, as it shines to-night.” 

“ Sisters,” sard Farmera, “now have ye seen 
A beautiful flower, and radiant gem; 

And one of our sisters may surely be queen 
If naught can be found to out-rival them. 

Yet is not the beauty of form and of face, 

A beauty to which all else may give place ? 

To show in perfection such beauty as this. 

My effort has been; roy task is now o’er. 

And, sisters, ye truly will share in my bliss; 

This sure is a joy which still is in store. 

But, fearing your joy and patience, may fail. 

With no more delay, I will tell you my tale. 

In a far-off land lived a mighty king, 

With an only child to inherit his fame; 

His splendor and prowess his minstrels would sing, 

But in her there was naught which their praises could claim. 
A being more hideous never was seen, 

Than the girl who was mourned as their destined queen. 

With my little wand to the palace I went— 

I found the prinoess immured in her bower; 



And there, unseen, my year has been spent, 

On her I r ve toiled in each sleeping hour. 

Ah ! little she thought, in those slumberings deep, 
That she soon for joy of her beauty might weep. 

Night after night passed slowly on, 

Ere a change was marked in her shapeless frame, 
And many a month I found was gone, 

Ere the faintest charm to her features came; 

But at length its light was revealed in her face, 

And each feature, and linib, and motion was grace. 

Now proudly she steps in her father’s hall, 

And flattering princes kneel at her feet; 

They wonder and gaze, as they feel the sweet thrall, 
For Beauty in her is a triumph complete. 

I have told my tale, my sisters dear, 

But the beautiful princess is not here.** 

“Nay, is she not?” said little Artiste, 

“Her likeness, then, I may venture to shew; 

*Tis a faithful sketch, to say the least;” 

And she held a portrait up to their view. 

'T was a burnished plate, and on it shone 
The life-like form of that lovely one. 

“ I did I not; ’t was the sun’s bright rays 
Which painted there this image bright, 

But on the plate I spent long days. 

And toiled through many a dreary nigfyt. 

And months I wrought ere I could view, 

Reflected there, each line and hue.” 

The fairies gathered round to gaze, 

And scarce they knew which most to praise, 

Those charms, transferred, which met their sight, 

Or the power that stamped them there in light. 

And while they questioned loud and long, 

Litera came to the wondering throng. 

They saw the mirth in her bright eyes play. 

And they eagerly listened to what she might say. 

“ Now, sisters, l will tell you my tale; 

No beauties I bring, no wonders I ’ve wrought; 

I aim not to make you with marvels grow pale, 

But the crown I have long and earnestly sought. 

I have hoped that I might be chosen your queen, 

If I only could edit a magazine. 

Well, I took the leaves of the papyrus tree, 

And used as a style my little wand; 

I gathered around me a coterie, 

Each bos bleu elf was found in ray band; 

I met them oft in the calm clear night, 

And we read, and wrote, by the bright moonlight. 




Long nights we toiled, o'er our number one. 

But ne'er was a fairy so patient as me; 

Though I sometimes feared it would never be done. 
And wished it oft in the depths of the sea. 

But I wanted all scoffing mortals to know 
Wbat little elves 1 had power to do.’ 

At length we sent The Fairy's Gift, 

With hopes and fears, to a wondering world; 
Some said they could not see its drift, 

And some at us their malice hurled. 

Some called it humbug —said they knew 
No fairies such a thing could do. 

But some were kind ; and if the power 
Of a fairy queen shall ever be mine, 

I 'll think of the friends of that trying hour. 

And a some fairy gifts to them will assign. 

Now, sisters, I would have ye look 
With favoring eyes on my little book.” 

The fairies opened wide their eyes, 

And made attempts to criticise; 

To every merit were they blind. 

And even a cold harsh world Beemed kind 
Compared with those who scanned the book 
With cool contempt, and scornful look, 

And could not e'en award one cheer 
To her who'd hoped some praise to hear. 

Liters lound, as many have done, 

That her efforts with sisters no favor had won; 

But she knew that with mortals a prophet can gain 
No honor at home ; that envy's the bane 
Of the mortal, and fairy ; and who would be free 
From doubt and from blame, a ninny must be. 

“I know not,” said she, lt that good I have done, 
But one thing I know, I have had some prime fun, 
And I know not who our queen will now be, 

But one thing I know, it will never be me. 

Well, the stars are dim, and the moon is down, 
To-morrow eve a queen we 'll crown. 


Days and weeks had passed, since from the high and massive walls of 
great Jerusalem, the loud shrill clarion first gave the signal of invasion by 
the sanguinary host of Titus. And, since that hour, dark and fearful had 
been the scenes of cruelty and bloodshed, that the chosen people of God 
were doomed to witness. Weakened and torn by internal animosities and 
dissensions, they were poorly prepared to repel their savage invaders. They 



saw the desolating ravages of famine and pestilence, engendered by their 
own strangely-infatuated conduct, and giving rise to some of the most dis¬ 
gusting and heart-rending acts that has ever been recorded upon the pages 
of history. They beheld the streets of their beautiful city filled with the 
mangled bodies of their own aged and helpless ones, the victims of their 
self-destroying factions; and while indulging in the most unholy and cruel 
passions that have ever swayed the heart of man, they invoked and expected 
the aid of the God-of Israel in conquering and exterminating their ene¬ 
mies. Blinded by the excess of their pride and obstinacy, they either de¬ 
spised or had forgotten the instruction of Him, who taught that “a house 
divided against itself cannot stand.” Meanwhile, the steady, persevering ef¬ 
forts of the besiegers, to raze the lofty walls of the holy city, were not fruit¬ 
less, and war, in all its most horrid aspects, burst upon its inhabitants from 
every quarter. The awful roar of the desolating flames, the long loud clash 
of sword with sword, the furious charge of horseman with horseman, and 
the wild yell of fierce encounter, had echoed and re-echoed from the palm- 
covered hills of Judea, and broken in terrific sounds upon the ear of her 
proud people; yet they feared not, for in the firm persuasion, that the God 
of their fathers would save them from destruction, they, by their insolence 
and obstinacy, only exasperated their already ferocious enemies. 

They saw the strength of their fortifications, those that they had deemed 
impregnable to human force, gradually diminishing before the ponderous en¬ 
gines of the enemy. They saw the determined men of Rome take posses¬ 
sion of some of their lofty towers, and they saw too their hands reeking in 
the choicest Hebrew blood. Still their stout hearts quailed not, for their 
pride and their boast, the far-famed and magnificent Temple of Jehovah, 
was still seen, rising untouched amid the general crash and ruin; and even 
amid the scenes of horror and desolation with which they were encompassed, 
when they looked upon this indication of the presence of the Mighty One, 
who had so often wrought out their deliverance, a smile of contempt and tri¬ 
umph gleamed forth in their wan countenances. Fatiguei hunger and thirst, 
were then alike forgotten ; the vision of their murdered friends, lying beneath 
the smoking ruins of their once beauteous homes, was obliterated as they 
gazed upon their much-loved Temple, proudly rearing its marble pillars and 
gigantic dome (that, in its dazzling brightness, vied with the beams of the 
noonday sun) to the very dwelling place of. Him to whose honor it had been 
dedicated. But the spirit of their contemned and forsaken God, that once 
deigned to dwell between the golden wings of the cherubim, no longer 
lingered there, to frown defiance on the impious crew who dared profane its 
sacred shrine. The holy purposes to which it had been devoted, were no 
longer requisite. The last great Sacrifice had been offered ; that, for which 
the Temple had been erected, and all its solemn rites instituted, was accom¬ 
plished. This truth the haughty Jews spurned from them as unworthy their 
attention; they had obstinately closed their eyes against the unerring light, 
that emanated from the Star of Bethlehem, and now, in the hour of adver¬ 
sity, they were left to wander in darkness. Long and wistfully they gazed 
upon their “ Heavenward Tower,” but the last bitter hour had arrived, when 
they were to behold it wreathed in smoke and flame. In vain did they rush 
to its rescue; in vain were the fierce men of war ordered to desist; the fiat 
for its destruction had gone forth from the Almighty, and it was beyond 
the power of man to save. Higher and higher rose the gathering blaze; 
deeper and deeper closed its fiery folds around that stupendous edifice, rap¬ 
idly excluding from their view all to which they had so tenaciously clung for 



deliverance. They saw their last hope fade, they saw their Temple totter 
and fall, and they heard the shriek of the dying thousands that were crushed 
beneath its ruins; and, as they sank to the blood-stained earth in despair, 
they thought of the hated, persecuted, and crucified Nazarene, who prophe¬ 
sied tjiat not one stone, in all that vast building, should be left upon another. 

J. S. W. 


We may imagine better than we can express, the sensations awakened m 
the breast of this great and good man, when he found himself standing be¬ 
side the tomb of George Washington. He had come far over the waters to 
take a last farewell of the scene which he had held so dear in a stranger 
land* He had loved our country, and had even shed his blood for our lib¬ 
erties. He had periled his life, not to gain the applause of man, or to pro¬ 
cure for himself wealth and distinction—no! he sought not for these—he 
desired them not. He was actuated by purer motives. He saw with regret 
the injustice and oppression that tyranny was heaping upon our fair country, 
and he fondly dreamed of a brighter day that should dawn upon us; and the 
thought that he might aid in subduing the powerful arm of the oppressor, 
aroused to action all the noble energies of his benevolent soul. Firmly fixed 
in this resolution, he left his own loved home, and all that was so dear to 
him in his native land, and crossed the Atlantic, to join the little band, and 
assist them in gaining their liberties; and he v had lived to accomplish his 
high purpose. He saw the light of liberty shining in its resplendent glory 
on the once oppressed inhabitants of America; then he returned in peace to 
his own home; and now he had come to visit our country, and to take a last 
farewell of the scenes that had been rendered so dear to him. He had come 
to welcome the children of America as the sons of Freedom, and once more 
to offer the hand of friendship to those whom he felt proud to own as friends. 
He had esteemed George Washington as a brother; and well he might con¬ 
sider him as such, for he found in him a kindred spirit; their thoughts and 
feelings beat in unison. They, both possessed generous noble hearts, and 
virtue was to them as dear as life. Through all the dangers that beset them, 
they passed hand in hand in brotherly love. And when they were called to 
separate, the silent tears that flowed down their cheeks bespoke more elo¬ 
quently than words, the anguish of their hearts. But when he again greeted 
our shores, among the numerous friends who pressed around him, eager to 
render some token of gratitude and love, one highly-valued one came not, 
for that friend 44 had passed that bourne whence no traveller returns;” and 
he felt that he had come to pay his last tribute of respect to the memory of 
the departed. How did the scenes of by-gone days again start up before 
the vision of this venerable soldier, as he lingered beneath the willows of Mt. 
Vernon, the last abode of our Washington. 

Again he saw that little band of Freedom’s champions, headed by their 
matchless chief, struggling for liberty. Again he passed with them through 
their long and weary contest, to that memorable era in the history of our 
nation, when the 44 British Lion was compelled to cower beneath the Ameri¬ 
can Eagle.” His musings were not like those of the idle dreamer; the 
tears that flowed down his furrowed cheeks, moistening the turf beneath 



which his loved brother slept, attested the vivid truth of his recollections. 
He wept that he could not again, on earth, behold the face of him whom he 
had so ardently loved; and his heart beat with emotions of joy when he re¬ 
membered that the last remains of him who had fought for the liberty of our 
land, were permitted to rest on Freedom’s happy soil, and that he had left 
behind him a name which would be blessed by all succeeding generations. 

M. S. L. 


Who, that has ever lived within twenty miles of R., has not heard of Par¬ 
son H., of his eccentricities, his sly jokes, and a thousand other things, which, 
although they have been told a thousand times, are not yet thought to be 
threadbare ; but are often resorted to, to give a zest to conversation. His 
list of marriages has given rise to more amusement at the Winter evening 
parties in the little village of R., than all the other gossip with which the 
village abounded. 

The parson was rarely known to receive cash as a remuneration for per¬ 
forming the marriage ceremony: he chose rather to take country produce, 
or some little job of work. Of this he kept a minute record, which ran thus: 

“Spliced A. B. to C. D., and received for the services five pecks of white 
beans, and a bushel of potatoes. 

Took Jethro H. and Keziah D., and of the twain made one flesh; for 
which received three pecks of corn, and a day’s work at chopping wood. 

Jumped Johnny S. and his sweetheart Molly over the broomstick, for a 
peck of gray beans. 

^ Paired Ezra C. and Sukey, his darling, for five heads of cabbage. 

Yoked Jonathan and Jemima for nothing. 

Married Orlando Y. and Mary W.; for which received a clock-reel, two_ 
wheel-pins, and a press-board, and Mary made me a present of a shirt. She 
either thinks that she was undervalued, or that Orlando is worth a shirt: say 
which, Mary? 

Tied Stephen M. to Zipporah L., for five pounds of flax, and fifteen ounces 
of wool.” 

The'above will give a tolerably correct idea of a record of scores of mar¬ 
riages ; and the diary was often produced in company, when the worth of 
each man’s wife would be duly expatiated upon. The parson would say: 
“ Johnny L.’s wife is worth a peck of gray beans; and Ezra C.’s is worth 
five heads of cabbageand so on to the end of the chapter. 

One day Parson H.’s workmen were watering his garden, when one of 
them said to the other: “I wonder why Parson H. don’t pray for rain—it 
always rains when he prays for it.” “ Well, neighbor, I have noticed the 
same,” said the other, “ and I believe the parson, fond as he is of fun, is 
nevertheless a good man.” “Just so I think,” said the first speaker, “and 
I believe every body thinks so.” “ And 1 thought so,” said the parson’s lit¬ 
tle son, who stood by, “ till this morning, when mother asked father to pray 
for rain; and he laughed at her, and said,‘Don’t you know, wife, that I 
never pray for rain, unless it looks very likely to comeand then I thought 

When Parson H. officiated as clergyman in the township of R., it was 



customary to tax the people, to support the Congregational clergymen. But 
the parson was not so strenuous as were many of the clergy of the olden 
time ; on the contrary, he was often known to refund the tax of those who 
were poor. And he would often tell with much pleasantry a circumstance 
which took place in his native town in “ the land of steady habits.” 

The parson said that, in the parish where he lived, there was a day la¬ 
borer, whose only property was a wife, and a good round dozen of the 
smiling blessings of Providence. This man had, once on a time, been at 
some extra expense, which made it morally impossible for him to pay his 
tithes, without great inconvenience. The clergyman was rather strenuous 
in his exactions, and turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the poor man, 
who requested the parson to forget his tithes, at least for one year. Finding 
entreaties vain, the poor man said he knew of but one way to pay his tithes, 
and he hesitated, fearing to sin. 

“ I know of a man,” said he, “ who has a number of pigs of a very fine 
breed ; now I might steal one, and bring it to your riverence.” 

“ Well,” said the parson, “ it is a sin to steal, but it is a greater sin to rob 
the church of its due.” 

Preliminaries being settled, the poor man delivered, one night, to the par¬ 
son’s housekeeper a handbasket. She, being previously instructed to take 
all imaginable care of whatever the poor man brought, carried it into the 
kitchen to examine its contents—when lo! to her astonishment, she found it 
to contain a beautiful boy, of some ten months of age. 

The parson was absent at the time, and did not return for several days, 
and when he did, he was confounded at the trick the poor man had played 
him. He sent for him, forgave him his tithes, and enjoined the strictest se¬ 
crecy respecting the whole transaction. Notwithstanding, the story got air, 
and the parson often had to experience the mortification of being asked, if 
he would like to have his tithe pig. 

Of this story Parson H. had many versions, and he usually related the 
one which he thought would be the most amusing. C. 


Sweet flower, I ’ve watched thee long 

With anxious care; screened thee from the rude storm, 

And ruthless hand that would have borne thee from thy home away. 
When first T saw thy little buds unfold and bloom in beauty here, 

I said, this gentle rose shall cheer me in my lonely hours, 

And by its sweet perfume revive my fainting heart. 

I thought I would not much regret though all the world looked cold 
On me, or spoke my name with scorn, whilst thou wast spared, 

For well I knew that human love was oft another name 

For utter selfishness; and those, who talked the loudest of its worth, 

And did extol it moBt, too frequent proved but summer friends. 

But when I found my flower evanescent, and all its beauties fading, 

I turned in bitterness away from Earth, and felt that all perennial flowers 
Must bloom alone in heaven. E. D. 





Books and Reading. We are sometimes asked the following questions: Are.the 
Factory Girls fond of reading ? Do they spend their leisure hours with books ? Is 
their employment favorable, or otherwise, to reflection ? Cannot those who write 
prepare their articles while at their work ? 

We have never liked to speak of factory girls as a distinct class of females, when 
judging of their intellectual and moral characters. They are like other girls in almost 
every thing; for, although there are some peculiar influences in their situations, yet 
these are counteracted by others which prevent them from being characterized by 
many distinctive traits. 

But we have invariably asserted that we thought factory girls fond of reading—that 
is, we believe they read more than any other class of girls who work for a livelihood— 
as much as many of our country school-teachers—perhaps more; and we should think 
as much as our fashionables, whom they probably excel in habits of reflection, and | 
correctness of thought. True there are many ignorant, vain, frivolous, low-minded 
girls among them; not however enough to give the tone to the class, if we may call 
them a class, and not more than will be found among the same number of girls else¬ 
where; In fact the stigma, which has been affixed to “ the factory girl” should be 
considered a libel upon female character in general. What are we but the representa¬ 
tive body of New England women. We are most of us from New Hampshire, Maine, 
and Vermont; some from Massachusetts, though not a large proportion, and a few from 
the Canadian towns, contiguous to M the States.” There are a few scattering ones, 
who belong to other parts of the Union, and a few emigrants. The majority are from 
the country towns of New England, from whence purity of character, and some de¬ 
gree of cultivated intellect, might surely be expected. 

“ But,” say the traducers of manufacturing operatives, “ we believe your factory 
girls are as good as women can be under such influences. It is the corrupting ten¬ 
dencies of associated bodies which we reprobate, and which it is impossible to resist.” 
Whether these things are believed by those who say them, we cannot tell. If they 
are, then they have little confidence in woman—they have little faith in the principles 
of morality and democracy, which have been instilled into these girls, and the influ¬ 
ences under which they have been educated. There can be little faith in our common 
school system, our universal religious instruction, the habits of early life, the perma¬ 
nency of first impressions, the sentiments inculcated by our fathers, and the recollec¬ 
tions of our forefathers—if all these melt, like the frost of a winter's morn, before the 
destroying blaze of “ corporation influence.” We would not be thought to speak fa¬ 
vorably of corporations. We have nothing to do with them, farther than they affect 
the characters of the females they employ. But we wish that those opposed to them 
would not make so much political capital of us. We wish that politicians, as politi¬ 
cians , would let us alone. We neither wish to be traduced, flattered, or complimented, 
to serve party purposes. Let those who have aught to say against them speak, if 
necessary, of their influence upon the wealth, commerce, and other political interests 
of the country; but, until the factory girls.are a distinct and separate race of beings, 
we wish they’d 

u let the girls alone, 

And let them quiet be.” 

But we are sorry that we have wandered so long from our subject. Why, it may 
be asked, are factory girls more inclined to read than other laboring females? 

Perhaps it is because their leisure hours are at that time of day when pleasures must 
be often found at home, and fatigue disposes to a sedentary recreation. Because also 
their Sabbaths are more wholly their own, than those of many other females. Because, 
in all manufacturing places, there are great facilities for the gratification of every lit¬ 
erary taste, or preference. 

But, it may be objected, the facilities are as great for the indulgence of a vicious 
preference, the formation of a bad taste, as otherwise. Unhappily it is. This is an 
objection which we cannot refute—the tree of knowledge has always been “of good 
and evil.” But we do not believe this is more of an objection to the universal diffusion 
of literature among us than others. We know that there are many light, worthless, 
and injurious books, papers, &c. which are partly supported by factory girls, and 
which have the effrontery to appeal to them for support. We regret it; ana could we 
gain an influence with our sister operatives, we would exert that influence to bring 
about another state of things. But, some may say, the short intervals, which alone 
these girls can devote to reading, render it impossible that they should read long 



works, or those which require close attention, and consecutive thought. “ What man 
has done, man may do,” and what girls have done, girls may do. When we worked 
all day, and every day, in the mill, we found time to read such works as Prescott’s 
History of Ferdinand and Isabella, Thiers's History of the French Revolution, and 
others of the kind. Still, we would not be thought to intimate that books like these 
alone are valuable. We do not. If we did, we certainly could not advise any one to 
look within the covers of thp Lowell Offering. Our companions know that we do not 
expect them to spend all their time in reading sermons, hymns, essays, or even histo¬ 
ries and biographies . 1 For ourselves, we approve of fiction. We believe it may have 
its uses, as well as its pleasures. But whether it is approved, or not, it will be read. 
The endeavor to place it under a ban has, in general, proved fruitless ; and it is wiser 
to strive to direct aright this love of imaginative lore, than to destroy it. We believe 
all reading injurious, whether fictitious or not, which tends to engender and cherish 
bad feelings, suspicious, animosities; and which disseminates pleasing falsehoods, from 
motives of policy, gain, or wanton recklessness. The essay may do harm—the story 
often does much good. 

But some of our factory friends may wish to know more explicitly our thoughts 
upon this subject, and of what we approve. We approve of course of didactic works, 
of biographies, histories, &c.; and many of these are now written in so clear and 
pleasing a style as to invite the attention of every one. We have never been more 
interested in any work of fiction than in the History of Europe, which we have re¬ 
ferred to upon our covers. But to those who like not such works, or wish for a va¬ 
riety, we could recommend all the historical novels of Scott, James, and Ainsworth, 
as imparting much valuable information, besides giving pleasure. Such stories as 
Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, The Waldenses, Miniature Romances from the 
German, Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, give us an idea of manners, customs, and 
sentiments of different nations, which we cannot otherwise obtain. We fear that 
some of our remarks will displease some of our readers. If so, we shall regret it; but 
we shall speak all our mind upon every subject, so far as is consistent with our good 
faith to our publisher, and subscribers ; and our limited space. 

It will be seen that we think all but positively injurious reading preferable to no 
reading at all; but our readers are mistaken if they think we would imply that our 
operatives are reckless in their selection of books. We do not think them generally 
so. Lowell has been lately considered quite a book market. Many periodicals are 
taken here, several papers supported, principally by our females, and we may well lay 
claim to the reputation of being a reading community. When we alluded to Dickens’s 
work upon America, we said that the girls did not “nearly all subscribe to circulating 
libraries;” but there are connected with nearly every society in the city—perhaps 
with every*one—one or two libraries, a parish and Sabbath school library; and from 
these many of our operatives are supplied with books. 

There are also loads of little Pocket Companions, and Daily Foods sold here, be¬ 
sides countless copies of The Young Lady’s Guide, The Young Lady’s Friend, The 
Young Lady’s Assistant, The Young Woman’s Companion, Letters to a Young Lady, 
&c.—evincing, at least, a dgsire to know and do what is right. We do not so highly 
approve of many of these compilations as to recommend them, because we think works 
upon moral science more elevating to the mind; believing, that if the general princi¬ 
ples of ethics are understood, and impressed upon the mind and heart, each individual 
can make her own particular application far better than any book can do. And when 
they treat of manners, we think a dancing-master might do as much, and general inter¬ 
course with well-bred people far more—neither do we like this being mannerly by rule. 

In compilations there is also frequently injustice done to the author. Why not buy 
the Writings of Hannah More, with her own name attached to them, instead of anon¬ 
ymous selections? And many a factory girl makes, literally, a bosom companion of 
unknown selections from Fenelon, who would shrink with horror if asked to read the 
sentiments of a Roman Catholic Archbishop. 

But there are many girls here who wish to select small libraries, for perusal after 
they return to their homes. These do not wish to spend their money for novels, or 
light periodicals, but would have something which will be of permanent value. The 
cheap edition of Harper’s Family Library would be a treasure in a country home. 
One hundred and fifty-three volumes, at twenty-five cents each, would form a cheap 
and valuable fund of knowledge. But some will say, “ How can we be expected to 
spend thirty or forty dollars for a library ?” And none will be more ready to ask this 
question than girls who spend three dollars a year for The Artist, or the Lady’s World 
of Fashion, or some such periodical, and four cents per week—two dollars per year— 
for a paper, which if not wholly worthless now, will be of no value to them in after 
years; and who will possibly spend this sum for many successive yearsJ H. F. 



APRIL, 1 843. 


The city of Lowell stands upon the Merrimack river; upon a point of 
land, formed by the Concord river, at its confluence with the Merrimack, 
and a bend in that river, from which its direction is at a right angle with its 
former course. It is intersected by many canals, the principal of which is 
the Pawtucket, which connects the waters of the Merrimack, just above the 
Pawtucket falls, with the Concord river, a short distance from its mouth, 
thus forming an island of the city ; it being entirely surrounded by water . 
The land upon which it is built is very low, and thus, though densely in¬ 
habited, its buildings present rather an inferior appearance in an engraving. 

It is not many years since the spot, upon which now stands an industrious 
and thriving city, was but a dreary swamp, and seldom has been witnessed 
so sudden a transition from the monotony of a quiet village to the hurry and 
bustle of a manufacturing city. 

Like every other city in our country, Lowell has two histories. One the 
history of the past, when the foot of the white man had never pressed its 
sod, and the smoke from his roof-tree had never curled above its rushing 
streams. Of this period there are no authentic annals, and but few and 
vague traditions. The spade of the laborer occasionally reveals to view the 
mouldering bones of those whom he knows have lived and died, because 
they have here been buried. 

Tradition says that this was once the rendezvous of a mighty tribe; 
though they must have seen attractions here, far different from those which 
have drawn hither so many of the white men. But the light of their council 
fires has long since ceased to flash up from the banks of the Merrimack, the 
cry of their warriors may never more mingle with the roar of the waterfalls, 
and the death-song of the last chieftain has long been sung. That period 
has passed away, and over its remains is spread a pall which eternity alone 
can raise. 

Of the recent history of Lowell we have such complete statistics that our 
endeavor must be to compile from them as concise an account as possible. 

“In 1652, about twenty persons from Woburn and Concord petitioned*the General 
Court for liberty to examine a tract of land lying on the west side of Concord river. 
Having made the necessary examination, in company with about twenty others, they 

VOL. III. 13 



preferred a petition in 1653, for a grant of the land bordering on the Merrimack, near 
Pawtucket. In their petition, they represent, that ‘there is a comfortable place to 
accommodate a company of God’s people upon, who may, with God's blessing, do 
good in that place for church and state.’ They requested that the boundary of said 
land should commence at the junction of the Merrimack and the Concord rivers, and 
run six miles, westerly on the Merrimack, and six miles southerly on the Concord 
river—making a tract of about thirty-six square miles. The tract petitioned for em¬ 
braced what now constitutes the city of Lowell and the town of Chelmsford. The 
same year, a petition in behalf of the Pawtucket Indians, was presented by the Rev. 
John Elliot, of Roxbury, that the lands lying about Pawtucket and Wamesit falls 
should be appropriated exclusively to the use of the Indians. The petition stated that 
the Pawtuckets had occupied said ground, erected wigwams thereon, and prepared it 
in some measure for cultivation. To reconcile these conflicting interests, the Court 
granted to the petitioners from Woburn and Concord the land requested, with the ex¬ 
ception of that part lying on the rivers, which was appropriated to the Indians. 

The city of Lowell is now a part of the land granted at that time by an act of Court 
to the Pawtucket Indians, once the most powerful and chivalric tribe in the north of 
Massachusetts. The historian, Gookin, states, that ‘the tribe was almost wholly de¬ 
stroyed by the sickness in 1612 and ’13; and at this day (1674) there are not above 
two hundred and fifty men, besides women and children. What this disease was that 
so generally and mortally swept over these and other Indians in New England, I can¬ 
not learn. Doubtless, it was some pestilential disease. I have discoursed with some 
Indians, that were then youths, who say that their bodies were exceedingly yellow, 
before and after they died, describing it by a yellow garment they showed me.* 

Gookin says that he visited the Pawtucket Indians, in company with Elliot, on the 
5th of May, 1674, and that Elliot delivered a sermon to them that evening, from the 
22d chapter of Matthew, from the 1st to the 14th verse. The meeting was held in 
Wanalancet’s wigwam, near the Pawtucket falls. By the influence of Elliot, a cer¬ 
tain form of courts was established among the Indians, at the sessions of which an 
English magistrate presided. The records of our early history show, that the first 
court in Middlesex county was held near the junction of the Merrimack and Concord 
rivers, on the land through which the Boott canal now passes. 

In 1726, Wamesit, as the Indian tract was called, was annexed to the town of 

Tradition says that the house erected by the Indians for public worship, was built 
of logs, and located on the high ground at the head of Appleton street. 

As the English population increased here, the Indian decreased, till their number 
became very small, when they sold out their remaining lands and removed to the 
north. Their last abiding place here, we are informed, was on Fort Hill, around 
which portions of a trench dug by them are still visible. 

The first efforts to promote manufactures in this place, were made in 1813. In con¬ 
sequence of the restrictions that were laid on commerce, and of the war with Great 
Britain, the attention of many enterprising men was directed to domestic manufac¬ 
tures. Capt. Phineas Whiting and Capt. Josiah Fletcher, having selected an eligible 
site on Concord river, at the Wamesit falls, about a hundred rods from the Merrimack, 
erected, at the expense of about $3000, a large wooden building for a cotton manu¬ 
factory. In 1818, they sold their buildings and their right to the water power, to Mr. 
Thomas Hurd. Mr. Hurd afterwards fitted up the wooden factory, and erected a 
large brick one and several dwelling houses, and improved the same for fabricating 
woollen goods. The wooden factory was destroyed by fire on the 30th of June, 1826, 
and was rebuilt immediately after. Mr. Hurd continued the business till the great 
^pressure in 1828, when he was compelled to assign his property for the benefit of his 
♦creditors, and which was afterwards purchased by the Middlesex company. 

About the year 1820, Messrs. Patrick T. Jackson, Nathan Appleton and Kirk Boott, 
of Boston, entered into a design to form a company for the purpose of manufacturing 
'Cotton goods, particularly calicoes. They accordingly commenced an inquiry for a 
suitable water privilege. A large number of privileges were examined, and, for vari¬ 
ous reasons, rejected. At length, Mr. Paul Moody, then connected with the manu¬ 
facturing establishments at Waltham, while on a visit to his friends in Amesbury, 
met with Mr. Worthen, a gentleman of taste, views and feelings congenial to his own, 
to whom he mentioned that an extensive water privilege was wanted by the above- 
named gentlemen. To whom Mr. Worthen replied, ‘ Why do they not purchase the 
land around the Pawtucket falls, in Chelmsford ? They can put up as many works as 
they please there, and never want for water.’ This conversation resulted in a visit of 
(these .gentlemen to this place, and from observation they were both satisfied that the 



privilege was exactly what was wanted. The Pawtucket canal was immediately pur¬ 
chased by Messrs. Jackson, Appleton and Boott. This canal was projected about the 
year 1790, and the proprietors were incorporated in 1792, by the name of ‘The Pro¬ 
prietors of the Locks and Canals on Merrimack river.’ It was opened for the purpose 
of facilitating the transportation of wood and lumber from the interior to Newburyport. 
It is about one and a half miles in length, and was built at an expense of $50,000. Its 
direction is nearly east, and it enters Concord river just above its junction with the 
Merrimack, where the water is thirty-two feet lower than at the head of the Paw¬ 
tucket falls. 

It is worthy of remark, that a few years before the purchase was made by Messrs. 
Jackson, Appleton and Boott, an engineer was sent to examine this place, by a num¬ 
ber of gentlemen in Boston, who made a report that there was no water privilege here. 

The company made the first purchase of real estate on the 2d of November, 1821. 
They began their work about the 1st of April, 1822. On the 10th of July, they began 
to dig the canal broader and deeper, and let the water into it about the 1st of Septem¬ 
ber, 1823. Five hundred men were constantly employed in digging and blasting. 
The gunpowder used in blasting, amounted to $6,000, at one shilling per pound. The 
whole expense of digging the canal was about $120,000. . It is now sixty feet w T ide, 
and the water in it is eight feet deep. In digging this canal, ledges were found con¬ 
siderably below the old canal, which bore evident traces of having once been the bed 
of the river. Many places were found worn into the ledge, as there usually are in 
falls, by stones kept constantly in motion by the water; some of these cavities were 
one foot or more in diameter and two feet deep. 

The company was first incorporated by the name of the * Merrimack Manufacturing 
Company.’ In 1825, a new company was formed, called the ‘ Proprietors of Locks 
and Canals on Merrimack river,’ to whom the Merrimack Manufacturing Company 
sold all the water privilege and all their real estate, together with the machine shop 
and its appurtenances, reserving to themselves water power sufficient for five factories 
and the print works, and also the buildings occupied for boarding houses, and the land 
on which they are situated. 

The town of Lowell, as incorporated by an act of the Legislature, passed on the 1st 
day of March, 1826, contained four square miles, and was formerly the northeastern 
section of the town of Chelmsford. The Legislature, in 1834, annexed Belvidere vil¬ 
lage, the westerly corner of Tewksbury, to Lowell. The annexation extends the 
territory of Lowell to nearly five square miles. The city charter was obtained in 1836. 

The population of Lowell, in 1820, was about 200; in 1828, 3,532; in 1830, 6,477; 
in 1832, 10,254; in 1833, 12,363; in 1836, 17,633; in 1840,20,981. The population 
now is, probably about 25,000.”* 

Lowell is not only one of the most important, but, on many accounts, one 
of the most interesting cities in the United States. It was the first, and is 
still the principal manufacturing city in the Union; and, as the spirit of our 
institutions, and the feelings of our countrymen have often been thought ad¬ 
verse to those corporate bodies, which, alone, can carry on a manufacturing 
business on an extensive scale, it has been watched with a jealous eye; and, 
as was very natural, some fault has been found. In the creation of Lowell 
two interests have been employed, the resident and non-resident interests. 
The capitalists, who have here invested their property, and laid the founda¬ 
tion of a city, are many of them non-residents; while the operatives, of 
whom the majority are not owners, and without whom no such plan could 
have been carried out, are the residents, though many of them but temporary 
citizens. There is thus, at times, some conflict between the two interests, 
but as we are neither tax-payers, nor politicians, we understand too little of 
the matter to form an opinion with regard to it. 

When manufactures were first established here, the objection often urged' 
against them was, that it would soon, like all manufacturing places, become 
“ a nucleus of ignorance,” and, of course, of depravity. This might be one 
causQ of the vigilance, with which the department of education has been su- 

* We make this long extract, because we found upon a reperusal of our authorities, that we 
could not condense the information here given, and do justice to our subject. We could have 
changed the form of expression, but we preferred an honest quotation . 



perintended ; and our schools may now compete with any in the Common¬ 
wealth. We doubt whether any public school surpasses our High School, 
and its teachers are well fitted for the guardianship of youth. As long as 
our mills are wrought by operatives from the country, or from the common 
schools of Lowell, they will not be filled with a depraved and ignorant class. 

The great preponderance of a youthful female population here is another 
characteristic of the city; but those who, reasoning from analogy, have sup¬ 
posed them the degraded beings who are said to form a majority of the ope¬ 
ratives in the manufactories of the Old World, have been mistaken in their 
opinions. The number of religious and charitable societies supported here 
are the best testimonials of their public and private character. There are 
now in this city 3 Trinitarian Congregational societies, 3 Calvinist Baptist, 
3 Methodist, 2 Episcopalian, 2 Universalist, 2 Roman Catholic, 2 Christian 
Baptist, 2 Freewill Baptist, 1 Unitarian Congregationalist. There is also a 
society of Latter-Day Saints, or Mormons. The third Calvinist Baptist’, and 
the second Christian Baptist societies, worship in halls. The other societies 
have handsome and commodious churches, except the second Freewill Bap¬ 
tist society, which meets in a small chapel. The school houses are hand¬ 
some and commodious buildings; the High School house is beautiful. 
Among the other public buildings are a City Hall, City Market and Court 
House, a large and splendid Hospital, and seven Hotels. 

There are two tri-weekly newspapers, the Lowell Courier, and the Lowell 
Advertiser. The vicinity of Boston, which by railroad is but an hour’s dis¬ 
tance, renders the establishment of a daily paper here unnecessary. There 
are also the Lowell Journal (Whig), the Lowell Patriot (Democratic), and 
five or six other weeklies. There are two monthly periodicals, the Lady’s 
Pearl, and the Lowell Offering and Magazine. The first is written /or, and 
the latter by the female operatives. 

There is also an Institute, the object of which is to furnish the citizens 
with cheap and popular lectures; and we have libraries, reading rooms. 
Temperance rooms, two Banks, and a Savings Institution. 

There are benevolent societies, libraries, and Sabbath schools connected 
with nearly every religious society; in short, all which can indicate an active, 
moral, and intelligent population. 

The different corporations are the Locks and Canals, Merrimack, Hamil¬ 
ton, Appleton, Lowell, Middlesex, Suffolk, Tremont, Lawrence, Boott, and 
Massachusetts; the first incorporated in 1792, the Merrimack in 1822, and 
the Massachusetts in 1839. 

The capital stock invested in Lowell, is $10,700,000. There are 32 mills, 
exclusive of print works, etc. The number of females employed is 6,375. 
(In 1841 there were 7,430.) Males employed,2,345. Number of yards wove 
per week, 1,351,450. The kinds of goods made are calicoes, sheetings, 
•shirtings, drillings, broadcloths, cassimeres, carpets, rugs, and negro cloth. 

The mills are warmed with hot air, and steam. In the factories are used 
80,189 gallons of oil, per annum; 3,090 cords of wood; 12,300 tons of an¬ 
thracite coal; 600,000 bushels of charcoal; 800,000 pounds of starch; and 
4000 barrels of flour, for starch in mills, print works and bleachery. The 
average wages of the females, in 1842, was $1.75 per week, exclusive of 
their board. But the pressure of hard times is now felt here; though, if 
the accounts of our papers are correct, we suffer very little in comparison 
with many cities of the Union. For many years manufactures have enjoyed 
more or less of the protection of government, and we believe Lowell has 
been one of the most uniformly prosperous places in New England. Still 



we have sometimes our own doubts whether the same capital, which is in¬ 
vested here, might not have created even more real prosperity, and happi¬ 
ness, if invested in villages, instead of a city. It might not have been so 
profitable to the capitalists. There would have been difficulties attending 
transportation, etc., which would lead us to infer this. But we are thinking 
now of the operatives. And though those places are usually the first to feel 
the diminution of prosperity, yet it never causes the distress which attends a 
cessation of business in larger towns. So far as our observation has ex¬ 
tended, in small manufacturing towns, the females save more from less 
wages, and are quite as happy and comfortable. In cities there are many 
drains upon the purse, besides those which are necessary . 

With an allusion to our engraving we will close. The view is from Dra- 
cutt, and shows us the bend in the Merrimack, to which we have already 
referred. We can here see the four Lawrence, five Merrimack, four Boott, 
and four Massachusetts mills; besides some smaller buildings, upon the riv¬ 
er’s banks; and the roofs, and spires, of some others peering above them. 

One of the most beautiful sights, we have ever witnessed, was these facto¬ 
ries, from the bridge, which is seen in the engraving, when all these factories 
were lighted up for the evening’s labor. The uniform and brilliant illumin¬ 
ation, with the lights again gleaming up from the calm Merrimack, the 
brightness of the city beyond, the clear blue sky above, from which the 
sparkling stars were sending down their glittering beams into the glassy wa¬ 
ters of the river, all combined to form a spectacle, which might almost lead 
an observer to believe that our hard-working, matter-of-fact city had been 
transformed to fairy land. H. F. 



“ Once upon a time”—there, you see, I have commenced with a regular 
quotation ; at any rate, it is not original with me, and, from a hasty retro¬ 
spective glance at my erudite lore, I am disposed to credit the authorship to 
that profound genius, who composed for my infantine amusement Mother 
Goose’s fables. Having, to the best of my ability, given the authority of 
my quotation, and adopted a stereotype model for my beginning, I will pro¬ 
ceed. “ Once upon a time,” it was my pleasure to go down the Hudson to 
New York. At what point of compass I started, is not a material matter for 
the present purpose. Neither am I disposed to inflict a description of the 
magnificent and sublime scenery of that noble river upon the reader. No 
one, with a medium susceptibility to the grand, the bold, or beautiful, could 
pass through the “ highlands” without deeper emotions, than are wont to stir 
the human heart amid the busy hum of man’s architectural efforts at the 
magnificent and imposing; and no one but a master’s hand should attempt 
a description of it. It is strange that there should be any so blind, cold, or 
callous as not to feel the influence of such scenery; and it is as strange, that 
so many should essay to describe it. But it is not of the Hudson, or high¬ 
lands—of the picturesque, or sublime, that I would make the subject of this 
sketch—although, perhaps, it was the combined influence of all these, which 




made me turn to my fellow-passengers, and expect to find something natu¬ 
ral , something true also among men. We are not wont to anticipate much 
from our kind, nor look for any very striking developement of noble or in¬ 
genuous feelings; but there are moments when we are ready to trust, to feel 
confidence, to hope that the artificial has not uprooted all candor and truth¬ 
fulness ; and it was with such feelings that I turned to scan the motley group 
around me. 

There was one lady, who particularly attracted my notice, as we neared 
the city. She came on board the boat at some landing, about three hours 
before we reached New York; and although her toilette was altogether too 
elaborate for a traveller, yet I was disposed to be very charitable in my con¬ 
struction of the display, as I learned she was going to meet her husband. 
She had expected him to come for her, but his business had detained him; 
aud after a painful three weeks’ separation, she could not wait any longer, 
and was to join him in the city. 

She was a splendid being—just tall and large enough to fill my idea of a 
perfect woman, although she more than realized that of a fairy. Her com¬ 
plexion was very fair, while the rose lingered upon her cheek with the purest 
hue of an opening blossom. Her hair was the right shade of brown to con¬ 
trast with the fair and open brow it shaded. Blue eyes, and rosy pouting 
lips, which seemed as if they were made only to utter sweet things; and 
teeth that looked as if they never closed upon any thing less delicate and de¬ 
licious than ice-cream. Her countenance in toto , was not spiritual, but be¬ 
spoke confidence, trust, tenderness. She was one to love—not to worship. 
The beholder felt that she was a beautiful woman, but would not have mista¬ 
ken her for a deity. Her manners were easy and graceful. Her courteous 
affability apparently sprung from kindly feelings, as well as good breeding. 

She was not accompanied by any attendant, save her nursery-maid, who 
had the charge of a child as lovely as the mother. The lady could not have 
seen more than twenty-one or two years; and the babe was apparently about 
a year and a half old. It was from her prattling talk to the child, that I 
learned, or rather guessed , her fondness for the father. 

“Emma will see papa soon,” was the oft-repeated endearment to the 
child, who would crow and leap to meet the mother’s kisses. 

The father—my imagination ran wild in picturing the ideal of him who 
possessed so lovely a wife, and so charming a child. I painted him all that 
was desirable in man—a fit match for such a mate. Kind, noble, generous, 
and indulgent—possessed of every requisite of fortune and wealth, which he 
showered, with a liberality almost amounting to profuseness, upon his wife. 
The gold and diamonds, which glittered upon her brow, hands and bosom, 
were proof positive that there was no niggard ness, or want of means in the 
one who supplied her purse. I could not but regret the excess of ornaments, 
as it seemed as if they entered in rivalry with her own sweet beauty. When 
I felt the superiority of her own charms, I could not but think that these ex¬ 
trinsic aids, so extravagantly applied, rather marred than adorned the beauty 
they were intended to enhance. 

Incidentally, I gathered that their residence was at the place where the 
lady had embarked, but that her husband’s business called him much to New 
York; and when his stay was prolonged, as it had been in the present in¬ 
stance, she joined him there. 

My curiosity was so much excited, and my imagination so wide awake, 
that I determined to watch for the husband, as the lady had informed me 
that he was to meet her at the landing; but in the confusion of the steam- 



boat’s arrival, and the attendance to my own concerns, (for I was alone) I 
forgot them. I probably should have left the boat without thinking, amid 
that Babel, of the lady, or her gallant husband, had not one of the passengers 
pulled my sleeve, to attract my notice, as I was leaving the saloon. 

“ Is that her husband ?” she inquired in a low tone, directing me with a 
glance of her eye to the centre of a group on the other side of the door. 

“ No,” I promptly replied, as I followed with my eye her direction, and 
saw the lady, my heroine, standing there, exchanging glances with an old, 
very old gentleman. “ It is her father, or grandfather,” I continued, as I 
paused a moment when I saw the maid approaching with the child, 

“ Emma dear,” said the delighted mother, u papa has come.” I looked 
in vain to see the reality of my ideal image ; but no new one approached, 
and the old gentleman received the glad caress of the laughing babe. 

Her husband !—it could not be. He had been detained, and her father 
had come to meet her. The old gentleman was a respectable-appearing, 
plain-looking man, probably between seventy and seventy-five years of age. 
He was thin and spare ; not very tall, nor so short as to look inferior. His 
hair was perfectly white, cut close round his forehead, in Puritan style. I 
looked into his face. It was thin, but not long, and the expression was pru¬ 
dence, caution—a kind of dollar-and-cent look. No striking benevolence, 
nor glaring meanness was written upon the brow or features. 

“ Will you have a carriage, ma’am ?” 

“ Have a cab ?” 

“ Is this your baggage ?” 

“ My cab, ma’am?”—and five hundred more queries of the same nature, 
interrupted the current of my reflections. The confusion increased, and I 
verily feared that the Cab Arabs would possess themselves of me piecemeal. 
In the confusion, I lost sight of my fellow-traveller, and the old gentleman. 

As my destination in the city was some two or three miles from -the land¬ 
ing, and of all conveyances and vehicles a cab is my most hearty detestation, 
I inquired for a coach; and pointing out my trunk to a man, who assured 
me that he had “ the best on the stand,” I prepared to follow my conductor. 
Satisfied that his carriage was not a cab, I did not stop for any farther com¬ 
parisons, or observations upon its condition ; and, possibly, I might have been 
content at that time with a wheelbarrow, if it would have taken me out of 
the mud, and away from the cabs. But I hastily ascended the steps, and on 
looking up, lo! there was my agreeable steamboat companion, the old gen¬ 
tleman, nursery-maid, babe, and ail. 

The lady recognized me by a smile, and nod, and pursued her conversa¬ 
tion with the gentleman. 

“ Did Susan have his dinners in season ? Was his linen well aired ? 
Was his appetite good ? Did he expect them to-day,” &c. &c. 

The inquiries were answered, and his pleasure expressed for their safe 
arrival; and then the mother thought of her child. 

“ Dear Edward, do n’t you think Emma—” 

But I don’t know what the conclusion of the inquiry was. My ears were 
filled past the reception of any more sounds. “ Dear Edward /” The very 
rattling of the carriage gave back the words, “ Dear Edward!” 

A passage back through the 44 highlands” could not, at that moment, have 
restored me any faith, or confidence in man, or woman. 

44 Dear Edward !” It took twenty-four hours of sound sleep to get it out 
of tny head—to keep it from continually ringing in my ears. 

On arriving at my friend’s, I found a gentleman in the parlor, who was a 



stranger to me. My friend had met me with a warm and cordial manner, 
that did not require words for a reply. A pressure of the hand, and a kiss 
was my return, and the first word that I uttered was a reply to the gentle¬ 
man’s courteous salutation after our introduction. 

“ Dear Edward!” I replied, as I touched his proffered hand. 

He started back in amazement, and I became conscious of the words I 
had uttered. One with less impudence might have fainted, or had a fit, but 
I laughed. My friend regarded me with astonishment and displeasure. I 
sobered my mirth, as she, in a severe tone, said, 

“ Kate, are you crazy ?” 

“ As near so as an old fool, and a young one, could make me,” I replied. 
“Do not, my dear sir,” I continued, “feel flattered by the empressement of 
my address. If you had been a cat, or a dog, it would have been the same.” 
And I then related the adventure of the day, and the denouement of the last 
half hour. Kate. 


Harp ! whose strings the passing breeze 
Waketh to light symphonies, 

Rude, yet strangely mild; 

Thou a mirror art to me, 

Where the spirit-harp I see, • 

O’er whose strings mysteriously 
Float life’s breezes wild. 

There, all passions of the soul 
Whirl wind-like, gush forth and roll 
O’er each trembling string. 

There, Thought moveth, all sublime ; 
There, the varied gusts of time, 

Joys and sorrows mingling chime, 
Mingling echoes ring. 

Sometimes, bland Affection’s gale 
Whispering to the harp its tale, 

Strikes a lively tone. 

But, when blighting Grief and Care 
Pour their fitful murmurs there, 
^Plaintive notes an answer bear 
With a low, deep moan. 

There, Afflictions, furious, rush, 

And the strains of gladness hush, 

Hope did whilome sing. 

Then, wild shrieks of Madness swell; 

Then, like night-wmds drear and chill, 
Dark Despair’s low wailings thrill 
Every shattered string. 

But a hallowed, chastened strain 
Swelleth joyfully again 

From each saddened wire, 

When, like gales from shores unknown 
Comes the Spirit! glorious One ! 
Waking there a seraph-tone, 
r cates upon the lyre. 

Thus, its strings by grief are riven, 
Thus, the notes of earth and heaven 
Blending, o’er it thrill: 

Till, when Life yields not a balm, 
Adverse winds no longer harm; 

Cometh Death :—a mighty calm, 

And the harp is still. 

Still—on earth ! but who can tell 
What glad strains along it swell, 

Eden’s bowers among? 

Mortal! guard thy heart! be wise ; 
The:e let no harsh discord rise, 

And thou may’st in Paradise, 

Hear the harp’s “new song.*’ 

L. L. 




A beautiful, bright creature is Fancy. Who has not listened to her wild 
whisperings, and felt her magical impulses ? To the eye of childhood she 
presents the scenes of the vast Future, in a series of charmed pictures, all 
glowing with the fresh colorings of Hope, undimmed by Disappointment, and 
untarnished by the demon Guilt. Oh ! how often has the child longed for 
the time when,those bewitching visions should be realized! And when the 
veil of years has been removed, and the sad, cold reality is felt—when that, 
which seemed a Paradise, proves to be a wilderness, how the heart still cher¬ 
ishes the illusions of the sorceress; still clings to the phantoms of her crea¬ 
tion ; and when most disappointed, reaches forward to grasp one more daz¬ 
zling and more deceitful still. , 

False as Fancy is, and often as she has cheated me with her delusive prom¬ 
ises and flattering dreams, being a mortal, I have dearly loved her; and do 
still cherish her companionship, with all the blindness common to mortals.— 
I have visited with her, in the dim twilight, the sylvan glades and quiet nooks 
of the forest; and as she stood by my side, I have beheld troops of fairy 
creatures issue from the shelter of the moss-grown rock, or the waving can¬ 
opy of grass, and join in a merry dance upon the green sward, while their 
rainbow-colored robes glittered in the moonlight, and their voices sounded 
like the far-off tinkling of musical bells, as they warbled their blithe even¬ 
ing song. I have watched them as they dispersed, to gather, in their tiny 
chalices, the dewy nectar from the cells of the honey-suckle; kiss the tears 
of evening from the young rose-bud’s cheek; rock the blue-eyed violet to 
sleep with a faint lullaby; or nestle in the azure depths of the harebell. 

She has stood by my pillow in the night-watches, and shown me spectral 
shapes moving around me, and looking upon me with her sorrowful eyes; 
their hollow voices whispering warning words, and their shadowy fingers 
pointing at me. And when I have turned, heart-sickened, from their unearth¬ 
ly gaze, she has revealed to me a band of shining ones, bending over my 
couch, smiling upon me, and soothing me with words of peace. 

She has borne me on her untiring pinions, far over mountain and valley, 
to the distant ocean. We have dived together through the yielding waves, 
to the palace of Neptune, and sat at the banquet of the sea-fairies. I have 
stood, at her bidding, on the slippery icebergs of the Arctic, while the water- 
spirits steered them carefully out of the course of the daring mariner, and 
thus floated on, till they sank in the wild waters of the Pacific: She has led 
me in the track of the mermaid, through avenues of coral, and pastures of 
sea-flowers, to the sacred chambers of the dead, the brave and the lovely of 
earth. There I have seen them weave, of silken threads, a winding sheet 
for a delicate form; lay it upon a bed of the purest coral, and hang around 
it the dark sea-weed for a pall. Then they would part the damp locks on 
the pallid brow of the sailor boy, and twine around it a wreath of gems and 
pearls, and scatter about him diamonds, whose radiance beamed so brightly 
upon his,changeless face, that he seemed like a spirit reposing among the 
stars in the blue of heaven. 

I have watched with her the appearance of the day-spring, over the shad¬ 
owy hill-tops; and as streak after streak of golden light has shot up from 
the horizon, till all the east was glowing with brilliant and varying hues, she 
has whispered to me that I was witnessing no common spectacle ; that it was 



the palace of the Eternal which I beheld, towering high above the hills. 
Yet even she dared not pretend to unveil to me the recesses of his pavilion, 
where I might look ppon Him, the Uncreated, face to face. She could 
not picture to me the splendor of his outer courts, and the gorgeous array of 
his attending hosts, as they begirt his temple in their panoply of purple and 
gold. She pointed to me, also, myriads of white-robed spirits, gliding for¬ 
ward on their swift pinions, in the track of the sun-beam, to pay their orisons 
to the Mightiest One ; and she bade me listen to the songs of rejoicing, 
which they warbled as they sped. Even after the splendid illusions had van¬ 
ished, it has sometimes seemed that mysterious music, as from an invisible 
sphere, was floating down, and murmuring in my ear, with more than earth¬ 
ly melody. 

But why should I thus recount the vagaries of this wayward deceiver—for 
have not all, aye, even the wisest and best, been deluded by her, with vis¬ 
ions more glowing, and more unreal than these ? Seldom, unless it be by 
accident, does the errant foot of Fancy tread upon the confines of Truth; 
and though some wander a whole life-time through her diversified realms, 
theirs is no coveted lot. But there is one, of aspect no less attractive, in 
whose benignant truthfulness may be found an ample solace for the imposi¬ 
tions of Fancy. It is Faith. She needs no gaudy colorings, or curious de¬ 
vices to allure her followers, for there is beauty, nay, there is majesty in the 
realities which she displays. She pains not the hearts of cherished friends 
with whispers of coldness and distrust; she scares no sleepless eye with dark 
and horrible visions; she assumes not a different shape with every passing 
breeze; she is ever the same, mild, peaceful and winning; and yet her vo¬ 
taries are fewer than those of Fancy. Men are ever more prone to fall in 
love with the show and parade of the Ideal, than with the grandeur of the 

When I wander with her through the wide domain of Nature, she shows 
me a hand which, while it spans the universe, and holds up unnumbered 
worlds in their places, at the same moment guides the path of the dancing 
rivulet, cloths the lily of the valley, and the mountain daisy, in their modest 
habiliments, unfolds each small spear of grass from its seedy envelope, and 
directs its course up through the moist earth, or teaches the wild bird of the 
forest how to build his nest. 

She will not wander with me to seek out the earthly resting-places of the 
beautiful and good, which I once loved, whether they sleep wreathed about 
with perennial flowers on some far-off sunny shore, or whether their graves 
are made by the mermaids in the ocean-depths ; but she tells me that they 
rest in the arms of One who loved them when living, and who took them 
from earth to be His own forever, and that even their poor perishing dust 
He safely keeps in the hollow of His hand, and will, at a great future day, 
raise it again, a glorious and spiritual semblance of what they once have been. 
And thus, were they uncoffined and unburicd, I could leave them more cheer¬ 
fully than if the mausoleum of princes was above them, or if the willows in 
the burial place of my fathers shaded them; for her words are founded in 
truth, and I may not* doubt them. She tells me, too, that the same Hand of 
Love ever shields those who are dear to me as my own life ; and when temp¬ 
tations and sorrows assail them or me, she points upward, and with an un¬ 
wavering voice says, “ Look up ! Be strong, and fear not!” And when I 
have obeyed her, though with eyes dimmed with tears, I have seen the black 
cloud rolling away, the blue sky shining above, and a Hand from behind the 
cloud stretched out for relief. 



When I would fain look down the vista of the future, and behold the home 
of the spirit, when it shall have fully realized its immortality, she does not 
show me a picture of sun-lit fields and ever-green bowers; of many toned 
instruments, and thrones of gold, which are but Fancy’s emblems, and can 
come no nearer the reality, than earth can approach Heaven. She chases 
away the dreams of what may be , and bids me look upon what is. She tells 
me that there is a place of purity, which sin shall never defile—a home for 
the weary, where the “ wicked cease from troubling,” a balm for the sor¬ 
rowing in the presence of Him who “ poured out his soul unto death,” for 
their sakes; a blessed meeting for all who have trusted in Him since the 
world began; and of that ransomed band, she tells me I may become a 
member, if I but follow her bidding. Glorious truths! to which the Eter¬ 
nal and Immutable hath set his seal. 

Pleasant are the flights, and beguiling are the whispers of Fancy, but hap¬ 
py is he who cherishes the true Faith. Y. M. 


A thought ! How light a thing it seems ! It passes away as unnoticed 
as a breath of the summer breeze. Or, as the momentary eddying of water, 
into which a pebble is cast. But the pebble, thus carelessly thrown away, 
is not lost. It is beneath the waters, and we see it not; but it remains the 
same, a pebble still. So the thought, that for a moment disturbed the sur¬ 
face of the mind, and then sunk into the oblivion of forgetfulness, is not lost. 
Ages may roll away, but it still remains, an imperishable thing, safe in the 
deep waters of eternity. It was “ heard in heaven.” Can it be forgotten ? 
It was the emanation of spirit, a part of our very selves, and shall it not en¬ 
dure as long ? It is still our own, and shall we not again meet and acknowl¬ 
edge it ? If the sea shall give up its treasures of mortality, will not the ocean 
of eternity be as faithful to the spirit ? 

But already, are our thoughts revealed—though the veil of clay enables 
us to conceal them, if we will, from mortals like ourselves, yet the moment 
they are embodied in the soul, they are seen—are heard—in Heaven.— 
What a startling, thrilling truth ! Are they all pure, so that Holiness may 
gaze on them with complacency ? Should we not dread an exposure of 
some of them, even to our kindred in imperfection? Who is innocent?— 
Who feels condemned ? Alas! what folly is ours—revealing only what we 
have deemed the bright and beautiful; we have fondly imagined that the 
darkness and deformity within, were forever hid in the deep recesses of the 
spirit. Strangely have we forgotten the Omniscient, though invisible One ; 
and, all absorbed in the world around us, it has scarcely occurred to us that 
we are remembered in the “ high and holy place.” 

To those who are seeking for purity of heart—who, while they tabernacle 
in the flesh, would be like the sinless ones above, the poet’s words are full of 
consolation. Their hatred of impurity, and their secret struggling with sin, 
is not unnoticed by their Father in Heaven. And their Teachings after im¬ 
mortality, and unuttered longings of the spirit, which can be clothed only in 
the language of Heaven, are there heard and understood. E. L. 




In making “ our poor relation ” the hero of a tale, I would not be thought 
to imply that he is the only one , with whom we have the good or ill fortune 
to be connected, who possesses this signalizing qualification; or, to speak 
more properly, as want of wealth or comforts is but a negative possession, 
we would not be thought to imply that he is the only one to whom we are 
related who is not possessed of a sufficiency of this world’s goods to escape 
the trials and afflictions of povery. But I believe he is the only one of them 
who is poor because he never really tried to be otherwise—because he never 
exerted himself to obtain, by any decisive efforts, the means of an honest 
livelihood. And yet no one in our circle of relatives has a greater capacity 
for the enjoyment of the ease and luxuries, which wealth may bring, and 
which most men hope may be the rewards of a life of industry ; neither are 
there any of them who are more keenly sensitive to the stings and pangs 
which are almost always the sure accompaniment of poverty. Neither is he 
our poor relation because he is more destitute than any others of the clan of 
the capacity to acquire for himself riches and honors, unless indeed disincli¬ 
nation may be considered incapacity. Neither is he par excellence our poor 
relation, merely because, compared with wealthier members of the family, 
he may be considered poor, though possessed of many things which u poor 
folk” would be glad to enjoy. No, we have other relations, who row with 
broken oars across life’s stormy sea, and have but a frail and leaky bark in 
which to stow whatever they have grasped amidst its angry waves. But he 
has no bark; no, not even an oar, and when no one of them will have the 
mercy to give him a seat in their small boat, he must e’en buffet the break¬ 
ers with oarless hands. Yes, we have many relations upon whom Dame 
Fortune has always looked askance, though they rise early, and sit late; 
though they eat the bread of toil, and are clothed in the garments of care¬ 
fulness ; though they sleep the deep slumber of the laborer, and sweat the 
salt drops which were the curse of Adam. But they all have something, 
while he has nothing—they have a home, “ if it’s ever so homely,” and he 
has he has neither house, land, money, trade, or even, the poor man’s law¬ 
ful blessing, a wife and u baker’s dozen” of children. Yet he makes the best 
of his state of single grief, and if Madam Fortune looks with vinegar as¬ 
pect upon him, he faces her fearlessly, with an impudent leer. He under¬ 
stands his position very well, as witness, for example, a letter which he sent 
to one who was wealthier than himself, and by which it will be seen that our 
poor relation is, in truth, a beggar. 

“ A poor relation is the most irrelevant thing in nature—a piece of imper¬ 
tinent correspondency—an odious approximation—a haunting conscience— 
a preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noon-tide of your prosperity—an 
unwelcome remembrancer—a perpetually recurring mortification—a drain 
on your purse—a more intolerable dun on your pride—a drawback upon 
success—a rebuke to your rising—a stain in your blood—a blot on your 
’scutcheon—a rent in your garment—a death’s head at your banquet— 
Agathocles pot—a Mordecai at your gate—a Lazarus at your door—a lion 
in your path—a frog in your chamber—a fly in your ointment—a mote in 
your eye—a sore in your side—a triumph to your enemies—an apology to 
your friends—the one thing not needful—the hail in harvest—the ounce of 
sour in a pound of sweet—the bore par excellence . 



He is known by his knock, and so he does not knock at all. But what 
of all this periphrasis ? Nothing—nothing but old clothes . There is not 
one in the long catalogue of my relatives who will give me a sou—for my 
seams are gaping like a Dutch lugger’s under the tropic; and, let me assure 
you, that these solutions of continuity, though not so dangerous as sabre 
wounds, tend, notwithstanding, as assuredly towards mortification,” &c. 

The reader will perceive that he does not lack the capacity to appreciate 
the extent of his grievances, or the ability to state them so that they may be 
comprehended by others. A brief account of his life will unravel the riddle 
of his poverty, for such poverty with such abilities must seem a problem it 
were well worth while to solve. 

Our poor relation was left fatherless when but a little boy, and his excel¬ 
lent mama—for she was a good woman—wished to bring up (as the term is) 
her children in a style more accordant with their past fortunes, than with 
that which was likely to be their future lot. To work at a trade or to till the 
ground were employments degrading to her boys, and so they must be put 
in a store, or something of that sort, because it was more genteeler . He was 
placed in a store, and in some store he remained till he was about eigh¬ 
teen years of age. Then commenced his wanderings—for, impelled by his 
restless spirit, he left his home, and went into the country, to the house of a 

C r relative, a clergyman, who had been sick for more than a year, with a 
t of “ wee toddlin things” about, the usual solace of a country parsonage. 
He went well dressed—dressed like a gentleman, and felt quite nicely, though 
he could not then have been aware what an epoch in his existence the pos¬ 
session of a good suit of clothes was to be. Well, he would not work, and 
was then ashamed to beg y using the word in its popular sense, and so they 
thought they would make a gentleman and scholar of him. He was set to 
his books, and soon mastered a good* English education, though it is to be 
doubted whether he ever really applied himself to study an hour in his life. 
What he knew came almost by instinct Yet he was by no means deficient 
in the higher branches of Mathematics, and in Grammar, Rhetoric, Criti¬ 
cism, <&c«, was an adept. 

So he resolved to be a pedagogue, as in his opinion it was most like doing 
nothing at all of any occupation at which he could establish himself. He 
crossed the Green Mountains into the State of New York, and taught there 
about six months, then wandered to the South, and finally was back among 
his New England relatives, by the end of the year. They refitted and re* 
cruited him, and set him. off; and again he went on a pilgrimage, and again 
came back. This game hfe played several times, coming hack always as 
restless and destitute as an Arab, and again they would fit him out, and send 
him off. 

At length he thought he would be a sailor, but, though he u followed the 
seas” at intervals, for many years, it is doubtful whether he ever completed 
more than two or three voyages. He would beg off, or get away in any 
manner, and then to his beloved relations he would come, tatters a-fiying. 
He was always a more welcome visitant to the younger members of the 
family than to their parents; for to them he could tell many a marvellous 
tale of land and sea. 

He was once the librarian of the North Carolina. It is, or was, the largest 
ship in the American Navy. Its complement was three hundred men, and 
it was kept by its commander, Commodore Rogers, with the neatness, order, 
and almost the splendor, of a palace. If in those days of early childhood I 
had ever anticipated the honor of contributing to the Lowell Offering, I 




would hove treasured among the archive** of my memory many a tale of 
lands afar, and perils dire. I should like, above all, to entertain my readers 
with an account, of which I have but a vague recollection, of the entertain* 
ment which Com. Rogers once gave the Turkish delegation in the harbor of 
Smyrna. It was the only time, I believe, that our poor relation ever saw his 
commander in full uniform—he usually wore the 44 half dress.” His ap¬ 
pearance was splendid, and the Ottoman grandees appeared in their blue 
silk pelisses, and red morocco boots. As much of Turkish refinements, and 
luxuries, as could be tastefully blended with the naval etiquette of America, 
was enjoyed at this banquet. There were pipes, coffee, music, and per¬ 
fumery, in the naval saloon—all but ladies , and the Turks did not regret 
their absence. 

But if memory is not very treacherous, I have heard u our poor relation** 
speak of lovely Italian, or Spanish, ladies dancing on the polished deck, to 
the stirring music of an unrivalled band, while the brilliant moonlight of 
those cloudless climes slept upon the Mediterranean. 

At the Turkish banquet George B. English was interpreter. Though not 
like our poor relation, he was quite as eccentric a genius. He graduated at 
Harvard University, in 1807, the first scholar in his class. He studied Di¬ 
vinity—preached in Boston, and vicinity—was not popular—became dis¬ 
heartened, and vexed. Reversing the practice of some later skeptics, he 
repudiated the New Testament, and retained the Old. Was thus a Jew. 
Wrote his book, entitled u The Grounds of Christianity Examined, by com- 

E iring the New Testament with the Old.** He was answered by Edward 
verett—was much mortified, and became a Mahometan. He resided some 
time in Egypt, and acquainted himself with Egyptian and Turkish literature. 
He returned at length to his native land, and died some ten, twelve, or four¬ 
teen years ago. 

Such was one of the companions with whom our poor relation met in his 
wanderings, and though not kindred spirits there was, at least, between them 
the affinity of eccentricity. 

Our poor relation has abjured a sailor's life for many years, and when he 
has done any thing it has been teaching a school at the West, or South. He 
is now growing old; and, when I saw him last, there were gray hairs min- 
gted with his dark locks; but if he live till they are white as the driven 
snow his silvered head will never be a crown of wisdom. He has never 
found, and probably never sought, the true knowledge which is to be learned 
in the lessons of life. 

But some may wish to know if he has never loved, never grieved in dis¬ 
appointment ; in short, if he may not have been a little love-cracked, as the 
saying is. I think not. He can talk a great deal of romance to young la¬ 
dies* and write poetry for their albums, but if he is love-cracked he must 
fcave been born so. 

Among some poems which I still preserve as mementoes of our poor re¬ 
lation, is one written 44 long, long ago,** upon a beautiful young Virginian 
lady, commencing 

M Welcome, fair one, blithe and gay, Thy forehead fair, and locks of gold. 

Welcome ai Uie flowers of May; Remind me pf those nymphs of old, 

Though a stranger thou to me, Who graoed Arcadia's happy plains, 

Suffer me to welcome thee. The joy of age and pride of swains." 

ibid so on to the end of the sheet The lady probably liked the poem bet* 

on poas bsiatiok. m 

ter than the poet, though I do not know that she ever deigned to bestow a 
smile upon either. 

Sometime after this he made love to a New England maiden lady, who 
had a little property, and a little house, and every thing very snug and cozy 
about it; and no poor relation who was more anxious to share all these good 
tilings with her than ours was. They had already agreed upon a nuptial 
contract, and he was waiting for the day on which with all his worldly goods 
he should her endow, when the lady was informed by some of her good 
friends, that they had heard her intended use profane language. He had 
made himself so very agreeable that she did not know that he had other 
faults, or was willing to overlook them, but she could not tolerate swearing! 
so he had to take the mitten; and if it cured him of his bad habits, it did a 
very good office for a mitten. 

Sometime after this he paid his addresses to a wealthy widow lady of 
Mississippi, who owned a plantation, and thirty or forty slaves. Here be 
conducted himself so admirably that the lady was very willing to share with 
him her bed and board, for the pleasure of his society, and the protection 
he would afford her, and the care he could take of her property, &c.; and 
Fortune seemed to have turned over a new leaf, when he found himself the 
lawful wedded spouse of his charmer. But, alas! the bright sun, which 
blazed so brightly on him now, was soon to be shrouded in ebon clouds. 
The lady’s husband, who had been in Texas, fighting Caddoes, Camanches, 
and Santa Anna, w a as not killed, as she had been informed; and he came 
back again like Ulysses, from his long wanderings, but not to find his wife a 
Penelope. Of course he was again the master of his home, and the lady 
was at liberty to choose between the former and the latter husband; ana, 
like a true woman, she clung to the love of her youth, and her comfortable 
home, and our poor relation found that he was not married at all, at aU. 

Now, like many another vagabond, our poor relation is somewhat of a 
poet; and, in his disappointment he solaced himself by writing verses upon 
the instability of all sublunary things. Among them is the following, sug¬ 
gested by his own peculiar afflictions. 


At morn young Love and Hope reclined 
Upon a summer’s sea, 

But scarce had noontide come when he 
Into his bark leaped smilingly; 

And left poo? Hope behind. 

*1 go,* said Love, 4 to sail awhile 
Across yon sunny main 
And then so sweet his parting smile 
That Hope, who never dreamed of guile, 

Believed he *d come again. 

She lingered there till evening's beam 
Along the waters lay; 

And o’er the sands, in fitful dream, 

Oft traced his name, which still the stream 
As often washed away. 

Now to show that our poor relation could value the favors of the ladies as 

At length a sail appears in sight. 

And tow’rd the maiden moves; 

Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright 
His golden bark reflects the light; 

But ah ! it is not Love's. 

Another sail, *t is Friendship shows 
Her night lamp o’er the sea; 

And calm the light that lamp bestows. 
But Love has light that warmer glows. 
But where, alas, is he ? 

Now, fast around both sea and main 
Night throws her darkling chain; 

The sunny sails are seen no more, 

Hope's morning dream of Love was o'er, 
He never came again.'* 

otrft poos ssiATioir. 


any rich man would have done, I cannot refrain from inserting another of 
his poems, as they will probably never see the light unless I do. 



Yen, I will keep thy simple gift, 

It boasts no diamond rare, 

No sparkling gem, no glitt’ring gold, 

A tress of braided hair. 

And this, thy valued Friendship’s gift 
Shall be a treasured thing, 

A talisman of lasting power, 

Fond thoughts of thee to bring. 

When lengthened years have passed away, 
And Time has marked thy brow, 

*T will bring thy form to memory, 

E'en as I see it now. 

And tho* that form with time may change, 
Or Aide neath Sorrow’s blight, 

Yet this dear braid will still remain 
As beautiful, as bright. 

’T will picture, when far, far away 
Sweet scenes of happiness, 

And be a friend, in care to cheer 
With hopes of future bliss. 

And I shall see thy form again. 

As through a magic glass, 

And thou, all* lovely, good, and fair, 
Before my eye shall passl 
And, for thy precious gift, what shall 
My gratitude decline ? 

Oh, wilt thon, love, my heart accept. 
For thy tress of braided hair?** 

I can hardly conceive how she refrained from saying, Yes, for he asked 
it handsomely. 

With a few more lines, which seem applicable to his own case, I will 
close my extracts. 

“I’ve seen the tall ship proudly braving, 
With high sail set, and streamer waving, 
The tempest’s roar, the ocean’s pride; 

I’ve seen the lofty streamer shrinking, 
The high sail rent, the proud ship sinking, 
Beneath the ocean’s tide. 

I’ve heard the dying seaman sighing— 
His body on the blue sea lying— 

His death prayer to the wind; 

But sadder sight the eye can know 
Than proud bark lost, or seaman’s wo. 
The shipwreck of the mind. 1 * 

In his case we see such a shipwreck. He bad talents which might have 
made him a worthy and useful man—he wanted nothing but habits of dis¬ 
creet steady application. Through life he has been a useless member of 
society^ anon-applicant; a consumer—not a producer; and, in our story, 
there is evolved a good moral, for all the young and careless. 

For many years we have seen hut little of our poor relation. Occasionally 
he comes however; “ sometimes in rags, sometimes in tags, but nWer in vel¬ 
vet gowns.” Like the comet, he goes on his erratic track, and we know 
not whether it will be to return, and like the comet he comes, nobody knows 
for what, or from whence, or why he goes again, unless it is to w go it.” 

The last time I heard from him, he was at President Harrison’s funeral, 
and his interesting account of that splendid and melancholy pageant may be 
the last we are ever to hear of our poor relation . 


Application. There are but few tasks so unwelcome as to preach to the 
young of application. On that very account it is more needed, and they 
should nerve themselves to hear, remember, and practise it. 





Wkvl, stranger! fain I'd hae ye tell 
Some sort o' tale about yoursel; 

I dinnn like ye very well; 

But mair if I should ken 
About your journeyins far an near. 

An what may be your business here, 

My manners it might men. 

We, Yankees, are the anes to spier 
What ye hae done this mony a year; 

Will ye not tell us, plain and clear, 
Where ye sae long hae been ? 

Whether ye e’er before were here, 

An where ye next inten to steer, t 

An if ye '11 come agen ? 

I told ye ance I liked ye not; 

I ne'er hae kenned a' good ye've wrought 
A racin here an there; 

On you we ne’er can keep an eye, 

Ye round creation feckless fly, 

A spinnin street-yarn i’ the sky; 

I think ye like the air . 

While far your trail sae braw ye spread, 
Ye've wit enough to hide your head; 

Ye *ve but a peacock’s glory; 

I'm sure ye h^e na ony brains. 

An ye can (iae but little gains; 

A rollin stone na moss retains, 

Sae saith the guid auld story. 

I 9 ni sure I wish ye *d men your ways; 

I *d gladly gie ye mickle praise, 

For ance o' guid behavin; 

Thae ither planets, stars, and things— 

O' which the poet alien sings, 

Sic joy to mony a body brings, 

While ye but set folk ray in. 

They come to cheer the darksome night, 
An o’er us shed their constant light, 
While round an round ye 're rinnin; 

On them, as on some douce gude book, 
The chartless mariner may look; 

Their courses they hae ne'er forsook, 

An keep a steady spinnin. 

Ye'd better far, than gae away. 

Now in our universe to stay, 

An he a sober planet; 

Just draw yoqr trail up i' a heap; 

Like dormice when they gae to sleep; 
Yet look ye weel afore ye leap, 

Sic change, ye might not stan it. 

Yet a' our Washin'tonians tell. 

That reformation suits them well; 

Some o' them here out quite a swell, 
Wha ance were waur than ye; 

Went rantin round, a scarin a'. 

The auld an young, the great and sma 9 , 
Wha i’ their way might be. 

An ye now come unto our warl, 

Like that auld guid-for-nothin carl, 
Wha fain wad into ruin hurl, 

Lang syne, auld patient Job; 

As though be'd not enough o* strife, 
Wi' fourteen bairns to vex his life. 

And then a wise advisin wife 
As ony on the globe. 

Fu' soon I ken ye 'll gae away, 

Tho' Miller folk wad hae ye stay; 

They think ye 'll list their prayer, 

An say your trail ye '11 o’er us splash. 
An yie us a’ an awsome crash; 

The warl itsel will gae to smash; 

Ah, do it! gin ye dare. 

An yet, if $s sae mony say, 

Ye bit the earth, some night or day. 

It wad na make me sad; 

The warl goes steady as a dock, 

She wad na min your feckly shook, 

An ye wad get an awfu’ knock, 

An hurt ye very had. 

Dafl Miller thinks ye 're but his tool; 
He '11 fin bimsel an April fule, 

When ye shall gae away. 

An gie us na that mighty toss, 

Which a' the saunts will send across,. 
Death's dreaded, deep, uncannie fosse, 
In glorious array. 




They 'll waesome be when ye shall fail 
To skelper wi’ your mighty trail, 

E'en like a crooning harpooned whale, 
An heeze them i' the air; 

Gin ye wad gie them sic a Tide, 

While they amang the clouds did bide, 
Fray, what the lave wad then betide ? 
Ye ’d send us sinners—where? 

I bae na fears o* my salvation; 

I ’d sign ye not a supplication, 

Tho’ lang ’s qn Anti-Slave petition. 

Ye'd fling it “neath the table;" 

I think to do some awsome thing, 

That on us a' wad ruin bring, 

An itber tune wad make me sing, 

Ye ’re willin mair than able. 

Ye 're workin a’ your mischief now. 

Ye bring the cauld an wind I trow, 
The spring time’s drilling snow; 

The cynic’s words to ye I ’ll tell, 

Wha, lang syne, i’ a tub did dwell, 

An said to ane, some like yoursel, 

“ Out o’ my sunshine, gae l" 

Awa! begone! an when afar, 

Ayont the very farthest star, 

Ye fin ye 're a' hot froze, 

Ye 'll do agen, as now ye've done. 

Come drivin back toward the sun, 

Tho’ wise men say (the claivers run) 

He's cauld as pussy's nose. 

Thae learned folk—I think they 're daft, 
Wi' a’ their books and scholar craft, 
They seem to me as unco safl, 

When puir folk they disturb; 

As tho' a body should not live 
Unless he know the adjective, 

The plural, an the verb. 


Ay, get ye gone! an we will screel. 

As loud's we can, a last fareweel, 

Your exit when we view it; 

An yet, gude sake, 't is very true 
That ye are blythe, an bonnie too, 

I '11 gie a comet e'en his due. 

Or ane day 1 may rue it. 



Start not, thoughtful reader, at what you may bo pleased to think a 
strange caption for this article, nor conjure in your mind some old rock- 
bound cavern, far removed from the haunts of men, and surrounded by 
nought but those stern old trees of the forest, whose strong arms have with¬ 
stood the fierce blasts of ages. Imagine not this to be the theme upon which 
I shall dwell—declaring rocks and caverns—the home of the wild beasts— 
to be a fit abode for man, and saying that he should live there alone; that 
in order to have a heart pure and spotless, he must separate himself from his 
fellow-man, and hold communion with no spirit save that of his Maker. 

Oh, no! imagine not this, for we are social beings, creatures of sympathy, 
bound together by the strong bonds of affection. We know these chords to 
be strong, because it requires force to snap one asunder, and then it is a long 
while before the remaining ones will give out their wonted tones in sweet 
harmony. They miss their kindred chord. God, the ruler of events, has 
formed us thus, and wisely ordered that we should cheer our brother on his 
toilsome way. And I would not have it otherwise, for happiness comes to 
me while sharing the joyous feelings of those whose hearts seem bursting 
with the excess of this emotion—and while weeping alone with the sorrow¬ 
ful. In this last there is a something which reaches far down into the soul, 
and can be understood only by those who have experienced the “joy of grief.” 
It may not be well for us always to be alone, and yet it may be necessary 
that we should sometimes be removed from mortal eyes, and where we may. 



unmolested, commune with our own hearts, and hold sweet converse with 
the Searcher of Hearts. Sweet it may be, if our hearts are right, and if 
not, we must set ourselves about purifying them. In these seasons of soli¬ 
tude, let us make it our business to seek out each dark obscure corner, and 
place there a light—even that of love—and forget not to watch with undying 
zeal the same. O, allow it not, for want of the attention of a few leisure 
moments, to burn fainter, and fainter, and at last to go out. Cheerless must 
be the hours of solitude to that heart which has not one lamp of love, that 
will throw its enlivening rays into the surrounding darkness. It can draw 
no lessons of instruction from anything in nature, unless it can have the loan 
of some neighbor's lamp, for the book of nature is but a revelation of love. 
To his senseless ear, the low fluttering breeze, as it comes in the stillness of 
evening, and gently moves the leaves of the surrounding foliage, the faint 
murmur of the brook, the loud roar of the cataract—-or even the rich music 
of the birds—these are nothing more than unmeaning, useless sounds. Not 
so with the faithful watcher, who keeps the blaze of his ten thousand little 
lamps continually rising. Precious to him are the occasional hours of soli¬ 
tude, and they are equally so, whether it be in the silence of his own cham¬ 
ber, where he has leisure to study his own heart, and to toil to make each feel¬ 
ing harmonize, or out in the extensive field of nature, where he reads in leg¬ 
ible lines upon every thing, the revelations of God. Not even the shadows 
of night are sufficient to obscure in the least, the tangible form of these rev¬ 

On the contrary, some bright or dull evening, it may be, affords a rich 
feast to my solitary friend. If the weather is rough and boisterous, he sits in 
his room, and listens to the strange sounds produced by the wind, as it comes 
steadily on for a moment, and then dies away with a faint whistje. Again 
it comes in a sudden gust, and screams out like some affrighted child.— 
The benevolent man starts up, alive to the feeling of humanity, and listens 
with intense anxiety, for something more to confirm his startled fears. The 
low whining sound that comes with the returning gust seats him calmly 
again, while a grateful feeling steals into his heart, that no one is suffering. 
So even on such a night as this, he is the better for having been for a few 
moments alone, wherq the current of thought could have free circulation, 
unimpeded by the cold sneering smile of an unfeeling face. But there are 
times more favorable than this, I think, for the improvement of our religious 
natures—times when the soul must, if it be true to itself, break away from 
the low sensual things of earth, to ponder upon the pure and sublime of 
another world. O, I would that every soul might thus prove its power, and 
by this means secure to itself a fountain which shall ever gush forth, and 
create in the soul that verdant beauty, which indicates the presence of living 
waters. Adeline. 


Hail ! far-famed Columbia, the land of the brave, 
Enparadized garden of flowers, 

Where the banner of freedom triumphant doth wave, 
We exultingly call this land ours. 

But where is that race that once dwelt in these shades f 
Sole sovereign of this western world— 

Who surveyed every brook, every hill, and each glade, 
Ah! their names in oblivion are burled. 



Here greet mother Nature their mfaney lulled, 

Ere the archers bad taught them to roam; 

From this paradise-garden subsistence they culled, 

This rich-teeming Eden their home. 

This magical city! Pentucket of yore— 

Every hill, every street, and each nook, 

*T was here that the Indian learned his wild lore 
From Nature's voluminous book. 

Here, here, on this spot, they once sported with game, 

When Nature her ensign did rear; 

O’er the hill, and the valley, the meadows, and plain, 

They have once chased the wild bounding deer. 

Ah ! that red race is gone ; they have passed like a dream. 

Who in freedom’s wild fastnesses grew, 

Who meandered the banks of this broad rolling stream, 

And here paddle d the little canoe. 

In those long golden years they freely have reared 
Their own bumble cots on the plain, 

Oh! ye happy red men, till invaders appeared, 

Till their white sails had swept o'er, the main. 

That red race was driven from all that was dear, 

Whose hearts hospitality swayed ; 

Who greeted the haughty white man with a cheer, 

Till taught treach’ry by being betrayed. 

Shall the haughty white man drive the Indian still 
Far, far from their forefathers graves ? 

Shall they send red race o'er the distant blue hill, 

Till they ’re lost in the wild western waves ? M. R. G. 


Composition. In our last number we spoke of Books and Reading, and in this we 
have a few words to say of Writing and Reflection. 44 How can you think amidst 
such a din?” is a question which has often been put to ns,and we always feel a Yan¬ 
kee inclination to answer it by another — 44 How do you suppose we could live without 

Strangers appear to think that the noise, which affects them so severely and un¬ 
pleasantly, must cause the same sensations in all who hear it. They forget the power 
of habit, the benumbing influence of every constant action or sensation. Those, who 
live within hearing of the dash of Niagara, become insensible to its deafening roar; 
and, amid the clatter of wheels, bands, and spindles, the still small voice within may 
be as plainly heard as in the chamber’s solitude, or when beneath a midnight sky. In 
truth, the factory is rather favorable than otherwise to reflection. We become un¬ 
conscious of the machinery’s din, and it completely deadens every other sound. The 
difficulty is in fixing and keeping the attention upon some other subject than the work. 
The expert operative can 44 tend her work,” when it 44 goes well ,” with but little more 
thought than she bestows upon breathing; and, why not have time to think? When 
the work is hard, or the operative has more than she can easily attend to, then, truly, 
she is in no mood for pleasant thoughts, if she can think at all; but none of the girls, 
I apprehend, live without thinking. 

They can prepare a composition, so far as forethought is concerned in its prepara¬ 
tion, nearly as well there as anywhere, and many of the best articles in the Offering 
we know to have been composed in the mill. 

But some will reply , 44 In making these statements you are detracting from the en¬ 
ergy and merit, for which your friends now give you credit.” We are stating facts; 
and to many we are solving a riddle, while from others, we may, perchance, remove 
their unbelief. 



Hard times. A friend writes to us thus: “One old gentleman (who refused to 
subscribe) promised, as soon as he saw an article in the Offering against our imitations 
of foreign fashions, and against our importing French gewgaws and finery, that he 
would send his name as a subscriber. He was a merchant, but he said our national 
4 hard times’ were produced by our importations of foreign luxuries and fashions. That 
as a nation we could, and ought, to produce our own fashions, and articles of apparel.” 

From this short account we have formed an opinion of this old merchant, which 
would cause us to be much gratified by having his name upon our subscription list. 

The “hard times,” of which so much is now said, he attributes to excess in impor¬ 
tation of French and English goods. When we cast a casual glance over our political 
papers, we see each of the antagonist parties throwing all blame upon its opponent; 
the neutral papers attribute all difficulties to the imbecility or villany of our rulers 
and representatives; the religious papers think that, on account of our wickedness, we 
are suffering from the displeasure of Him who is Lord and Judge of all, and this old 
merchant thinks it is all because the women will wear French finery, and fol-de-rols. 

He may be right, but we have always been accustomed to look upon a well-con¬ 
ducted commerce as one of the greatest sources of wealth and prosperity to a nation. 
Of course, the more we buy the more we patronize the merchants, and Lowell shop¬ 
keepers think buying and selling a very lawful calling. We suppose, however, that 
the difficulty is this: If our tastes can be only gratified by the sale of French and 
English finery, a demand is created, which can only be satisfied by importations from 
France and England; and as they' will take nothing from us but specie, the country 
is drained of its currency. 

To remedy the evil, if this be really the case, there are two ways—to make our 
own finery, or to leave off wearing it. We are willing to do our part towards the ac¬ 
complishment of the first scheme. To benefit American manufactures, and manufac¬ 
turers, is one of our aims. By writing and publishing we cannot increase the physical v 
pleasures of our fellows, but if we can add to their mental happiness—if we can make 
them more respectable, contented, and aspiring, we can do something. To improve 
their minds, and refine their manners, may not be to make them better operatives. 
The Oriental Indian in his dungeon, can spin a finer thread than any writer for the 
Lowell Offering, but an American female should be something besides a mere opera¬ 
tive; and the more and better girls we have,'the sooner we shall be able to manufac¬ 
ture even our finery. 

The second mode of remedy is, to leave off wearing it. Now, one thing is to be 
taken into consideration: Factory girls do not lead the fashions. Their highest aim 
is to follow, and in doing that they are, by many, considered guilty of impertinence. 
A greater responsibility devolves upon those whose influence, and station in life, 
make them the leaders of bon ton. It may be that this aged merchant has daughters 
who dress in Bilks and satins; or, if not, many merchants have, while they lament the 
ruinous importation of foreign finery. Let these young ladies resolve to reform the 
present modes, and material of dress. Let our leading magazines, and papers, join in 
& reprobation of the present customs, and costumes; and the factory girls then, as 
now, will willingly follow. 

“But why,” it may be objected, “not assert your independence ? Why not make 
your own fashions ? Why not lead in a good work ? Wh y follow a multitude to do evil?” 

The perusal of this.article by many, who may read it, may possibly be the first inti¬ 
mation that there iB, in their present habits, the shadow of wrong, or want of patriot¬ 
ism ; and if some individuals, among our operatives, should reform, they would proba¬ 
bly be misunderstood. They would be thought to give up their gewgaws from pov¬ 
erty, parsimony, want of taste, or oddity. Moreover, it is now very customary, 
“among the world,” to regulate not only their opinion, but a lady’s opinion of herself, 
by her dress. If she dresses plain, we often hear the remark, “She thinks but little 
of herself;” and if she follows all the fashions, she is—not vain, but— proud. “She 
thinks a great deal of herself—-she feels very nicely and girls, especially factory 
girls, who are unusually sensitive to remarks of this kind, had rather bear the impu¬ 
tation of too much than too little self-respect. 

One thing farther. Young females dress to please the gentlemen, quite as much as , 
to gratify themselves; and, it is a fact that the majority of the other sex—even those 
who laugh and sneer most about tiie ladies’ passion for fine dress, and devotion to silks 
and satins—even they will be better pleased with the lady who dresses with taste and 
splendor, than with her who does not—other things being equal; and how are they to 
dress beautifully in materials of American manufacture ? 

For ourselves we would willingly, if we knew our example would be followed, and 
that it might have the slightest influence in redeeming our country from depression» 



and bankruptcy—we would willingly wear “ Merrimack print*’ henceforth; and it 
would be as little of sacrifice for us to give up French and English finery, as for any 
one, we are assured. 

Then, it may be suggested, you might endeavor to form a society, who would unite 
with you in reforming, at least, themselves. 

We are willing that all should do this individually, and perhaps we shall wear 
Lowell calico, and knit our own lace, all summer. But we have always felt a disin¬ 
clination to organizing societies for doing a simple duty. This habit has now become 
a mania, and mothers, “now-a-days,” cannot bring up their children to make their 
manners, speak the truth, and say their catechism, without joining a Mothers* As- 
Association, or something of the kind, the object of which is to provoke each other in 
well doing. 

We have never joined “a society,” although there are many of whose objects we 
approve. We never even joined 44 The Improvement Circle” until we were chosen, 
almost without our own knowledge, an officer, or qfficeress ; and now we wish that in 
that there should be as little of formality as possible—that all who ever write should 
oonsider themselves members; even if they have never entered their names in the 
book ; although it is a pretty book, and very nicely kept. But, even if we would ex¬ 
ert ourselves to form such a society, we believe that few woul^ join; and we should 
probably be left 44 alone in our glory.” 

We have spoken of ourself, and of others as we are, not perhaps as we should be, 
yet there are many prudent, self-denying girls in the city. A few months since, when 
a reduction of wages took place here, there was an attempt to form a society, who should 
resolve to spend not more than five dollars during the winter. The object of this 
was, that if in the spring there was no addition to their wages, they might have some¬ 
thing with which to leave the place, and obtain other employment. We have never 
heard whether the society lived, or died; or died before it began to live; but we could 
recommend to every girl, whether she join a society or not, to render herself, by pru¬ 
dence and good management, as independent as possible of factories; and thus they 
can at such times leave their employment, instead of remaining to fly in the faces of 
their employers. 

Alison’s History of Europe. We have already noticed, upon our covers, the 
reception, from Harper & Brothers, of Alison’s History of Europe, during the event¬ 
ful period from 1789 to 1815. It is to be published in sixteen numbers, at twenty-five 
oents each, and the cost of the work will thus be but four dollars, while that of the 
English edition is fifty dollars. Whether the English publisher gives his purchasers 
precisely such paper, print, &c., for fifty dollars, as we get for four dollars, we are not 
informed. Yet we can assure our readers that the work is richly worth all they might 
give for it, and that they can all spoil their eyes at a very reasonable rate. But, seri¬ 
ously, we are glad that, while so many worthless Works now issue at that low price, 
which must tempt many a purchaser, there are also some cheap editions of the most 
valuable works. Alison's History needs no commendation from us—it has already 
received encomiums from the first reviewers in our language. It is said to contain 
some errors; but in this edition, those which relate to our country will probably be 
corrected by the American publisher at the request of the author. Part 5 we have 
received; but it conies faster than we can read it, and if we make a few remarks upon 
the portion we have read, it will not be because we feel competent to 44 view it with a 
critic’s eye,” but because some of our subscribers may read them with the same feel¬ 
ings of interest with which we sometimes listen to the remarks of a little child. The 
parts already published contain the History of France from the convocation of the 
States General to the campaign of Hohenlinden. 

We have read to the fall of Robespierre, and, of course, to the end of the Reign of 
Terror; and while our sympathy for the sufferers, and detestation of their murderers, 
have been aroused in the strongest degree, it has been by the calm narration of facts, 
and not by the enthusiastic manner, orinflammatory suggestions of the narrator. We 
feel almost surprised that the subject of a monarchy should do such ample justice to 
those republicans of France—that he should balance so wisely the faults of the nobil¬ 
ity, and the virtues of the commons, but even we, operatives, as we are, in a republic, 
often lose all sympathy with the revolters in our detestation of their crimeB. We 
wish more success to the inhabitants of La Vended, who fight for king and priest, than 
for those who wage war against them for freedom and 44 the constitution.” We almost 
rebel against our historian when, in speaking of 44 the Committee of Safety,” he says 
patriots instead of demagogues, energy instead of infatuation, firmness instead of ob¬ 
stinacy, but bis calmness and moderation increase our confidence in him. He is mi- 



nute in his details. He enters into the spirit and feelings of the different orders of 
people, and we seem to view France, under his guidance, as the S&lamancan student 
looked upon Madrid, when disclosed to him by Asmodeus. We see the good and 
the bad, the praise and the blatne worthy, but surely the horrors of that time were far 
from being counterbalanced by victory then, or benefits since. It has been often re¬ 
marked that 14 the French are better off now than they were before the Revolution.'* 
It is probably true; but these benefits cannot be in proportion to those horrors, and 
the endeavor has been vain to effect in months the changes which should have taken 
place in years. They founded a republic, but how long did it last? They gained 
liberties, but how long did they retain them ? The fruits of their exertions were likd 
those which grow upon volcanic soil, and were destroyed nearly as quickly as they 
were formed. 

The actors in that tragedy, also, if they were not demons, then they were madmen; 
they were infatuated with such words as democracy, patriotism, republic, liberty, 
Robespierre and his adherents fell with most beautiful sentiments of virtue, and patri- 
m otism upon their lips; and if there is a lesson for us to learn, in the rehearsal of this 
dreadful drama, it is that we are too prone to confound the sign with the thing signi¬ 
fied, the semblance with the true—that if we can whiten our sepulchres, we think we 
destroy the corruption within; if we clothe ourselves in white garments, we think we 
are clean ; in short, if we can explain our actions, and give our reasons for them, in 
the beautiful language which should only be used in the service of truth, we deceive 
ourselves into the belief that we are patriots, magi, and martyrs. 

In one respect Alison differs from many who have written of the Revolution; and 
it is that reforms are net necessarily to be brought about by blood and terror. We 
have often heard the remark that, awful as these things are, it is yet better that many a 
haughty and beautiful head should roll in the dust, than that abuses, with which they are 
innocently connected, should continue—that reformation should come, even if it bring 
desolation, wo, crime, and. murder in its train , or rather if it must be preceded by 
them. Alison thinks this is not necessarily the case, and there is comfort in his words; 
but we are not sure but his opponents are right, if they are not, it must be because 
the rulers and nobility will learn wisdom by experience; because they feel assured 
that there are things which will be wrenched from them, if not conceded. It is not 
because the idea of oppression, injustice, contempt, or indifference, if it have the 
slightest real basis, will not always inflame the injured with fury, and goad them to 

The word democracy, as used by our historian, is associated with horrible things. 
We may liken it to a cloud—beautiful when reflecting back in purple, gold, and crim¬ 
son, the light of a brilliant sun, yet containing within its bosom the bolts of destruc¬ 
tion, the fire of desolation. That cloud has cast its shadow on our land, yet its shade 
is not to us 44 the blackness of darkness,” but rather that softened. light, for 
more pleasing, more beneficial, than the glare which is consequent upon a more das- 
sling day. On us it has poured refreshing showers, and to us revealed the hues of 
beauty. As sucb may it ever be; and, in time, appear to the inhabitants of every 
land; and may that which at first, even to a prophetic eye, appeared no bigger than a 
man's hand, be visible to a world. 

The Last of the Barons. We acknowledged, npon the cover of our last, the re¬ 
ception of this work, but had not then read it; neither did we anticipate, from its pe¬ 
rusal, the pleasure we have received. We have not for years been so much fascinated 
by any work of fiction, and thought that the feelings with which, in early girlhood, 
we read the Mysteries of Udolpho, Scottish Chiefs, Romance of the Forest, and many 
a similar tale, were now dead within us. But we are now convinced that it only re¬ 
quires the right touch to cause them to spring into as vigorous life as they have ever 

Bulwer was never a favorite with us. In many of his works we think there is 
much that is exceptionable, though we dislike the unqualified abuse which is often 
heaped upon him. We occasionally hear him spdken of as being, in private life, de¬ 
ficient in virtue, benevolence, and morality. We judge him only as an author; and, 
if these aspersions are true, let those condemn him, among whom the social and do¬ 
mestic virtues are violated. 

In the Last of the Barons we have all his charms without his faults. He has por¬ 
trayed wicked characters, but they are no worse than history represents them ; and 
most of those who are the beings of his own imagination are as free from guile as any 
novelist should represent the creatures of humanity. We feared, almost to the last, 
that Sybill (the heroine) would fall; and we felt really grateful to the author that she 



died innocent. She is a beautiful character—beautiful in adversity, in prosperity, in 
love, sorrow, triumph, humiliation, and wo. She reminded us of little Nell, when, in 
her ruinous old home, she devoted herself to her father’s comfort, and, in her inno¬ 
cence, went forth with her gittern to obtain, amid the crowd, bread for the philosopher. 
And when the old man stole, at dead of night, into her chamber, to seek her gold, we 
thought in how many a lovely devoted suffering heroine w the child*’ was to live again. 
Of course the likeness is lost as she enters a court, and her heart becomes the home 
of other affections, than those which dwell in the bosom of a little girl. 

There are two classes of characters in this work*—those which are historical, and 
those which are typical of a class. We like these historical novels, especially when, 
as in reading this, we feel that the novelist is competent to his task—that he has the 
historical knowledge which gives him power truly to delineate some other age, and 
an imagination which makes him one of it. Genius can hardly be consecrated to a 
better task than gathering together the dry bones which are all that time has left, and 
clothing them with flesh, sinews, and skin, infusing the vital current into their veins, 
and breathing into them the breath of life. And more than this, they come not to us, 
with their quaint manners, and strange words, but we are transported far back into the 
past, and live with them. 

Not less interesting and instructive, in this work, are the characters who stand as 
representatives of a class Adam Warner stands first as one of these. Nicholas A1- 
wyn, Friar Bungey, Marmaduke Nevile, are foremost among the others. But in many 
of the dramatis persons both characters are blended. 

The Last of the Barons—how well Earl Warwick represents that Iron Race, whose 
might was in rude bravery, and physical force. In whom stern truth, and simple vir* 
tue, were mingled with feudal grandeur, and knightly faith. Young Marmaduke is 
like many a conceited sprout of aristocracy; proud of his connection with those 
higher than-himself, faithful in their service, and supercilious towards those, who be¬ 
ing first of a lower grade, are upon an equality with him. He represents well the 
better ones amopg the “ hangers-on.” 

King Edward, “The Man or the Age, and suited to the age”—he represents well 
those who gain power, riches, and honors, not by might alone, but by that keen far¬ 
sighted policy which enlists, in its service, those elements which crystallize beneath 
the magic of'protection, into bright and valuable gems. 

Then there is Nicholas Alwyn, with his probity, industry, activity, and usefulness; 
his discernment of the real nature of his age, his perception of the innate rights of 
man, and faith in the future; his little vein of romance too—altogether he is “a very 
promising respectable young man,” such a one as a penetrating mother would choose 
for her son-in-law, and yet we were glad that Sybill would not have him. 

Adam Warner is like all World Betterers, “ the man before the age”—who lives 
for TftUTH, and dies without knowing whether the child of his brain is to perish with 
him, or to be cherished by a generation succeeding that which murdered the parent. 

Friar Bungey is the very obedient humble servant of the age—flattening their whims, 
humoring their caprices, deepening their prejudices, telling them pleasant falsehoods, 
and exciting them against those true physicians, who would cure the disease by telling 
the patient when and why it exists, and remove the cancer by a sure though painful 
operation. He receives the sycophant’s reward, while the true physician is martyred 
for his truth. 

Sybill Warner is our realization of a lovely woman, in any and every age. How 
she fascinated all, whose hearts were not callous to every attraction, by that sybiltine 
power which is the magic of every beautiftil gentle girl—“ that strange mixture of 
sweetness and pride—mild and forgiving, yet spirited and firm.” 

One other as interesting and perfect a character, though one whose attractions are 
not bo prominent, is Katherine De Bonville—a noble, daughter of a noble house— 
beautifully blending truth to her early love with truth to her princely house, and her 
wedded lord. 

The story is tragical—to all whom we love best comes death, or desolation. How 
we “hoped against hope,” against history too, and the title of the tale, that The Last 
of the Barons would not be the last of the barons. Though there were dark clouds 
around his setting sun, yet they were tinged with glory. Dark too was the fate of 
Sybill and her father, when “scholar and child, knowledge and innocence,alike were 
cold; the grim Age had devoured them, as it devours ever those who are before us 
behind its march, and confounds in one common doom the too guileless and too wise!” 

Yet it was well that those, who were so lovely in their lives, were not divided in 
their deaths, and that “ the child and the old man slept together.” H. F. 



MAY, 1843. 


44 III every country village, where 
Ten chimneys' smoke perfumes the air. 

Contiguous to a steeple; 

Great gentlefolks are found a score, i 

Who can associate no more, 

With common country people." 

In the good village of Clairbury there were about a dozen families, who 
constituted the elite of the place —the aristocracy , in the English and Ameri¬ 
can acceptation of the term—not using the word in the Greek signification 
of the words from which it was compounded. First, in the course of time, 
and accident, there was the family of the Governor of the State. In his 
family, the aristocratic claim remained entirely with his Executive dignity; 
as for himself, he was a good plain farmer—could hoe corn with the best, 
or “ crack a joke” with the jovial. Second, there was his brother, the rich- 
est and best man in the town. The Governor's brother, whom, for the sake 
of a name, we shall call Col. Trott, loved a joke as well as the Governor 
himself; and this characteristic seemed an hereditary trait in the family, 
and descended undiminished in activity to his only son. 

These families were aristocracy, for they were the best; the remainder 
of the class were good, but no better than their neighbors. Undoubtedly 
they were a little richer than the common people, for they expended more . 
There were the minister, the doctor, two lawyers, two merchants, and three 
or four farmers included in the clique. 

Included with, and of, these families, there were about half a dozen young 
ladies, who were the fashion. Their “noses” probably were “counted” by 
one of the merchants in one of his spring purchases, as he brought home 
just six white dress patterns, of a “ new style,” and “ most fashionable article.” 

The next day, after the “ new goods were opened,” they were exhibited 
to the three Misses Crawsons; three very pretty and amiable girls, only a 
little foolish for an American farmer's daughters, about fashion, style and 
exclusiveism. (I did not find that word in Webster, but manufactured it for 
the occasion.) The new patterns were examined, admired, and there se- 
vol. hi. 15 



cured. One left her sisters to conclude the purchase, while she went to call 
in two more, to secure the 44 only thing of the kind.” The ladies came, ad¬ 
mired, and purchased. Only one more pattern remained, and one more 
young lady to be supplied. Her parents resided nearly a mile and a half 
from the village, and it was not convenient to call upon her that afternoon. 
But she must have the dress, and then 44 the quality ” would be supplied. 

“ Do n’t sell the other pattern to any common girl,” said the eldest Miss 
Crawson to the clerk, who chanced to be the son of Col. Trott. “ To-mor¬ 
row we will go down after Mary Gleason to come and buy it.” And the 
ladies retired, delighted with their purchases. 

44 Any common girl!” ejaculated Benjamin. 44 No, I will not sell it to 
any common girl!” And it was placed aside as sold. 

A few moments after, the merchant came in, and the independent clerk 
signified his wish that Col. Had lock would look to the store himself, and 
went out. 

His first call was upon the only fashionable dress-maker in the village. 
The purport of his visit, probably will be conjectured by his subsequent 
movements. He returned to the store, and taking the only and remaining 
pattern of the white dresses, he was soon seen entering the house of 44 Aunt 
Ruth,” the only negro habitation within miles. And Aunt Ruth, and three 
neat, tidy daughters constituted the family. 44 Aunt Ruth” was an orderly, 
active, neat negro—a widow, and the nurse of all the babies 44 round about.” 
Her three daughters were the best help in the country; and the second one, 
a namesake of her own, was a beauty of her color. Ruth Mingo was the 
most genteel and elegantly formed female in the oountry of any color; and 
withal a good and virtuous girl. 

The next day Miss Gleason called, in company with Miss Crawson, but 
Mr. Trott was absent, and the dress was not to be found. Every nook, shelf, 
comer, and drawer was examined, but to no purpose, and Mr. Trott had 
gone to Greenville. The week passed, and the ladies could not find Mr. 
Trott, and Col. Hadlock could not find the 44 pattern.” 

Sunday arrived; the five dresses had been made, and the possessors of 
the fashionable article could not be disappointed in their display by the non¬ 
possessor; and five prettier girls, and five more fashionable white dresses, 
did not enter the church that morning, than those of the three Misses Craw¬ 
son, Esq. Allen’s sister, and Julia Trott, niece of Col. Trott, and their new 
white dresses. In good season,- but later than usual, and after most of the 
congregation were seated, 44 Aunt Ruth” and her three daughters entered 
the church, but, contrary to their usual custom, Ruth did not enter the side 
door with her mother and sisters, but passed up the broad aisle, and crossed 
over by the pulpit to their comer pew. 

The indignation of those interested, and the amusement of the less fash¬ 
ionable part of the congregation may be imagined, as Ruth Mingo paraded 
with a demure step to her seat, dressed in a white gown, of the exact pattern, 
quality, and fashion of the five fashionable young ladies, who had passed up 
the aisle, a few minutes before. 

Mr. Trott defended himself from intentional maliciousness, by alleging 
that, in the first place, he did not promise not to give the pattern away; 
secondly, that white girls were common girls in Clairbury, and Mack girls 
were uncommon . 





Where is thy home ? O tell me where, 
Fair, fleeting, silvery cloud ! 

Floating so swift in upper air, 

Wrapped in a golden shroud ? 

Say, wast thou born of the tossing foam 
Of ocean’s crested wave ? 

Where hardy seamen find a home, 

And oft, alas, a grave ? 

Or didst thou rise in the far-off West, 
From some lone shady rill ? 

When wintry winds are hushed to rest, 
And all, save the song bird, still. 

O’er lonely deserts, wild and free, 

Thy shadow hath been cast, [sea, 

And thy form was mirrorred in lake and 
Ere the king of the storm went past. 

And tell me, thou courier of the storm, 
Whose robes with sunbeams shine. 

What soul illumes that shadowy form ? 
And snowy brow of thine ? 

I list for a reply in vain— 

No voice is heard from thee; 

No sound to tell from whence thou came, 
Or where thou yet shalt be. 

But yet a bright and lovely thing, 

Mysterious cloud, thou art, [cling— 

Round which my childhood’s memories 
The memories of the heart. 

In childhood’s hour, when life was warm, 
And all was pure and bright, 

I ofl have watched thy fairy form, 

With wonder and delight. 

Deeming some spirit, from above, 

Was floating down to earth; 

Some angel, borne on wings of love, 

To souls of matchless worth. 

Fair cloud! I gaze upon thee now, 

With altered hopes and fears; 

I view thee not, os once I viewed. 

In childhood’s sunny years. 

But yet, fair cloud, I love thee still, 

For all the visions bright— 

The rosy-tinted forms that fill 
Thy fleecy bed of light. 

Lovely and beautiful thou art, 

A tenant of the sky; 

Too pure for earth—a thing apart. 
Shrouded in mystery. 

Ob, had I been an eastern maid, 

Born in some orient clime, 

Where holy men have never prayed, 

And Sabbath bells ne’er chime, 

On Egypt’s plain, in Persia’s vale, 

Where sparkling rivers shine. 

Fair cloud I I ’d raise my vows to thee. 
And worship ’neath thy shrine. 

M. A. 


tl We *ve found that all on earth 
Is subject oft to change; 

Our hopes can scarce have birth, 

But something new and strange 
Will overthrow each favored plan; 

All, all proclaim how weak is man !” 

Wisely did Solomon speak, when he said, “ Boast not thyself of to-mor* 
row; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.” And it would be 
well, if we would all remember it, and not spend so much time in laying 
plans, not only for to-morrow, but for years to come. Various indeed are 
the changes of life. We have seen in the morning a flower turning its 



bright petals to the sun, and have watched it for one short hour, and seen it 
wither and die. We have seen a mother beguiling, by the sweet tones of 
her voice, her infant child, until it fell asleep; the same evening we have 
looked upon it again, a senseless form of clay. 

We have seen a young girl, in the spring time of youth, blessed with kind 
friends and health, beauty, and all that makes life desirable; we have seen 
her at church, arrayed in her bridal robes, and, by her side, stood one that, 
ever and anon, looked upon her as the idol of his life. The golden sun, 
with effulgent rays, had scarcely sunk to rest behind the western hills, when 
that young pair were clad in the habiliments of the grave. 

And again, we have seen the merchant watch his ship, as it arrived richly 
laden with the treasures from foreign shores, and ere it could be anchored, 
it became a perfect wreck, and all was lost; and he around whom wealth 
had ever showered her brightest gems, whose hands had never been accus¬ 
tomed to labor, was compelled to dig the soil for his daily bread, and was 
grateful even for the poor pittance of the humblest laborer. 

We have seen the half-clad miser counting over his hoards of untold gold, 
not allowing himself even the simplest necessaries of life; we have seen him 
clutch the key that held his treasures secure, and before the cords of his 
fingers became relaxed, he was a corpse. And all these scenes have been 
but the changes of a few short years. What, we would ask, are the changes 
of a life ? H. L. 


Delivered on various occasions , before the Mechanic Apprentices * Library 
Association , by Members of the Institution .” 

<c A book of poems, sister—pray, who is the author ?” exclaimed Samuel 
Fuller, as, on entering his sister’s parlor, he surprised her absorbed in a 
petit volume. 

“O, Samuel, replied Emma, you are just the one I wish to see; I have a 
rare treat for you. Here is a beautiful volume of poems, which I think val¬ 
uable for several reasons, aside from its poetical merits. In the first place, it 
was written by very young men. No one of them was over twenty-one years 
of age—apprentices you see, and they were engaged in manual labor too.” 

“ Well, Emma, what have they produced ?—any thing that will honor 
Yankee land ?” 

“ Yes, brother, I think they have. Since I have been reading them, my 
heart has thrilled with delight; and the incense of gratitude has arisen to 
God, that I too am a daughter of New England, where I may claim as 
countrymen, these noble-spirited youths.” 

44 Come, sister, you keep me waiting too long; pray give me a specimen 
of the poems themselves, from your favorite, if you please.” 

44 Not so, Samuel; for how can I select the best where all are excellent; 
and more, I should deem it really wicked to draw a line of distinction be¬ 
tween a band of brothers, united as they are, by the ties of affection, and 
also by the fire of patriotism, which burns in their bosoms, with a true and 
holy flame, worthy the descendants of the pilgrim fathers; and by their en¬ 
thusiastic love of every thing beautiful and good.” 



“ Well, Emma, give me any specimen.” 

“ Dear brother, then behold the modesty of its pretensions. (I think mod - 
esty the most brilliant and fascinating ornament that Merit can wear.) The 
compiler says of the poems, in his preface, 

“ Not in the confidence that they combine 
Feeling and thought, from every error free,— 

Are they sent forth,—but with the strong desire, 

To honor the loved theme that gave them birth; 

To kindle freshly, Emulation’s fire, 

And thus exalt the Institution's worth.” 

“Truly, dear sister, there is a warm heart and an aspiring mind. Does 
the same tone pervade them all ?” 

“ Yes, Samuel, every poem bears the impress of elevated sentiments and 
a refined tone of feeling, combined with a warm and affectionate heart.” 

“I am really sorry, Emma, that my engagements will not permit me to 
stop and read it with you this evening; but 1 bespeak the loan of the volume 
for the first leisure moment.” 

“Certainly, brother, you shall have it, and I assure you, that you will be 
well repaid for the time spent in its perusal. I think they give much promise 
of future excellence in their authors—aye, by fancy’s eye I see them crowned 
with wreaths of unfading laurel, diffusing light, and joy, and gladness, through 
all their spheres.” H. J. 


I stood upon a stately hill, and looked 
Abroad, upon the wide-spread verdant earth,> 

Which lay in fair perspective at my feet. 

It was a lovely scene. The forest tops 
Swayed lightly to and fro, in the fresh breeze, 

And glittered in the sunshine bright. 

Green vales 

Were near, and from their fertile, swelling depths 
Arose the hum of business, and the sounds 
Of human life; and cottages of men, 

And steepled churches, stood among the trees, 

And, far away, in the dim distance, gleamed 

Old Ocean, with his sounding waves and sunny isles; 

And faintly might be heard his far-off roar. 

But most I marked a gentle stream, that ran 
Hard by the hill-side ; and still, flowing on 
Adown the vale, its waters gushed, and cheered 
The haunts of art, and nature, with their smiles. 

It was a little stream; and oftentimes 
*T was hid from sight, by undulating waves 



Of verdure, that above it proudly rolled, 

And by its own green banks; but yet it was 
So pure, so calm, and on its tranquil face 
Was mirrorred forth, so brightly, heaven's own hoes 
I could not choose but gaze upon it still. 

And thoughts of all things pure came gushing up 
Within. 1 thought of modest human worth 
Gliding along through the broad vale of life. 

And, all unknown, dispensing joy and peace— 

Of “ angels walking on the earth unseen," 

And of the streams that cheer Elysian fields. 

Thus stood I long in meditation wrapped, 

Till I bethought me I was not alone, 

And, with my mortal eyes, on mortals gazed. 

There stood one near me, who, with steadfast eye, 

Looked on the stream—-and so intently looked, 

I thought that fancy’s fires burned bright within. 

And from the 4< windows of the soul” blazed forth. 

Or that, perchance, his spirit converse held 
With ghosts of olden river deities; 

Or, haply, all unconscious of itself 

Was flashing on, enwrapt in dreamy thought, 

Down the famed stream, that by Parnassus flows. 

And as he turned to speak, I deemed his soul 
Surcharged with eloquence; and that the voice 
Of poetry, and feelings all sublime, 

Were struggling there for utterance. He spoke: 

“ I say!—first rate hornpout in that 'ere river!" ## M. 


Who hath not watched the gathering shades of evening, and as the mel¬ 
low light, of the retreating sun, departed from the western horizon, and the 
shadows of darkness were stealing over earth and sky, felt a holy and bliss¬ 
ful influence spreading its light through the soul ? 

To me, the hour of twilight is one of sweet solemnity. I know not why> 
but as I gaze upon the beauties of the far-extended view, until all is lost, but 
the dim outline, and the lights and shadows of the graceful drapery of heaven 
become indistinct, and blended in the darker hue of the sky, I feel, deep 
within my soul, better and purer thoughts than are wont to be there at the 
busy hour of midday. Under these sweet influences, my heart bows in sin¬ 
cere devotion to the “ Giver of all good.” A broader and more abiding 
sympathy is awakened for my kind. And as I realize our common bond of 
brotherhood, and recognize our common Father, more earnest, more trust¬ 
ful, more prayerful are my desires that all may come to a knowledge of the 
true, the good, and the beautiful. 

Are not these emotions the inspirations of truth ? Come they not from 



the deep and flowing fountain from whence all may drink and live ? Im¬ 
planted within our very natures, is a reverence for the pure and holy; and 
when the soul holds communion with itself—when it yields to the influence 
of the beauties and wonders of creation, it cannot but forget the unhappy 
differences of opinion, with which men mar the beauty, and weaken the 
power of the sublime teachings of Jesus Christ. 

Often, when I have listened to the eloquence and instruction of the good 
and wise, I have felt, how futile, how vain were their efforts upon my heart. 
The rebellious spirit was too proud to be subdued. Man could not make me 
a Christian. But alone, with God— -contemplating the beauties of His natu¬ 
ral objects, my soul bows in adoration to the Great Good, and I can be 
naught but a Christian, in my aspirations for truth, for holiness. By these 
silent influences, Jehovah speaks to the 44 witness within.” 

Can we look to the sky, and not see the impress of a God ? Can we turn 
to the grandeur of the mountain’s height, or listen to the cataract’s roar, and 
not see His hand in the summit clouds of the one, nor hear His voice in the 
psean of the other ? 

And whether we inhale the fragrance of the meadow’s lawn, and hill-side 
shade—watch the glowing tint of the floweret’s freshness—stand upon the 
mountain’s top, and view the grandeur of the rising sun—or watch at evening 
hour the loveliness of its retiring light—or, when twilight comes, and the 
darkling shades of night reveal the brilliant beauty of the sparkling gems in 
heaven’s blue, do we not feel the deep and holy influence of truth—of re¬ 
ligion ? Do not our hearts bow in praise to the Great Creator ? Wakes 
it not the purer emotions of the soul, as we stand rebuked, reproved for our 
cold and confined love—our narrow prejudices ? Is not the soul at such 
moments, elevated, purified, inspired ? And then, as we commune with the 
44 Spirit which giveth life,” doth it not create a holier and a broader bond of 
sympathy for our kind ? 

It is then that self is forgotten—will is subdued; we can love—we can 
feel the power of His teachings, who could live—could die for mankind. 
We can yield to our brother, even as we would ask of him. 

Is not this religion ? Hath not the ministering influences of the beautiful 
awakened a perception of goodness, of truth ? Hath not the very poetry of 
truth given us a lesson in holiness? Grace. 


“ Earth ! thou art rich in varied scenes, 
The beautiful and bright; 

Which, but to view, our bosoms thrill 
With strange, yet sweet delight.” 

But all thy lovely radiant scenes, 

Which Beauty's magic brings, 

For me but waken golden dreams 
Of brighter, holier things. 

If strains of earthly melody, 

In tuneful echoes ring, 

On Fancy's wings I soar away 
Where lofty seraphs sigh. 

On light and golden clouds at rest, 

I gaze with raptured eye, 

And deem them like the glorious blest, 
Whose home is in the sky. 

The ocean's fathomless abyss. 

The wide blue arch above, 

Bring thoughts of regions limitless 
Where ransomed spirits rove. 

There is, there is a purer day, 

A sweeter life than this; 

My spirit longs to burst away, 

And taste immortal bliss. 




This article was commenced as a continuation of the dialogue upon Fiction, in the 
second volume of the Offering. 



Annette . There, Ella, I have certainly caught you in the very act. Here 
you are writing poetry , and yet you are always disclaiming the cognomen 
of poetess. 

Ella. And very justly: but what makes you think that I am writing 
poetry ? 

Annette. Why, here are ever so many lines, beginning with a capital 
letter, and ten syllables in each. 

Ella . Yes, so there are, but this alone does not constitute true poetry, 
and at best but a small portion of it. 

Annette . Will you be so kind, my friend, as to define the term for me; 
for at present my ideas upon this subject are in a very crude state. 

Ella. That is precisely the condition with myself, but we can talk over 
the matter together, and perhaps the very endeavor to express our sentiments 
to each other may reveal them more clearly to ourselves. In fitting the gar¬ 
ment we may become more perfectly acquainted with the form upon which 
it is to be placed. You have now the idea that verse, and more particularly 
rhyme, is entitled the name of Poetry , whatever may be its spirit or substance. 

Annette. You infer this from tbe expression which I used upon my en¬ 
trance : but you wrong me. I am not so ignorant, so childish, as to suppose 
that. I spoke “ in girl’s phrase,” as when we say that there are but one, or 
two, or three poetical articles in the Offering; when perhaps there is some¬ 
thing poetical embodied in some of the prose. I spoke as we do when we 
say there is so much in the poet’s corner of the newspaper, or that some par¬ 
ticular book is a volume of poems, when there may be true poetry there. 
But I have a vague idea of Poetry as something very different from this. I 
can understand what is meant when I hear of written and unwritten poetry; 
of acted and unacted poetry. It is an unembodied spirit, an ethereal essence, 
a cloud-phantom, a something too far removed from all the simple, though 
solemn, realities of life to be of practical use, or aught but a source of 
pleasure to the refined disciple of taste and beauty. 

Ella. Your idea of the spirit of poetry is like that of Dewey, who says, 
too many think that “ it is some peculiar gift, some intellectual effluence, 
distinct, not merely in form, not merely in rhythm, but essentially, and in 
its very nature, distinct from all prose writings. It3 numbers are mystic 
numbers; its themes are far above us, and away from us, in the clouds, in 
the hues of the distant landscape; it is at war with the realities of life ; and 
is especially afraid of logic,” etc. But I am more of his own opinion when 
he says that “ poetry is but one form in which human nature expresses itself, 
showing up in all its moods, from the lowliest to the loftiest, this same deep 
impassioned but universal mind. That it tells us but that which is already 
in our own hearts; that its intermingled imagery, and the hues of its distant 
landscapes, that its bright and blessed visions, its dark pictures of sorrow and 
passion, are but the varied reflection of the beautiful and-lovely, yet over¬ 
shadowed, marred, and afflicted nature within us; that if it is inscrutable, it 
is because our own hearts are inscrutable; that its noblest productions, its 
Iliads, Hamlets, and Lears, the whole world has understood—the rude and 
refined, the anchorite, and the throng of men. 



Annette. But I thought that we were to “ take counsel together f’ and now 
let us know each other's sentiments, and please to tell me, in the first place, 
what you understand by the terms poet and poetry. 

Ella. Poetry , as an art, I should define to be the art of giving lije . To 
the true poet there is nothing inanimate in nature. Every thing lives, and 
has a being. He may turn to the dry bones, but they start up before him, 
with sinews, and muscles, and a complexion of more or less delicacy, and 
loveliness. The wind blows over the man of prose, but to the poet it bears 
a wailing spirit on its viewless wings; to the one there are shells in the bot¬ 
tom of the sea, to the other they lay their pearly lips upon the ocean’s floor. 
The dew-besprinkled flowers look up to him with tearful eyes, and as he 
pleases are they tears of joy or sorrow. He lays him down under a tree, 
and it spreads its broad arms above him, and its shade is a mantle cast over 
him. The ^breeze rustles its leaves, and they clap their little hands for joy. 
He has an acute perception of analogies, and resemblances, and sees what 
others cannot behold, until he points it out to them. But his distinctive char¬ 
acteristics—the sine qua non —is the exuberance of life within him, so that 
he may invest with it all the outward creation. We have both noticed the 
motion which is apparently transmitted by a vehicle in rapid motion—as, for 
instance, a railroad car to every object which the observer beholds, and so is 
it with the poet. Though all around him is still, or dead, yet to the eye of 
his restless fancy, it lives, and moves, and holds communion with him. Per¬ 
haps the most perfect example of this attribute is in these lines of Byron’s: 

M Now, from peak to peak 
Leaps the live thunder. Not from one lone cloud, 

But ey'ry mountain now hath found a tongue, 

And Jura answers from her misty shroud 
Back to the joyous Alps, which call to her aloud.” 

Annette . Yes, that is beautiful and sublime, and we cannot peruse the 
chef d'ceuvre of any standard poet, or open any well-assorted collection of 
minor poems, without observing frequent instances of this characteristic of 
poetical genius. 

Thus we have a continued personification—Virtue and Vice, Peace and 
War, Wisdom and Folly, Knowledge and Ignorance, Chance and Fate, are 
beings who go and come, walk to and fro, in the imaginary world, who think 
and speak and act with us, and so on of a list which might be indefinitely 
multiplied. In Burns’s Poems, Death and Dr. Hornbook, like us, take coun¬ 
sel together, and The twa Brigs o’ Ayr hold midnight converse. And it is 
when the galvanic power of the rhymer has produced this vivid impression 
of actual existence that we accord to him the high cognomen of poet. 

Ella. And he who has this power of bestowing a being upon inanimate 
creation, and abstract ideas, can also increase it wherever it actually exists. 
Burns gives life to the twa Brigs, but not to 44 The twa Dogs,” nor to 44 Auld 
Maggie.” Yet what a change is made in their existence. The brutes are 
brutes no longer. They are his companions, and he talks to them, and re¬ 
ceives instruction from them. And how he spiritualizes the forms of those 
who are verily but flesh and blood. A simple mountain girl becomes an angel, 
and he worships her. To Highland Mary and The Cotter we will all bend 
the knee, but knowing that we only view them as portrayed by him, we may 
believe that they were not far different from other mortals. That they were 
mortals their poet has never permitted us to doubt. There is natural life in 
every feature. He does not translate them, like the mythologist of old, to 



the firmament above. They are still with us, but O! so pure and heavenly 
we can scarcely say they are of us. Such is the life the poet gives. A 
purer soul enshrined within a lovelier frame. A home beneath a brighter 
sun, and far more glorious sky. A residence in a land where the grass never 
withereth, and the flowers fade not away. He must be a holy man, for the 
world which is ever about him is Heaven. 

Annette . We have been speaking of Burns and Byron. Were they 
holy men ? and pilgrims in a better land ? Was Beulah ever before their 
eyes ? and were their songs always the songs of Zion ? 

Ella, I have spoken of them as poets, not as men. In some future con¬ 
versation we will discuss their characters, and perhaps those of other poets. 
Meanwhile I must maintain my assertion that the poet is a religious man , 
and that, in proportion as the poetical temperament predominates in him, in 
such a degree is he a minister. Yes, truly a minister, and one who minis¬ 
ters to the highest faculties of our natures. He may often be untrue to him¬ 
self—to the high calling for which he was sent, but in every dereliction from 
the right way, is he justly a sufferer ? The light is in him which, in a greater 
or less degree, “ lighteth every man”—but oh! how dark the cloud in which 
it often lies embosomed. Yet when it does flash forth to light more brightly 
the evening landscape, to bathe or scorch the earth with a lurid glow, and 
then retreat to the bosom of its murky home—however this may be, we 
know that the lightning has descended from above. 

Annette, You are right in your implied conclusion that the poet is blessed, 
even in his own peculiar blessings, when he consecrates his powers to the 
cause of virtue, truth, and to the promotion of real happiness. And how 
much more powerful were Burns, Moore, and Byron, when they sipped the 
inspiring nectar from a sacred fount. 

Ella, And when they have done it, they have uttered the words which 
cannot die. There is much also that will live, though it be not holy; for 
Gon has implanted in us that admiration for his rare gift which will ever 
lead us to adore it, though we go, like the pilgrim to Mecca, through the 
haunts of banditti and homes of the savage, over harren deserts, and beneath 
scorching suns in our search for it. Or it may be compared to the opal in 
tiie fairy tale, or a gem in some dark cavern. Whatever the toil and danger, 
the fascination is also so great that in the desire to behold, if not to possess 
it, all else is forgotten. 

Annette, And this is why Byron, Shelley, Moore, and others, must be 
immortal. Alas, that before that holy altar there should have been so many 
vain prophesyings. But we were to speak of them another time, and now of 
the poet abstractedly. You have already compared poetry to the electric 
fluid in some thick cloud. The poet then is— 

Ella, Not the dark vapor itself. That would hardly express my idea. 
I had rather call him the Franklin, who can bend the wayward element to 
his will, and guide it in its course. 

Annette, How few can do this, yet you say that poetry is the light which 
lighteth every man. 

Ella, The spiritual electricity is in us all; but the master-hand which 
can create that battery which will thrill the frame and make known to each 
the affinity existing between it and their own hearts—this true poet is too 
seldom seen. True he speaks but what we feel, but we are a company of 
mutes. We can partially make known our feelings by pantomimic gestures, 
yet are rejoiced at the presence of him who has the use of every faculty ; 
and in a better way can express our thoughts. 



Annette . Then though you still believe we all have poetry within us, yet 
you agree with me that the poet possesses a peculiar attribute —-one all his own. 

Ella, We may both believe that, and yet not think the attribute the same* 
What is your opinion so far as you can give it ? 

Annette. I have ever looked upon the poetic genius as creative . The 
word poetry is, I believe, derived from the Greek word for I make , and I 
have considered invention as the poet's rare prerogative. He has been the 
writer of the purest fiction, for his relations are of that which has not existed, 
and will not live. But I have not considered him so mischievous as the 
writer of prose fiction, because the real and ideal are not 60 artfully blended. 
The magician takes us spell bound into his castle, but he does not make us 
believe that we are still in the sober possession of our faculties, and sitting 
beneath our own roof-tree. We know when we follow the rambles of “ The 
Culprit Fay,” or listen to 44 The Mermaid’s Song,” that we are not with hu¬ 
man beings. We are pleased, perhaps instructed—at all events the desire 
to throw off at times the spirit-coil which binds us to earth, and live in other, 
mayhap fairer regions, this at least is gratified. And the possibilities of in¬ 
jury are lessened. 

I am not so denunciatory now as to condemn all prose fiction. I see the 
utility of the old romance, which takes the shattered remnants of tradition 
and places them in a durable frame, replacing only where the original is ir¬ 
redeemably lost. 

I can perceive the utility of faithful delineations of other times, or lands, 
and also of a correct transcript of our own. 

I might be instructed by 41 Probus or letters from Rome,” by “The Per¬ 
secuted Family,” by 44 Mary of Burgundy,” 44 Kenilworth,” and 44 The Last 
of the Mohicans.” I can perceive a moral in Paul Clifford, and make a 
brother of Nicholas Nickleby. 

Ella, And it is, in even a greater degree, the privilege of the poet to in¬ 
struct. He may invent, but his fictions should always be fables, and disguise 
important truths. He should reform, though he may do it by moving and 

Dr. Lowth observes that 44 the philosopher and poet aim at the same end, 
through different means. Each sustains the character of a preceptor, which 
one maintains, by teaching with accuracy, with subtlety, and with perspicuity; 
the other with splendor, with harmony, and elegance. The one makes his 
appeal to reason only; the other addresses the reason in such a manner as 
to engage the passions upon his side. His argument is, with all due respect 
for philosophy, that poetry is more useful as it is more agreeable. Man, how¬ 
ever, never became a true poet without laying his foundation in philosophy. 

And, comparing Poetry with History, he also gives the preference to the 
former. History you know is the relation of things as they are; Fiction as 
they should be. But Poetry creates other and better worlds. History, says 
our author, is confined within too narrow limits. It can but treat of things as 
they have really been, while the subjects for poetry are infinite, and universal. 

Aristotle considers poetry something more serious and philosophical than 
liistory. Bacon coincides with Aristotle. Thus: 44 Since the sensible world 
is, in dignity, inferior to the rational soul, poetry seems to endow human na¬ 
ture with that which lies beyond the power of History, and to gratify the 
mind with the shadow of things which cannot be seen. As poetry, therefore, 
contributes not only to pleasure but to magnanimity, and good morals, it is 
deservedly supposed to participate in some measure of divine inspiration, 
since it raises the mind, and fills it with sublime ideas, by proportioning the 



appearance of things to the desires of the mind, and not submitting the mind 
to things, like reason and history.” 

And furthermore, Aristotle says that poetry teaches moral philosophy; 
not, like History, by reciting historically what Alcibiades has said or done, 
but by proposing what such a person, whom he calls by what name he pleases, 
would necessarily, or probably, have said, or done, upon the like occasion. 

Probably on account of this oracular method of instruction Poetry was 
anciently called the language of the gods, and poets were divines. 

Annette . I also have looked upon poetry as, in some sort, the language 
of the gods, because it is mystical, and supernatural; but it is the language 
which they use among themselves, not a tongue adapted to us, and the aspir¬ 
ing intruder upon their haunts has caught it of them. 1 have perhaps erred 
in disconnecting him so entirely from his race, but he is not one like most 
of us. Cicero has said that there can be no poet without a taint of mad¬ 
ness, and we know how commonly they are tinctured with melancholy, and 
Aristotle has plainly called them madmen . 

And I have thought that the inspiration, or “ poetic fervor,” if not madness, 
was at least a sort of mania. 

Poetry has to me appeared a glittering and intangible thing, based upon 
something in the natural world, yet in itself foreign and evanescent like 
Aladdin’* castle in the Arabian tale. Or it is like the morning sunshine and 
dew upon the cobwebs o’er the vale, making that bright and sparkling which, 
though it before existed, was not even visible. Or it might be compared to 
the lens, which makes visible the animalcule in water, or the sunbeam which 
brings to view the motes which always fill the air. 

Ella. And I might compare it to the lens with which we look upon the 
firmament above; making that more distinct, which before was dimly seen; 
bringing forward each portion of the constellated groups, and showing the 
adjuncts of our own, and the whole of new systems; revealing to us moons, 
and belts and rings; enabling us to behold suns revolve around suns, and 
systems around systems; and even discovering the distant portals of another 
universe. To be continued . 



Gustavus Adolphus, the conqueror of the North, regarded duelling as 
the ruin of discipline. With the design of abolishing in his army this bar¬ 
barous custom, he pronounced sentence of death on all those who should 
conquer in duel. Sometime after this law had been passed, two superior of¬ 
ficers, who had quarrelled, requested of the king permission to decide the 
dispute sword in hand. 

Gustavus heard the proposal with indignation; he consented nevertheless; 
but added, that he wished to witness the combat, of which he assigned the 
hour and the place. He resorted there with a body of infantry, which sur¬ 
rounded the two champions. Then he called the executioner of the army, 
and said to him: “ At the moment one of them is killed, cut off, before me, 
the head of the other.” 

At these words the two officers remained sometime motionless ; but soon, 
confessing their fault, they threw themselves at the feet of the king, begged 
pardon, and swore, to each other, eternal friendship. E. W. S. 






Now evening winds again arise, 

And steal along with gentle sighs; 

They kiss the tops of waving trees, 

Who whisper back low minstrelsies, 

While every fragile folding flower, 

With graceful bend now owns its power. 

But when, within the fairies* dell, 

It swept along with tuneful swell, 

Upon its wings was heard to float 
Some strange but more enchanting note. 

Now, gladly up, towards the sky, 

Ascends the blended harmony; 

Now, through the vale it sweeps along, 

While silent stands the fairy throng, 

And now, in gentle soft accord, 

It sweetly sinks upon the sward; 

Anon, the strain and evening breeze 
Die far away among the trees; 

And every wondering listening sprite 
Claps loud her wings, with wild delight. 

" From whence arose that melody ? 

Could elves produce such harmony ? 

O, if, from aught of fairy skill, 

Such notes as these their breasts could thrill, 
That melodist the crdwn should wear, 

And they as queen would greet her there.” 

Again, upon the silent air, 

Arose the strain—from whence, or where. 
They could not tell; yet kept they time, 

With measured feet, to every chime; 

And when it swelled, with louder glee, 

And more inspiring harmony, 

The group danced gaily o’er the sward, 

Or circled round, in sweet accord. 

As though the deepening shades of night 
Glanced forth their twining forms of light, 
Their movements, graceful, light and fleet. 
Might well beseem some soft cloud’s feat, 

And changed, as doth a wreath of snow, 

When gentle winds along it blow. 

But when the glee-inspiring strain 
The harmonist had hushed again, 

They looked, though long they looked in vain, 
To find the minstrel of their train. 




At length, within a thicket hid, 

Melodia they found, and chid, 

Amid their joy, the vexing sprite, 

For teasing them so long this night. 

She briefly told her little tale, 

How, far away, in some lone vale, 

She made and tuned the little lyre, 

Which might arouse, subdue, inspire, 

Or blended with the evening breeze, 

Enrich and swell its harmonies. 

And when her beauteous harp was seen 
The tuneful sprites proclaimed her queen; 
And but deferred the coronal 
To hear the tale of “ little Sel.” 

That timid gentle toil-worn sprite 
Had only reached the glen this night; 

Yet, though they saw she nothing brought, 
And said that they expected naught, 

They thought her story should be told, 

And bade her for that once be bold. 

Her shrinking hand the ex-queen grasped, 
Another sprite her small waist clasped, 
Around her friendly wings were waved, 
And scornful sprites the others brayed; 
They silence bade, that they might hear 
What she had done the past long year. 

“ O, sisters—ye who ’ve known me long, 
The simplest elf of all the throng, 

Who ever found her chief delight, 

When here we often met at night, 

In doing some, slight helpful thing, 

Which might a smile, or kind word, bring; 
And deemed it always rich reward 
To join your dance upon the sward— 

Ye know *t was sad to me to hear, 

That we must part, a long long year. 

I dared not join the different bands 
Which strayed away to other lands ; 

I feared to stay here by myself, 

Or seek some other lonely elf; 

But, ere the queen had left the dell, 

I said that I would tend her well, 

If she my service would permit, 

Or thought me for her servant fit. 

I said that I would brush her wings, 

When soiled with distant journeyings; 

I said that I would fan her brow, 

When cooling breezes ceased to blow; 
And I would bring, each morn, the dew, 
To bathe her form, the long year through; 



I’d guard that wand and crown—our pride— 

And royal robe, she’d laid aside; 

I’d e’er obey her least command, 

And task for her my menial hand; 

But, with kind tones, she said, “Away! 

With me no elf this year must stay.” 

I left the glen, and wandered far, 

Without an aim, or guiding star; 

And strove but to endure the year, 

By bringing to all else good cheer. 

I screened the flowers which seemed to fade 
’Neath too much sun, or too much shade; 

I trilled amid the woods my lays, 

And laughed to see the mock-bird gaze, 

While he, in vain, essayed the strain 
Which on the air arose again. 

Whene’er I found some fledgling thrown, 

From its high nest, the crags far down, 

I bore, upon my unseen wing, 

Back to its mates, the trembling thing. 

If any insect came to harm 
I brought the aid of w T and, and arm; 

I spliced the beetle’s fractured leg; 

Restored the spider’s broken egg; 

I cured the hornet’s wounded sting, 

And nursed the fly, who tore her wing; 

I helped the ant, with weary load, 

And raised again his crushed abode; 

I hung anew the wasp’s old net, 

Which was so-worn, with wind and wet; 

I helped the daw-bug dig his hole, 

And burrowed for the poor blind mole; 

I loosed the cricket’s stiffened thigh, 

And laughed to see him jump so high; 

No thing, with failing life or limb, 

But found I was a friend to him; 

For aught distressed, beneath the sky, 

My breast was filled with, sympathy. 

Once, on a mild and sunny day, 

From my old haunt I chanced to stray, 

And found, within the woodland wild, 

A sickly, poor, neglected child; 

The offspring of some servile dame, 

Whose time, and labor, others claim: 

For any any one, who saw her there, 

Could know the child of want and care. 

The girl had chose a lovely glade, 

Near which a murm’ring streamlet played; 

Where fragrant wild flowers gemmed the ground, 
And softened sunbeams shone around; 



And yet she gazed with vacant stare, 

Not those nor these enticed her there, 

She hoped that she might warmer be, 

The sun shone brighter on the lea. 

Her tattered garb, and look forlorn, 

In me aroused no pride, or scorn ;. 

I almost wept that she should be 
So crushed by guiltless misery; 

And then I strove the time to cheer, 

By singing lays which she might hear. 

I threw my voice into the stream, 

She o’er it gazed as in a dream; 

Then, though she listless seemed again, 

I felt my toil was not in vain, 

And knew that, in that very hour, 

In her was roused some dormant power. 
She came again the next bright day, 

To listen to the streamlet’s lay; 

And plucked the flowerets, now so bright. 
Which I had tended every night. 

Then soon, e’en when the winds rose high. 
And storm-clouds gathered o’er the sky, 
The child would scarcely go away, 

But spent with me the livelong day; 

And I my joy eould scarce control, 

I'd wakened there a human soul. 

’T was shining from her brightened eye. 

It gave her voice new melody; 

Her smiling lip, and sunny brow. 

Told me the girl was happy now. 

But, ah ! her frame, so light and frail. 

Her sunken cheek, so won and pale, 

Could also tell another tale. 

I knew the woodland child must die; 

That she beneath the sod must lie, 

Where notf she sat, in chastened glee. 

To hear the water’s minstrelsy. 

Till then I’d never wished to wear 
The, royal crown—that wand to bear— 
And yet, to save that wasting life, 

I could have braved all care, or strife. 
Naught could I do but make her seat 
Of softer moss, and flowers more sweet. 
Or make the streamlet dash, and play. 
More gaily, on its winding way; 

Or bring the nests of birds more rare. 

To hang amid the tall trees there. 

And then I wished the child to know 
That it was me who made it so. 

At length it came Midsummer night. 

An eve so lovely, calm, and bright, 



That still, with me, the child would stay 
When daylight long had passed away. 

The moonlight never was moire clear— 

Never, dear tfisters, even here. 

The soft-bright clouds seemed to the view 
Like sculptures on the sky’s stern blue. ’ 

The eafrth looked green, though dark its hue, 

And sparkled, in the brilliant dew, 

As ’t were an emerald, bright and vast, 

From some great realm of glory cast; 

And that th’ imprisoned light of day 
Within its crystals quivering lay. 

The zephyrs softly seemed to sing, 

As if they merely came to bring 

The young Night, from the glittering sky, 

And leave him, with a gentle sigh, 

Though not of grief, yet not of mirth, 

Upon the breast of waiting Earth.— 

I robed myself in beauty—she was there, 

And all around was so surpassing fair 
That I might: not appear, even to mortal eye, 

Less brilliant than in fairy revelry. 

I stood beside her—met her gaze that night 
With one as ardent, and intensely bright^ 

I fluttered round her in my ecstasy, 

’T was bliss to her the unknown friend to see. 

We held sweet converse, till the light of day 
Called me from mortal sight away. 

But after that the child could e'er commune 
With other spirits. Morning, night, and noon. 

There were bright pnes around her from the sky; 

She ever heard their angel melody, 

And as earth grew more lovely to her sight, 

It wakened yearrtings for a lahd more bright, 

Which something told her soon would be her home, 
Where mortal pain or wo might never come. 

Her voice grew fainter, and she came 

Each day with failing step, and wasting frame, 

And I could mark how fast her bright eyes grew 
Of a softer light, and lovelier blue. 

The change her rude, harsh, peasant friends could see, 
And said the child would soon an angel be. 

They thought that angels watched her; e’en the grass 
Seemed greener wheresoe’er her foot might pass; 

They said the, flowers looked up with brighter hue, 

As though her form, and voice, they ever knew, 

And yet, when first my voice had met her ear, 

They said’t Was but in dreams she seemed to hear; 
But now, with softened voice, and wondering eye, 
They stood whene’er the girl came nigh. 

At last her feeble frame refused to come 

16 * 



Again unto the lea—in her poor home, 

Upon a pallet rude, was laid the child, 

Though still with aspect as serene, and mild. 

I hovered round her yet—the blooming vine 
Around her easement I would often twine, 

I waved its perfume, on my viewless wing. 
Which wafting zephyrs seemed to them to bring. 
But she had not forgot—and still the child 
More brightly glanced, and sweetly smiled. 

When I was hovering near—and when she died 
They buried her the mountain stream beside. 
There 1 have planted flowerets, that their bloom 
Might beautify her grave, and their perfume 
Might fill the glade where she had loved to roam. 
The only spot that e'er to her was home ; 

Then turned away, my sisters here to greet, 

And pay the chosen qeeen the homage meet; 
Though on my way I often was delayed, 

I met so many whom I wished to aid. 

My tale is told; I' ve nothing here, 

Not e’en that young girl’s smile or tear." 

Oh, simple goodness has a charm, 

Though it may be so still, and calm, 

More than the lays, of sweetest lyre. 

Or aught that Genius can inspire. 

Ay ! greater far, and surer still, 

Than aught that comes of art or skill. 

The fairies shouted loud and long 
She shall be ruler of the throng; 

She's won the crown, and Selanie 
This night our queen shall surely be. 

And then they placed her on the throne 
Where Crystallen had laid her stone; 

Where Anthea's rose its perfume shed, 

And where the magazine was read. 

Then Artiste said she'd paint the scene, 

The fairy glen, and fairy queen; 

Litera said an ode she'd write, 

Melodia said she'd sing all night. 

And every fairy crossed her wand, 

While wings waved gently through the band; 
And there they danced, till stars grew dim, 

And birds commenced their morning hymn. 

'T was long ago; yet, in that glen, 

The band have often met again; 

And there, e’en now, Queen Selanie, 

And her bright band, hold revelry. 

h r. 




Stability or firmness of character is indispensably requisite to the suc¬ 
cess or accomplishment of any thing great or good. However praiseworthy 
the purposes and pursuits, however flattering the prospects, if firmness of 
character be wanting, disappointment, and not unfrequently disgrace and 
ruin, will be the result. It is a trait of the character, which, when linked 
with crime even, often excites admiration, and when united with goodness, 
always commands the tribute of confidence and respect. Firmness of char¬ 
acter is always accompanied by perseverance, and guided aright, they have 
obtained for man the greatest earthly blessings he has ever enjoyed. If we 
see a youth going out into the world, who possesses a steady unwavering 
character, and whose opinions and habits are all formed in favor of virtue, 
we may safely predict for him, in whatever situation in life his lot be cast, 
an honorable and successful career, at least so far as respect and confidence 
are concerned. But who does not tremble for that youth, however diligently 
and carefully the principles of virtue may have been instilled into his mind, 
who, “ unstable as water,” goes forth into the world, where he will be sur¬ 
rounded with temptations clothed in the most winning form ? Who can 
vouch for the security of the resolutions of feeling and action that are then 
made ? Who can confide in the many promises of moral goodness, however 
undissembling they may be, that are then offered to the anxious friends ? 

With a similar character, and under like circumstances, George B. left 
the paternal roof, to associate with strangers, and with them to make his 
home. By his parents he had been cherished with tenderness and care, and 
no small sum had been expended to procure for him an education that would 
fit him for any business he might prefer. They beheld, with fondness and 
pride, much that was amiable, attractive, and promising, but the chief defect 
in his character, a lack of firmness, had been left by them entirely uncor¬ 
rected, though it was constantly manifesting itself in his boyhood years; 
though friends, who looked with less partial eyes, saw that this failing had 
lost none of its strength as he reached the verge of manhood, yet they 
dreamed not that it would be the cause of any ill, much less that it could be 
the destroyer of all his high hopes of usefulness and happiness. George re¬ 
ceived, from his parents, their parting admonition and blessing, and left the 
quiet village, and the happy home of his childhood for a distant city, where 
a lucrative situation had been previously engaged. He feared no danger, 
he saw no danger, for he was sadly deficient in that very important acquisi¬ 
tion, self-knowledge. Had he possessed this, the weaker points in his char¬ 
acter would not have been left unguarded, for he loved the paths of virtue. 
A short time only, he stood in the place of trial with a firm step. He 
yielded to temptation, while the resolution to resist hovered only half formed 
in his mind, not from an inclination to partake of the unhallowed cup, but 
from a want of power to oppose the persuasions of those who would ruin him. 
Bitter were the tears shed in the hour of self-degradation and repentance that 
followed; but the true cause of the evil was neither removed, nor perceived 
by himself. All learn not wisdom from experience, so he gained no strength 
from the sad lesson of his failure; and when the allurements of vice were 
again spread before him, he again fell. And thus he proceeded step by 
step on the downward road to ruin ; each transitory reformation shorter than 
the one which preceded it, till the last ray of light from virtue ceased to al- 



lure him from danger, and his path became entirely shrouded in darkness. 
Then he required no call from the tempter to indulge in crime, for all moral 
restraint was removed. His ridicule of every thing holy, his daring blas¬ 
phemy, and his bold denial of the existence of God, would even cause the 
irreverent crew, who had become his associates, to quiver. He knpw of the 
death of his mother, hastened by his own fatal wanderings—he had heard 
of the deep soul-harrowing grief he daily caused his father, but even this 
had ceased to move him. In him, all those faculties, which raise man above 
the brute, Seemed to have been annihilated. Ah! who, of those young 
friends that were collected together at his parental home on the eve before 
his departure, could have now recognized in that shrivelled, attenuated* and 
disgusting form, the happy and much-caressed George B., who was then the 
life of that social circle. And yet three years only had been numbered since 
that hotir, and he was reduced to the lowest state of degradation to which 
man ever descends. As the last means of gratification were exhausted, so 
companions* pretended friends, deserted; and when, from a miserable inn, 
for accusing the still more miserable innkeeper of cheating him of his last 
cent at the gaming table, he was driven into the street, he found no one, of 
all those who had often shared his purse, ready to befriend him. For a short 
time longer he wandered a beggar and an outcast over the earth. Diseases, 
created by intemperance, were rapidly consuming his earthly existence. He 
saw his dreaded fate, and would gladly have exchanged condition and hopes 
with the insects that crawled beneath his feet. It is true that now in his 
hours of entire destitution and wretchedness, reflection sometimes came, and 
with it a desire to retrace his erring steps. At length, his much-abused spirit 
was released from its bondage, but only to warn others to shun the sad course 
which he, through his weakness, had been led to adopt, and then to take its 
flight to its Maker. J. S. W. 


“ O spirit-land! thou land of dreams ! 

A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 

Of startling voices, and sounds of strife— 

A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 

With its joyous halls into fragments cast, 

Amidst whose ruins there glide and play, 

Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep! 

Thou art all one world of affection's deep— 

And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye, 

That sweeps o’er thy chambers of imagery.” Mrs. Remans. 

I thought it was the mild twilight of a Summer’s day, when I sat beneath 
the spreading branches of the old elm, which shaded my mother’s cottage. 
It was a beautiful spot—jpst Such a one as I should think poets and painters 
would love to dream of, and gaze upon ? for, to my young imagination, it 
seemed like a fairy dell, and often would I listen, by the pale light of the 



silvery moon, to the far-distant music that, ever and anon, stole by, on the 
evening air, like some sweet-remembered stream, that I had, in my early 
childhood, been accustomed to hear from the enchanted isle, as we used to 
call it, for the only resident was an old man of three-score years and ten. 
With his long white hair floating to the passing breeze, he would sit hours, 
and play upon a flute, that appeared to be his only joy on earth, we could 
never learn anything of his history, except that he was an Italian, and had been 
exiled from his native land, for the republican principles he had embraced. 

Twilight had deepened into night, and still I sat beneath the old tree, like 
one transformed, but a light touch upon my shoulder, by a soft tiny hand, 
•aroused me from my reverie. I turned, and beheld ! Oh! it was a heav¬ 
enly being that met my sight all radiant with beauty. She beckoned me to 
follow her, and led me through winding paths, strewed with flowers, until 
she had lured me far, far away, from my cottage home; then, for the first 
time, I heard her voice, as she said, “ Come, I know what you most earnestly 
desire; seat yourself by my side on the banks of this babbling brook, and I 
will show you what wishes have filled your heart during many long yeaTS 
that have passed.” 

I had no choice but to obey, and she pointed to the running stream that 
had, by a motion of her hand, been converted into a quiet fountain, and on 
its smooth polished surface I saw myself a joyous school-girl, with every thing 
which heart could wish, to make me happy. I looked long and steadfastly, 
for I was happy then, the demon Ambition had not entered my heart, a tear 
fell from my eye into the fountain, and the scene was changed. Again I 
was upon the stage of action ; I had finished my education, and school studies 
and books were left far behind, and—alas! shall I say it? but it was even 
so—I had become a gay gilded votary of Fashion, a heartless coquette; but 
this was not a momentary change—it had required years to transform the 
warm heart, overflowing with kindness, to the cold, heartless being, I now 
saw reflected before me. Many were the brave cavaliers that knelt hy my 
side, but they knew not that the heart, that beat beneath the rich and brilliant 
embroidery of gems and gold, was as cold and passionless as the moonlight 
that rested on the marble beneath my feet. Their devotion to me was the 
subject of my ridicule, and nothing was neglected to show my power over 
them. This scene was too painful; I turned away; and when I again 
looked, oh, how changed was I from the being I had been. I was in a small 
elegantly furnished room, seated before a writing desk of rosewood, inlaid 
with pearl; beautiful and touching were the words that dropped from my 
pen; and when I sent them into the world, the good and great wished to see 
the fair being, that could look into her own heart, and bring forth such strains 
of pure and exalted poetry as none could breathe who did not feel that purity 
which accompanies a resigned spirit. 

But was I happy then ? No, oh no—I wished to surpass others, to excel 
all, and to hear another commended was like wormwood to my wounded 
pride; in short, though the world thought me good and happy, so little do 
they know the human heart, that even then, I was a perfectly selfish being, 
and cared for nothing but my own aggrandizement. 

u One change more, and I have done,” said the sweet voice by my side. 
u Look, do you not remember ?” and she raised her taper finger, upon which 
glistened a ring of gold and precious stones. Oh! too well I remembered; 
and quickly my eyes rested upon the fountain. It was a happy scene that 
was now presented to my view; all the follies of my youth were forgotten, 
the phantom fame had vanished, and all the other delusions that had beset 



the pathway of the young enthusiast. I had learned to look at things without 
their glitter, to judge of men by what they were, not by the applause of a 
world, that , was ever ready to raise an object, merely for the pleasure of 
crushing it when tired, or when a more brilliant one chanced to enter the 
arena; for now that I looked upon my former conduct, 1 felt that it was the 
world that had made me a toy to dally with at will. 

I have said it was a happy scene, and so it was, for there I saw myself, 
not as a heartless coquette, not as a worshipper at the shrine of Fame, but 
as a humble follower of “ Him, who went about doing good,” for I had 
learned the great mystery of living in this cold world; it had cost me many 
a bitter pang, but it mattered not—the lesson was learned, and it was but a 
few words after all; it might all be summed up in the following, that the 
greatest happiness we can attain or enjoy, is to be found in making others’ 
happy, in doing good, and eschewing evil $ in doing thus, we shall receive a 
reward far greater than aught else ,can bestow. 

I turned to my conductor, to ascertain her name, and how she became 
acquainted with all my past deeds. She answered, that her name was Mys¬ 
tery, and that it was she who had led me on from one stage to another, until 
she had brought me to know that all was vdnity, and that presumptuous 
mortals should never seek to inquire into that which a wise Providence has 
concealed from them. 

Again I turned to look upon that mysterious personage. She had gone, 
but a rough hand seized my arm, and I awoke, and found that my fire had 
gone out, my light also was extinguished, and I was groping about in dark¬ 
ness; but vividly did my dream rise up before me. And may it not teach 
me a lesson to profit by the past, and forbear to seek to raise the veil which 
conceals the future ? Isabella. 



“There, the worn body dulls the glimmering sense, 

And childhood hath not childhood’s innocence, 

And on the virgin brow of young sixteen 
Hard wrinkling lines and haggard wo are seen j 
Sullen and fearless, prematurely old, 

Dull, sallow, stupid,, hardened, bad, and bold, 

With sunken cheek and eyes with watching dim, 

With saddened heart and nerveless feeble limb, 

They meet your gaze of sorrowful surprise 
With a pale stare, half misery, half vice.” 

(London) New Monthly Magazine. 

Perhaps no question, concerning us, is asked more frequently, or with greater inter¬ 
est, than that of the influence of factory labor upon health., We have given the opinion 
of an English writer upon English factories. We will now proceed to give our own 
upon American factories, confident that a few words upon this subject cannot be amiss. 
The difference between factories, upon the opposite sides of the Atlantic, will be per¬ 
ceived in the contrast between our own observations and experience, and some quota¬ 
tions we shall make from Blackwood’s Magazine. 

In that Edinburgh Magazine for April, 1833, there is an article upon “the factory 
system,” the perusal of which is enough to sicken the heart of an American operative. 
Let those read it, who say that no plea ever goes up for the poor and oppressed, ex¬ 
cepting from themselves. A more stirring appeal could not have been made had the 
groans of the crushed multitude been coined into words by the winds which bore them 



fVora their pallid lips. But muqh of that article is a remonstrance against an abuse 
which does not exist here—the employment oT little children, “the waste of infants,’* 
44 the weak wretches, who are soon worn out and flung away”—of making a laborer 
of “weak, sickly, rickety, chicken-breasted, crooked, decrepit, spine-distorted Sally, 
scarcely nine years old, and that dwarf Daniel.” It is not perhaps known everywhere 
that there is a regulation in Lowell, aiid I believe a law in Massachusetts, forbidding 
the employment of children under fifteen years of age, more than nine months in th? 
year. An improvement upon this regulation would be not to employ them at all. 
Upon the corporation where we work there are none employed, that we know of, but 
those of foreigners in the print-works. 

44 But how is it with adults?” 

We believe there is as much good health here as in any place with the same popu* 
lation. True, there are causes existing here unfavorable to constant and perfect health. 
There is confinement for twelve hours in the day—at some seasons, including meal 
times, and that passed in preparing for work, and spent in going to and from the mills, 
of nearly fourteen hours of the twenty-four. And this confinement in a room without 
a free circulation of air—sometimes a room warmed with steam, making of each la¬ 
borer, as Monsieur Mantilini hath it, “ a moist unpleasant body.” There is hurried 
eating, and sometimes in rooms at a far lower temperature than that of the mills. 
44 Then how,” it may be asked, 44 can the average of health be as great in the mills as 
out of them ?” Because those physical laws which are violated in the mills, are almost 
equally violated thoughout New England. 

Many of the girls who come to Lowell, from the country, have been taught by their 
good mothers that industry is the first of virtues, and that it is a sin to fold the hands 
one moment of the da^; that unceasing exertion, from morning to night, is laudable; 
and they are willing to work, believing also that “ the laborer is worthy of his hire.” 

Many also, especially sempstresses, shoe-binders, straw-braiders, have been accus¬ 
tomed to labor, sitting in nearly the same position, a greater number of hours than 
those employed in the mill, and in an atmosphere quite as warm, confined, and im¬ 
pure ; unless it is contended that the smoke of a cooking stove is less impure than the 
dust of a cotton mill. N 

44 But this cotton dust—is it not unhealthy? even if not very impure?” To. some 
it is—there are constitutions to whom it is poison—and we would warn all with weak 
and injured lungs to avoid the factories. 

But we have known those, whose complaints were not of the lungs, who could 
work here when they could do nothing else. A fellow-boarder said to us one day, 
44 My overseer was unwilling to take me in his employment, because he said I did not 
look well. I do not think he has had more profitable help in his room.” And she 
44 tends extra work” all the time. 

A favorable circumstance in connection with factory labor is its regularity; ris¬ 
ing, sleeping, and eating, at the same hours on each successive day; the necessity of 
taking a few draughts of fresh air in their walks to and from work; and the lightness 
of the labor—for, notwithstanding the complaiuts which have been lately made, the 
work allotted to one is light—were it not so there would not be so many hurrying 
from their country homes to get rid of milking cows, washing floors, and other such 
healthy employments. It is light work—otherwise so many could not work here, 
who cannot do any thing requiring much strength. 

44 But yet there is much ill health, sickness and death here,” some may reply. 
True—but are the deaths many in proportion to the population ? We give to the pub¬ 
lic the number of deaths which occur among the female operatives. The appearance 
of the girls is generally that of health and cheerfulness; but yet there is sickness 
here, and far more than there need be. In many cases where health is lost the loser 
is greatly to blame, and yet it is spoken of as a necessary result of factory labor. The 
desire to lay upon others the blame of qur own faults is 44 as old as Adam,” and we 
see examples of it almost every day. There are thousands of girls in Lowell at that 
age when their constitutions are maturing, when girls are always most careless, and 
when mothers think they need most care. Seven-eighths of these girls wear the same 
outward garment winter and summer. Half of these girls are not at all particular 
about having their umbrellas and over-shoes by them in rainy weather. Many, who 
are not able to do it, will have extra work, and scarcely any are satisfied that they do 
enough while in the mill. They eke out the hours of labor by every possible con¬ 
trivance, and work as though work was the chief end of worpan. We have known 
girls to rise before the first bell on a summer’s morning—do, from choice, their own 
chamber work, be at work in the mill, brushing, oiling, etc., ten minutes before 44 the 
gate was hoisted”—stay, after 44 the gate was shutdown,” till the^ watchmen sent 



them out to their breakfast—then trot home as fast as possible—eat about five or six 
minutes—put on their Highland shawl, and bonnet, and go to knitting four or five 
minutes—then back to the mill, as soon as the gate is opened—and so on through the 
day. Five or six evenings every week are spent at meeting, or singing school, or 
something of the kind, and then, when the Sabbath comes, it is aught but a day of 
rest. They will attend a morning prayer meeting at sunrise ; then breakfast, and go 
to the Sabbath sehool; then to meeting again; then to an afternoon service, and after 
that to an evening meeting. Is it wonderful that health is lost? If the mills are un¬ 
healthy, there is a very good reason why the operatives should do all in their own 
power to*counteract the pernicious influences of their accustomed employment; and 
yet they never appear to think that any responsibility rests upon themselves. “ But,*’ 
they will ask, “ are we to give up meetings, and concerts, and Sabbath schools." 
“Yes," we reply, “if your health is failing, and you wish to preserve it." “ But we 
had rather die than live but to work, and work but to live." “ Well, then, go on, and 
lose your health, but do not say that you could not have preserved it." We well 
know that sacrifice and self-denial are demanded, when we ask that in the prime of 
life they should debar themselves of so much which gives to life its zest and gladness. 
But there can be, with moderate labor in the fhctory, moderate amusements and pleas¬ 
ures out of it. 

During the five or six years, which we have spent in Lowell factories, we have 
never employed a physician, and few of the operatives have had more to task the body, 
mind, and heart. We have labored at our looms through the day, and at our writing- 
desk, or work-basket in the evening. Not many have done more in or out of the mill. 
We were always thought consumptive in our childhood, and we attribute in a great 
degree our good health to our own care. Not the care which has led us to be fright¬ 
ened at a black cloud, or scared at a snow-drift. But we take an umbrella when we 
see the one, and a warm cloak and hood when we behold the other. We drink nothing 
hut cold water , and this keeps the body in a state more able to resist the deleterious 
influences of changes of temperature—renders us less liable to colds, coughs and con¬ 
sumption, which are what we should all especially guard against. 

“ But do the superintendents, agents, etc., 1 the powers that be’ over us, do they do 
all in their power to make us healthy, and comfortable ?" I know not. If they can 
have our mills better ventilated, or make any improvement which may conduce to the 
health and well-being of those under their care, we would earnestly and respectfully 
request them to do it. We know that the rooms are spacious and high—we know 
that the air is not dead and stagnant—the constant motion of bands and drums keeps 
it continually changing—we know that the mills are not too warm for comfort in Win¬ 
ter, and that few places are cooler in the middle of Summer; but, with all this, might 
there not be some improvement? At all events, there should be, upon every corpora¬ 
tion, if not in every large boarding-house, a place for bathing \ It is needed for clean¬ 
liness, health, and comfort. Let us have it. Let the Merrimack company begin, by 
providing a nice bathing-house with all conveniences; and, if other considerations are 
not sufficient to induce them to do it, let it be granted as a boon to us, and then we 
shall not hear the remark which, unkind and untrue as we know it to be, is never 
heard with indifference, “The Offering has never done us any good.” 

One more proposal which might be made is that of a diminution of the hours of la¬ 
bor. Yet we do not make it. We do not think the operatives generally wish it, as it 
would, of course, be a farther reduction of wages. Yet it may be said that, what they 
might not wish, might still be what they ought to wish. We are conscious of that, 
and were the factory operatives all young, unmarried, and always to remain single, 
and always without others dependent upon them, none would ask it more readily than 
we. But we know of widows who are toiling here for their children; of children 
who are toiling for their parents; of elder sisters supporting and educating those who 
are younger, and dependent upon them; of young women toiling for the means to 
commence a happier state of life j in short, of many who, for various reasons, consider 
it a blessing that they may labor long, and diligently. There are many at work, among 
strangers, for those who are dear to them, with sinking hearts, and fainting frames, 
whose sickness of the heart is so well concealed that their wasting vigor is wholly at¬ 
tributed to unwearied exertion. If there could be some mills which would adopt the 
ten-hour system, leaving others to retain the present method, it might be better for all; 
and we would like to propose a plan, by which a mill could be kept “running" as 
many hours as at present, and yet employ the females in it but half as long. But we 
have no room now, and must defer it till the next issue of the Offering. Neither 
have we now said half that we intended to have done about the contrast between 
English and American factories. 



JUNE, 1843. 


One pleasant afternoon in May, 18 —, might have been seen a stately 
matron seated near the open door of a rural farm-house, gazing upon the 
beauties of Nature, contemplating the wisdom and goodness of God. At 
her feet, upon the door-step, was seated a noble-looking youth of seventeen 
summers. The long silence was broken by the youth: 

44 Mother, I have a boon to ask; will you grant it ?” 

44 I am well pleased to grant any favor that will give pleasure combined 
with useful instruction to my children, but, Charles, I cannot grant a request 
except I first know what it is; yet I doubt not that yours is a reasonable one.*’ 

u Well, mother, you know that I have a great desire to travel, and see the 
world, and to learn the manners and customs of the different nations on the 

“ Yes; but your father cannot afford to spend so much for you, while the 
others remain at home.” 

44 But, mother, I have a plan in my head that will answer every purpose.” *’ 

44 What is it, my son ?” 

44 1’ve been thinking, that with your permission, I might go to sea, and 
then I should be earning, instead of spending money.” 

44 Is it possible! Why, Charles! you surely do not think of going to sea!” 

44 Yes, mother, I want to go, and have long been thinking of it. I cannot 
bear to stay cooped up at home all the days of my life, and never know 
any thing.*’ 

44 Oh, Charles! why will you say so ? What will Eliza say ? Certainly 
you do not wish to grieve her so much as to peril your life upon the ocean.” 

44 No, mother, I do not wish to cause that gentle heart to heave one sigh. 
Eliza is a noble girl; she loves to learn as well as I, and I think she would 
bid me 4 God speed.’ And certainly, that great SuprexME Being, whom you 
have taught me to reverence and adore, is able to keep me on the ocean as 
well as on the land.” 

44 Truly, my son, God is able to keep and protect us any and everywhere. 
But your father cannot spare you this summer, and I do n’t think he ’ll hear 
one word about your going; so you had better give up the idea.” 

VOL. in. 17 



u Mother, George will be at home this summer, and I can be spared just 
as well as not. Now, mother, I think you had better let me go. I can easily 
get father’s consent, if you are willing.” 

44 Charles, ask it not—I cannot give my consent; you must not go—say 
no more to me about it—it will be useless.” 

44 Be it as you wish. I will not say any thing more to you about it,” an¬ 
swered Charles, as he left the house to mature his plans for the future. A 
close observer might have marked the air of determination with which it was 
uttered. But his mother remarked it not; she fondly thought he would think 
no more of it, as she had decidedly refused to favor his plan ; and he ’had 
always yielded implicit obedience to her wishes. 

Charles Wendell was the second son of an independent farmer in the in¬ 
terior of the Granite State, whose residence was situated on the brow of a 
gentle hill, which commanded an extensive view of the adjoining country. 
Far off, in the background, appeared the dusky outlines of the White Moun¬ 
tains, as they towered above the horizon, reflecting in beauty the last beams 
of the setting sun, inspiring the beholder with the grand and beautiful in Na¬ 
ture-directing the mind 44 through Nature up to Nature’s God.” The cot¬ 
tage was embosomed in the thick foliage of a beautiful grove, which was 
enlivened by the thrilling notes of the feathered songsters, as they carolled 
their hymns of praise to the great Author of their being. At the base of the 
hill, front of the house, lay the concentrated waters of the little streams that 
flowed from the neighboring hill, forming a beautiful pond, which gave ad¬ 
ditional beauty to the scenery; near its margin, was moored a small pleasure 
boat; over its surface were scattered in profusion those sweet emblems of 
heavenly purity, the pond lily. It was a lovely place—the fit abode of peace 
and innocence. Nature’s choicest gifts had been lavished with an unsparing 
hand, combined with the works of art to beautify and adorn that delightful 
place—the one of all others the most desirable to the happy inmates of that 
rural dwelling. 

In early life, Mr. Wendell married u the sweet mountain flower,” as she 
was familiarly called by her youthful friends and companions. In her were 
combined every grace and virtue desirable in a companion for life ; and, in 
wedding such a being, Mr. Wendell anticipated and realized the most san¬ 
guine hopes that mortals know, for she was the crown of his earthly para- 
*dise. His greatest earthly happiness was in the company of his wife and 
children, they numbering five, three sons and two daughters, who had been 
entrusted to their care, to be.trained for a heavenly inheritance. In giving, 
them such a mother, one of the excellent of the earth, they had received one 
of earth’s best gifts. She early taught them the heavenly principles of love, 
piety, virtue, and obedience, and the outward graces of politeness and cour¬ 
tesy toward their elders, and to their companions. 

From his earliest childhood, Charles had been remarkable for his love of 
books, more so than the others. His mother always encouraged # him in his 
efforts to acquire knowledge ; and if there was a shadow of partiality, it must 
have been for her beloved. He was the very counterpart pf his mother,, 
possessing a frank open countenance,-a brow indicating a noble intellect, a 
mild and generous disposition, and a heart overflowing with love to God, 
and with the purest motives of disinterested benevolence for his fellow-crea¬ 
tures. He loved his mother, with a love surpassing that of every other 
earthly object; and often when the others were at their juvenile pastimes, 
he would be with her, eagerly listening to the instructions she imparted. 
Never would he disobey, wilfully, her commands; if perdhance, he had un- 


*B£ WANDERER. 195 

wittingly grieved her, he was unhappy till he obtained her forgiveness. Who 
would not love such a son ? Why wonder that he was his mother’s favorite ? 

The companion of his childhood was the daughter of the nearest neigh¬ 
bor, whose residence was situated upon the eastern shore of the pond. Eliza 
Wells was an only daughter—fair as the flowers beneath her feet, and seem¬ 
ingly as free as the mountain air that fanned her brow. She was a child of 
Nature, delighting in the beautiful works of her Maker; ever ready to cull 
the earliest flowers of Spring, or transplant them from their mountain homes 
to her little garden plot. 

Mrs. Wendell and Mrs. Wells had been companions from childhood, and 
settled in life as neighbors. Frequently the same cradle received their little 
one,s, as Charles was only a few months Eliza’s senior. They wished their 
friendship transmitted to their children; and while they were yet in their 
cradles, their parents plighted the troth for their union when they arrived at 
mature years, providing they should acquiesce in their plans. 

The resemblance of the children’s features was striking; strangers would 
have thought them brother and sister. The similarity of their minds still 
more so. At school, their studies were the same ; and if either received a 
reward of approbation from their teacher, it was a source of pleasure to both. 
In all his amusements, Eliza must be a sharer. Often were they seen, hand 
in hand, climbing the hills in search of wild flowers to deck her hair; chasing 
the butterfly over the fields; gathering shells and pebbles from the shore of 
the pond to enrich their little cabinets of choice curiosities, or seated in the 
pleasure-boat skimming the surface of the water to gather pond lilies. Their 
childish partiality ripened into mutual friendship, which remained unbroken 
through after years. , 

Eliza was scarcely ten years of age, when her parents removed to a dis¬ 
tant city. Arrangements were made for her to visit the place of her nativity 
annually. Each succeeding year the first weeks of the summer months 
were spent by her at friend Wendell’s, until she was seventeen, nothing 
having ever occurred to prevent. She was then a lovely girl, just blushing 
into womanhood, the admiration of all who knew her, and the pride and de¬ 
light of her parents. Charles gazed upon her with wonder and delight— 
wonder that he had not anticipated her beauty and loveliness, and delight 
that she retained her native simplicity, combined with the elegance of city 
refinement, which rendered her all his heart had ever dreamed of beauty 
and loveliness, the bpau ideal his fancy had pictured to share his heart. The 
early scenes of childhood passed in remembrance before him; and till that 
time, he was not conscious of deeper feelings than those of friendship within 
his heart. A new era seemed to dawn in his existence. Eliza was his 
thought by day, his dream by night. The weeks of her visit passed almost 
imperceptibly, and she was again to leave them, but not till he had won her 
heart, if not his already, and her promise to be his at some future time; but 
of his wish to become a sailor, he tojd her not a word. 

About three weeks after Eliza’s return home, Charles was absent, but 
where they knew not. It was a beautiful Sabbath evening—a temperance 
lecture was to be delivered in the adjoining district. His parents thought 
him at the lecture, as he had mentioned it at the tea table, and expressed a 
wish to go. The evening passed, and they were ready to retire, but Charles 
had not returned ; they supposed that he had stopped with some of his com¬ 
panions in the neighborhood, and would be at home in the morning; but he 
came not. Inquiry was made through the neighborhood, but he was not to 
be found ; several of the young men had been to the lecture, but had not 
seen him. 



The tidings of his absence spread like wild-fire ; diligent search was made, 
but no trace of him could be found, till, late on Tuesday evening, a young 
man from the village informed them that some one, answering the descrip¬ 
tion of Charles, was seen crossing the village turnpike, on the previous Sab¬ 
bath evening, with a small bundle in his hand. It was enough. The sad 
truth flashed upon their minds. They had the clue wherewith to unravel 
the mystery. Upon examining his wardrobe, they found his best clothes 
and linen were missing; and they were satisfied that he had indeed gone, but 
where, they knew not. The stunning blow prostrated Mrs. Wendell upon a 
bed of sickness, from which it was feared she would never recover. For 
many weeks her daughters watched her sick-room with the tenderest care 
of devoted affection, and were rewarded by the partial recovery of her health; 
yet they were satisfied if they could only see her smile, or hear her sweet 
voice. They loved their brother almost to idolatry; yet they dissembled 
their grief lest it should add to that of their mother. Her theme, from 
morning till night, was Charles. She could never tire of hearing and talking 
of her beloved. His every virtue was upon her tongue, and she would talk 
long hours of his many acts of benevolence, of his gentleness and goodness, 
and of his strict obedience to her in every thing, excepting this last. Yet 
she would say, 44 1 cannot blame my boy; he asked my permission to go, 
but I would not give it, and bid him not to speak to me about it. Therefore, 
how can I blame him ?” Every thing belonging to or reminding her of him 
was cherished as something almost sacred. Often would she place and re¬ 
place every article in his chest, keeping them with all possible care. When 
asked why she did thus, her answer would be, 44 Charles was a good boy, 
and I know that he will return, if living, and then he will want them ? She 
ever solaced herself with the belief that he would return, though often told 
he w’ouid not. They thought it possible that he might be at sea, yet they 
had some vague hope that he was at Mr. Wells’s. With that impression, 
Mr. Wendell addressed a letter to his friend, informing him of Charles’s de¬ 
parture ; and received an answer, stating that he had not heard of his leav¬ 
ing home till the reception of the letter; and informed him, that he would 
assist in obtaining information concerning him. Accordingly, Mr. Wendell, 
in company with Mr. Wells, visited the seaports for information. They 
found his name registered at the seamen’s office in B-. He had ob¬ 

tained a protection, and sailed on a voyage of three years to the South Pa¬ 
cific Ocean. It were utterly impossible to describe the deep feelings of an¬ 
guish felt by the mother and sisters at this sad intelligence. They can better 
be imagined than described, Yet they were not without hope, though three 
years seemed almost an age in expectation of seeing the wanderer, for they 
thought he would tire of the seas in that time, and gladly return. Their 
hearts were filled with apprehensions of danger, at the appearance of every 
storm; and when seated by a comfortable fire, the storm raging without 
with violence, Mrs. Wendell would revert to Charles, to the perils of the 
ocean, tfnd the probability that he had been swallowed up by the angry waves. 

Let us return to Charles. After his conversation with his mother, he 
spoke to his sister about going to sea; she told him, that she would rather 
follow him to his grave, than consent to what was against her mother’s wishes 
and better judgment. Finding no sympathy from his mother and sisters, he 
was somewhat staggered in his resolution ; but the scheme was too deeply 
laid to be abandoned. He mentioned the temperance lecture with the inten¬ 
tion of attending. Ascertaining that none of the family would go there, his 
long-tneditated scheme crossed his mind; he thought it would be an excel- 



lent opportunity to put it into execution. He accordingly hid a change of 
linen in his handkerchief, and cast a lingering look upon the home of his 
childhood. His heart almost failed him as he bid his mother good evening, 
thinking it the last time for a long while, perhaps for ever. The conflicting 
struggle between duty and inclination was long and violent; at length incli¬ 
nation triumphed, and he departed. He travelled all night without intermis¬ 
sion, and early in the morning he took passage in a stage-coach, which con¬ 
veyed him to B-. There, as has been stated, he obtained a protection, 

and sailed on board a vessel bound to the South Pacific Ocean. The first 
few days of his voyage he was wholly unable to perform the duties assigned 
him, being under the influence of sea-sickness. Fortunately, he shipped 
with a kind-hearted captain, who indulged him as far as practicable ; but his 
kindness did not prevent him from experiencing the jeers of the crew, who 
were, with a few exceptions, intemperate. The captain himself was a mod¬ 
erate drinker; possessing a strong constitution, he could drink and not be 
intoxicated. Neither the taunts of his shipmates nor the persuasions of the 
captain could induce him to taste the maddening draught; that excellent 
motto was ever before him, “ Touch not, taste not, handle not.” Daily was 
his heart pained within him, and the blood chilled in his veins, by hearing 
the horrid oaths and imprecations of those around him. Finding that they 
could not induce him to join their unholy revels, they termed him, “ The 
canting priest.” His uniform good conduct and strict obedience insured him 
the good will of the captain, and his tact rendered him the favorite of the 
mates, who took delight in teaching him navigation. 

As the vessel passed from the temperate to the torrid zone, and again to 
the temperate, the heat and cold were almost insupportable, and Charles, 
being unused to such changes of temperature, took a violent cold, and was 
confined to his hammock with a raging fever. Long weeks passed in suf¬ 
ferings almost intolerable, and many weary hours were passed in thoughts 
of home; the tender and anxious solicitations of a mother’s heart, and the 
kind care of a sister were well appreciated, as the half-performed offices of 
nurse were rudely performed by the cabin-boy. 

As they cruised in the South Seas, they encountered innumerable dangers 
and privations, incurred by storms and hurricanes; once the vessel sprung 
a leak, and they were nearly shipwrecked; all hands were called to the 
pumps, excepting those who steered the ship. None were more prompt in 
duty than Charles. Again the ship was so dismantled as to be obliged to 
put into port for repairs. On their homeward course, their provision failed, 
and they put into the port of Rio Janeiro for supplies. While there Charles, 
in company with his messmate, named Henry Waldron, ranged the streets 
in quest of information, as they had done in other cities, and were highly 
delighted with what met their view. While walking one of the principal 
streets, a heavy blow upon Henry’s shoulder caused them to look around, 
and they beheld a swarthy Spaniard with a drawn dagger in his hand ; his 
countenance was black as night with the deepest enmity; and quicker than 
thought he aimed a blow at Henry’s heart, accompanied with a horrid im¬ 
precation ; Henry raised his arm to ward the blow, which received the dag¬ 
ger to the hilt. Thrust after thrust followed in quick succession. Charles 
sprang to his assistance, but was drawn back by the timely hand of the cap¬ 
tain, amid the cheering plaudits of the multitude Who had gathered to witness 
the scene. Henry was fast sinking beneath the accumulated blows of his 
antagonist, and from loss of blood; a powerful blow brought him. to the 
ground. The uplifted dagger, aimed at his heart, was arrested by a blow 



from a stranger, whose only weapon was a hickory cane, crying, u My 
brother! my brother!” 

“ Ha! ha!” exclaimed the Spaniard; 41 another of the accursed English 
race. Come on, and I ’ll soon show you what it is to strike a Spaniard.’ 9 
The words were accompanied by a thrust of the dagger, which cut a deep 
gash upon his forehead. The stranger warded off the Spaniard’s blows with 
admirable skill, striking the dagger with his cane, and throwing it far into 
the crowd, where it was secured. In an instant a long dagger was drawn 
by the Spaniard, and grazed the stranger’s betid, and roust inevitably have 
passed through it, had it not been for a large pocket-book filled with notes 
and papers, in the breast pocket of his coat; meantime the unfortunate 
Henry was taken away, and placed under the surgeon’s care. From the 
promiscuous crowd, many would have rendered assistance to the stranger; 
but the intrusion of a third party would have caused a general scene of blood¬ 
shed, and they wisely desisted. A timely blow of the hickory severed the 
keen blade, and threw the cane some distance; thus the combatants were 
left weaponless; they grappled in a death-like grasp; the stranger managed 
to bring the Spaniard under him, and with a heavy blow upon his temple, 
left him a breathless corpse. 

The air was rent with loud huzzas. “ Bravo, Americano! Bravo, Ameri¬ 
cano 1” was the deafening cry of the multitude. It was ascertained that the 
Spaniard was a very vindictive and cruel man, delighting in taking the lives 
of his fellow creatures, and of so much notoriety that he was universally 
feared and detested. He was always seeking a quarrel with the English 
and American seamen, who anchored in that port; almost daily some un¬ 
fortunate victim fell by his hand. 

Henry slowly recovered from his wounds, and endeavored by the aid of 
Charles to ascertain who it was that saved his life, but could not. The only 
information he obtained was, that he was a gentleman from the United States 
of North America. 

The vessel set sail for its destined port. It encountered several gales 
without any serious injury, arriving safe at New York, to dispose of some of 
its cargo. As usual Charles and Henry ranged the streets together, and in 
their walk encountered the brave stranger of the South. Henry thanked 
him many times for his preservation, and offered him gold; but he gener¬ 
ously declined it, saying, the only recompense he wished was for him ever 
to lend a helping hand to those in danger and distress. 

Having arranged their business they proceeded to B-, where Charles 

received his discharge and returned home. He knocked at the door; it was 
opened by his sister, who exclaimed, “Oh! Charles!” and they were in¬ 
stantly in each other’s embrace. Language is inadequate to describe the 
meeting; suffice it to say, the meeting between him and his mother was 
mingled with grief and joy; and they all forgave him readily his misde¬ 
meanor, and welcomed him home with gladness. And many a long win¬ 
ter night was beguiled by the recital of his adventures upon the mighty 
deep, and in company with the gentle Eliza, he being completely cured of a 
sea-faring life. Annaline. 




Addressed to a Brother on his Departure for the Far West . 

Fare thee well, brother! Swiftly the gale 
Is bearing thee far from thy own native vale; 

Swiftly the steam courser speeds thee away 

From the fond hearts that love thee, and prlead for thy stay. 

Thy path will be over the hills of the West, 

Where bright lakes are sleeping like children at rest; 

Where broid rivers are sweeping in torrents of foam, 

Their path to the ocean, their storm-beaten home. 

Thou art leaving the graves of thy kindred behind, 

The friends of thy childhood, the faithful, the kind; 

And the heart of thy mother with anguish grows wild, 

As “Farewell,” she murmurs—“ God bless thee, my child.” 

Thou art gone from the woodland, the vale and the hill, 

Thou hast left a lone void which time never can fill, 

Until it restore thee, thou absent loved one, 

To the vales of thy childhood, the joys of thy home. 

When evening has cast her deep mantle abroad, 

And pure hearts are off‘ring their incense to God, 

When the lustre of moonlight lies bright on the hill, * 

And thoughts of the absent our lone bosoms thrill, 

My heart will then turn to that brother afar, 

As turns the lone seaman’s to some guiding star, 

And to Him, who alone is Almighty to save, 

Whose power rules the tempest, whose might stills the wave, 

I will breathe one petition, and offer one prayer, 

To keep thee from sorrow, from guilt, and from care, 

And at last that thy spirit may tranquilly rest, 

At home, with its God, in the realms of the blest. M. A. 


Often, when mingling in the crowded throng, or in the concourse dense, 
I amuse myself with conjecturing the various thoughts and feelings, the hopes 
and fears of the many human hearts around me. On one hand I behold the 
lofty brow, the sparkling eye, the pallid cheek, all giving indication of a stu¬ 
dious and highly cultivated mind. Bright visions ^of golden thoughts sent 
forth to reap a rich harvest of unfading laurels, dance before his delighted 

A little farther on, and another similar physiognomy presents itself to view, 
save that the eye pierces still farther into the future; and the lip, firmly 
compressed, indicates a more determined perseverance. To his far-reaching 
ken the treasures of science unfold their various beauties; he looks “through 



Nature up to Nature’s God,” and in the numerous revelatiohs of air, earth, 
and sea, he beholds manifold proofs of the loving kindness of our great 

By his side stands one, who presents a striking contrast; in his counte¬ 
nance no trace of fanciful thought or soul-stirring intellect disturbs the sor¬ 
did train of his avaricious machinations. With a sort of instinct he seems 
calculating the probable loss and gain of some mercenary adventure. Per¬ 
chance a doubt of the issue of the diabolical scheme, which he has just 
formed, to turn a widow, with her invalid son, upon the charities of a cold 
world, because, forsooth, she is unable to meet his exorbitant demand for 
rent on the day appointed. Anon, the expression of doubt gives place to 
one of malicious triumph, and as his hand involuntarily clenches, he mutters, 
* Yes, madam, my money I itrill have , if, like the worthy Shylock of old, I 
coin it from the pound of flesh lying nearest your heart.” 

Excuse me, dear reader, this picture is too horrid. I will seek one more 
mild and benevolent. Ha! what have we here ? A man who seems strug¬ 
gling hard to look generous, and noble, and true hearted ; but trust him not. 
Seest thou not that lurking expression of faithlessness in his eyes ? Perhaps 
a search in the pocket where he carries his conscience, will bring out some¬ 
thing to elucidate the mystery of his countenance. Yes, here is a leaf, and 
written too in his own hand, which I will transcribe. 

“ A neighbor of mine, whom 1 considered incompetent to pay, is my 
debtor. 1 have held two small notes against him for several months. 

A few days since he called on me, and said he was much in need of a 
few dollars; and if I could assist him to raise it, he would be much obliged 
to me. So great was his necessity that he would sell a part of his furniture, 
at the same time mentioning an article. I told him that 1 would see what I 
could do. So after ascertaining where I could dispose of it, I went to his 
shop and told him I would take it, which I did, and sold it according to agree¬ 
ment. He soon called for the money, when I told him, if he would give me 
good security on the notes I held against him, he should have it—otherwise, 
1 should keep what I had got: whereat he became exceeding angry, and ut¬ 
tered many harsh sayings. 

After he had gone, I began to consider the course to pursue; I had the 
power to throw him in jail, and thus make him suffer for the disrespectful 
language he had used. While thus debating the subject in my own mind, a 
letter was placed in my hand, from a lawyer, notifying me that if I would 
settle the matter without further cost, it must be done immediately. I went 
directly to the office of the esquire, filed in one of my notes against his ac¬ 
count, and paid the cost he had made for me. On the way home, I called 
at his shop, and told him I would make him a present of the other.” 

Well, this solves the query. But wherefore, O man, dost thou lay claim 
to the name of Christian ? Is it because, after thou wert satisfied that 44 he 
was incompetent to pay” thou gavest him his note for the paltry sum of six 
dollars? It was the money, not the note, he so much needed ! Why, sir, 
the very savages are more worthy than thou! Knowest thou not that the 
Indian, in our western wilds, is ever true to his plighted faith ? Wherein 
then, has civilization or Christianity elevated thee above the veriest savage ? 
Pardon me, true-hearted Indian, thy noble spirit is insulted by a comparison 
with one so narrow minded and false. H. J. 




In the sweet spring-time of life, 

While the hours flit lightly by, 

While thy bounding heart is with glad hope rife, 

Remember, thou must die! 

When the tempter spreads his wiles 
Thy spirit’s strength to try, 

And with honeyed bait thy youth beguiles, 

Remember, thou must die! 

When the calm and cheerful light 
Of peace forsakes thine eye, 

When the sun of hope has set in night, 

Remember, thou must die ! 

When young feeling’s power has gone, ' 

With the years that swiftly fly, 

And the cares of earth usurp her throne, 

Remember, thou must die! 

When the world looks cold and drear, 

And friends once cherished By; 

When bereft of all thy heart holds dear. 

Remember, thou must die! 

Not that with fearful heart 

Unto death thou, trembling, hie; 

Not that earthly joys may pain impart— 

Remember, thou must die! 

But that all its cares may bring 
To thy heart no rending sigh; 

That the thought of death be a blessed thing, 

Remember, thou must die! 

Look from this vain earth’s strife 
To a land of bliss on high ! 

And learn in the hope of a purer life, 

To rejoice that thou must die! ' L. L. 


What a blank would it create in the scientific world, were all the records 
of the past to be blotted from existence. It is seldom that any one person 
brings forward any thing entirely new; it is oftener from the soil that others 
have prepared for us, we reap our most plentiful harvest. We need not to 
visit the gay city, to know what is passing within its precincts; in the con¬ 
fines of our own home we can read its history. There, also, can we follow 



the traveller as he wends his way from place to place, and view and admire 
with him the wonders of the world, without experiencing at the same time 
the fatigue and trouble to which he is subjected. It is not necessary for us 
to peril our lives upon the great deep, and cross its wide waters, to know 
what has transpired in the great world around us; events that have taken 
place thousands of miles distant, may be as familiar to us as the tales of our 
childhood, if we will but study the pages of history. Great men there have 
been in all ages—men who have knelt at Wisdom’s shrine, and offered upon 
the altar of Science a worthy and acceptable sacrifice. They have passed 
away, but the great events to which they have given rise, are still preserved 
by the faithful historian. Valuable, indeed, are the lessons taught us by 
these chroniclers of by-gone ages. Fraught with wisdom and instruction 
are they, such as we in vain seek for in the pages of fiction. We are too 
apt to turn away from the stern and sad realities of life, and view mankind 
only as depicted 6y the glowing fancy of the novelist. Truly there is suf¬ 
fering-enough around us—hearts enough that need sympathy, that we need 
not spend it upon the imaginary beings that fancy has created. 

History is the connecting link between the present and the past. There 
we read of what the world has been, and the causes that have tended to 
make it what it is. We learn that but a few centuries have sped on their 
way, urged along by the never-ceasing tide of time, since ignorance and su¬ 
perstition reigned predominant over the human mind, “ darkness covered the 
earth, and gross darkness the people,” and many, in the blindness of their 
hearts, instead of paying tribute to the only living and true God, bowed down 
and worshipped the idols their own hands had made. But what a trans¬ 
formation do we behold! The light of Science has spread far and wide, 
and the pure precepts of Him, who came to save and bless the world, have 
exerted their purifying influence to make man a better and a wisejr being. 
But, although so much has been done towards improvement, a great work 
yet remains to be accomplished. New truths are yet to be brought to light, 
and much of evil that now exists upon the earth, must be rooted up. On¬ 
ward, and upward, must still be our motto. And could we glance into the 
future as easily as we can survey the past, we should probably behold man 
far in advance of his present condition. This world is constantly changing; 
that which to-day is, to-morrow may not be. Where now are those lofty 
temples, that once graced that noble city, the proud “ mistress of the world”? 
Alas! many of them have crumbled to dust. “ Passing away” was long 
ago inscribed upon their walls; and ere many years shall have rolled their 
ceaseless round, those monuments of architectural skill, constructed by the 
ingenuity of the men of our own age, will have shared the same fate. But 
although man is destined to pass, like the flowers upon the earth, away— 
though the great, the good, and the wise, all have their appointed time when 
they must go hence and be here no more, yet the remembrance of their 
deeds is with us still. Though a Washington is no longer in our midst, to 
benefit us by his wise and just counsels, yet many a heart has beat with no¬ 
bler impulses while reading his history; ahd who, that has followed the be¬ 
nevolent Howard in his mission of love aud mercy, distributing to the neces¬ 
sities of the distressed, and spending his life in their behalf, has not had the 
feelings of a philanthropist aroused within him, and felt desirous of doing 
something for the cause of human good ? Thus do these lights from the 
past shed their radiance upon the future. May we study their history, and 
be profitted by the examples they have left behind. Clara. 



We have received the following letter from Kate, who is now absent from the city. 
She says that it is at our service, if we see fit to publish it, for it is upon a subject of 
which she would have written before she left Lowell, if she could have found time. With 
this explanation we publish the letter, premising that we do not entirely agree with her 
in some of her sweeping declarations, but think that her aim is good, and her mode of 
expression, though daring, yet justifiable. One, more accustomed to write upon politi¬ 
cal subjects, might have been more perspicuous, though not more honest.— Ed. 


You ask me what I think of 44 hard times”? Think—why I think that as 
a nation we are in the same predicament as the frog in the fable, who tried to 
swell to the size of the ox, and finally, without attaining its object, “ bursted.” 
There are fixed laws by which trade, and the imports and exports of nations 
are regulated, as well as in the material world. For instance, if A has 
nothing but his yearly income for his support, and that income is one thou¬ 
sand dollars, while his expenses and liabilities are two thousand dollars, why 
in the very nature of the case, he must “fail;” and his failure injures B, 
C and D, who are his creditors. In continuation, B, C and D perhaps liVe 
within their income, but the failure of A, E and G, their debtors, involves 
them in the same dilemma, and they must retrench, or fail too. This re¬ 
trenchment has been a hard matter to come at, for it affects the smiles and 
good humor of their families, fora great portion of our countrywomen would 
refuse to expend less than they have been accustomed to, unless compelled 
by the failure of their husbands and fathers, and consequent loss of credit . 
I am not disposed to go into the merits, or demerits of the 44 credit system,” 
(although I do think that integrity and energy should be capital as well as 
money,) but there is one thing that all will agree upon, (viz.) that the credit 
system has been most sadly abused. 

But I date the primary cause of the present national prostration of business 
far back. I know that politicians lay the whole blame of the matter to some 
movement of the party they do not support, or that one which does not sup¬ 
port their measures; as, for instance, the Whigs charge the evil upon Gen. 
Jackson’s veto of the United States Bank; while the Democrats say that it 
has arisen from the evils which grew out of that institution. The evils of 
which both parties complain, seem to me to be the effect , rather than the 
cause—the breaking out of the ulcer, instead of the impurity of the blood 
which tainted the system. 

The root of the evils under which our nation is suffering, was something 
prior to the 44 removal of the deposites from the Uhited States Bank,” or to 
the 44 veto” upon the act to recharter that bank, or the 44 specie circular”— 
yes, antecedent to the act to establish that bank in the first place. Our 
44 hard times” are the effects of a moral, rather than a political evil; and 
political errors have grown out of the moral sins. 

I know that the politicians of both parties would shrug up their shoulders, 
and say that this is but a woman’s assertion, and ask what 1 know of these 
things ? Not much, I confess, if my whole information upon the subject had 
been derived from their 44 political capital .” And when I have examined 
their arguments upon banks, sub-treasuries, or exchequers, I have followed 
their example, and looked upon the effects , instead of the cause ; and I have 
been forced to the conclusion that the contentions about 44 paper currency” 
and 44 hard currency,” is like the famed battle of the Kentucky snakes, where 



44 each seized his opponent by the tail, and swallowed and swallowed, until 
not a vestige of either remained /” 

I have said that I date the procuring cause of the present hard times far¬ 
ther back than any of the political changes which are the causes assigned, 
and that I attribute it to a moral, instead of a political sin. You will ask at 
whose threshold I lay the charge of guilt ? At the doors of American moth- 
ers —at the gates of those weak, vain, frivolous and effeminate women, who 
would sacrifice the comforts of their own household to outshine their neigh¬ 
bor in some gala display of dress, or furniture. The mothers, by their ex¬ 
ample, have taught their offspring to value display and luxury, before truth, 
virtue, and honor; vanity has been instilled into their young minds, instead 
of integrity; and pride and selfishness have been nurtured, instead of patri¬ 
otism ; and the result is, they have made them a “ nation of bankrupts!” 
not to express it by a harsher designation. 

The grand trouble is, that we are a nation of apes ! instead of men and 
women with common sense. Our ancestors were men with noble aims and 
true spirits—that we have degenerated, 1 attribute to some error in our early 
education. Think you that Washington was the son of a mother who taught 
him that mere outward display was the chief aim of his existence ? Mothers, 
American mothers do not realize how much their example affects the desti¬ 
nies of the nation. Questions of political economy they leave to be investi¬ 
gated by our legislators, or old maids . The mothers of the land have no 
interest in these things—*-their whole time is engrossed by their cares in edu¬ 
cating their offspring to be gentlemen and ladies. Ladies and gentlemen ! 
America is overstocked with the commodity. We want men and women; 
we want common sense, not French graces; a little practical republican in¬ 
dependence, not so much aping of foreign nobility. I repeat that the fault 
is, we are a nation of apes. Our millionaires ape European magnificence— 
those whose purses are not so heavy, ape our millionaires —and the less ape 
the greater through every grade. Wherever the semblance fails, it is for 
want of means, not of inclination. Our aristocracy is one of expense; and 
a man is more or less respectable, according to the expenses he incurs in 
the pursuit of pleasure and amusement. No matter how he gets his money, 
provided he does not gain it 44 by the sweat of his brow;” and no matter 
whether he has it at all, if he only spends, or rather incurs as many liabili¬ 
ties, as he would were his purse better filled than his head. 

We are not a nation of misers, and yet the whole nation has been mad 
44 to get rich.” The mania for wealth, has not been to hoard, but to gain 
and spend. Truth, honor, integrity, nay, life itself, have been sacrificed to 
gain, to spend, to attract the stare and envy of fools; and American mothers 
have been the very root of the folly. Expense has been the criterion of 
American taste and respectability. And joining this to another characteristic, 
the aim has been who should secure the most expensive decorations cheapest . 

American ladies have no taste of their own. Their fashions must be im¬ 
ported ; their milliners must be of foreign extraction; and to clap the climax 
of folly, their governesses must also have the ne plus ultra recommendation, 
that they, too, are of foreign manufacture. (Of course, l refer to those who 
are “ fashionablesand monkeys, as we are, we all ape to be fashionables.) 
Are foreigners the most desirable persons to give our 44 young ideas” repub¬ 
lican impressions ? And are not those women culpable, who would sacrifice 
the honor of being the mothers of independent Americans, for the sake of 
giving to the world imitations of foreign ninnies ? I know that many a son 
shames his mother's training ; but I cannot think that, as a nation, we should 



have become so nearly a set of reckless gamblers, and almost 'without the 
44 len righteous persons” to save us from commercial perdition, if there had 
been as many exertions to have given the nation honest, honorable, upright 
men, as there have been to stock us with gentlemen . Parents, with the weak 
and fond desires of parental affection, have thought they were seeking their 
children’s best good by endeavoring to make them genteel; and a man’s or 
woman’s claim to gentility was according to their grade of uselessness , or 
usefulness . To be useful, was the crying sin against ever aspiring to be 
fashionable ; and to be fashionable was the grand aim, the highest point of 
American aristocracy. And as our political institutions declare 44 all men” 
to be 44 born free and equal, endowed with certain inalienable rights, among 
which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” we have all become 
aristocrats, and made the pursuit of fashionable folly our happiness. It is 
the females who give the tone of society and taste to a nation; and as ours 
have no taste of their own, and are content to be dependent upon foreigners 
for all articles and shapes requiring taste, as a natural consequence, the im¬ 
pression has become national that we must be dependent upon foreign na- % 
tions. Hence, to satisfy and anticipate this craving appetite for foreign 
manufactures and gewgaws, our imports have exceeded our exports. 

Our countrywomen want patriotism—want* independence. They possess 
what a Yankee would call 44 spunk” but want a true consciousness of patri¬ 
otic independence. If they possessed this, they would not be content to re¬ 
ceive the cast-off fashions of European fashionables with as much gratitude 
as a favorite waiting-maid accepts some cast-off decoration from her mistress. 
Like the monkeys with the sailor, we pull off, and put on our caps from pure 
imitation, and the dictation of the 44 last advices.” An American fashionable 
lady would not wear an American print of equal texture and color as a for¬ 
eign one, for the price would allow her maid to wear a similar one; and 
expense is the criterion of American aristocracy. But if the matter would 
stop there, I w ould not object to it—for if a lady cannot be distinguished 
from her servant , except by her dress, let it so be—there ought to be some¬ 
thing to know the mistress from her “help.” You will remember the horri¬ 
ble fact, which came from an American lady a few years since, that 44 fac¬ 
tory girls wore gold watches.” And the greatest evil arising from the matter, 
probably, in the estimation of the lady, was that strangers would be unable 
to tell herself from a factory girl, should accident place them together. 

I know that thousands and tens of thousands are learning the sad lessons 
which their extravagance has inflicted upon them, but they feel as though 
they were more 44 sinned against than sinning”—as though they were suffer¬ 
ing from the political errors of the nation, instead of reaping the reward of 
their own folly. But let prosperity beam again, and we should see the same 
wild chase after precedence, that has been enacting for the last twenty-five 
years, or perhaps, ever since there were two families to quarrel about it. 

Granting that men are capable of self-government, there are but very few 
women who are so endowed; and if the wise men of the natisg, instead of 
wrangling about banks, sub-treasuries, and exchequers, had established a 
court, or set of titles, whereby every lady’s pretension might be determined 
without the interference of a French milliner, or mantua-maker, they would 
have accomplished a good that never will be done in any other way, unless 
it is by ridicule. Who, with any risibilities, can sit down and canvass tbe 
envy, jealousy, and strife of pretension and rivalry, exhibited even in their 
own immediate circle, and not laugh heartily ? The case does not admit of 
- reason. You might as well tell a belle that she was not pretty, and expect 



to be listened to patiently, as to convince a lady that she was not fashiona¬ 
ble, or at least, would not be, if she had all the appliance-of foreign aid. 

If Congress could pass a bill, providing “that every young lady under 
twenty , who hoped to he married , should always wear a national costume of 
domestic manufacture, or else be subject to the penalty of ‘single blessed¬ 
ness,’ ” perhaps, in the course of time, we might learn to bear affluence, and 
cease to be a nation of apes—for mamas would put on what their daughters 
were obliged to wear, and no single lady would think, until fifteen years 
were added to the twenty, to change her uniform. 

Perhaps I am too severe upon these small foibles of my countrywomen, 
but it is the principle, rather than the act, that I would declaim" against. 
Little things affect great principles. It was but a three per cent, duty that 
aroused the American Colonies to resistance to the mother country. And 
where now should we find the patriotic dames ready to sacrifice some cov¬ 
eted foreign importation for a small three percent, duty, which only affected 
the honor of their country ? 

Again, there is another phase of aristocracy , which has had its effect upon 
the “ times,” and that is, the “ aristocracy of employment”—as though a 
man was to be respected more for spending his time in a counting-room, 
than for spending it planting and digging potatoes. The folly of useful ar¬ 
istocracy is as great a libel upon manhood, as the folly of useless aristocracy 
is upon common sense. 

These errors are a moral fault. Does that mother impress upon the minds 
of her offspring the true principles of integrity and honor, who teaches that 
a man is to be valued more for the adventitious circumstances of fortune— 
for his dress, or his employment, than for his moral honesty, probity and 
truth ? And yet these are the impressions whjch the republican children of 
our democratic land receive! 

I have often thought that the evils of a hereditary and titled nobility were 
not so great as those of the democratic independence, where a “ man is the 
architect of his own fortune,” and woman the creator of her own pretensions. 
A man may be a democrat—a woman never is. And as our sex give the 
tone to society, I fear we never can be the democratic people we profess to 
be; and if we must have the evils of an aristocracy, let us, at least, have 
some of its good. 

In Europe, the estates of the titled nobility are entailed upon the eldest 
branch of the family. But one of each family is required to support the 
honor of the house and name, and the rest can, and are expected to carve 
out their own fortunes usefully, or honorably. 

In America, a man may have seven sons and five daughters, and each 
and every individual of the family feel themselves bound to support the dig¬ 
nity of their father’s house by an equal expense , and must continue to spend 
what they were accustomed to in the paternal establishment. The original 
income might have been able to sustain a splendid and magnificent estab- 
lishmerft, lift, divided into twelve parts, it would be hardly reasonable to re¬ 
quire an equal expenditure with that which characterized the original fortune. 

I might illustrate every position I have taken, by facts, but I do not antici¬ 
pate that I shall do any good by inflicting upon you all my thoughts about 
“hard times,” and I shall weary your patience in perusal. If I could clothe 
my thoughts with eloquent words, so that the mothers and daughters of our 
country would listen to me—if I had the power to-convince, then 1 would 
turn public reformer, and try to convince my countrywomen. As for party 
politicians, there is no hope of them. You might as well preach reason to a 


20 n 

jackdaw, and repentance to a tiger, and hope to make an impression, as to 
tell a party politician of patriotism , and expect to be understood. But if 
honest politicians would go home, and make their mil the majority, and en¬ 
deavor to reform the vain folly of their own families, they would do more 
good than they will wrangling about banks, or exchequers in Congress. To 
make us other than a nation of apes, will require more than the efforts of 
this generation. Therefore, to remedy present evils, we must take advan¬ 
tage of what we cannot avert; and the magnates of our land, our greatest 
apes, must set some example, which in its effects will conduce to make us 
as reasonable, patriotic and independent a nation of monkeys as the circum¬ 
stances will admit. If we must be apes, let us be American baboons, not 
French, English, Dutch, or Persian imitations of apes. Kate. 


I siem to myself like an unsightly weed, 

Growing up in a bright parterre. 

Where the perfume of flowers is silently shed 
On the wings of the balmy air. 

The rose-trees are blossoming by my side, 

The violet’s breath is nigh; 

Mild glances are gleaming upon them with pride, 
But unloved and unheeded am I. 

The high trees are waving above and around, 

Whose branches with happy notes ring, 

While ’neath them a shade for the weary is found; 
But 1 am a vain useless thing. 

I fancy they ’re all looking coldly on me; 

And I think, were I only away. 

Some flow’ret, or herb, in my station might be, 

As cheerful and useful as they. 


Oh, why was I placed here ? No pleasure I yield; 

None look upon me with delight; 

More fitting .for me were some wild barren fleld, 
Than a garden so blooming and bright. > 

When the fierce storms are raging, I will not repine, 
Though 1 ’m heedlessly crushed in the strife; 
For surely’t were better oblivion were mine, 

Than a worthless, inglorious life. 

Y. M. cannot mean to intimate that she is a nobody. —Ed. 





u 4 O bind me with that scarf/ he said, 

4 A gift from beauty's hands, 

And wet it with my heart's best blood, 

My brave enlaureled bands.' 

They bind his wounds, the scarf is wet, 

His life blood flowing fast; 

His soul but faintly lingers yet, 

One moment—now 't is past/' 

It was a beautiful sunset. There was a gentle breeze just sufficient to 
stir the light leaves of the forest, to wave the tall grass of the plain, and to 
throw back the light curls of a fair young maiden, who stood upon a high 
bank that nearly surrounded a clear expanse of water in the rear of the an¬ 
cient castle of Mauleverton. She was anxiously awaiting the expected ar¬ 
rival of one whose presence was to her as sunlight to the opening flower. 
At length a boat suddenly emerged from the shadow of a distant mountain, 
whose rugged base extended far into the waters of that enchanting lake, and 
rapidly approached towards the landing place. The boat contained besides 
the boatmen, a gentleman in a plain English uniform, but of high and noble 
bearing. As he drew near the shore, he arose, and waved his hand in ac¬ 
knowledgment of the same signal on the part of the fair girl who awaited him. 

Scarcely had the boat touched the strand, when he was by her side, and 
the exclamation of “ dear Alice,” burst from his lips, and she was fondly 
folded to his heart. 

Sir Charles Man vers had long been the acknowledged lover of Alice Mau¬ 
leverton, and it is not strange a year of separation should seem to their young 
hearts as an eternity, and often did the devoted Alice-fear that it might be 
eternal, for he was a youth of undaunted courage; he had been promoted to . 
posts of honor and danger, by that gallant monarch, Charles the Second, 
and well did he fill these stations. He was first on the battle field, and where 
the balls were whizzing most thickly might ever be found the brave Man- 
vers. If there was a dangerous reconnoitering service to be performed near 
the enemy’s station, he was sure to volunteer his aid. If he was the first in 
battle to meet the enemies of his king, he was also first in peace to return 
to the lady of his love. 

Sir Charles was of a noble but decayed family, and when he asked the 
generous and frank hearted baron for the hand of his daughter, he was not 
interrogated upon the amount of gold he could bring to swell her coffers, 
but was simply asked, “ Do you love her? Will you continue to love her 
through sunshine and through storm ? And let it be your object to make her 
happy ? For,” continued he, u many troubles and disappointments will arise 
in the jpurney of life, of which you have never dreamed; your path may be 
strewed with flowers, but mark me, there will be thorns interspersed. Take 
her, and love and cherish her as tenderly as I have done.” 

This conversation passed the morning before his departure for a year’s 
absence, and now he had returned laden with honors, with the laurels of 
fame twined around his brow, to claim his fair bride. When the first trans- 



ports of meeting had passed, and Alice could feel that her joy was no dream 
of fancy, but indeed and in truth a sober reality, she raised her head, and 
looking intently into his dark, expressive eyes, she said, “Oh, Charles, you 
know not how happy I am that you have returned, with the same true heart, 
and that the fascinations of a court have had no power to shake your fidelity 
and love. Had you returned with indifference and coldness, then, indeed, 
should 1 have been most wretched and desolate; the world to me would have 
been a blank, but now,” and she hid her blushing face in her hands, as she 
continued, w I am the most blest of mortals.” Again and again did he press 
his lips to that fair brow, all his own, and “ think not,” he answered, “ that 
aught at court could compare with my own dear Alice, and see,” he contin¬ 
ued, u here is your parting gift, though somewhat soiled and worn,” at the 
same time holding up an elegantly wrought scarf, “how mafly times have I 
thought,” said he, laughing, “ that there was some charm connected with 
this little pledge of affection, for thrice has it saved my life ; twice it guarded 
my heart from the balls of the enemy, and the third time I was nearly ex¬ 
hausted from the profuse bleeding of my wounds; I was far from my com¬ 
rades, and had nothing with which I might staunch them, when my hand 
accidentally wandered to this, I quickly thrust it into the deep gash, and it 
had the desired effect.” 

Alice smiled slightly, and made no reply, but the words which followed 
on his part were low and soft, and the fond hearts which now met were truly 
happy. They soon after approached the castle, and after taking two or three 
turns on the terrace, they parted, he to meet the old baron, her father; and 
she to her chamber, to offer up a prayer to Him, who had watched and pro¬ 
tected amid dangers her heart’s best treasure. * * * * 

“ Ring, joyous chords !—ring out again! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here—the fair face and careless heart, 

And stars shall wane, ere the mirthful part.—* 

But I met a dimly mournful glance. 

In a sudden turn of the flying dance; 

I heard the tone of a heavy sigh, 

In a pause of the thrilling melody! 

And it is not well that wo should breathe 

On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath !— 

Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 

Leave, leave the hall of song! 

Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again ! 

A swifter still and a wilder strain! 

And bring fresh wreaths!—we will banish all 
Save the free in heart from our festive hall." 

* Long, long years have passed away, since the meeting of the lovers, and 
now let us look again into the old castle. It is a gala day with them, and 
the beautiful and fair are there assembled, for it is the birth-day party of 
Annah Manvers, the daughter of Alice, who had long been the devoted wife 
of Sir Charles. The rooms they occupied were in harmony with the com¬ 
pany ; the soft mellow light, from the innumerable shaded lamps, lent an 
additional charm to the scene. In the deep recess of a curtained window, 
might have been seen a gentleman and lady, but so earnest was their con- 
18 * 



versation, that they heeded not that there were any other occupants of the 
room but themselves. 

M Nay,” said the impassioned youth, for he could not have numbered more 
than twenty summers— u rather tell me, Annah, that you hate me, than that 
I am indifferent to you.” 

“ No, no, Clarence,” answered Annah, in a voice so low and musical that 
it sent a thrill of rapture to his heart, “ I cannot say so, for have I not told 
you oft and again, that my heart was yours; and,” she continued, “though 
I. may be compelled to give my hand to another, be assured that my love for 
you will be enduring as my life. You well know, Clarence, that my father 
is involved in a political quarrel, and he thinks if 1 would consent to become 
the wife of Lord Brook, all might yet be well; and should we not sacrifice 
every thing, if by so doing we could restore peace between those who are 
at enmity, especially when one of the parties is a tenderly beloved parent? 
Yes,” she said, as the tears fell thick and fast upon the hand of her lover, 
u I must yield the fondest wishes of my heart to save him who gave me be¬ 
ing ; and now, Clarence, we must part In the turmoil of war forget her 
who can never be your wife; and I pray you, seek to win some one more 
worthy than Annah Manners—at least, one who without the sacrifice of other 
duties, may be your partner for life.” 

For a moment she gazed into his eyes, as if she would read by the aid of 
her own heart what was passing through his mind, but she saw nothing there 
save despair; and again she bade him go. 

“ Oh who can measure woman’s love, 

Or probe its depth and length? 

With all the meekness of a dove, 

It hath a lion's strength.” 

She knew she must resign him, and that she roust not indulge her grief; 
but it was like rending her very heart. 

“ And must it be so,” said the youth, rising, and gazing around with a 
vacant look ; “ I always knew your angel worth; yes, it would be too much 
happiness for me to call you all my own. Fare thee well, fair Annah; and 
may angels protect you; and with the help of Him who knoweth all things, 
may I, in a measure, conquer that deep love for you, that is consuming my 
very life. Until then, adieu;” and be hastily pressed his lips to her high 
polished brow. It was cold as monumental marble. He left her and has¬ 
tened to the terrace below, where, resting himself on a projecting stone, he 
gave way to his long-restrained and agonized feelings, almost with the wild 
grief of a maniac. 

Clarence Winsalow was the younger son of a nobleman, and it was his 
misfortune to fall passionately in love with Annah Manvers, about the time 
her father had promised her hand to Lord Brook, who was also fondly at* 
tached to her; hut, alas! she loved another, and it was only for her father’s 
sake that she had consented to he his. As Lord Brook was the political op¬ 
ponent of her father, nothing but her promise to become his wife could allay 
their strongly irritated feelings. 

She stepped into the hall, after the departure of Clarence, to regain her 
composure before meeting her future husband, who was to grace the party 
with his presence, and there she busied herself in examining by moonlight 
the various kinds of armor, tha,t hung against the wall, but what most pow¬ 
erfully arrested her attention, was. a complete suit, with an elegant embroi- 



dered scarf attached to it; and as she stood wondering that she had never 
noticed it before, she heard her father’s voice by her side. 

44 Ah, my dear,” said he, laughing, 44 what do you find so attractive amid 
this rubbish, that we cannot enjoy your company in the saloon, for you are 
well aware that every thing is wanting, if you are not there ?” 

44 Yes, father, I will soon join you,” she answered, laying her hand on his ; 
44 but first tell me, why that scarf is hung there to moulder upon that cast-off 
armor?” She had touched a chord in her father’s heart, which responded to 
much that was tender and thrilling—and quickly did his thoughts revert to 
the time, when he, with all the enthusiasm of youthful feelings, had parted 
from his own dear Alice, and of his return after a year’s absence; all the joy 
and sorrow of his past life was arrayed before him, and often did the ques¬ 
tion arise in his own heart, if he was acting as a father should, to sacrifice 
his child to his ambition, not by compelling her to marry a man she did not 
like, but merely telling her that it was his wish, knowing that her filial obe¬ 
dience wpuld render his wishes a law to her. 

44 No, it shall not be,” he uttered aloud, 44 my daughter shall wed the man 
of her choice ; it shall never be said of me, that I sacrificed so fair a flower 
at the shrine of ambition. No, let the storm come, I will brave its fury with 
a calm and quiet conscience.” 

44 Annah, my love,” said the father, 44 do you love Clarence Winsalow ? 
If so, you shall be his, for I know that to obtain you, he would yield all but 
virtue and honor, and his gay joyous nature is more fitting for your buoyant 
heart, than that moody old lord ; my only wonder is, that I ever could have 
been so blinded as to think, for a moment, that you could be happy with him.” 

“Oh, father,” exclaimed the enraptured girl, 44 1 shall be so happy,” and 
she threw her arms about his neck, and concealed her gushing tears upon 
his shoulder. 

44 Go, my child,” said he, at last, 44 and calm your excited feelings. In 
the mean time I will seek Clarence, for 1 think I saw him amid the crowd 
this evening, and I will likewise adjust matters as well as I may be* able with 
Lord Brook.” 

An hour passed away, and had you looked into the little oratory, that joined 
the family chapel, you might have seen a young couple kneeling before the 
sacred shrine, and the kind father too was there to give his daughter’s hand 
to Clarence, and never had he been so happy, since the day he himself knelt 
before that same altar, with the chosen of his heart. The embroidered scarf 
was taken down from the old armor, and ever kept by Sir Charles Manvers 
as a sacred thing, for, besides saving his life, it had led him to resist the 
temptation of sacrificing his child to his ambition. Ions. 


It was with a light heart that Fernando seated himself in the small boat 
that was to convey him from the crowded streets and pestilential air of New 
Orleans, that great mart of the western world, for he had become wearied 
with the ceaseless routine of business that had claimed his attention during 
his sojourn there ; and he felt that it would be a kind relief to his exhausted 
spirit to be freed from care, and that it would also be a source of much grut- 



ification to visit the remnant of the once powerful tribes, who formerly pos¬ 
sessed this country, and to listen to their tales and legends of former times. 
As the little boat held its way, through the water, and he beheld the city with 
all its scenes receding, as it were, from view, he turned from the sight, think¬ 
ing that solitude was far preferable to its pleasures and cares. He contin¬ 
ued his voyage for several days with few interruptions, although the silence 
of the passing hour was sometimes broken by the din of business as he ap¬ 
proached thbse villages, which had been reared in the bosom of the forest, 
to facilitate the accumulation of wealth. Now and then, his eye fell on the 
cheerless abode of some lone being, who, disgusted with the follies and vices 
of the world, had buried himself in the wilderness, with no one to lighten the 
hour of gloom, and no companions but the wild tenants of the wood. At the 
close of a fine day, whose silence had not been disturbed except by the an¬ 
swering cries of the birds that hovered round the water, Fernando perceived, 
on his right, a small eddy, that seemed by its commodious situation to invite 
him to moor his boat for the night. As he neared the shore, to his. surprise 
he observed one of the red sons of the forest reclining his gigantic form against 
a lofty oak that grew near the water’s edge. He seemed lost in thought, and 
on his brow sadness and sorrow were plainly stamped. On observing Fer¬ 
nando, his countenance lighted up with joy, and he instantly approached him, 
but as he gazed upon him more intently, he turned his face away, and burst 
into a flood of tears. The sympathy of Fernando was roused for the un¬ 
happy being before him, and he kindly sought to soothe his grief by gentle 
words. The Indian slowly raised his head and spoke thus: “ Mesotti thanks 
you, but you cannot erase from his heart the image of one, whose departure 
for the stranger land he now laments, and for whose return, he ardently looks.” 
It was then that Fernando learned, for the first time, that there existed a be¬ 
lief among some of the tribes in that region, that when one of their number 
dies, he has only gone a journey from whence he will return; and whenever 
they see a stranger they think their friend has returned to his kindred and 
tribe, but when they discover their mistake it causes such a reverse of feel¬ 
ing as to overpower their fortitude, and they give themselves up, a prey to 
sorrow and grief, as did this warrior. S. J. H. 




About three weeks after my arrival in America, I was invited to dinner, 
by the captain of the ship in which l had made my passage. If he had in¬ 
vited me sooner, in the fear of making some mistake, I should perhaps have 
refused ; but then by dint of study and attention, I began to understand a 
little English, and as I could say “ I thank you,” “ very well,” u very good,” 
though sometimes not without confounding them, I accepted the invitation 
with pleasure. As he had promised, he received me without ceremony, and 
after having presented rne to his wife and sisters, we seated ourselves at the 



From the roast beef to the pudding nothing very important occurred. I 
had then dined so well that I would willingly have left the table, but the pud¬ 
ding having appeared I was obliged to remain. This dish was not entirely 
new to me, but I had never been able to eat of it; and in the fear of being 
obliged to in this instance, I followed attentively each movement of the lady 
who presided, thinking to refuse by an w I thank you,” when I should be 
©fferred some. I was soon presented with a plateful, on which molasses 
was put. “ I thank you,” said I to her, and saw myself helped. 

What could I do ? By saying a I thank you,” I had accepted it. Pud¬ 
ding and molasses for a Frenchman recently arrived in America—what could 
be more contrary to his taste ? In order not to appear ridiculous or impolite, 
I began to eat; but what violence did I not do myself. I perspired pro¬ 
fusely. To swallow I was obliged to hold myself perpendicularly, and to 
make a great effort at each mouthful to make it enter the throat. I was at 
length at the last, when the lady of the house, who had not noticed my em¬ 
barrassment, offered me a second potion, by demanding my plate, which my 
friend, the captain, would have passed to her had I not held it with both 
hands, saying that I had eaten enough, and that it would be impossible for 
me to take more. 1 

“ Do n’t you like it ?” said the lady. 

u Oh, yes, very well, very good,” replied I quickly; 44 but enough, enoughv” 
I then learned what I never forgot, that in order to refuse any thing po¬ 
litely in America, it was not sufficient to say “ I thank you,” or as we say 
in France, “je vous remercie ,” but that this phrase must be preceded by the 
word no. E. W. S. 


A Mahual Labor School. 

"Yet I exult to tee 
An intellectual mastery exercised 
O’er the blind elements; a purpose given, 

A perseverance fed; almost a soul 
Imparted—to brute matter. I rejoice, 

Measuring the force of those gigantic powers, 

Which by the thinking mind have been compelled 
To serve the will of feeble-bodied man. 

For with the sense of admiration blends 
The animating hope that time may come 
When strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 
Of this dominion over Nature gained, 

!' Men of all lands shall exercise the same 

j, In due proportion to their country’s need; 

’ Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, 

* All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 

I Upon the moral law." Wordsworth . 


' To one situated in the midst of an enterprising manufacturing population, observing 

, the fulfilment of recent plans, and the foundation of new and future enterprises, the 

* expediency of manufacturing for our own population—of availing qurselves of our al- 

tt most inexhaustible natural resources for this purpose, and of prompt and energetic la¬ 

bor-—the expediency of this seems to be a question entirely laid to rest. We might 
have sowed, and planted, and dug, for England, and let her have manufactured for us; 



but it pleased England to shut her ports against our grain and produce, and now it 
has pleased America to shut her ports against England s calicoes and drillings. 

There aTe those also who think it,not quite so frell to be dependent upon a foreign 
power—to be unable to manufacture for ourselves; and When it should please England 
to withhold her calicoes—to be obliged to go without them—all this is not so pleasing to 
Yankees—to some of them at least. And if we are to be a manufacturing people, or, 
at least, so far as we are such, why not introduce the same improvements into the 
factory corporations as are attempted in other systems. I do not meaD mechanical 
improvements—our .ingenious and energetic machinists will not neglect these—but I 
mean social improvements—plans by which this “ intellectual mastery over the ele¬ 
ments” shall be more in accordance with the moral law, and more in harmony with 
all moral and physical laws. In this country there are several institutions which con¬ 
nect mental with manual labor. Some of these are agricultural, others are not; but 
none of them are connected with manufactures. Such a thing seems not to have been 
deemed possible. The mention of it will undoubtedly startle many, and we much 
fear that it will be immediately pronounced impracticable. But why so ?—there is no 
insurmountable obstacle in the way, unless it should be found that the dislike of the 
capitalist to any change is insuperable. This extreme conservatism is the fault of 
manufacturers—this dislike to change, and love of having all things go on as they 
have always done. This is probably because ail projected reforms have been of such 
a nature as to affect immediately the pecuniary interests of those concerned. But re¬ 
forms must come—some changes must be—and sooner or later there will be an altera¬ 
tion and retrenchment of the hours of labor. Man was not made to be a mere beast 
of burden—far less woman. Public sentiment is becoming more enlightened upon 
this subject. The hours of labor have now been lessened in many places, and in many 
employments; and though a manufactory may be the last stronghold of lengthened 
labor, yet it will finally be stormed and taken. 

We do not think, as we have before asserted, that it is the present wish of the fe¬ 
male operatives that this change should now take place; but it is because factory labor 
is with most of them task-work—something is to be suddenly achieved, and then will 
come repose. But as the manufacturing population becomes more stable, if so it will 
ever be, and it is more generally considered a means of obtaining a livelihood, the 
wish for a pleasanter life will become stronger. But something might now be done 
which would be gratifying to a part, and, perhaps, eventually benefit all. A Manual 
Labor School, which would employ one set of girls in the forenoon, and another in 
the afternoon, would be an improvement involving no more loss to those who might 
invest than other capitalists are subject to. There are now several Female Manual 
Labor Schools in New England; all of good reputation as institutions for learning, 
and one of them, as we are informed by a letter from the principal, iB intended by its 
trustees to be second to no school in the country. This will probably be a school for 
the daughters of the rich, where housewifery will be taught as one of the indispensa¬ 
ble accomplishments of a thoroughly educated young lady; and an excellent plan it js. 
A school connected with a factory would be connected with many disadvantages, and 
could not compete with these; but, with all possible humility, we could look upon 
them as models, which we might attempt imperfectly to imitate. There would be 
difficulties, but the energy would not be found wanting to overcome them; and the 
school, in fact, should be intended for those indigent but energetic girls who strive in 
all ways to obtain an education—of whom there are now many in Lowell, and of 
whom there can be no doubt that'such an institution would bring many more. It 
would be a tedious way to gain an education—to toil six hours per diem in the mill, 
three hours at housework, and spend three hours in study, or more, if inclined to take 
more from the hours of rest and recreation. But it would be no more tedious than 
the method of many who come and work the full number of hours, and then go away, 
arid spend all the time in study. It would be more conducive to health* and we should 
think a pleasanter mode of gaining an education. There is often over-exertion in the 
attempt to gain, in a short time, an overplus which will enable them to attend some 
expensive school, and this, at least, would be obviated. There would not be that 
long-continued wear of body, which must, in some degree, affect the mind, and often 
leaves the individual in a state little fitted for the mental labors which she attempts, 
and which are more difficult from the long neglect of such occupations. 

The method of the Manual Labor Schools is to have the work all done by the schol¬ 
ars, under the supervision of a matron; and here is a decided benefit for the young 
lady, by preventing her from forgetting how to make a pudding, or a loaf of bread. 

The objections would be these. “ Could the young ladies thus maintain themselves ?** 
Nine hours of labor ought to maintain a young woman. The expense of board would 

» \ 


be small where the work would be done by themselves, and any one can dress neatly, 
even if very cheaply. Let the young women have a uniform, and they would not be 
ashamed of it, though its materiel were coarse and plain compared with the dresses 
of those who worked for dress alone. They undoubtedly would learn to look upon 
their cheap gowns as 44 robes of honor.” Another objection might be, that 44 they would 
not be liked as operatives—they would be unprofitable servants .” I think not. Girls • 

who would, in this way, strive for knowledge, would not be feeble nerveless beings. 
They would be fuH of life and energy, and, even if not, any one could work as briskly 
six hours as twelve, and we might naturally suppose rather more so. One of the 
writers for The Offering has had an opportunity to work at 44 drawing in,” (that is, 
drawing the threads through the harnesses,) mornings and evenings, and attending 
the High School during the day. She says that she has earned her board and books, 
and if one could thus labor and study, others might do it. 

“They would be troublesome to their overseers.” No—not if the regulations of 
their mill were adapted to their circumstances. Every thing might be arranged so as 
to go on like clock-work. She, who was to woirk in the forenoon, might be at her 
place as regularly every morning as if she were to work all day, and her substitute 
might be there as regularly every afternoon as if she had worked in the morning. A 
great advantage of having a school like this, would be in the good influence which 
the scholars Would exert over other operatives. 

In a report, sent to the Secretary of the American Board of Education, by some of 
the Superintendents of Lowell, it was stated that, having ascertained the number of 
operatives who had been employed as teachers, it was also found that their wages 
Were upon a higher average than those of their fellows, who had not been thus em¬ 
ployed ; and it was also stated that, in times of difficulty, they looked to those girls 
for sympathy and assistance. Well educated girls are not more fond of insult and op¬ 
pression than are the ignorant, but they are less under the dominion of passion, and 
more guided by reason. They would not easily be made the tools of aristocrats or 
demagogues. They would not be so influenced by prejudice, or so easily led by the 
designing to disgrace themselves by “showing their spirit.” They would not sur¬ 
round the City Hall in a mob, but, if wronged, would seek redress in some less excep¬ 
tionable manner. Their health would be better cared for, and thus could there be 
formed a more correct criterion of the inevitable influence of their employment upon 
the constitution. 

We should like to hare the opinions of the press upon a subject like this—if it 
speaks favorably the plan will probably be adopted somewhere, even if Lowell capi¬ 
talists disapprove. We see no impossibilities, and we are not alone in thinking it 
practicable. If we were, we might distrust oiir own judgment. 

Some of the remarks in our last number upon health have been thought, by a few, 
to be incorrect. We have listened to their objections, and hear nothing to cause us to 
change our opinion. And, moreover, some of the operatives themselves, and very in¬ 
telligent and judicious girls too, have come to us, to express their entire concurrence 
in our statements. 44 It is every word true,” say they; and so we still think. One 
said, 44 When I went home sick my friends thought it was the factory which had in¬ 
jured my health, but I knew it was all my own fault, and so my overseer told me.” 
s We did not then speak of all the causes of ill health, but one we sincerely believe 

i to be the “hurry of business”—the strife to outdo each other—the desire to perform 
a self-allotted task within a certain time, thus allowing themselves to be in a con¬ 
tinued fret and state of anxiety, which has its effect upon body and mind. “Take it 
i alt fair and easy,” and your sleep and digestion will be all the better. Another cause 

i is the 44 dosing and drugging.” When sick it is common to go to some male or female 

i quack, or purchase some bottle of bitters, or something of the kind, instead of diet- 

t ingyor leaving the mill to rest themselves, or going to some good physician. A cause 

* of weak lungs among weavers, I should judge to be the almost universal practice of 

i threading their shuttles with their breath. This has become so common that, in some 

j places, shuttles are made which can be threaded in no other way. From the little we 

j. know of our organization, we should think it would be highly injurious to suck a thread 

$ once a minute (it must average more than that with extra work, for it must be remem¬ 
bered that suction is twice performed upon each shuttle) though habit renders it seera- 
u ingly easy. But it must be an extra task, which the lungs cannot always perform 
t with impunity. 



216 , 

A Letter from Miss Martineau. Sometime since there appeared in the London 
Athenaeum a review of The Lowell Offering , with which we were much pleased; 
and, having learned that it was Miss Martineau who bad directed the attention of the 
reviewer to our little magazine, we resolved to send her a complete set of the work. 
The four numbers of the old series, the first and second volumes of the new, bound 
together, and one or two numbers of the present volume were accordingly presented to 
Miss Harriet Martineau , by Misses Harriet Farley , Harriet Curtis , and Harriet Lees , 
the trio who contribute most largely to the Offering at the present time. A few ex¬ 
tracts from a letter recently received we will give to our readers. She says : “ There 
could be no doubt in the mind of any one who knew me, that your gift would be truly 
acceptable to me. It is welcome as a token of kindness, and for its own value, and 
above all as a proof of sympathy between you and me, in regard to that great subject, 
the true honor and interests of our sex. In my respect for labor I am a true republi¬ 
can, and nothing vexes me more in American writings than to see any question what¬ 
ever about this—any jealousy about station, or dress, as determined by labor—any 
need of self-assertion on the part of factory girls, etc.” * * * 

“ What a blessed lot is yours in comparison with that of a multitude of girls in this 
country ! If you have read any of the late disclosures of the condition of the female 
part of the working population, you will wonder whether we are living in the nine¬ 
teenth century of Christianity. Actual deficiency of food, the scrambling of the 
starving for work at any price, is the cause of the horrible condition lately disclosed. 
If our governments—yours and mine—grow wise, and permit- the exchange of your 
bread stuffs for our manufactures, you Lowell girls will suffer some reduction of your 
earnings; but I have faith in you, that as a Christian sisterhood you will rejoice In 
such a diminution of your very handsome earnings, as may admit some of your 
wretched fellow-beings, in this country, to gather some of the crumbs at least of the 
feast which Nature surely spread for all. If your manufactures should be reduced 
you will be satisfied with a supply of your real wants, and forego the rest rather than 
that thousands of willing and industrious girls should have the sole alternative of a 
life of shame, and blindness, and death before the age of twenty-five. You will not 
give the weight of your influence, be it great or small, to the upholding of your Tariff, 
at such tremendous, consequences to young creatures like yourselves. Thank God ! 
in your country all are sure of bread; how far otherwise is it here. There is no imag¬ 
ination in Massachusetts that can conceive, and no credulity that would believe.” * * 

“ It strikes roe that the Offering improves much as it goes on ; that the short reflec¬ 
tive articles are better, and the tone of all freer and richer. You can scarcely imagine 
the pleasure to me—an invalid prisoner, confined to the sofa—of reviving the images 
of American life ; of seeing again as I read, the New England farm-house, or cottage, 
the mill, or the village church. I thank you heartily for this pleasure.” 

We must make a few remarks upon one of these extracts. The Tariff is too much 
connected with politics for us to say much of it; but the English Corn Laws pre¬ 
ceded it, and we are confident, from the opposition with which it met, that we should 
not have had it unless this had been the case. At that time our feelings were those 
expressed in the homely adage, u What’s one man's loss is another man’s gain.” 
We knew that if there was no Tariff there would be, not only a reduction of our wa¬ 
ges, (handsome we are willing to admit, in comparison with those of the starving 
English operatives,) but a cessation of our labors in this city ; but we knew also that 
such a measure would cause jov and gladness in the hearts of those sufferers. As it 
is now we can only hope that those sufferings will speedily lead to a crisis which will 
terminate them. The Tariff is supported by many, not on account of its protection to 
manufacturers, but as a source of revenue. We therefore have less belief that it will 
be repealed. But our influence is not given either to support it, or to repeal it. Of 
one thing we feel quite certain—that Lowell girls will not work for wages much lower 
than they are at present. We could not wish them to do it; but if both governments 
grow wise there may be a fair mutual exchange of the products of both countries. 

Miss Martineau says that one of her reasons for sending the Offering to the Athe¬ 
naeum , was a faint hope that the Queen would see it, or hear of it, and thus be led to 
think of the difference between factory girls in the two different countries. Queen 
Victoria is not the only one who needs to be enlightened upon this subject, and our 
magazine is much needed in our own country, for the removal of prejudice. It is for 
this purpose that we write—not for the Tariff or manufactures—but for the manufac¬ 
turers —the operatives employed in manufacturing. The Tariff may be modified or 
withdrawn, and it will not be our province, or wish, to say aught respecting it; but 
unwarranted prejudice we must endeavor to remove. H. F. 



JULY, 1843. 


Woman’s influence ! —what is it, and what is it not ? How many of the 
gentle, the kind, the lovely, and the pure, have wrecked their hopes, and 
their whole happiness in life, upon the vain stay of their sex’s influence! 
Far be it from me to undervalue the good woman has done, or can accom¬ 
plish—to speak lightly of the power that her virtues and noble tenderness 
give her in the moral world. But let us not overestimate this power—let us 
sometimes look where her influence has failed. A dispassionate examination 
of what woman may hope, rather than a rhapsody upon her all-pervading 
influence and unlimited power, is a safer criterion for her rule of life. Wo¬ 
man is but human, although her nature may be more angelic than that of 
the 44 sterner sex.” To her power there is a boundary. And God be her 
guide and support when she has overestimated her ability to reform the fol¬ 
lies and errors of those she loves. 

44 Clara,” said Mrs. Worden to her young sister, 44 1 do fear you are trust¬ 
ing too much to your own sanguine expectations in regard to Ernest Hunt- 
ley. Pause, before it is loo late, and ask yourself what you can anticipate 
from a union with him.” 

44 What I anticipate ?” returned Clara laughing. 44 Oh, happiness—the 
joys of wedded life—a kind indulgent husband, and—and—but you may 
supply the rest of the picture.” 

44 Do you seriously think of marrying him?” anxiously and almost soL 
emnly inquired Mrs. Worden. 

44 To be sure,” rejoined Clara. 44 Why, sis, you do not think me a down¬ 
right coquette ?” 

44 1 had hoped your intimacy was nothing more than a mere flirtation— 
that is, that its meaning of any serious import was all void. But if other¬ 
wise—if my whimsical sister chooses the least desirable of all her acquain¬ 
tances for her nearest companion, it is time for me to speak and interfere 
seriously. Do you know that Ernest Huntley is—” 

44 Yes, I do know that Ernest is honorable minded, frank, generous to a 
fault, and so ready to admit all his faults, that my sister gives him credit for 
keeping as many more behind the curtain as is usual with the rest of the 

VOL. in. 



woman’s influence. 

44 Clara! Clara!” interrupted Mrs. Worden, 44 when you are calmer we 
will speak of Ernest; and, until then, know that I too give him credit for 
all the virtues which you have enumerated; but—” 

The door was unceremoniously opened, and the young gentleman, who 
was the subject of discourse, entered. 

“Mrs. Worden, your servant,” said he, bowing. “And, Clara, my evil 
genius, will you give me the honor of your company for a walk ? 4 The 

balmy air invites’—but you may finish the quotation. What—pouting ?” he 
continued, as he saw she hesitated to comply. 44 Let me tell you that a 
frown suits not the contour of your face. Smile—smile, if you would im¬ 
prove your beauty.” 

44 Ernest,” said Clara, looking up with something not like a frown, and 
perhaps less like a smile, 44 do you know sis has been lecturing me, and—” 

44 So much the better,” interrupted the gentleman; 44 no doubt you de¬ 
served it. But get your bonnet.” And he led her to the door to enforce 

44 No doubt, Mrs. Worden,” he continued, as he turned from the door, 
“Clara gives you much trouble. With your consent, I will relieve you of 
it, and take the saucy jade under my own special protection and care.” 

44 And what will you do without my consent to the measure you propose ?” 
rejoined Mrs. Worden. 

44 Why, if you refuse your positive countenance to the measure, we will 
act just as though we supposed your consent implied. I do n’t mean that 
we will run away in the night, or any such refined sentimental act; but I 
will just make myself your brother-in-law in fact, and then trust to your own 
kindness to treat me as such,” replied the gentleman, laughing. 

44 Ernest Huntley,” continued Mrs. Worden, 44 reflect before you do this 
thing. I know Clara better than you do. Kindness can lead her, but neg¬ 
lect, unkindness, or a harsh word would drive her from you, although she 
were thrice your wedded wife. You want (forgive if I speak plainly) a more 
equal temper—nay, plainer, more stability of character, to guide Clara’s 
waywardness happily.” 

44 Nonsense, sis (that is to be)—give yourself no uneasiness about trusting 
Clara to my peeping. I will always let her do just as she pleases ; and that 
will suit you, will it not, love mine ?” he continued, addressing Clara, who 
had entered the room. 

44 What,” she replied, 44 has Lilly been lecturing you too ? We will leave 
her to find out the wisdom of her own instruction.” And the gay thought¬ 
less pair left the house. 

44 Heaven grant,” ejaculated Mrs. Worden, after their departure, 44 that 
you find the happiness which you anticipate.” 

We will take the advantage of their absence to introduce them more fully 
to the reader. 

Ernest Huntley was the only son of a widowed mother, who had indulged 
rather than controlled his caprices. Naturally ardent, enthusiastic, and so¬ 
cial, his companionable qualities made his society courted ; and his generous 
impulses were styled noble and just. And yet, Ernest Huntley was without 
any fixed principles; he was one to be lured by temptation to the very gates 
of destruction. Mrs. Worden was many years the senior of Clara, and since 
the death of their parents, had supplied a mother’s care to the younger sister. 
She was an amiable prudent woman-exact in her performance of duty, and 
as rigid in exacting its minute observance in others. She managed her own 
affairs of the conjugal partnership existing between herself and husband, with 

woman’s influence. 


every care to his interest and her own fidelity. And he, in a like manner, 
transacted his part in the drama of life without any reference to his wife, 
save that she belonged to him, and was to be provided for the same as his 
horse. The domestic stagnation of Mrs. Worden’s family was any thing 
but to Clara’s taste; and the effervescence of Ernest’s disposition was a bril¬ 
liant contrast to the dull quietude which she saw in her sister’s family. 

And Clara, bright, beautiful, playful and witty, the very germ of contra¬ 
dictions, what shall I say, or how shall I describe her ? She was proud, but 
humble; kind, yet passionate; gentle as the balmy air of a southern breeze, 
still when passion asserted its sway, it swept all before it like the wild tor¬ 
nado ; and yet the tempest was all within. So perfect was the control of 
her manner, that she was ever self-possessed. Save the flush upon her 
cheek, there was no evidence of the whirlwind within. But withal she was 
not deceitful. A spider’s thread could guide at times, and again a manilla 
cord could not withhold her. Her fault was, an unsubdued, uncontrolled 
will; and yet, she was the most volatile and whimsical of beings. But will 
lay concealed beneath the witchery of her smiles, and the playfulness of 
her manner, like a poisonous drug at the bottom of a chalice. 

44 Well, Ernest,” said Clara, as they paused beneath an inviting shade, 
44 what was Lilly lecturing you about ? You have not told me yet.” 

44 Oh,” returned Ernest, 44 she was fearing that I should make you un- 
happy, or that you would work my ruin—faith, I don’t know which—but 
the latter is the most probable.” 

Clara stood for a few moments patting the grass with her tiny foot, and 
then looking up with mock seriousness, while a laugh like a sunbeam lay in 
her eye— 

44 It is true,” said she, 44 1 may be your ruin, and you my grief. I know 
this; but knowing it, I will be your wife. If you turn my sunshine to dark¬ 
ness, I too shall change your laughter to a wail. It may be that each of us 
is but the other’s evil genius; and dare you take a wife who threatens ?” 

44 Yes, take you, Clara, any way, whether you threaten to kill me with 
bullets, or rosebuds.” And he imprinted a kiss upon her polished forehead, 
which bespoke aught but the fear that she was his evil genius. 

How often words lightly spoken seem prophetic in after years. Little did 
those gay thoughtless beings realize how much of truth was hidden in their 
idle words. But we will not anticipate events. 

In a few months Clara and Ernest were united; and the first three years 
of their wedded life were as happy as they themselves anticipated. Mrs. 
Worden was pleasurably disappointed in witnessing the earnest desire of 
both Clara and her husband to promote each other’s happiness; and it might 
be that she thought too, that there was more in married life than the mere 
performance of duties scrupulously fulfilled. 

At the expiration of three years from Clara’s marriage, she first tasted the 
cup of sorrow in following her sister to the grave. Clara was tenderly at¬ 
tached to Mrs. Worden, in spite of their dissimilarity of character, and with 
sincere grief mourned her sudden exit. Perhaps, had she lived, the cold 
prudence which regulated her actions might have tempered the hasty enthu¬ 
siasm of Clara’s feelings, and averted the final consummation of the e*rils 
which had begun to cloud her domestic altar. 

The monster Intemperance had began to throw his fatal cords around his 
victim. As the truth began to be apparent to Clara, she was at first para¬ 
lyzed with grief and shame; and then she started from the stupor of despair 
and remonstrated with all the energy of deep affection. Perhaps from the 

220 woman’s influence. 

depths of her love, and the enthusiasm of her character, she reasoned with 
more zeal than wisdom. Whether from the errors of her remonstrance, or 
from the unhappy perversity of her husband’s nature, we may not deter¬ 
mine, but it seemed as though the tears she shed, and the entreaties she used, 
only accelerated her husband’s speed in the path he was treading. 

Man’s proud and self-claimed superiority but little brooks a wife’s prayer 
that he should do himself “ no harm.” To show her that it is his mll y not 
her wishes or happiness, that is to be consulted, he will rudely ding her 
words to the winds, and pursue with greater avidity the evil that is desecra¬ 
ting his own hearthstone. We sincerely question whether a wife's remon¬ 
strance ever withheld a husband from folly, or crime, if one of his own sex 
but gently hinted that he was a sober, or an upright man, in deference to his 
wife’s happiness. A wife has naught but silent suffering, and the ever-ready 
smile of love, to win a husband from any evil habit he may have contracted. 
Yea, she must smile on, though the keenest pangs of agony rend every fibre 
in her frame, and the tears that she sheds are scalding drops of blood wrung 
from her heart’s core. Complaints, or remonstrances are not for a wife’s 
lips, unless she has a pattern of a husband in every respect. All mankind 
are perverse, and love power; and all husbands, especially, love to show 
that they are masters at home, although their own errors are masters of their 
own hearts. And when we teach that it is woman’s influence that is to re¬ 
strain and reform the errors of society, it ought always to be added, that a 
wife may not reprove a husband’s transgressions, neither by showing that 
she is grieved, nor by unkind, harsh, or measured words. By marriage a 
woman loses her identity, and the husband but regards her as his u better 
half.” Hence, her admonitions are, like those of his own conscience, un¬ 
welcome visitors, which he will fly from if he can. Self-condemnation is 
the most fearful to bear that can be imposed upon a human being. If we 
feel a consciousness of right and justice, the whole world may arise against 
us, and yet there is a self-sustaining principle, which an honorable and brave 
man would not exchange for the adulation of the crowd ; and yet that same 
man will bow with writhing and torture beneath the accusation of wrong 
from the secret monitor within. From this phase of human nature we can 
see why a wife’s reproof generally drives her husband from her. It is like 
self-accusation without the mollient of self-justification. And we sincerely 
question whether a wife’s admonition, in nine cases out of ten, ever accom¬ 
plished any thing but the estrangement of her husband’s affections. A man 
so lost to the influence of duty and moral justice, that he will pursue a head¬ 
long downward career, in spite of his own reason and conscience, will not 
listen calmly to his wife’s remonstrance against his course. 

Perhaps the question may be suggested, what shall a married woman do? 
Shall she look calmly on, and not seek to stay the evil that is crushing her¬ 
self and all that she loves ? 

She must look calmly on. What she suffers must not be betrayed at the 
price of her hopes. She may endure, or she may die, but where the prin¬ 
ciple of evil has become stronger than reason and conscience in the mind of 
man, the provocation to reformation is seldom within the power of the wife . 
Where one instance in opposition to our theory might be quoted, ten thou¬ 
sand might be cited in its support. Whether the matter arises solely from 
the selfishness and the perversity of the sterner sex, or from the fact that 
both sexes allow their imaginations to exalt and deify before marriage, and 
that the matter-of-fact of every-day life detracts and robs their idol of its 
golden trappings afterwards, we shall leave for more able casuists to decide. 

woman's influence. 


But no one will deny, that as often as marriage transforms the angel into 
a mere woman, it changes the most attentive and kindest of men into some¬ 
thing a little wilful and domineering; that the lover becomes the master , and 
exhibits the truth of the old song, which says, 

u There are three things that you cannot drive, 

A hog, a man, and a bee-hive.” 

These are some of the plain unpalatable truths which every girl should 
fully feel the force of, before she promises in her trusting confidence u to 
obey.” Of course we refer to a union with a man of sufficient intellect, will, 
and self-respect to hold an equality with his brother man ; and she who mar¬ 
ries a fool, hath more crosses to endure than a man of common sense could 
be imagined to inflict. But to return from our rambling. 

Clara's temperament could ill brook coldness, or neglect, from one as dear 
as the chosen husband of her youth. She was frenzied and maddened that 
her happiness, her entreaties, did not stay his mad career. She did not stop 
to reason ; she only felt —felt that life was a burden—that the future had no 
hopes, and that the present was naught but wo, wo. She would clasp her 
little Mary, who was now two years old, to her breast, and into her ear pour 
forth the moans that she could not shape into words. What could she do? 
to whom could she go for counsel ? Her sister, the last remnant of her kin¬ 
dred, was dead, and should she tell the mother of her husband the whole 
of the direful truth ? That mother loved her only son, as mothers ever love, 
with a hope, confidence and trust, that does not admit of a critical analyza- 
tion of the loved one’s errors. Alone, with no counsel save her own excited 
feelings, she pondered upon the misery of her fate until her reason was 
nearly unseated. Or perhaps her errors were those of temperament, rather 
than otherwise. Hers was a sensitively acute mind, more swayed by the 
imaginative, rather than the reflective faculties. It was a brilliant, instead 
of well-balanced mind. She formed one mad resolve; and its execution was 
as rapid as the thought which had prompted it. 

Ernest had left home early in the evening, and fearing what might be the 
event, (as it had ceased to be rare for him to return intoxicated) she had 
clung to his arm with an earnest and wild entreaty that he would not go. 

“ Pshaw!” he answered, carelessly, “ any one would think, Clara, that 
you was afraid to have me go out of your sight. Remember that we have 
been married three years, and I will be back in an hour.” 

“But will you not stay, without going out at all ?” persisted Clara. 

“No,” was the rude answer; “I have been tied to your apron string long 
enough.” And he closed the door violently after him. 

“My God !” ejaculated Clara, “and has it come to this ?” And none but 
a desolate wife can understand the bitterness of that moment, as she sank 
upon the floor. A frightful calm succeeded the first burst of agony, and she 
rose as still, and apparently as self-possessed, as at any moment of her life. 
There was no outward sign of the inward anguish. 

She first went to her chamber, and selecting a few of the plainest articles 
of her clothing, she packed them in a plain travelling trunk, and then she 
arranged her drawers and fastened every one by the lock. She also locked 
the door of her wardrobe, and placed the keys in a drawer of her writing- 
desk. At the bureau which contained her child’s clothing, she paused long 
and thoughtfully ; and then, resolutely turning the key to its drawers, 

“ No, no,” said she; “ if I sever one tie, it would be selfishness to cling 
to the other.” 

19 * 

woman's influence. 

She then descended into the common keeping-room, and calling her ser¬ 
vants together, (for poverty, with its disheartening and chilling aspect, had 
not yet claimed a seat in her household,) and discharging the arrears of their 
wages for the last month, remarked that she would wait for Mr. Huntley, 
and they could retire if they chose. 

Although it was unusual for her to pay her help at that hour of the day, 
or at that period of time, yet her manner was so collected that the singularity 
of her so doing did not excite any remark. After they had retired, she in¬ 
spected her cupboards and closets, and locking the doors of those not in daily 
use, carried the keys to her room. And then she sat down by little Mary's 
crib to await the coming of her husband. Hour after hour elapsed, and she 
still sat silently gazing into her babe's face; but there was no faltering of 
her purpose, whatsoever it might be. With a glazed and scorched eye she 
watched on. 

At a late, or rather an early hour, Ernest returned. He had not reached 
that climax of degradation, deadly intoxication. His limbs and tongue could 
partly perform their intended office. He was surprised to find Clara waiting 
for him, as he had expressed his wish before that she never should sit up for 
his return. 

“ What are you up for ?” said he. w I have told you before not to sit up 
moping; and remember that I do n’t want you ever to do so again.” 

“ I will never do so again,” replied Clara, in a low firm voice. 

There was something in her tone that struck her husband, drunk as he 
was; but he made no farther remark, and immediately went to bed. 

It was late the next morning when he rose, and he seated himself in a 
sullen mood at his lonely breakfast table. Clara and little Mary were both 
invisible. After finishing his meal, he arose and started to go out. 

“ Mrs. Huntley desired me to tell you that she had gone to your mother's,” 
said one of the servants who met him at the door. 

“ Very well,” he replied. u In the sullens, I suppose,” was his mental 
remark. “ She thinks I shall come up there like a good boy, to take a lec¬ 
turing by the wholesale. I have made her foolish by humoring her so much; 
but I shall leave her to get over her pouts, and come home when she gets 

At that moment he met one of his associates, and they adjourned to a tav¬ 
ern for their “ eleven o’clock.” At dinner time Clara was still absent; and 
after tea he did not return until midnight. The next morning was again 
lonely, for Clara was still absent, and he missed the prattle of little Mary. 
Soon after breakfast, he heard his child sobbing and crying, as his mother's 
servant brought her into the door, for her u Mama, mama.” 

“ Why, Mary,” said he, meeting them in the hall, “ what is the matter ? 
where is mama ?” 

The child nestled in his bosom, ceasing to cry, but still asked for “ Mama.” 

“ Where is Mrs. Huntley ?” Ernest inquired of the man who had brought 

“I do n’t know, sir,” was the reply* M She left Miss Mary with her grand¬ 
mother yesterday; and the poor little thing has took on so this morning for 
her mother, that mistress said I had better bring her home.” 

“ Is not my wife at my mother’s ?” asked Ernest, startled by the indefi¬ 
niteness of the man’s communication. 

“ Why, no, sir,” was the astounding reply. “ She did not stay long when 
she left Miss Mary; and your mother has wondered why she did not come 

woman’s influence. 

“ My God!” ejaculated Ernest, “ where is she ?” 

The servants were summoned and questioned, but no information was ob¬ 
tained of her absence. Thomas, the waiter, said that his mistress had di¬ 
rected him to carry a small trunk to Mrs. Rawson’s (a poor woman in the 
suburbs of the city, to whom Clara often gave sewing, &c.) early the yes¬ 
terday morning. All was confusion. Mary clung to her father’s neck, still 
asking for “ Mama, mama;” and he walked the house in agony, pressing 
his sweet babe still closer to his breast. The man who had brought Mary 
home, returned to bring his mistress; and Thomas, undirected, started for 
Mrs. Rawson’s. Mrs. Huntley arrived first. 

44 Ernest, where is Clara ?” said she, as she entered the room. 

Before he could reply, Thomas entered, out of breath. 

44 Mrs. Rawson says,” said he, “ that Mrs. Huntley came there in a car¬ 
riage yesterday morning, and took the trunk I carried up there, and desired 
her to send down word sometime to-day, that she had left her writing-desk 
unlocked, and she wished that you would see to it.” 

In an instant both Ernest and his mother were at the desk, and upon open¬ 
ing it, they found a letter directed to Ernest. He tore it open, with a ner¬ 
vous hand, and read: 

44 Ernest, when you read this, I shall have left your home for ever. Would 
that I had been carried from it to the grave—the only resting place for me 
on earth. Why, why must I do this ? Would you have me remain to see 
our happy home desecrated by indifference ? Would you have me live, and 
learn to turn with disgust from the bosom where I had nestled in confidence 
and love ? Would you have me learn to loathe the embrace and caress, 
which have been my happiness ? If you would have it so, I cannot. I could 
not live and love you less j and you know, and did know, even before I was 
your wife, that within my breast there was an abhorrence and loathing of an 
intoxicated person, amounting almost to insanity. There is a dread, a fear¬ 
fulness, a disgust, of which I cannot divest myself, and which might be 
deemed unreasonable ; but I cannot withstand it—I cannot reason myself out 
of it—nor can I be blind that my husband, my only and dearest friend, has 
thrown himself into the whirlpool of intemperance. Would my influence 
reclaim you ? Have I not wept, entreated and prayed that you would con¬ 
sider ? And yet you have told me there was no danger; but still night after 
night you have returned to me worse and worse. My influence with you 
has ceased ; I can do you no good ; the cup hath greater charms than your 
wife and babe: and have I done rashly to leave you before I too become 
cold, cruel, and indifferent ? Would you have me live on, and suffer, and 
the result be that I detest my husband? No! no!—my life is spared, but 
wherefore I know not. My mission on earth has ceased. Oh, Ernest! Er¬ 
nest ! must this be ? It is—and my brain burns and whirls. My influence 
with you has ceased; but I leave you our sweet child; and may she have 
the power (which I have not) to win you from the associates who have drawn 
you to the gates of destruction. Shall she grow up and blush that her father 
is a drunkard ? I leave her for you—let your mother nurture her; and think 
not that I love her less that I leave her. She is yours as well as mine ; and 
I would not take aught from you that you value; and that I love you none 
the less, witness I leave Mary as the pledge of my love for ever. 

As for me, what may be, matters not. We have parted ; and the earth 
hath no green, or verdant place in the future. I have looked upon your face 
for the last time, and all before is a blank that cannot be filled. I have 
imprinted my last kiss upon your forehead. Oh, if you had awakened when 


woman’s influence. 

I stood by your bed-side this morning, I could not have pursued my inten¬ 
tions ; but now there is nothing before me but to die. I dare not trust my¬ 
self to look upon you again. In one hour more, I am childless too. My 
child! my child! do not let her forget me* Let me at least live in her mem* 
ory. Ernest, my husband, 1 feel that this struggle cannot be long: soon I 
shall cease to be in the land of the living; and with my last breath the last 
petition I shall ever make you is this, Will you leave the poisoned cup ? 
You have Mary and your mother to live for—I have nothing. Life to me, 
is now a living death ; but if my fate will only cause you to stop and think, 
I will not murmur. Ernest—but I can write no more. Farewell—farewell 
for ever. In life or death, ever yours. Clara.” 

The distraction of the husband, and indeed of the household, may be im¬ 
agined. 14 Where can she be gone ?” was the constant query. No one 
doubted her good faith, and whither should they look for the fugitive. The 
strictest search was instituted, but it gave no clue to the mystery; and after 
weeks had elapsed, and no information had been elicited, the belief became 
- confirmed, that in the frenzy of the moment she had destroyed herself. But 
if so, would not something have been told that would have directed their at¬ 
tention to some attending event ? 

Time passed; and Clara’s fate seemed destined to be a mystery that it 
could not unravel. And did this rash, wild immolation cause Ernest to pause ? 
It did. Like many a husband, whose cruel and wretched course has driven 
his wife to the grave, and after the sacrifice, or murder, he would pause 
and reform, thus did the heart-burdened Ernest Huntley. To say the least, 
husbands are the greatest paradoxes in nature. Their love for the memory 
of their companion may produce reformation, but their affection for the same 
being when with them, will seldom allow that they can be in fault. They 
will go on, and bury her whose whole hope in life is centred in them ; and 
then upon the green turf which covers her corse, resolve upon that course 
of conduct which might have saved her from an untimely grave. The course 
seems like a physician’s giving his remedies for the disease after death . 

Four years elapsed, and the Temperance Reformation received a new 
impetus in the rise of the 44 Washingtonians,” or those who taught that even 
of the beastly inebriate there was hope. Ernest early enlisted in its van as 
a Reformed Drunkard, and his deep feelings upon the subject, his own bitter 
experience, gave him a depth of unsurpassed eloquence in advocating the 
reform in which he was engaged. Feeling will give the fire of eloquence 
to any subject; and here is the secret of success to most orators. The same 
man often is not equal with himself—and why? Because upon the one sub¬ 
ject he feels, and upon the other he reasons, and declaims abstractedly. 

As a lecturer in the cause of Temperance, but few entered in rivalry with 
the deep touching pathos which Ernest exhibited. To the cause he gave his 
time and his* wealth, only occasionally allowing himself to snatch a visit to 
his child and mother. Mary now had grown to a gleeful girl, and she was 
the only one who in that household could mention the name of her mother 
without untold pain. 

Ernest travelled far. In each city and village where the demon of In¬ 
temperance had been, there he visited on his errand of mercy : and where 
in our broad land could he have gone amiss ? 

One year he had spent in the vocation he had chosen, laboring to save the 
lost and degraded ; and his fame preceded him wherever he went. In the 
course of his travels he visited a manufacturing city; and while walking 
through one of the streets in the afternoon, a female passed him, and al- 



though he did not see her face, yet there was something in her form and 
step that caused him to pause with a beating heart. “Could it be Clara?” 
The gait was not like the elastic buoyant step which he so well remembered; 
but still, deeply agitated, he turned and followed her. She entered a shop, 
and at the moment he went in was inquiring for some article of merchandise. 
That voice !—it was the same! And not pausing to think where, or what— 
only conscious of the one idea, he stepped forward, and laying his hand 
upon hers, which rested upon the counter, 

“ Clara!” said he. 

A wild agonizing shriek was his answer. They had met 

Why pursue the tale farther? To describe, or analyze their emotions, 
were impossible. They had both grievously sinned, and both needed for¬ 

Clara’s history may be summed up in a few words. She left her home 
with an indefinite idea of solitude—a place where she could live and die un¬ 
known. At first she sought a home among the Shakers; but learning that 
she must also profess their faith if allowed to remain in their community, 
she had left them, and afterwards remained one year within the precincts of 
a secluded New England village ; but as her funds became exhausted, she 
was forced to think how they should be replenished. And as in New Eng¬ 
land a New England factory life is better understood than elsewhere, she 
had learned enough not to fear the evils of a manufacturing establishment. 
She had lived to die, but had discovered, as an eccentric physician once told 
a patient, “ that folks can’t die just when they are a-mind to,” and was obliged 
to think how to live. 

Employment , and the influence of the society around her, had begotten a 
healthier tone of feeling, and if the curses of memory could have been spared 
her, she might have learned to be happy. As it was, her untold grief wore 
upon her nature, and the loss of her physical strength was attributed to the 
unhealthy employment of the mills. But she patiently toiled on, in hopes of 
death. She was surrounded by many who loved and were kind to her, but 
none won her confidence. She dared not confess her faults or griefs. 

Rumor had a thousand versions of her meeting with her husband, and to 
a few, who had loved Clara without seeking to know aught but that she 
needed consolation and kindness, both her husband and herself communi¬ 
cated the whole of their painful history. 

They had been reunited in time; and to Him only who permitted their 
reunion, is it known whether that union was again one of undoubting confi¬ 
dence and trust. Even their errors had made them wiser. But were they 
happy in the wisdom of their own weakness ? Grace. 


“ A soul without reflection , like a pile without inhabitant , to ruin runs." 

It is dispassionate and profound thought that enables man to arrive at dis¬ 
tinction. A reflecting mind is always an intelligent one, for thought is the 
vitality of intelligence. If man were not a thinking being, he would be on 
a level with the brute, for it is universally admitted that the brute creation 
possess the principle of instinct; and, in many instances, they possess it in 
a high degree. Thought constitutes the most important part of man’s nature. 



There is much truth in the ancient adage, “ He, who thinks not, knows 
not.” To a person arraigned before a tribunal for committing some unlaw¬ 
ful offence, reflection brings sharp pointed arrows of distress; and it is all 
the necessary consequence of the simple fact, that he never stopped to think; 
he was a stranger to reflection. Think you that he, who has so far departed 
from virtue, as to imbrue his hands in the blood of his fellow-mortal, ever 
paused to think of the awful guilt that he would bring upon himself by per¬ 
forming that act ? Would,he, who has been sentenced to while away a life 
of misery, within the grated walls of the deep dungeon, as a punishment for 
his wickedness and crime, have ever been brought to that emergency if he 
had thought on his ways, and considered the evils arising from such a course 
of conduct? Go and ask him—he will answer you, “Would that others 
might take warning from my example: wayward and unreflecting, I have 
brought this evil on myself.” 

Well is it said, “ ’T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, and ask 
them what report they bore to heaven,” and how they might have borne 
more welcome news. S. J. L. 


Burt me not where, so solemnly waving, 

The sentinel yew guards my forefathers' sleep; 

They would start in their shrouds with a voice of wild raving, 
And scare me with curses low muttered and deep; 

And their glances of vengeance would glare through the gloom— 

Oh! bury me not near my forefathers' tomb 1 

Bury me not where the breezes are sighing 
O'er those whom I loved in my innocent days, 

For their eyes, that beamed love and forgiveness when dying, 
Would haunt me, for aye, with their seraph-like gaze. 

And I would not pollute the sweet spot where they are, 

With an ingrate’s vile ashes: oh ! lay me not there 1 

Bury me not where in myriad numbers 
The city crowds throng the low halls of the dead; 

For with echoes of scorn they would wake from their slumbers 
And bid me arise from that last narrow bed; 

And with skeleton fingers would point me away; 

Oh! bury me not where those ghastly hosts lay! 

Bury me not in the shadowy wildwood, 

'Mongst wild birds and flowers, the tree and the stream; 

Ah ! they were my guiltless companions in childhood— 

But never again may return that bright dream; 

For the birds and the stream from my presence would flee; 

And all verdure and beauty would vanish near me. 



Bury ye me on some storm-rifled mountain 
O’erhanging the depths of a yawning abyss, 

'Where the song of the zephyr, the gush of the fountain, 

Are changed for the whirlwind, and yile reptile’s hiss; 

Mid whose pestilent vapors no mortal may come; 

And no being, save One, view my desolate home. 

Yet, can ye not find within Nature's dominion, 

A nook where that Eye's piercing ray may not see, 

Let me fly to that spot, on some demon's dark pinion, 

Far, far from the glory so hateful to me. 

Though the horrors of Erebus blacken the ait, 

Yet to me it were Paradise! Bury me there ! L. L. 



One of the domestics of Prince Henry, eldest son of the King, had been 
accused at the King’s bench, and seized by order of this tribunal. The 
young prince who loved this man much, looked upon this enterprise as a 
want of respect for his person; and having many flatterers around him, who 
inflamed his resentment yet more by their counsels, he repaired to the seat 
of justice, where, presenting himself with a furious air, he ordered the offi¬ 
cers to set his domestic at liberty immediately. 

Fear caused the eyes of all who heard him to fall, and took from them 
the power of replying. The Lord Chief Justice (Sir William Gascoigne) 
only rose, without any mark of astonishment, and exhorted the prince to sub¬ 
mit to the ancient laws of the kingdom. 44 Or at least,” said he to him, 44 if 
you are resolved to save your domestic from the rigors of the law, apply to 
the King, your father, and demand of him pardon for the culprit. It is the 
only means of satisfying your inclination, without giving a blow to the laws, 
and wounding justice.” 

This wise discourse made so little impression upon the young prince, that, 
having renewed his orders with the same warmth, he protested, that if they 
delayed a moment to follow them, he would employ violence. The Lord 
Chief Justice, who saw him seriously disposed to execute this menace, raised 
his voice, with much firmness and presence of mind, and commanded him, 
by virtue of the obedience which he owed to the royal authority, to withdraw 
at that instant from the court, the exercises of which he disturbed by so vio¬ 
lent proceedings. 

At this the rage of the prince burst forth in a terrible manner: he ap¬ 
proached the judge with a furious air, believing perhaps to frighten him by 
this bold movement. But Sir William being master of himself, sustained per¬ 
fectly the majesty of a seat upon which he represented the King. 44 Prince,” 
cried he, in a firm voice, 44 1 hold here the place of your sovereign lord, of 
your King, of your father: you owe a double obedience to these titles. 

I order you, in his name, to renounce your design, and to give henceforth 
a better example to those who will one day be your subjects; and, in order 



to make amends for your disobedience, and the contempt which you have 
shown for the law, you must go directly to prison, where I enjoin you to re¬ 
main until the King, your father, make known to you his will.” 

The gravity of the judge, and the force of authority produced the effect 
of a thunderbolt. The prince was so struck that, giving his sword to those 
who accompanied him, he made a profound reverence to the Lord Chief 
Justice; and without replying he went to the prison of the tribunal. His at¬ 
tendants went soon to report what had passed to the King, and failed not to 
add all which could prejudice him against Sir William. 

This wise monarch caused them to explain the least circumstances; then 
he appeared in a reverie for a moment; but suddenly raising his hands and 
eyes to heaven, he cried, in a kind of transport: 

u O God ! how grateful ought I to be for thy goodness! Thou hast given 
me a judge, who fears not to exercise justice, and a son, who not only knows 
how to obey, but who has power to sacrifice his anger to obedience.” 

E. W. S. 


Go watch the bright path of the setting son, 

As he sinks to his rest when the day is done, 

And ye sorely will mark, os he fadeth from sight, 

The glory he scatters around in hiB flight. 

The light dancing clouds, in their beauty unrolled, 

He gilds with a mantle of purple and gold; 

One deep tinge of crimson steals over the West, 

Like the flush of the flowers in the realms of the blest. 

The rich ruddy glow of that ocean of light 

Is like young dreams of Heaven, so lovely and bright, 

As if zephyrs of Paradise played o’er the skies, 

And tinged the deep bine with their own native dies. 

Such, such are the friendships of childhood and youth, 
Before the heart loses its freshness and truth, 

When its best, kindest feelings gush joyously forth, 

Too soon to be chilled by the coldness of earth. 

And long when the morning of lifetime is fled, 

When the friends of our youth are entombed with the dead, 
Then shall the remembrance of those friendships gleam 
O'er life's dreary winter with soul-cheering beam; 

The broad skies of Memory bathing in light, 

The light of young friendships so joyously bright. 

O'er the chill frosts of age it casts a deep glow, 

Like the kiss of the morn on the new-fallen snow. 

And oft shall we turn, when life’s evening draws nigh, 

To gaze on the glories of Memory's sky, N 
And yearn for the friends of youth’s sunny spring, 

When our hearts knew no sorrow, and care bad no sting, 
And long from this dark world of change to depart, 

And dwell with the true, and the faithful in heart. 

M. A. 



When I was a little girl I was quite a favorite with Aunt Miranda Putnam, 
a maiden lady of our town. Aunt Miranda was a perfect sample of a genteel 
village spinster; and she lived in just that neat, quiet, orderly way which is 
so apt to create the desire in married women, who have cross husbands and 
troublesome children, that they had always remained single. 

Every thing about Aunt Putnam’s house was .always just and never 
seemed to admit of any possible variation. The cooper’s wife went every 
Monday, rain or shine, to do her washing; and the baker brought her just 
so many loaves and seed-cakes every Saturday. Sho had a certain quantity 
of milk brought every morning, and no light was visible from her windows 
after a stated hour in the evening- Every thing seemed to go on according 
to square rule; and even her cat was trained to better manners than most of 
the children in the neighborhood. She always subscribed a certain sum for 
the maintenance of the minister, and was president of the ^ Female Charita¬ 
ble Society.” The Sewing Circle met at her house every alternate month, 
and her name was regularly signed to every Temperance pledge, and Anti- 
Slavery petition. When cherries were ripe, she always invited the children 
of the district to spend an afternoon with her, and once a year she gave a 
large party, to. which the doctor, lawyer, and minister, with their ladies, were 
sure of an invitation. 

In short Aunt Miranda was one of the best and happiest single ladies with 
whom I have ever met; and fortunate was it for me that I was so early in¬ 
gratiated in her favor, for her counsels were of great advantage to me. 
Having no mother to watch over me; and both my deceased parents having 
been dear friends of Aunt Putman’s, I was allowed a liberty of ingress and 
egress denied to all others. The few works of fiction which her little library 
contained, were early devoured by me, and I wept and smiled over Paul 
and Virginia, Vicar of Wakefield, Sorrows of Werter , Religious Court - 
ship, and other ci-divant fashionable tales. I was perhaps more benefited by 
her volumes of the Spectator, Guardian, * and Rambler ; and I also had ac¬ 
cess to the few periodicals for which she was a subscriber. ' 

Small as was her income, she still contrived to do much good with it, and 
in her own still, quiet way she endeavored to be a benefactor to her race. 
Economical, though not parsimonious,.her own personal expenses were regu¬ 
lated by the rules of a rigid self-denial. The same black bombazine gown 
was for years her nicest dress, and one of those green silk bellows-topped 
bonnets, called calashes, was worn by her long after they had been discarded 
by all others. But kind and charitable as Aunt Miranda was always allowed 
to be, yet it seemed to me that there was a want of real deep fervent feeling 
about her; she appeared as though the charities of her life were regulated 
by a sense of duty, rather than by sympathy for her fellow beings. I thought 
her too cold, too nice, and precise, to be capable of intense affection, and 
this was why I never made her a confidante . That she was interested in my 
welfare, that she wished to benefit me, I doubted not; but I could never open 
my heart to her; and when the most important event of my early life took 
place, when I had pledged my hand, and the fortune of which I should soon 
become mistress, to one of whom I .then knew but little, I could not inform 
Aunt Miranda of what I had done. I knew that she would blame me, and I 


felt that she could never sympathize with the feelings which had led to that 

But she heard bf it from others, she learned that I was to be married,— 
young, hastily, and imprudently, and I received an invitation to visit her im¬ 
mediately. I had been blamed by others, but she—the icy formal one— 
what would she say ? My heart beat fast as I entered that little quiet par¬ 
lor: it was always still there, and I had learned to lower my voice, and sof¬ 
ten my step, whenever I approached it. She was sitting with her dark hair 
combed to Quaker smoothness over her high brow, and her dark eyes filled— 
not as 1 had expected, with all of anger that she was capable of feeling, but 
with an expression of deep sorrow. 

44 And so, Alice, you are to be married ?” said she to me. I confessed 
that she was correct. 

44 And I was not to know it, I who had watched you closely, as I thought, 
I who had deemed that love and marriage were yet but names to you, I who 
thought that every feeling of that heart was to be confided to me. But I do 
not blame you so much as I do myself. I thought that these were themes 
for future days, and forgot how early the warm heart may throb to affection. 
But tell me Alice that he is not a fortune hunter, that he does not seek the 
little gold which you may bestow. Oh, tell me that he does not want your 

I was surprised, and almost overpowered, by this burst of feeling, but I 
quickly answered 44 No ! I could not love one so base, so worthless, mean, 
and low, as a fortune-hunter. Edward is noble, high-minded, and disinter¬ 
ested. I have never heard him speak of wealth but as the means for doing 
good ; a boon to be shared by others ; on instrument for the accomplishment 
of high designs ! My guardian is satisfied, and I do assure you that he is 
not all that is selfish and corrupt; for such a fortune-hunter must surely be.” 

44 You may be deceived in him, Alice,” was her earnest response, 44 and 
you would not be the first victim of such deception. I must tell you a tale ; 
I ought to have told it before, but I did not wish to awaken feelings which I 
thought were slumbering now ; sit by me Alice, and I will tell you a story 
of my own youthful days. You have always thought me cold, stoical and 
unfeeling, and that is the character in which I would wish to appear, but I 
was not always so. I was young once, and as merry as you are ATice, in 
your gayest hours, but all that passed quickly away, for 1 had early learned 
to love.” 

I started involuntarily, Aunt Miranda once in love—she whose very soul 
(at least all she possessed of soul) I had thought to be bound up in bright 
fire-irons, nice rug-work, and beautiful embroidery—she the very pink and 
pattern of discretion, the model of maiden propriety—she had once loved; 
ardently or she would not still remember it, and vainly for she was still un- 
wedded Never had I listened so intently to the gracious words which had 
been wont to proceed from her lips when she taught me how to make cour- 
teseys, plait ruffles, and write formal billets, as I now did, to this strange and 
unexpected declaration. 

44 Henry Formen*” continued my aunt, 44 was a college friend of my broth¬ 
er,: He was handsome, graceful, and accomplished ; and 1 was young, im¬ 
aginative, and ignorant of the world. He came into this quiet village that 
amidst its peaceful seclusion he might acquire that profession which was to 
be the stepping-stone to wealth and celebrity. He was ambitious, and pla¬ 
ced his standard high ; he aimed to be one of earth’s proud and favored 
ones. There was something in his high aspirings which kindled my active 



imagination, which awakened my admiration, and which, with his fascina- 
ting manners, and gentle, constant, kind attentions, soon won my love. Yes, 

I soon knew that I loved him, and with that worshipping passion which en¬ 
shrines the object of affection in a temple dedicated to all that is noble, pure , 
and true. 

Seldom is mortal endowed with so much of moral and mental superiority 
as that with which I had invested him. Every thing that he did was better 
done, and from purer motives, than were the actions of any one else. Yes, 

I loved him, I knew it by the throbs with which I listened to his slightest 
word, by the thrills which rushed through my frame at the slightest touch 
of his hand, or glance of his eye. I knew it by the dreams which came to 
me at night, and blushed at the first thought which came to me at morn, but 
still it was a love which ennobled me, I felt that I was a better being while 
my whole soul was filled with this absorbing fervent worship. But did he 
love me ? I dared not in my inmost heart say yes! He was so far above 
me that I could not think myself worthy of his affection. Yet he was kind 
to me, aye, more than kind, but then he was my brother’s friend, for his 
sake he would be even as a brother to me. But he sometimes dropped words 
which seemed to speak of another and warmer love. For a moment my 
heart would beat in raptures, and then, again, it sank within me, for surely 
that could never be. What was I that he should thus be interested in me t ' 
A being wholly unworthy of his interest, yet spite of all my fears, my self- 
abasement, my elevated opinion of him, the hope began to dawn upon me 
that I was the object of his love. To trifle with me, or with any one, was 
what I thought him incapable of doing : that low gratification of selfishness, 
or vanity, which prompts some men to win affection but to show how they 
can contemn and discard it, was not in his nature. But there were looks and 
tones which I could not interpret otherwise than as the language of affec¬ 
tion. Henry was poor, and I the expectant of more wealth than I have since 
possessed. Might not this influence his conduct ? No ; I utterly repudia¬ 
ted the thought. I was ashamed that it should once have entered my mind. 
Still there came no formal declaration, and I might have been the subject of 

I had a friend, a lovely, dear and interesting friend, one who was gifted 
with far more brilliancy of mind, and beauty of person, than myself; and 
who was gentle and kind as she was fair and noble. Alicia had been the 
-object of my brother’s ardent admiration, and it was a cherished hope that 
she might one day be my sister. She had been absent from us long but was 
soon to return, and then, for the first time, she would see Henry. And Hen¬ 
ry would see her, and to see e’$her could be but to love and admire. 

If Henry had been interested in me, how much more so must he be in 
Alicia ? and my poor brother—if Alicia felt a friendship for him, she must 
surely feel something warmer for his companion. I had never before 
dreaded her arrival; I had never before felt aught but delight that she was 
to be with me, but now, though I schooled my heart to hide if it could 
not repress the unworthy feeling, I wished that she was not to come. But 
she did come, and they saw and admired each other. I had known it would 
be so, and my heart struggled in secrecy with its agony. I saw, day by day, 
the little attentions which had been devoted to me, shared with my beauteous 
friend, and at length they were wholly transferred to her, and I was a neg¬ 
lected one. I did not love him less for this—the spell was still strong upon 
me; for though I had never dared believe that I could awaken a permanent 
interest in Henry, I felt that Alicia was worthy of all, even hb most ardent 



love. I was restless and miserable, but Alicia's soul was in one constant 
revel amidst sunshine,, and song* and flowers. Henry was ever with us, and 
bis fascinating powers were exerted to the utmost to make her happy. And 
she was happy; and blissful thoughts were ever pouring forth, like strains 
of gladsome music from her heart, and when, at morn, I rose from a sleep¬ 
less couch, it was to behold her wrapped in smiling dreams. Far more 
pointed than the attentions which he had once bestowed upon me were those 
now constantly offered to my friend, and, in the eyes of the world, as well , 
as of each other, they were lovers. 

But the dreamer was to be awakened ; the bubble to be broken ; for Alicia 
was suddenly summoned to her father's death-bed. 1 have not told you that 
her father was rich; that she was the reputed heir of great wealth; for I did 
not like to speak of the bauble riches , while depicting feelings pure as her's. 
But it was so, and I thought the fear of opposition from the proud father was 
the reason why he had never formally declared his love. But when they 
were called upon to separate, it was no time for them to speak of it. Still 
it did speak in the expression of their eyes, in the faltering of their words, 
in the tremor of their hands, and his last words were, 

44 Alicia, we shall soon meet again." 

They did not soon meet again. Days passed, and word came to us that 
Alicia was an orphan; and then was also brought the tidings that she was a 
portionless one. A sudden and irretrievable reverse of fortune had brought 
the old man to a bed of sickness and death; and his daughter was left pen¬ 
niless. But never had I envied Alicia as in that hour of trial and sorrow. 
There was one that would now be more than friend to that friendless one. 
One who would go, and wipe the tears from her eyes, or mingle with them 
the consolations of love and sympathy. He would now go, and be to that 
lonely girl all that affection could desire, and all that affection could suggest. 
Now was the time for Henry to show himself all that was kind, and true, 
and noble. But my faith in him began to grow dim—time passed by, and 
he went not; and when Alicia wrote to me, to know if he were still among 
the living, I was astounded. But even then I could not believe him base ; 
there must be some mistake. 1 was to be undeceived. Ah, how totally had 
I been blinded. The mists of love had been around me, and how were they 
to be dispersed ? Alicia still wept over a new-made grave, when Henry 
made a proposal of marriage to me. It was then the love of money which 
had prompted him to assume the garb of affection ; it had been Alicia's ex¬ 
pected fortune; and it was now my smaller hut certain one which his ambi¬ 
tious spirit had desired, as the means of self-aggrandizement. I saw it all 
now, and I was roused from my long dream. It was a bitter stroke, and 
the wounded heart was henceforth to be a caliced one. I spurned him 
from me. I despised—nay, even detested him now, hut that loving, trusting, 
idolizing faith could never more return. I had loved him, but I could never 
love again*" . 

Aunt Miranda ceased, and for a few moments we sat in silence. u But 
what,” said I, 44 became of Alicia ?•” 

44 Alicia,” continued she, 44 had loved with less of idolatry than myself, 
but with far more of hope and sympathy. Her mortification was greater 
also, for her affection had been more generally known, and openly acknowl¬ 
edged ; but she called pride to her aid, and hid the wound which could not 
heal. There was one who had loved her in younger happier days, and 
whose affection continued, even through change of time, of fortune, and of 
her own feelings- That one knew not how earnest were her strivings for 


peace, for strength, and 'cheerfulness, and at length she seemed so happy 
that he deemed she had wholly overcome that ill-fated love. She yielded to 
his solicitations and became his wife, but her exertions to. conquer, to forget, 
and to love again, had been too great She died, ere one whole year had 
passed away, and begged of me to watch and love hqr infant child. I have 
endeavored to fulfil that trust; and when a few years since the father also 
died, leaving her the heir of much wealth, I determined that she should nev- 
er become the victim of a fortune-hunter. Alice, I fear 1 have been too neg¬ 
ligent, for it may even now be so.” 

44 Then I am that orphan child.” 

44 You are the offspring of my brother George, and my much-loved Alice,” 
replied Aunt Miranda. 

44 But you called her Alicia.” 

44 That was to prevent you from identifying her at first,” and taking a 
lovely miniature from her bosom, she hung it around my neck. I looked 
upon the beauteous face, and burst into tears. 

44 Let her sorrows be warnings to you,” continued my aunt, 44 and look 
long and closely before you take that last leap, which may consign you to a 

44 But what,” said 1, 44 became of Henry ?” 

44 His ardent dreams of fame and wealth were afterwards realized. He 
married an heiress in a distant city, and revelled for a time in splendor. But 
this is the bright side of the picture. Many trials and disappointments have 
since been his, and he is now a broken-spirited prematurely aged man.” 

Aunt Miranda’s warnings were not lost upon me. I thanked her for her 
counsels, and promised to guide my conduct by them. My marriage was 
deferred for several years, during which Edward was closely watched by 
the Argus eyes of my anxious aunt; and when at length the day arrived, 
which was to unite my fate with his, I had the pleasure of hearing her ex¬ 
press her conviction that the only fortune which he had sought was the 
hand of Alicb. 


O swiftly descendeth the falling rain, 

Aa lightly it taps on the window pane, 

And dimples the face of the placid lake, 

While a pensive sound its droppings make 
And the winds whisper forth a sighing strain, 

To blend with the tears of the falling rain. 

How fares it now with the flowerets bright, 

That so lately have opened their eyes to the light ? 
Oh, bending low is each delicate form,* 

Yet its perfume it yields to the howling storm; 
Like gratitude swelling 'mid grief and pain. 

Is the fragrance they send through the foiling rain. 

The cattle have sought the sheltering wall, 

Where they silently stand, as the thick drops fall; 

20 * 



And see, on the grass that borders the grove, 

A glistening web the mist has just wove, 

And the pebbles that la7 on the arid plain 
Seem burnished with gold, by the falling rain. 

Where is he who trod, with his staff and pack, 

The dusty road, when the sky grew black? 

Oh! he resteth him now in the grey rock’s shade. 

And watcheth the streamlet the shower has made ; 

And ye may not say that his thoughts are vain 
While he rouse tb there on the falling rain. 

How happy are we in our calm retreat, 

While we hear the* storm on our cottage beat, 

And think, as we list to the raging din, 

That it maketh.dearer the peace that’s within ; 

While cheerful we sit, till the day doth wane, 

And gaze on the clouds and the falling rain. 

When the gladdening sunlight of joy has fled, 

And troubles are gathering dark overhead, 

May our spirits serenely repose in His love, 

Whose strength all the powers of earth cannot move ; 

And, sheltered serenely from sorrow and pain. 

Look with smiles on the storm and the falling rain. L. L. 


44 Good evening, Samuel; I am 4 so glad 1 to see you ; why, it is nearly 
three months since you have been here.” 

u Yes, sister, it has been a long time since I have had the pleasure of pas¬ 
sing an evening with you; but my old excuse is my only one—pressure of 
business. I have returned the volume of poems you lent me when I was 
here, and will thank you, if you can, to give me some account of the origin 
and modus operandi of this Library Association.” 

44 1 shall comply with pleasure, as I passed an evening in company with a 
member of that Institution, when in Boston several months since, who, at 
my request, kindly furnished me with the statistics of the society, which are 
as follows: The Library was established February 22d, 1820. It owes its 
origin to the exertions of a few philanthropic individuals, who, perceiving the 
necessity of, and the advantages to be derived from, the intellectual and 
moral improvement of this important class of the community, united their 
efforts, and, aided by the donations of a liberal public, founded the first “Ap¬ 
prentices’ Library” in the world. It was placed by its founders under the 
guardianship of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanic Association, who 
conducted it until 1828, when an Association of Apprentices was formed, 
who took charge of the Library, the parent Association defraying its expen¬ 
ses until 1832, when the apprentices assumed the entire responsibility.— 
Since that time it has been solely under their direction and control, and, 
through their exertions, is now enjoying a high state of prosperity, and con¬ 
sequent utility. The Library consists of upwards of 2,000 volumes.” 


44 Thank you, but judging from the poems, I should suppose they possessed 
other advantages for intellectual improvement, than access to books only.” 

44 Yes, brother; connected with the Association, is an Elocution Class, 
which forms one of the principal attractions to the members. Its exercises 
are declamation, debate, extem|K>raneous speaking, and the reading of orig¬ 
inal essays. There is also an extensive reading department, furnished with 
the principal papers and magazines of the day. Those poems, Samuel, 
which you have just read, are sufficient evidence of the value of this Asso¬ 
ciation; being the production of genius, which, in all probability, would have 
lain dormant, but for its influence.” 

u That, Emma, has been no slight influence, which has thus 4 roused the 
slumbering soul, the forceful mind; to break away those fetters that bind 
them groveling to earth,’ and try their new fledged pinions in the bright 
realms of poesy.” 

44 Brother, as you are a better critic than myself, I would like your opin¬ 
ion on a few extracts, which I will read. I select these, not because they 
are the best poetry in the poems, or the best poems in the book; but being 
from 44 Anniversary Poems,” they are more intimately connected with the 
subject of our present conversation. They likewise convey a good idea of 
the spirit of the institution. The first was pronounced Feb. 22d, 1838, also 
the anniversary of Washington’s birthday.” 

“ Immortal Chieftain ! round whose memory plays 
Glory’s rich sunshine in unclouded blaze ! 

Whose deeds now shine a constellation bright, 

That ne'er shall set until eternal night— 

When wondrous systems must to chaos run, 

And deepest darkness pall the golden sun; 

The brightest planets quench their bounteous light, 

And hide their beauty from admiring sight; 

Old Time, grown weary, leaves un watched his glass. 

And years and ages unrecorded pass— 

That constellation, though it sets with earth, 

W 7 ill dawn again to a celestial birth; i 

The pure effulgence worth to it has given, 

Will beam resplendent in the courts of heaven." 

4i Well, then, Emma, you wish my opinion. That extract speaks forth its 
own praises, and will find a ready response in every American heart.” 

44 Hear this, Samuel; it is from the poem on Reason , pronounced the suc¬ 
ceeding anniversary. 

Man’s course is onward! sped by Keason’s light, 

How high he mounts! how beautiful and bright, 

The grand conceptions of those reasoning powers, 

When thought beguiles his lonely waking hours. 

Behold on her swift pinions now he flies 
Beyond the world, and to his gazing eyes, 

Those stars, like diamonds on the robe of night, 

Are peopled worlds, suspended fVom their height 
By God’s omnipotence; he learns to trace 
Their forms and motions through the azure space; 

In Nature’s book to read the wondrous laws 

Which change the seasons, and from whence the cause." 



44 Emma, I think I may very reasonably consider that a fine specimen of 
the manly and vigorous style, joined with purity of thought. Some of those 
figures are really admirable.” 

44 The next is from an article on Improvement , pronounced Feb. 22d, 1840. 
It is rather long, but I hope you will excuse that, as it so well sets forth the 
fraternal feelings existing among the members, and the fond devotion with 
which they bow at the altar of improvement.” 

44 Beloved companionsthis little band, 

Whose youthful ardor lent the willing hand 
And generous heart, in Virtue’s cause to rear 
Tour little temple, to Improvement dear, 

Who love within its hallowed walls to meet 
Each dear associate, and together greet 
The voice of Wisdom, as she sweetly pours 
The choicest treasures of her gathered stores; 

With eager hand, the glowing page to turn. 

Which bids its rapture in your bosoms burn; 

Or filled with wonder at their grand display. 

Through Nature’s realms with Art and Science stray; 

With minds improved by each successive scene, 

With grateful hearts within these walls convene. 

To list instruction from the lips of age, 

From Scholar, Statesman, and the learned Sage.” 

44 Emma, any person who could read that extract, and not wish to see the 
whole poem, would still be insensible to its beauties, were I to speak of the 
lofty enthusiasm of its spirit, or its rich and racy style.” 

44 Samuel, the last one I will quote is from a poem on Eloquence , pro¬ 
nounced Feb. 22d, 1842.” 

41 Resistless Power! while yet thy tones inspire 
The patriot’s ardor and the warrior’s fire,— 

While round the guilty great, thy lightning's play, 

Or cheer d6spondent Virtue on her way,— 

In sweeter notes some passing hour beguile, 

And wreath on Beauty’s cheek a lovelier smile,— 

Or silent plead in Friendship's ardent eye, 

Or softly breathe in fond Affection’s sigh,— 

Pierce Mammon's heart, oppressed with sordid care, 

And wake the manly feeling slumbering there ! 

With sweet persuasive voice the wanderer win 
To honor’s starry pathway back again! 

Oh, matchless Art! while still unchecked shall roll 
Thy dauntless influence o’er the human sonl. 

With purer aims the mind of man employ,— 

Let nobler ends bring more exalted joy !” 

44 Sister, the heart beats lightly to the eloquent music of this bard's beau¬ 
tiful imaginings. Long and often may those gifted youths continue to send 
forth the sweet strains of soul-stirring poetry to gladden the world.” 

44 Brother, another good idea connected with the Association, is, the de¬ 
gree of Honorary Member , which, at the close of their apprenticeship, in 
conferred on those, who, in the estimation of their fellows, have earned the 



dear loved title. Those who are elected to this honor, cherish it as the best 
‘certificate of character’ with-which they can commence life’s uneven jour¬ 

44 Yes, Emma, that is a very good measure, as it will prove a stimulant to 
the indolent, and a reward to the industrious. From small causes, effects 
little thought of, sometimes arise. Probably the individual who gave the 
moving spring its first vibration, which ushered into being the 44 Mechanic 
Apprentices’ Library Association,” was all unconscious of the great good 
which would result from that one, in itself, unimportant word.” 

44 Truly, brother, thus we see it becometh us, ‘^Whatsoever our hand find- 
eth to do, do it with our might.’ I presume every apprentice in Boston,who 
has any taste for moral or intellectual excellence, if not already one, will 
lose no time in becoming a member of that excellent institution.” 

. 44 Thank you, dear sister, for the information you have given me. Good 

night. But stop. Where can I obtain those poems ? I have made inquiry 
at several of our bookstores, and have been unable to find them.” . 

44 You can get them, Samuel, at the bookstore of A. O. Ordway, No. 99, 
Merrimack street.” H. J. 


lt JUl have the elements of every lovable virtue .” 

44 Good morning, Lizzy,” said Lucy White, as, with a merry laugh, and 
a bounding step, she entered her sister’s apartment; 44 let us take a walk to 
inhale the pure air this delicious morning.” 

“Thank you, sister, I am glad you have called; I have wished for a little 
chat with you ; and as we can walk and talk at the same time, I shall be 
very happy to accompany you. Where shall we go, Lucy ?” 

44 O, anywhere, Lizzy, that we can breathe fresh air, and find a dear little 
bud, or flower, or any vegetable life. Let us go where the grass has a 
chance to greet the blessed sunlight, without being compelled to force its 
way between the bricks, as it does on our sidewalk. Haste, Lizzy, and put 
on your bonnet and shawl. Now for your chat: what is it to be about?” 

44 Well, Lucy, it is this: a few days since, as I opened one of my friend 
Munroe’s books, I discovered a slip of perforated paper, whereon was neatly 
wrought, 4 All have the elements of every lovable virtue.’ What do you 
think of the sentiment?—is it true, or is it not?” 

44 Think of it,” exclaimed Lucy; 44 why I cannot believe it is half true!” 

44 But, dear sister, are you not rather hasty in giving judgment? For my 
own part I must confess, I felt there was much truth in it; and I would it 
were more generally acknowledged, for I am sure it would elevate the tone 
of feeling in the community, and increase the amount of human happiness.” 

44 Surely, Lizzy, you cannot intend to say that old Peggy Straw possessed 
half the lovable virtues. She seems to delight in deception, especially if she 
can injure any person’s feelings by it. 1 have not forgotten how she told 
Mr. West and Mr. Capen, that she had invited all the girls around there to 
her quilting that afternoon. She knew that I would suffer from her decep¬ 
tion rather than contradict it before strangers, so she endeavored to make it 



appear that some of us would not assist her, when we could have done if so 
we had been invited.” 

44 Lucy, be not too severe; Peggy has not enjoyed the religious advan¬ 
tages that most people have at the present day. The circumstances in which 
she has been placed have probably made her very different from what she 
would have been under different influences. Do you not suppose, when 
Peggy was an infant in ber mother’s arms, she gave as fair promise of future 
excellence as any child.” 

44 Possibly that may have been the case; but if so, how could she have 
arrived at her present degree of depravity ?” 

44 Lucy, you admit the possibility of the fact; I think it not only possible, 
but more than probable, that she possessed every organ necessary for a well- 
balanced and healthy mind ; if so, then she possessed 46 the elements of every 
lovable virtue,” and it has been a want of proper cultivation only that prevents^ 
her from being really an,amiable person. Speaking phrenologically, Con¬ 
scientiousness may have been entirely neglected, while other organs have 
been unduly developed.” 

44 Well, Lizzy, there seems some plausibility in your reasoning; and if it 
can be fully established, I shall pity rather than despise the unfortunate crea¬ 
ture. But there is Dilly Gay— you said she was a perfect nuisance. How 
will your motto apply to her ?” 

44 Yes, Lucy, I confess I did say so, but it was a premature judgment; I 
have since concluded that her rough manners, and uncourteous speech, con¬ 
stitute the brier-hedge which conceals the verdure of a true and kind heart. 
When Sarah Hill was so very sick, you know Dilly was the first one who 
offered her any assistance, and she was ever at hand to perform any little 
act of kindness until she recovered.” 

“Well, Lizzy, I am half inclined to adopt your motto; it would open to 
me a new sphere of usefulness and happiness.” 

“ Do so, dear sister, if you are convinced of its truth, but not otherwise. 
When you have planted it in your heart, much care and cultivation will be 
necessary, to make it flourish. Indeed your utmost efforts, at times, will 
scarce keep it alive. But do not despair—it will yield fruit in due season.” 

44 1 will think of it, Lizzy. But here we are at your door; aeqept part of 
my flowers, and my thanks for your company in this, to both mind and body, 
invigorating excursion. Good morning.” 

44 Good morning, Lucy.” Orianma. 


Change and instability are written upomall things. This law is imprinted 
upon all the varying forms of Nature, and we see it indelibly impressed, 
also, upon all the works of man. We look on the earth, clothed in the green 
verdure and beauty of summer—the waving forest, the rich fruit trees, and 
the fanciful garden, are all spread before us; but, even while we are gazing, 
the change comes, the brilliancy fades, and soon all Nature lies cold and 
shivering beneath the snow-clad robes of winter. 

If we look abroad oh the works of man, how forcibly are we reminded of 
their changing, fleeting nature. Although the labor of thousands of human 



beings has been expended upon the works of art, yet Decay has stamped her 
signet upon them, and they are continually passing away! Vicissitude, 
which comes upon every thing else, comes also upon society. Do we rely 
upon the ties of friendship and love ? Alas, how frail is the support! We 
see our friends and acquaintances busily pursuing the career of life, some of 
them in the strength and vigor of youth, full of hope and activity ; but they 
are gone! No ties could retain, nor love save them, for the Power that 
changed is omnipotent. . 

There are changes from which no money can purchase exemption which 
no wisdom can avert. Death, the completion of all earthly mutability—what 
a change is this! “The silver cord is loosed”—“The golden bowl is bro* 
ken,” and the once animated being becomes cold and insensible. The heart 
no longer glows with affection—the voice is hushed, and the countenance 
that but lately*' beamed with expression, is naught but an image. The spirit 
is not dead, but has only changed the place of its abode. Thus are we 
taught not to place our affections too fondly on things that perish, but to cher¬ 
ish those feelings which will fit us for that world where no change comes, 
except in constant improvement; “ where the bright ages of eternitywul 
cast no shadow, but roil on in unceasing happiness.” J* »• ™ • 


The Sabbath in Lowell. The fine appearance of the Lowell operatives upon 
the Sabbath is often made a theme of remark by strangers. And truly it is a pleasant 
sight to view so many pretty females in the bloom of life, clad in their holiday dresses, 
filling by thousands our trottoirs upon their way to or from the bouse of God. 

But with those who are reflecting—to whom the eye of the body is but a servant to 
the eye of the soul—to those who look farther than that which meets the senses—to 
those this sight is suggestive of many thoughts. They would see how much of care 
has been bestowed upon this poor outward frame, and would ask if as much attention 
had been directed to the preparation of the heart % for its appearance in a place—not of 
theatrical show, but of worship. They would ask if, with those whose time for rest 
and spiritual improvement is so limited, if the outward and inward adornment were 
perfectly compatible with each other. They would imagine scenes which we have 
witnessed , where hours of the sacred day have been spent in the mere u plaiting of the 
hair.*’ They would think also of the different motives which have brought so many 
forth; and then again they would think that even this great number included not all. 
They would know that there were many who never enter a place of public worship; 
and they would presume that of that number many might spend this time ina manner 
which would ill accord with its sacred duties. 

We are not now about to recommend a puritanical observance of the Sabbath. We 
would not wish to make it a day in which there should be no interchange of cheerful 
thoughts, and friendly congratulations; but we would wish that all should, in some 
manner, on this day, lend their influence to a perpetuation of those ordinances which 
have made us an envied people; and without which there must be a decay of all 
which truly conduces to our happiness. 

Every girl who enters a Lowell factory receives a “regulation paper,” in which it 
is enjoined upon her to attend, regularly, some place of public worship. Among these 
females there are many who think no such rule should be made—that the employers 
need exercise no supervision over their conduct,..excepting so far as their behavior in, 
the mill, or at their boarding-house, is concerned. And then, again, there are, as we 
have heretofore stated, many who cannot afford the expenses which they would thus 
incur. There are girls who come to support a widowed mother, or invalid father, or 
a family in some way deprived of their usual means of support; or they come to re¬ 
deem a mortgaged farm, or to collect a wardrobe, or a sum of money to attend school, 



or get married, or “go to the West;” and the pew rent, which varies from three to 
six dollars per annum, is a tax heavily felt when one receives but u a new handV* 
wages; and which, with the attendant expenses of dress, etc., make a slight inroad 
upon any operative's purse. But, it.may be urged, this rule is not enforced—no one 
is forced into compliance with this regulation. 

This rule ought either to be enforced, or it should be erased from the list of regula¬ 
tions. And it should never be enforced unless one place, at least, of free worship, is 
established in Lowell. There should be one “ City Missionary,” or “Minister at 
Large”— one to preach the Gospel to those who might not otherwise hear it. In a 
city, which does not contain three times as many inhabitants as Lowell, there are three 
such preachers; and there also the proportion of a young floating population is not so 
large—of those to whom it would be most useful, and whose influence in the generation 
of coming’actors upon the stage of life will be very likely to remain impressed by cir¬ 
cumstances here. We send from this city, hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars every 
year, for the support of missionaries in other places; while, in the words of John Ran¬ 
dolph, “ the Greeks are at our door.” “ These things ought we to have done, and 
not to have left the other undone.” 

It may be said that, with a little self-denial, almost every operative might enjoy 
these religious privileges; but, granting this, all young girls, away from the influen¬ 
ces of*parents and friends, will not exercise this self-denial; and we do notreason 
thus in regard to the young about other things. We do not expect the prudence, 
self-denial, and circumspection, of them that we do of those who are maturer. Our 
care should be that the young may enjoy these advantages, and be placed within those 
influences, which will be likely to create those qualities. 

It may be objected to all this, that those who attend public worship here do it not 
always from the motives which should actuate them—that they go for display—“to 
see and be seen.” We will allow that good impulses may often be mingled with those 
which are not so praiseworthy; yet, by a constant attendance upon faithful preaching, 
the former may be made to predominate; and it must be granted that an entire deser¬ 
tion of the house of God, even when commenced from necessity, is almost always 
followed by a decrease of moral sensibility. Those who value Sabbath privileges, 
themselves, will not be likely to make this objection. 

Some will say that, of the great number who do not attend public worship, many 
are as good and amiable as the majority of those who do thus attend. If we grant 
this we must remember that they are under the silent influences of these services, by 
their connection with the others—that society here would be very different if there 
were no altars built for God —and, however pleasant and good these young females 
may be, an attendance upon church services would be an indication of a still higher 
tone of moral feeling, and help to preserve it. 

And now it may be asked, “ Do the operatives wish for an institution of this kind ?” 

When the females, who attend upon no regular place of worship, are asked why 
they do not, the reply is often made, that they would, if they could enjoy the privilege 
of a free attendance at some such place. 

“ And, supposing such an enterprise was to be established, what sort of a minister 
should we obtain?” 

He should be a philanthropist—a man of noble and elevated views of Christianity— 
one who could rise above all the distinctions of sects, and be willing to “ preach Christ, 
and Him crucified.” He should be one who could see a lamb for his flock, from what¬ 
ever fold she might have come—one who, by enforcing and inculcating the great 
truths upon which we all agree, would gain their regard, and do much good, and who 
would wound the feelings of none, by touching upon those minor differences which 
alone make discord—one who, when more favorable circumstances smiled upon her, 
could behold any lamb of his flock return to her own fold, with the consciousness 
that, to her, he had been a good shepherd. He should be one who would respect the 
feelings and views of the other shepherds about him, and one whose faithfulness and 
truth should secure theirs in return. He should be an intellectual and educated man, 
that he might win those who would feel repulsed by ignorance and coarseness—for 
many, who are here, have been accustomed, in their hoities, to the teachings of those 
who are well fitted to stand, as ministering spirits, between them and their Father 
who is in Heaven. 

And, lastly, “ By whom should this be brought about?” 

It is not a duty exclusively belonging to the capitalists, though they might be ex¬ 
pected to assist. But all should feel themselves called upon to engage in a work like 
this, who have philanthropic feelings, and Christian hearts. H. F. 



AUGUST, 1 843. 


There are feelings that gather, and brood o’er the soul. 
Forbidding the current of passion to roll, 

When the mute spirit gases with awe and delight, 

On vague formless outlines that flit o’er its sight, 

And sees, in the visions that dimly pass by, 

A glimpse of its own Eternity. 

There’s a yearning, that *s felt in the heart’s deepest cell, 
And silently, vainly within doth it swell; 

And scorning the hopes of the children of earth, 

Aspires to the home of its loftier birth; 

And that yearning, unquenched, in the heart will e’er lie 
Till refreshed by a draught of Eternity. 

As the young eaglet pants for the glorious light, 

And flutters its yet unfledged pinions for flight,— 

Its mountain-built eyry disdainfully scans, 

While the broad azure heaven its glowing eye spans, 

So struggles the earth-fettered spirit to fly, 

And bathe in the light of Eternity. 

As that noble bird soars, when its thraldom is done, 

Soars swiftly and steadily on to the sun, 

So shall the immortal, when spreading her wings, 

Glance lightly beneath, on terrestrial things; 

And on God, her bright Source, firmly fixing her eye, 
For ever exult in Eternity. 







Michael Angelo, indignant at the unjust preference which the pretended 
connoisseurs of his time gave to the works of the ancient sculptors—irritated 
beside by what they had said to him, that the least of the antique statues was 
more beautiful than all he had done, or ever could produce, bethought him¬ 
self of a singular means to confound them. 

He secretly sculptured a Cupid, with all the genius and art which belonged 
to him. When this statue was finished he cut off an arm, and after having 
given to the remainder of the figure by means of certain tints, the color of 
the ancient statues, he buried it during the night, in a place where they were 
soon to dig for the foundation of an edifice. 

The time came—they found the Cupid—all the curious ran to admire it 
They cried out that they had never seen any thing so beautiful. It is a mas¬ 
terpiece of Phidias, said some. It is of Policlites, said others. How supe¬ 
rior, cried they all, to any thing done at the present day f But what a pity 
that it wants an arm ! 

44 That arm I have, gentlemen,” at length said Michael Angelo, who had 
listened to these foolish exaggerations. They began to mock him, but the 
confusion soon turned upon them when they saw Michael Angelo readjust 
to the statue the arm which he had before detached from it. By acknowl¬ 
edging the true author of the statue, it was necessary to acknowledge also 
that it is not impossible for the moderns to equal the ancients. E. W. L. 


Kiss! kisses ! kissing ! How much of bliss, and how much of misery, 
is implied by those fond fatal words. There is the kiss simple, the kiss di¬ 
plomatic, the ceremonial kiss, (and from authority which we hardly wish to 
quote here) the 44 holy kiss;” and every maiden , from sixteen to sixty, can 
aver that there is another variety, the kiss tender. To enumerate the end¬ 
less ^variety, or to delineate each species, is not our intention—-much less to 
classify, or analyze each particular class. Matters of so much importance, 
and requiring so much learned and able research, we shall leave for those 
able to master them; but that much depends upon the just decisions of these 
questions, no one will deny. 

44 Kisses and kissing,” by the generality of mankind are merely considered 
- 44 common” and “proper;” and yet individuals of nice discrimination—those 
who can see shape in the wind, and hear sounds in the scintillations of a star, 
will agree with us that there is an endless variety in species, and no sufficient 
definition or adequate meaning attached to each class. They are all lumped 
together, and said to mean merely— nothing. This is erroneous. Is there 
not a wide difference between the kiss snatched publicly with a smack from 
the pouting lips of the laughing hoiden, and the silent kiss, imprinted stealth- 



ily and noiselessly upon the same lips ? Each and every kiss ought to be 
classified in the same manner as shells, or plants. How much more impor¬ 
tant to general happiness, is a significant and understood meaning of kisses, 
thafi a knowledge of the particular class and species of the inanimate curi¬ 
osities flung from the briny wave. How many heart-aches—how many 
misunderstandings have arisen from the confusion of kisses. Convinced of 
the importance of this subject, we would add the following incident as proof 
of our assertions, that the matter of simple kissing, as connected with general 
happiness, has not received the attention which it demands. 

As localities are not material to our purpose, we shall mention none; and 
merely premise, that, doubtless, in each city, village and country, where 
kissing is known, some good dame, in her mind’s eye, might find the original 
personages of the incident We are aware that we shall develope nothing 
new; nevertheless, we shall claim the honor of directing the attention of the 
humane, philanthropic, and enlightened more particularly to the cause which 
has so often marred the pleasures^ of social intercourse, rendered harmony 
discord, and almost branded virtue with crime. 

No man was more esteemed—none more respected—no one more re¬ 
garded and beloved for the kindness of his heart, and urbanity of manners, 
than Mr. Stoors, in the community where he resided. Generous, noble, 
learned, and withal possessed of much wealth, he was a man to be envied 
for his station, and imitated in his daily walks of kindness and love. He 
had but one fault, and that was scarce accounted one by a greater portion 
of his acquaintance. But he was unmarried , and that placed him in the 
equivocal position of an unappropriated tract of land—all who wished thought 
that they had a right 44 to possess and improve” at their leisure. 

And certainly no one, in this case, was more anxious for the right of pos¬ 
session than Miss Clarissa Hall. She had passed the morning and meridian 
of her days in 44 single blessednessand she was anxious—perhaps from 
aio other motive than the curiosity inherent in her sex—that the singular 
number of her existence should cease, and become plural for the afternoon 
of her life. (We sounds more full and sonorous than J, as all editors and 
xnonarchs can testify.) The desire, which was engendered in her palpitating 
bosom, was proper; for no one can be so ungenerous as to blame any wo¬ 
man for escaping from the ranks of old maids —if she can. In her early 
days, being of the sentimental class, she had assumed a character of de¬ 
mure prudishness, and by her reserve had frightened all young swains from 
thoughts kind and tender, if they could have entertained any towards such 
an apparently cold and unmovable lump of clay. But now, regretting the 
error of her diplomacy, she resolved to relax from her austerity on the first 
proper occasion. 

A widowed aunt superintended the domestic arrangements of Mr. Stoors; 
and Miss Clarissa became a frequent visitor in the house, trusting that as the 
amiability of her character became developed, the gentleman, towards whom 
her operations were directed, would take due notice, and secure the prize 
of a tender wife in herself This was the more to be hoped, as it was well 
known that the aunt, at no very distant period, anticipated a reunion with 
her own children under the roof of her eldest son. 

Mr. Stoors, perfectly ignorant of the tender emotions which he had created 
in the breast of the fair lady, preserved his usual equanimity of demeanor 
and thought; but, unfortunately, one evening, in her presence, he lamented 
his misfortune in losing his aunt, remarking that he did not know what he 
should do when she was gone. 



He had suffered a siege without any signs of capitulation, and Miss Clar¬ 
issa resolved upon a storm , seizing upon the present opportunity as a propi¬ 
tious moment. 

44 1 will supply her place,’ 1 said she, advancing to him, and throwing her 
arms around his neck so tenderly l 

If ever a man was taken by surprise, it was Mr. Stoors; and kissing the 
cheek which nestled so lovingly close to his own, he loosened her arms from 
around his neck, and instantly retired without speaking. 

A kiss answered for words where every idea of kindness, compliment and 
sincerity were in confusion. What could a man say, when he did not know 
what to think ? 

Time passed; and with the other news current, was the tale that Miss 
Hall was ill. The good old ladies wondered why Mr. Stoors did not call 
upon her, as he was ever the first to visit the sick, the sorrowful, and the 
afflicted. But his visit of consolation was delayed until a message was 
brought him from the invalid, requesting his presence. He complied with 
the request; but what passed at the interview is beyond out power to relate. 
However, the visit was not repeated ; and soon whispers began to be circu¬ 
lated detrimental to the character of Mr. Stoors, charging him with seeking 
to excite the affections of the amiable lady, and then leaving the buds of 
hope and promise, which had sprouted in her bosom, to be killed by the 
frosts of neglect and unkindness ! 

The tale was circulated as gratuitously and expeditiously as the tc ex¬ 
presses” of the present day carry news and newspapers in advance of the 
mail; and in proof of its truth, his kiss was harped upon as a direct avowal. 

The old ladies sided with the fair sufferer, declaring that u he had no busi¬ 
ness to be kissing without meaning any thing!” And the young ladies 
laughed, for they thought it possible that if Mr. Stoors had kissed once, he 
might do so again; and that thought had the elements of hope in it. 

Finally, the matter was brought into the church of which Miss Hall and 
Mr. Stoors were both members, and the result was, that Mr. Stoors was dis¬ 
missed in disgrace, for all of the deacons and trustees were married men . 

And here was an honorable man disgraced, and all for the ignorance of 
the people in respect to kisses and kissing. As good as the men were who 
examined the case, not one of them could decide satisfactorily to what spe¬ 
cies the kiss in question belonged—Mr. Stoors averring that it was the only 
return he could make for the lady’s kindness, and she as strongly declaring 
that it was nothing but the kiss tender, the preliminary of soft avowals. And 
with this testimony, and the old ladies’ influence, the judges of the case de¬ 
cided by jumping at their conclusion, that 44 to kiss without any meaning, 
was indecorous and improper, especially in those persons who were looked 
upon as examples to their brethren; therefore,” &c. 

And this was the decision of ignorance, not consonant 44 with enlightened 
views of humanity” and 44 the march of improvement” that is abroad. This 
a decision of the nineteenth century, when every school girl can tell ybu that 
a kiss is both common and proper, and means— 44 nothing.” Shade of Con¬ 
necticut 44 blue laws”! thy spirit yet lingerest amongst us. Avaunt! We 
want not thy darkness to shadow the ethereal essence, the tangible reality of 
nothingness which is embodied in kisses and kissing. Kate. 




My early home was in a beautiful grove; where, amidst a large company 
of my kindred, I grew, and flourished, for years, with the rough winds 
sweeping high above me, and sheltered by the tall trees, which stood, like a 
soldier guard, about me. My life was very calm and monotonous then. I 
could listen to the birds, which sang amid the boughs of my old companions, 
but none had ever made a nest in my weak branches; and 1 quivered all 
over with delight when, for a moment, some small sparrow, or robin, touched 
my slight sprays, and then, as if frightened with the swing l gave him, flew 
up to some less sensitive bough. Occasionally a low breeze would creep 
through the grass, kiss the wood violet or anemone, and make me thrill and 
flutter with its wild caresses; but, with these exceptions, my life was one 
dull routine. I had nothing to do but to grow; and so I thought I would 
endeavor to grow “ in beauty.” Each successive branch and spray was put 
forth with the utmost regularity; and I was unwearied in my exertions to at¬ 
tain an appearance which must excite admiration. 

Yet why should I be beautiful? Amidst so many I was never noticed. 
Sometimes a pair of absent-minded lovers, or a company of noisy children, 
would approach me, but they had no eyes to notice my comeliness; and 
when some bustling man came near me, with a more interested look, and an 
expression of deep solicitude in his restless twinkling eye, there always fol¬ 
lowed it a change of demeanor, and his attentions, and compliments, would 
be transferred to some one who was older, larger, and stronger than myself. 

So l tried to grow big; and I wished to be a little “higher in the world,” 
that I might see a little more of what was going on in it--something beyond 
the verdant embattlements which allowed my sight not even one loop-hole, 
through which I might obtain experience of life beyond me. 

At length a time arrived when I w'as to be gratified; when I was to enjoy 
a happiness of which I had never even conceived in my prison home. I 
was selected by a young man (who had certainly a very correct eye for 
regularity and beauty) to grace a hall, at the time of a Fair. Oh, how I 
rustled my boughs with joy, when I heard myself named as the being of his 
choice; and how I straightened up in my pride, while others about me 
drooped with mortification. I scarcely felt the blow which severed me from 
my nourishing parent, Earth, and I heeded not its pain. Think ye that the 
telle weeps, when her attendant pierces her live flesh with holes for jewelry, 
or when the hand of the surgeon removes some deforming excrescence ? It 
was thus with me. 1 cared not for pain. I waved gaily my adieus as Lrode 
away to the place of triumph, and nodded insolently to the aged guardians 
of my short life. 

It was a fine morning, in the last of June, when I was placed in the centre 
of a beautiful hall—I, the crowning ornament, about which all other beauties 
were to be congregated. I saw small beings, some like myself, placed at a 
respectful distance from me; I saw an arch erected with its bright green 
motto; I saw the tables arranged with taste and skill about me, and covered 
with articles of beauty, and utility, or ingenious device; I saw flowers and 
embroideries brought in; and the curtains taken from two noble portraits; 
and still I was acknowledged the loveliest. Young maidens came, and 
filled my sprays with flowers and tissues—they hang, amid my boughs, col¬ 
ored transparencies, toys, and articles of their own handicraft, and I became 
21 * 



even more worthy of admiration. They placed within my shade a bird, of 
far more value and beauty than any which had ever sung amidst the branches 
of my old friends, and with a wiry nest of exquisite construction. Then he 
sung songs of sweeter melody than those little backwoods birds could imitate, 
or even conceive. Then came evening; and amidst a blaze of light, which 
transformed the place to a scene of magic, I was still the attraction, and chief 
ornament. Throngs of people passed me, with brightened eyes, and - fine 
compliments, and I was almost crazed with joy. There was traffic, and 
pleasure; music, wit, and criticism; but I was still “ the observed of all ob¬ 
servers,” the admired of all admirers . Then came night, with darkness 
and stillness, but it was only for a few hours, and then followed another day 
of pleasure and triumph. Then again came night, and the scene was over— 
the sounds of mirth had passed away; and, as if by magic, was the place 
divested of its beauty. I stood “shorn of mine honors,” and trembling for 
the future. Was it all ended ? Was this short period of bliss so soon to 
be followed by neglect and decay? I had lived too fast. I was to be pun¬ 
ished for my past pride and impatience—punished even in its gratification. 

Such were my thoughts and fears, when, lo! I was again selected to grace 
another festive scene, and on a day of national jubilee. My life was to be 
preserved for a second triumph; and, in the interval, I amuse myself with 
this review of the past. * * 


It is generally admitted that there are two sides to almost every thing; 
but seldom do we find both sides equally conspicuous. The historical page 
but rarely exhibits more than one side of the picture. The history of our 
own country will bear witness of the truth of this assertion, especially the 
history of the early settlements. 

However much the early settlers have been extolled for their piety, it 
must be acknowledged that they were rigidly superstitious; and, when re¬ 
flecting upon their injustice to those among their brethren who, like them¬ 
selves, had sought an asylum in the wilds of America, and (perchance owing 
to a different organization J honestly differed from them in some non-essential 
points of faith and doctrine, will not the question naturally arise, “ What 
must have been their feelings toward, and their treatment of, the unsophisti¬ 
cated children of the forest ?” 

And how different would the printed page appear, if the wrongs of the 
red man, and the noble traits of his character, had there been portrayed. 
But that wisdom which is from beneath, has kept these things as far as pos¬ 
sible in the background; and it is owing more to tradition, than any other 
source, that any of these things are kept in remembrance. 

In delineating Indian character, historians, as a general thing, have ex¬ 
hibited the dark side of the picture. The Indian has been represented as a 
demon; his method of warfare, treatment of prisoners, and his vindictive 
spirit has been painted in every horrid shape; while those injuries, which 
inflamed his passions, and spurred him on to cruel deeds, have been, as much 
as possible, concealed from public view. 



Will it be ever thus ? Are there not those who are willing that justice 
should be done—nay, who are willing to assist in the work ? Are there not 
among our aged grandsires, those who, in the store-house of memory have 
garnered up enough of tradition to give a true picture of the red man’s 
wrongs ? And will not their children’s children search the venerated reposi¬ 
tory of the archives of olden time, and cull from thence facts which shall 
scatter the mist of error, and show to the world the red man in a truer light ? 

I think l hear a voice answering: It shall be done. Too long has the 
dark side been contemplated ; too long has justice slumbered. Truth shall 
come forth, and the red man’s wrongs shall be redressed. The dark side 
will then receive a brightness, and the red man be known and acknowledged 
as a brother in humanity. Pumbn. 


Adieu to France ! thou sunny land, 
Where once I led the conquering band, 
In shining mail arrayed; 

For thee I early conquest won, 

And blazoned thee by Victory’s sun, 
And once thy sceptre swayed. 

I see thy landscapes fair and green, 
With villas clustering o’er the scene, 
Where wealth with splendor vies; 
The rose still blossoms in the vale, 

And lilies gem the verdant dale, 
Beneath thy genial skies. 

Officious memory ponders o’er 
Those scenes to be enjoyed no more— 
Bright pageants of an hour— 

When millions bent the ready knee, 
And hailed their royal lord in me, 

And owned my matchless power. 

Then I could lead my armies far 
To roll the purple flood of war, 

The battle-stirring shock; 

But now an exile, far from home, 
Where circumambient billows foam, 

On St. Helena's rock. 

I, who once had no tear to flow, 

No sigh to heave, no fear to show, 

In durance must remain 

Till death shall rive my prison-rock; 
While Europe’s haughty monarcbs mock, 
And triumph o’er my pain. 

Why did my power so strangely fail ? 
That once made Europe’s monarchs quail, 
And solid empires shake: 

I am not what I used to be— 

The star that ruled my destiny 
No more from gloom shall break. 

O, Austrian bride !—ambition’s dower !— 
A precipice o’erstrown with flowers 
With deep regret I see : 

From me that magic strength waB torn, 
Like Sampson’s when his locks were shorn, 
And weakness left for me. 

But since’t is so, I must submit, 

And all my former pomp forget, 

And here yield up my life— 

Far from my son and tender bride, 
Ambition’s victim—once my pride, 

But now my absent wife. 

No more with fate will I contend— 

Soon will life’s warfare have an end, 

And I, alone, shall sleep 
On this remote ignoble shore, 

Where southern billows wildly roar, 

And nightly wailings keep. 

M. R. G. 





The people have assembled ; the hour has arrived when all listen with 
eager expectation to catch the first footfall of the lecturer. Anon, a noble 
form enters. With a lofty air, and dignified step, he crosses the hail. So 
absorbed is he with his own thoughts, that he seems totally unconscious of 
the presence of any other person. Not so the lady in black, near the stand ; 
escorted thither by a friend, she has been engaged in quiet conversation; 
and, though every observer would pronounce her beautiful, yet no one would 
mistrust her calm and passionless eye, that of the distinguished authoress, 

Mrs.-, whose exquisite poetry, and poetic prose, have thrilled the 

hearts of admiring thousands. But the moment her husband approaches, 
for the lecturer is no other, her countenance lights up with almost angelic 
radiance, and her eye, (not the “ love-darting eye” of the poet’s heroine) 
before so passionless, pours forth a flood of inconceivable tenderness. O 
with what pride and fondness does she gaze on the lordly being as he strides 
past her, without even a glance. But she heeds it not; and, as he rises to 
speak, seems to lose her own individuality, and live only in the rich intona¬ 
tions of his voice, as he discourses of the philosophy of cause and effect, as 
exemplified in our social and political institutions. No one who beholds her 
now, lighted with the fires of intellect, can doubt her possession of genius, 
and genius of a high order. 

But why, sir, do you not cast a glance toward the gentle creature who 
thus hangs in rapture on your words? The fire of her eye, would add in¬ 
spiration to your philosophical reasoning, and thus send its gladdening influ¬ 
ence to every heart in the assembly. 

But the claims of society, party, and country, engross his whole attention. 
AHength the hour is past, the pleased audience disperse, and the haughty 
politician is transformed to the fond and devoted husband, as he leads her 
away, a u glory and ornament upon his right arm.” H. J. 



Did you say I must learn to forget ? It surely is a hard lesson—very 
hard. I have studied it long without the least success. Much easier, I think, 
would it be for me to learn to die than to forget. But there are things I 
would forget. Yes, I would forget that the cold stare of indifference ever 
comes from loved ones, going down into the soul with its iron hand grasping— 
O how tightly !—the quivering chords of affection, which were they free, and 
the gentle zephyrs of love breathed among them, would cheer, with their 
sweet sympathizing tones, the lone sick heart thht is wearied from long hours 
of toil. And I would forget that pride, selfishness, and guilt are in our world. 
Pride, the haughty, scornful, contemptible pride of weak man; and selfish¬ 
ness, that looks gaping, with its dull expressionless orbs, on the pale, wan 



one who approaches, but to bestow, upon its statue-like visage, one imploring 
look—then to shrink, timidly and silently, away into the dark death-envel¬ 
oping shadows of poverty. And the damp chilly fog of guilt, that is gliding 
with its noiseless serpent-like tread through fairy fields, which were decked 
but for the reception of angel purity, and along the banks of musical rivulets, 
silencing harmonious voices, which gushed forth there in one deep chorus 
of love. See—ah, see the one with its changing hue, while this haggard 
fiends weeps with his desolating power on, on; and mark—O, mark with 
grief the hush of voices, which came but so lately with their touching melody 
across the waters—waters which now pass listlessly along, with no ripple 
of pure joy on its troubled surface, dancing to the soft breath of innocence. 
Could I but forget these things, and if forgetting would blot them from exist¬ 
ence, it would be worth the while for me to endeavor to perform this allotted 
task. But a sad truth comes in here: they would remain a scourge and 
curse. O why is it so ? Why will not men and women learn that to be 
virtuous, is to be blessed and happy, and with a firm hand shake off their 
prisoner badges, free themselves from the contemptible influence of sin, and 
come out and bask in the glorious sunlight of religion ? What a celestial 
abode this earth might be, if all would grasp the standard of holiness, unfurl 
its banner to the breeze of heaven, and march steadily, courageously on, in 
despite of the occasional whisperings of the tempter. The valleys and hills, 
methinks, would send forth a cry of joy—the streams and birds, green trees 
and fields would sing anthems of praise, but their praise would be to God— 
none to man; and would not the voice of God be heard, speaking in the 
calm stillness of night, from out the heavens, saying, “ Well done: receive 
thy reward”? Adeline. 



Three inhabitants of Balek were travelling together; they found a treas¬ 
ure, and divided it; they continued their journey, conversing about the use 
to which they should put their riches. The food which they had taken with 
them was consumed; they agreed that one of them should go to purchase 
more at the village, and the youngest took upon himself the commission. 
He departed. 

He said to himself on the way: Behold how rich I am; but I should be 
much better off, if I had been alone when the treasure was found. These 
two men have shared the money. Can I not retake it. That will be easy 
for me to do. I shall only have to poison the food which I am going to pur¬ 
chase ; on my return I will say that I have dined at the village; my com¬ 
panions will eat without distrust, and they will die. I now have only a third 
of the treasure, but then I shall have all. 

Meanwhile the other two travellers said to themselves: We have been 
obliged to share the treasure with this young man; his part will increase ours, 
and then we shall truly be rich. He will return—we have good poinards. 

The young man returned with the poisoned food; his companions assas¬ 
sinated him: they eat; they died ; and the treasure belonged to no one. 

E. W. S. 



’T is strange to think, if we coaid fling aside 
The masque and mantle, that love wears from pride, 

How much would be, we now so little guess, 

Deep in each heart's undream’d, unsought recess! 

The careless smile, like a gay banner borne, 

The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,— 

And, for a cloak, what is there that can be 
So difficult to pierce, as gaiety ? * * 

Where is the heart that has not bow’d, 

A slave, eternal Love, to thee ? 

Look on the cold, the gay, the proud, 

And is there one among them free ? 

And what must love be, in a heart 
All passion’s fiery depths concealing, 

Which has, in its minutest part, 

More than another’s whole of feeling l LandLon* 

“Thank Heaven, I am once more in my own room,” said Ida Hastings, 
as she threw herself sobbing upon the sofa, and commenced unclasping the 
richly set brilliants which encircled her polished brow, and lent additional 
lustre to the dark waving hair that fell upon a neck as white as the unsullied 
snow. u Alas! it is too true,” she exclaimed, as she dashed the tears from 
her eyes, and simple indeed that I was, to think there was aught of truth in 
man, the 4 lord of creation,’ as he would fain style himself; but it is even so, 
and the fearful truth has burst upon me, like the gushing forth of a volcano, 
that he, who called the Great I Am as a witness to the solemn vow that is 
registered in Heaven, should become a traitor to his country, and break his 
plighted word to her whom he had promised to shield from the cold world’s 
cruel scorn. How very difficult it is,” she continued musingly, “ to believe 
that he, with all his pretended sense of honor, should so soon desert one 
whose very existence depended upon his smiles. Though many kind and 
true friends endeavored to persuade me that he was unworthy of my slight¬ 
est regard—yes, though they even said that the haughty Turk would not be 
more exacting than he when I was once in his power, and that tyranny and 
jealousy were the predominant traits of his character, yet I believed them 
not. I thought they were too fastidious, and magnified small failings into 
great faults, but it may be too true; and she touched the strings of her gui¬ 
tar, and sang the following song. 

’T is over, *t is over, and the rosy wreathed brow 
Can scarcely conceal the mournful heart now; 

For the banner’s unfurled, and the drums beat to arms, 

And the farewell is spoken mid battle alarms. 

With her light fairy fingers and bright smiling face, 

On the brow of her warrior the helmet she placed, 

And the trusty old sword she then hung by his side, 

And said, “May good angels -be ever thy guide.” 



But he knew not the wo that bright mantle concealed, 

That the fond heart was breaking 'neath Gayety’s shield; 

His dreams were of glory and Fame's brilliant fetar, 

And his vows were forgot mid the tumults of war. 

But her bright sunny smile for ever has fled, 

Tet firmly and proudly her farewell was said; 

Oh, careless the word which love's bright chain could sever, 

But when it once parted, 't was broken for ever! 

“ If the rosy wreath cannot conceal my sorrow, these gems must” said 
Ida, as she held them up before the mellow light of the astral lamp, w and 
none shall know the misery of the heart that beats beneath, for it is far bet¬ 
ter that it should break than for a moment to bend. Of what materials can 
the heart of man be formed, when he is convinced that he is strongly and 
devotedly loved, to cast from him the being so truly his own, and so depen¬ 
dent upon his smiles for her all of earthly bliss! The world may indeed 
smile at his inconstancy, but the hour will come when the glitter of false 
joys will be dimmed; then will he seek in vain for that consolation that is 
given to the 4 pure in heart.’ And will it not sometimes appear to him as if 
all the better feelings of his nature have been wrested from hb bosom, and 
cast upon the cold marble in the season of frost.” 

“ His hand is on the Bnowy sail, 

His step is on the prow, 

And back the cold night-winds have flung 
The dark curls from his brow; 

That brow, to which his native heaven 
A something of itself has given. 


Upon that youthful brow are traced 
High impulses like these; 

But all too purposeless, like galea 
That wander o'er the seas; 

Not winds that bear the vessel on, 

Fix'd to one point, and only one. 

* * # * * 

Ay, leave thy rudder to the wave, 

Thy sail upon the wind, 

Leave them to chance, and they will be 
Fit likeness of thy mind: \ 

Unguided sail, unmastered prow, 

Are only emblems;—What art thou?" 

The rosy tints of an evening long ere the commencement of our story had 
deepened into the dark shades of night, and a soft faint obscurity wrapped 
all surrounding objects, when Randolph Mandeville wended his way to the 
house of Ida Hastings, to bid her a long adieu, or one at least which seemed 
to him long; for he had been called to cross the great waters to fight for his 
country and his home; and even then he could almost see in the distance 
the star of fame that he fancied would soon encircle his brow. 


44 Oh, how rejoiced I am that you have come,” exclaimed Ida, as she met 
him at the door, and led him to a seat, 44 for I have so much to say to you.” 

44 And pray what have you to tell me ?” said Randolph laughing, and 
gazing tenderly upon her face that was covered with blushes. 

44 1 will tell you,” she replied. 44 1 am not superstitious, neither do I be¬ 
lieve in dreams, but I had so strange a vision, last night, that I cannot forget 
it. I thought I was far, far away from the cold regions of the North—away 
from the 4 hundred and one dear friends’ that ever stand ready to give advice, 
and to warn me of the many dangers into which giddy youth may fall; and 
that privileged person too was not remembered, who, not a week since, told 
me he would rather see me a lifeless corpse—yes, he said he would rather 
the grave would open and hide me from his sight, than that I should ever 

stand before the altar, by the side of-But no matter, I was far away 

from all that speaks ill of thee, from all who would persuade me that wealth 
and fame are the only avenues to happiness. I was beneath the sunny sky 
of Italy, and all was joy and pleasure, for it was a gala day there; but I 
had naught to do with the gay revellers; the orange groves invited me to 
repose myself beneath their fragrant shade; scarcely was I seated before 
you threw yourself by my side, and we were so happy that we did not no¬ 
tice the flight of time, for you were forming plans for the future, when we 
should no more part on earth. But quickly the sky became overcast with 
black heavy clouds, and there was a wild shriek. I looked in the direction 
from whence it proceeded, and there I saw a hideous-looking bird, with a 
snake suspended in its beak over our heads; it seemed that you did not per¬ 
ceive it, and before 1 could warn you of your danger, it fell and coiled itself 
about your neck; I sank back, and uttered a cry of agony, which awoke me. 
Now, Randolph, can you tell me from what kind of a precipice 1 am about 
to fail?” 

Randolph started up hastily, and looked in her face, while the crimson 
blood shot over his forehead in an instant. He threw his arms around her, 
and looked into her eyes without speaking, as though he would read all that 
was passing there. 

44 Oh! Ida,” he said at last, 44 your dream was nothing but the wanderings 
of a disordered imagination; and if you will trust your happiness with me, 
there shall be nothing neglected on my part to make your life pass like a 
summer’s day; yes, it will always be my dearest pleasure to make you 
happy; and may the vengeance of Heaven rest upon my head, if I depart 
from the truth 1 have sworn to you.” 

44 Nay, Randolph, I did not doubt your constancy,” said the fond-hearted 
trusting girl; and the dream was forgotten when he spoke of his departure 
for a foreign clime. Many were the promises, and many the vows he made 
before he left her, who would have been as a bright star in his pathway 
through life. 

Months passed by, and many were the letters which were received by 
Ida, breathing of love and of the happy day when he should return to claim 
her as his bride; and flattering indeed were the praises bestowed upon him 
through the public prints, for his integrity and valor; and proud was she to 
think, that he who had all her woman’s love, had not proved himself un¬ 
worthy of that trust. But 

44 A change came o’er the spirit of her dream"— 
and it came like the lightning’s flash—for before a year had expired. Ran- 



dolph Mandeville had become a traitor to his c&intry, and had been united 
to an heiress of rank. Thus ended all his high notions of honor; and bro¬ 
ken vows and broken hearts were amid the things that were forgotten. It 
was at a brilliant assembly where she first heard of his perfidy, for her 
friends had concealed it from her, intending gradually to give her the fatal 
information; but she saw it all as she accidentally took up a newspaper at 
Mrs. Barkly’s party; and there it was stated that a large reward would be 
given for his body, dead or alive. But she did not faint, for all the pride 
that flowed in the veins of her haughty family was now excited. She laid 
the paper down indignantly, and joined the dancers, and none knew that the 
gay jest and merry laugh were concealing a breaking heart; and it was not 
until she had retired to the solitude of her own room that she gave vent to 
her lone suppressed feelings and thanked Heaven that she could do so. 

Years, years have rolled away, and a convict is lying in a loathsome 
prison, loaded With chains; but once more is he allowed to see the glorious 
light of the sun, for he is condemned to die the felon’s death. Hark ! he 
kneels in prayer; and what is the first crime he asks to be forgiven ? Alas! 
it is the Broken Vow, for never has prosperity attended him since he so 
recklessly broke the promise he made to one who was far too pure to link 
her fate with his, and who, too late for her own peace of mind, learned that 
he had not been misrepresented—that her friends spoke truly when they 
said that tyranny and jealousy were the leading traits of his character; and 
it was jealousy that led him to commit the deed for which he was now con¬ 
demned. The massive door is slowly opened, and a sister of charity enters 
the doomed man’s cell, to see if she can pour one drop of consolation into 
the overflowing cup of bis misery. She looks and starts, back, and the name 
of Randolph trembles upon her lips, while he throws himself before her 
with his chains all clanking, Saying, 

44 Ida, forgive me, and I die in peace.” 

44 You have long been forgiven,” she answered, 44 and may God forgive 
you as freely as I have done. Too long I worshipped you to the exclusion 
of every thing else, and it was you yourself that broke the spell, and now I 
see how wild was my idolatry. I am changed now; but you know not the 
struggle it cost me ; yet it was all for my good, for now l see how worthless 
were the many years I spent in gaiety, a mere butterfly of fashion. . But 
that is all passed away, and I hope, by a life of charity, to do much good 
and she offered up a prayer before the throne of the Most High, for the for¬ 
giveness of her brother that had erred. 

He would fain have thanked her, but his heart was too full for utterance. 
She bade him adieu. He felt that he was a better and a happier man for 
that prayer. And in conclusion we would say, follow her example*—forgive 
as you hope to be forgiven. Ione. 


There is nothing that will make man feel his own littleness, and the very 
small part he occupies in this world, more than to walk among the graves of 
the departed—to stand by the tomb-stone that marks the resting place of one 
who, but a short time before, was like himself full of life and health—whose 
hold on life was apparently as strong as his own, but who now lies beneath 
the green sod, where neither the sun’s bright glance, nor the moon’s mild 



rays can reach him. He tnay go away, and amid the jostling busy crowd 
those feelings may be stilled ; he may turn away from his fellow-man'with 
a cold and haughty look, as though he would say, “I am holier than thou;’* 
but here, as he stands with the silent dead around him, a sense of his own 
unworthiness rushes upon his mind, and he is humbled and rebuked. He 
may be proud of his wealth, of the display he can. make before the world, 
and scorn to be seen in the company of the poor but honest laborer; but 
when he realizes the truth that the same narrow home awaits alike the rich 
and the poor—that the frail tenement of which he was so proud, will soon 
rest beneath the same sod that covers his dependent brother, his pride is sub* 
dued, and for a time he can look upon his fellow-man as on a brother. 

It would be well for us if we would more frequently leave the gilded halls 
of pleasure, and direct our steps to the spot where, undisturbed by the noise 
and clamor of the world, the dead repose. As we stand upon that conse¬ 
crated ground, with the trees waving gently over us, and the birds singing 
sweetly among the branches, and reflect that beneath the same sod which 
our feet now lightly press, we may in a short time repose, shall we not in 
deep humility exclaim, “ O why should the spirit of mortals le proud ?” 


There are moments in our lives when weariness and desolation sit brood¬ 
ing over the downcast spirit, like the angel of death with wings outspread, 
shutting out every cheering ray of light from the broad blue skies of hope, 
and casting a glqom, blacker than the shades of midnight, over the soul. 
There are moments when the spirit shrinks within itself, as the mildew of 
disappointment settles heatily upon it, withering all its jays, and blasting in 
die bud all its fondest anticipations. The wail of sadness swells in every 
fitful breeze ; it deepens in every passing gale, drowning the joyous melody 
of Hope’s sweet song in its deep notes of wo. 

This feeling of sadness comes over us at times, we hardly know how, or 
why. It may be caused, perhaps, at one time, by the sound of a long-for¬ 
gotten favorite song, once heard from the lips of one now slumbering in the 
grave ; and again, it is caused by one word of remembrance—by a leaf, a 
flower, or by a simple token of an absent one’s love. It may be, perchance, 
that some deep feeling of the heart is stirred, some hidden chord vibrates to 
the touch of memory, or some emotion that had long slept, is awakened to 
action. Mysterious sadness I It piasses over the spirit, like the shadow of a 
cloud upon the landscape, flitting over hill, meadow and rivulet, and leaving 
no token behind to tell where its path has been. It passes away like the 
shadow, and the glad sun of Hope beams more brightly than before; her 
skies are of a deeper blue, while Pleasure’s songsters swell a sweeter lay, 
and the soul dances for joy. Ah! there is no messenger like sadness in 
this dark world, as the token of joys to come. It is the bitter drop before 
the cup of bliss, rendering joy more sweet by its contrast with sorrow. 
Gome to me then, Sadness l —come to me at the morning’s dawn, at the 
dewy hour of even, or to my couch in the still midnight, and I will welcome 
thee as a messenger from the world of unseen realities that lie around my 
path, knowing full well that though thy form be dark and shadowy, yet hope, 
and joy, and sunlight linger in thy footsteps, and follow in thy. train. D. 






In the interior of Hungary the observant tourist may still see an ancient 
end magnificent castle, which, for many hundred years, has been the resi¬ 
dence of a line of Magyar nobles, whom we shall here call the Counts 

A broad moat surrounds the embattled walls, and its massive parapets, 
and huge bastions, are evidence of the strength of the mighty pile; but the 
position of the castle is far from being one of great security. It is not sur¬ 
rounded by those lofty crags, or deep precipices, which so often, in that 
country, form impregnable fortifications; but, for miles around, there are 
gentle slopes, and flowery fields, occasionally interspersed with groves of 
linden, or clusters of weeping birch. Among these verdant pastures the 
herdsmen tend the flocks and kine, which form such a proportion of the 
wealth of a Hungarian magnate; and, sheltered amid a clump of walnuts, 
are even now the mud hovels in which the serfs sustain a life which is dedi¬ 
cated to their lord. 

Farther from the castle the scenery is wilder—the slopes increase to hills, 
and the hills swell into mountains, whose sides are sometimes rough and 
ragged with hoary rocks, and sometimes covered with the dark fir, pine and 
cypress. Among these summits, and the fearfully dark glades which sep¬ 
arate them, the counts, and their retainers, tyrnt the fierce bear, or the fiercer 
boar—dashing, to the ringing sounds of the horn, through the tangled thick¬ 
ets, leaping the yawning chasms, and scaling the jagged rocks. Among the 
hills, which are covered with woods, or, oftener still, with clustering vines, 
the Eypal winds it way to the Danube, hnd here the scenery is highly pic¬ 
turesque. But whether the varied beauties, which are presented in one view 
from the castle of Sczhenevi, were the attractions which fixed to this spot 
the founder of his house, or whether he was naturally less warlike than most 
of his cotemporaries, none now may tell; but, at the period of my tale, the 
Count Sczhenevi was as peaceful a lord as ever rejoiced that his habitation 
was far from the tumult and danger of the frontier, and as ardent an ad¬ 
mirer of the scenery around him as could be found in the jurisdiction of the 
Emperor. A kind and indulgent lord was he to the menials who crouched 
around him; a devoted husband to the sweet countess, who had left the pa¬ 
geants of Buda to share his secluded retreat; and an idolizing father to the 
beautiful boy who was sole heir to his affections, and his honors. 

The young Count Emerich was a boy whom any mother might love, and 
of whom any father might well be proud. Even in childhood his lofty de¬ 
meanor told that the blood of the ancient Magyari swelled proudly in his 
veins, and there wdre hopes—^aye, and fears—for the time when he should 
rule in the place of his indulgent father. 

There were hopes; and those whose hearts beat highest with anticipation 
were those who oftenest knelt at the shrine of St. Josef, and saw that the 
brave boy, who had never bowed the knee to mart, was unfailing in his de¬ 
votions to his patron saint; and who augered from this a more rigid rule 
than that which had viewed so leniently the faint tincture of heresy which 



had spread among the peasantry, and had not burned at the stake the few 
among them who openly advocated the doctrines of Jerome of Prague. 
There were fears, and the dread was not confined to the few who had strayed 
from the flock of good Father Niklas, who exhorted the aliens, and prayed 
night and morning to St. Josef for their salvation. 

Those who, with them, looked with dark presentiments upon the high- 
spirited child, were those who would never own his sway, and had never 
paid fealty for the privileges they had enjoyed. These were a band of Tzi¬ 
gani ^ or gipsies, who for many years had made their home among the hills 
in the vicinity of the castle. A beautiful spot, in a recess of vine-covered 
rocks, had been first their rendezvous, and then their dwelling place; and, 
though the band was often small, in consequence of the absence of numbers 
upon, marauding expeditions, or excursions for barter, or palmistry, yet they 
felt safe, in their feebleness, from vexation by the good-natured count, and 
the smoke, from their fires, ascended the sky, at morn and eve, with the 
dense cloud which went up from the huge chimneys of the castle. In re¬ 
turn for the favor which they had received from the tender-hearted magnate, 
was granted to him an exemption from spoliation, which was very grateful 
to him; and an assurance that he and his were free from the possibility of 

The children of the serfs often met in pastime with the wild children of 
the forest, and their mothers contented themselves with a muttered prayer, 
or a sign of the cross, as they saw them leaping together the pointed rocks, 
or basking in the bright sunshine of the hills. Neither were the children of 
these two different nations the only ones who met in:amity. The old with¬ 
ered beldame of the forest gossiped with the feeble crone at the village fire¬ 
side, and told fortunes to the young maidens who met at moonlight in the 
linden grove. The strong-limbed fierce-eyed Tzigani proffered to the herds¬ 
man the surplus of an unusually fortunate poaching expedition, or gave to 
the son of a serf a knowledge of the bow-string, which might make him an 
abler defender or rebel to his lord. And more frequent than these were the 
meetings of the lithe-limbed, light-footed offspring of the Tzigani, and the 
light-haired, heavier-formed youth of the peasantry. Bright-eyed gipsy girls 
sang their sweetest songs to the flaxen-headed clowns, who stood with them 
where the stars were looking down into the Eypal; and graceful striplings 
sprang, with a light bound, into the shade of the trysting tree, and sent the 
bright flashes of their dark orbs into the mild blue eyes, which were up¬ 
turned to theirs with a mingled expression of joy and terror. There were 
living witnesses to attest that these meetings were not always sinless, even 
had it ever been right for the children of the Church to hold communion 
with these offspring of Belial. 

chapter II. 

The sun was shining brightly, one autumn eve, upofi the battlements of the 
castle, and his last rays shed a roseate glow over :the snowy robes, and fair 
pale face, of the Countess Sczhenevi, as she walked the ramparts to watch 
her husband*s return from a hunt The boy-count Was by his mother’s side, 
and when his eagle glance had failed to descry wjiat she hoped was within 
the limits of vision, and he had assured her that h|s fatheT and their friends 
were not in sight, she yielded, for a moment, to her innate love of the beau¬ 
tiful, and pointed to her child the loveliest features in the landscape which 
was his patrimony. The undulating fields below them were yet green rs 
with the verdure of spring, but their golden tingei contrasted with the lofty 



groves amid them, the sullen evergreen heights which towered above them, 
and the dark winding line which marked the course of the Eypal. At the 
north, and far above their wood-crowned mountains, could be dimly seen, in 
the distance, some nearer summits of the Carpathian ridge, seeming but a 
darker tracing upon the blue sky; to the west, and south, were their vine- 
covered hills, now rich with the luscious grape; and, to the west, was the 
sun, sinking into a deep rift between two lofty mountains, black with their 
dense forests, save where the king of day had robed them with a golden 
shroud. The sky-chasm, into which he was descending, seemed like a lake 
of liquid gold between those beetling heights, and above him hung a floating 
canopy of red and purple; while, from the loftiest pinnacle of the hills, one 
long bright cloud stretched, like a golden streamer, into the deep blue ether. 
Below them were the herdsmen collecting the kine for the night, and the 
barking of the wolf-dog mingled with the voice of the nightingale. From 
the fires of the gipsies curled up a lazy cloud of smoke, and their supple forms 
could be seen at sport beneath the long shadows of* the trees. Within a 
stone’s throw of the castle was the mud village of the peasantry, now alive 
with the serfs who congregated thither at nightfall; and, far among the hills, 
at length was seen the returning band of huntsmen. 

“ Emerich, my boy,” said the countess, “ let us take the path that leads 
to the hills, and meet your father. Methinks the walk will give us pleasure 
for its own sake, and it will seem to him an act of grace, which cannot fail 
to please.” 

“ Aye, mother,” said the boy, “ and thou hast a bold heart to venture from 
the walls at nightfall, with but a child like me; yet it seemeth to me that 
even this slight arm could shield thee from all harm, so that St. Josef did 
not desert me. And,” he continued, as he led the way from the battlements, 
“ it suiteth me much better to meet their return than to watch for their com¬ 
ing ; and I doubt not but the day, which will see me one in the hunters’ 
band, will be far more joyful to the father who has taught me to rejoice in 
the hope of such sports, than to the mother who then will watch alone for 
our return.” 

“Holy Mother!” exclaimed the countess, blanching at the thought of the 
day when her son should leave her side, for the perils of the chase. “ Vir¬ 
gin Mother of Christ! by the love thou didst bear thine own son, keep mine 
from harm ! and, by the memory of the anguish with which thou waited for 
his death, spare me the pain of ever seeing mine a mangled corpse!” 

“ Nay, mother!” said the boy, with a smile; “ save your prayers for the 
day when I go forth to greater perils than the mountain chase; for that day 
will be when I take the rusty old sword of the dead Magyar from its sheath 
in the chapel, and gird it on to fight with fellow-men. Sign not the cross! 
for St Josef has answered my prayer, that I may be a warrior; and, if I 
never hear my country’s call, then will I fight yon foul Tzigani, and that 
black herd shall covert elsewhere than in sight of the walls of my fathers.” 

“ Holy Marie, and St. Josef, forbid !” replied the countess, “ for the land 
is broad enough for them and thee to dwell in peace; hut, if you.raise their 
ire, then better were it for the castle to be laid even with the ground, by fire 
or war, than for the Magyar race, who dwell therein, to waste away beneath 
their arts and sorceries. ‘ Requiescat in pace ,’ says Father Niklas, which, 
as I take it, means let them alone .” 

“Send Father Niklas to the Tzigani himself! with his Latin foolery;, 
and he would do well for a priest there, were they but godly, enough to have 
one; for did not Franz, the herdsman, say that the young child which The- 

€r/ F!LBNA. 


rese carried to the altar for baptism was none of his, but had a gipsy father ? 
and Father Niklas must have heard of it, at the confessional, long before 
the snaky eyes, and lank black locks of the child had told the tale to others.” 

Ere the mother could reply, the steps of both were arrested by the sweet¬ 
est gush of music that ever swelled, from tree or thicket, upon the evening 
breeze. It was not like the strains of the nightingale, or the warbling of 
other birds, but the vary ing beauty of their songs were joined with the greater 
power, add prolonged richness, of the human voice. 

44 An angel!” said the countess, raising her eyes to heaven. 

44 A fairy!” said the young Emerich, looking into the thicket. 

The sound was stationary, and the dauntless boy stepped to the spot from 
whence it proceeded. A few steps brought the countess in view of the place 
where the singer was standing, leaning against a rock, from which gushed 
a sparkling cascade. The water fell in silver spray into a dark pool, and 
on its surface were floating the withered flowers, which the child plucked 
from her garlands, as she sung for them, or the passing day, a sweet low 
requiem. Neither the mother or her son had ever seen that girl before, but 
her name had been long upon the lips of the villagers, for it was 44 the child 
of song”—it was Garfilena. 

chapter in. 

Garfilena—how shall we describe her? She was a child ; with the inno¬ 
cence, the purity, the artlessness, trust, and gaiety, of childhood; and with 
these she had the gift of genius , endowing her with the quick perceptions, 
the keen insight, the deep feelings, of the woman. To say that she was a 
songstress, and to say no more, would give but a faint idea of this favored 
# being; but young, ignorant, and uncared-for, in song alone could she pour 
forth the swelling tide of thought and feeling which might not be restrained. 
Sweet and thrilling as were her warblings, they were but the overflowings 
of a heart, which contained within its depths something better than a mere 
tide of song. 

“Undine!” exclaimed the countess; and the child looked up from the 
glittering spray. But brilliant and earnest as was the glance of her full 
dark eye, and replete with a wild intense expression as was every feature 
and muscle of her finely cut countenance, yet it was too distinct, too clear, 
too full of life, to belong to those spirits of the water. Every lineament of 
her face was defined, as with the sharp chisel of the sculptor, but their ex¬ 
pression constantly varied, with that of her soul-beaming eyes; and her 
long dark waving tresses softened into earthliness the figure which they 
adorned. ‘The blood rushed with a painful violence to her cheeks, brow, 
and neck, as she met the gaze of the countess; but, when the young count 
started quickly towards her, it receded as quickly, leaving her pale and rigid 
as a marble statue. 

At that moment the hoofs of the huntsmen’s steeds were heard, and the 
ground trembled beneath the cavalcade. The countess started to the path, 
and met her husband, who led the horsemen. He bounded from his saddle, 
threw the reins to his son, who vaulted into the vacant seat, and joined his 
wife in her homeward walk. The countess told him of the child, and they 
went together to the cascade, but she had disappeared. The next day they 
made inquiries among the villagers, and the result was an increased feeling 
of wonder and curiosity. None knew aught of the birth and parentage of 
the girl. When her sweet songs had first attracted their notice, she was a 
wanderer. One and another, of the kind peasants, had given her food and 



lodging, and asked no return but that she would warble one sweet strain. 
The days were spent in rambles among the birds and flowers, and at night 
she came to the hut where they offered her milk and bread. The last and 
longest visit had been at the home of the aged and feeble grandmother of 
the frail Therese. 

The countess requested that Garfilena should be brought to the castle. 
Young Emerich stood by his mother’s side as the child was brought into her 
presence. He watched for the effect of the fretted ceiling, the tapestried 
walls, and oriel windows. The girl was not awe-struck—she did not shrink 
or tremble. In her the susceptibility to beauty was paramount to all other 
influences, and she raised her face, all radiant with joy, to the many-colored 
light which streamed through the painted glass. 

The countess questioned her, mildly but closely, of her home and friends. 
She had no other friends but the villagers—they were all kind. She had 
many homes—none that she loved better than the forest water-fall. She 
then endeavored to recall her earliest remembrances, but the joys of her re¬ 
cent existence appeared to'have effaced the recollection of the time when 
she could not sing, and dance, and ramble in the forest. She had been hun¬ 
gry and weary, but she sung herself to sleep. She had been alone, and 
afraid, in the tangled thicket, but the birds chanted such sweet hymns to her 
as dispelled her fears. She had been where no human beings had traced 
her footsteps, and the gay flowers were thick around her, the beautiful in¬ 
sects sported before her, the squirrels gamboled gaily with her, and the birds 
mingled their songs with hers. They asked her if no one had ever loved 
her—if she had never been regarded with an affection different from all 
these. A vague remembrance came to her of one who had caressed her 
with tears and smiles; who had pressed her to her bosom with an ardent 
impulse. But it might have been in a dream, for she had often sighed for 
the love which blessed the other children that she knew. Yet she had in¬ 
variably shrunk from every caress of the rude peasantry, though yearning 
for a love which they could never bestow. 

This was all that they could ascertain. The countess made her come and 
live at the castle, and for a few days it was her home. 

The young count took her to the great hall, and shew her the mail and 
panoply of war. They did not please her; but when the light from the 
stained windows fell upon her she told him how she had once stood in a for¬ 
est aisle, when the setting sun bathed her in hues like these. He pointed to 
her the massive pillars which supported the vaulted roof, and she told him 
of a cavern, among the hills, where the roqks were pillars for a mightier 
dome. He shew her the fountain beneath his mother’s window, and she said 
there were many in the forest which were more beautiful. 

He took her to the chapel of St. Josef, and shew her the great picture of 
the Savior on the cross. She turned away, with a shriek of sympathy for 
such agony as it portrayed, and would never enter the chapel again. Then 
he took her to the convent of St. Christine, and she smiled as she heard their 
soft vesper chants, and when the nuns played to her upon the harp, for never 
before had she listened to a cultivated lay. 

They shew her the picture of the Madonna, pressing to her heart the in¬ 
fant Jesus, and for the first time she shed tears; and that picture was hence¬ 
forth a shrine to her; for, in that lovely form, she had embodied the remem¬ 
brance of a love and caress which had lingered with her through her solitary 

The castle was but a transient home for Garfilena, for she loved a freer 



life, and could not brook the restraints which the countess would have im¬ 
posed upon her. She strayed again to the village—she visited once more 
her old haunts, where she was often sought by Count Emerich. 


There were many conjectures in the castle respecting the mysterious child. 
Her love of nature,, and of freedom—her raven hair, and dark flashing eyes— 
her strongly expressive features, her lithe form, buoyant step, and native 
gracefulness—her gift of song, and an indefinable something, like softened 
wildness, in her manner—led to the belief that she belonged to the Tzigani. 
But her lighter complexion, her waving locks, her clear soft skin, the promise 
of rounder developements in womanhood, her refinement of feeling, and her 
unconquerable aversion to the gipsy horde, were unfavorable to this belief. 
The latter the countess supposed might have been the effect of harsh treat¬ 
ment in infancy, which had produced an impression upon her sensitive mind, 
that remained long after its cause had been forgotten. But, if not wholly 
one of the Tzigani, might she not be the offspring of a peasant girl, and gipsy 
gallant? In this way they could account for the kindness of Therese’s 
grandam; for she might know if there was an affinity between Garfilena and 
the half-gipsy infant. But the young count would listen to none of these 
surmises. He hated the Tzigani; and Garfilena, whom he now loved with 
the strongest of all his boyish passions, liked them not; and he declared that 
their blood was not in her. She was evidently not Hungarian. She could 
not be a descendant of the Magyari, and her mind was too lofty for the child 
of a serf. There was one other supposition—she had been stolen by the 
Tzigani, in some excursion into the north of Italy, and they had banished 
her, from the fear of some evil consequences; or she had banished herself, 
from instinctive aversion. 

The peasantry had a wider scope for conjecture. Their belief was strong 
in the marvellous, and Garfilena was to them a supernatural being. She 
was the child of a wood nymph; the offspring of a gnome, and an undine ? 
or an impersonation of the spirit of song. 

What cared young Emerich for all these ? She was his Garfilena—not 
his sister, playfellow, songstress, teacher, or enamorata. But she was a 
something compounded of all these. He roamed- with her through the for¬ 
ests, and there she sang her w woodnotes wild. 11 He stood with her by the 
Eypal, within the shade of the lofty trees, which had planned their great 
black spreading feet even in the rushing water, and there her voice mingled 
with the flowing stream. They climbed together the steep green bauks, and 
in the music of her tones he forgot his weariness. They roamed together 
among the vineyards on the hills, and her gay laugh, and sprightly gossip, 
chimed well with the buzz of the flies, and the chirp of the crickets. Some¬ 
times they clambered together the ragged mountains, and it was her joyous 
ringing notes which inspired him with strength and courage. There, stand¬ 
ing on some lofty pinnacle, they saw at morn the misty shroud lifted from 
the low valleys, or roll up like a scroll from the hills; and there they stood 
at noon, in the rifts of the rocks, while the thundergust went by, and the 
lightnings played around them. 

They loved to be where the scenery was most beautiful—where, from the 
torrent-bed of the river, the hills were highest and steepest; and were most 
thickly covered with their beautiful shrubs, of every tint, “ light gold, russet 
brown, silver ash, pale green, scarlet red, orange, and the incomparable blue 
of the iris.” 



While Garfileoa gazed upon the opposite banks, where, among the craggy 
heights, were long rank grass, ferns, and brambles, gnarled boughs, inter* 
lacing each other with a hideous embrace, and old trees, scathed by light* 
ning, lying prostrate in every direction—while the girl looked at these her 
companion made garlands for her brow, in which the flowers of the convol¬ 
vulus mingled with the bells of other flowering creepers, glowing in every 
tint, from the delicate white of the lily, to the deep transparent pink of the 
wild rose. The most fragrant sprigs of the mountain-mint he bound into a 
dark boquet, which contrasted with the snowy bosom in which it was placed. 
One gush of song from the little improvisatrice would reward him for all his 
pains, and then they would descend together to some lower slope, which 
overlooked a tiny tributary of the Eypal, where they rested upon the elastic 
turf, beneath the downy and rustling foliage of the arbeal trees, which 
breathed around them a shadowy coolness. And when Recovered from their 
fatigue they plucked the clusters of wild cyclamen, which enamelled the 
turf with ■“ their pencilled silver leaves, and lilac blossomsgathered the 
pale blossoms of the wood-sorrel, which trembled amid their tufts of tender- 
est green; and inhaled the odor from the beds of violets, which lay along 
the slopes. 

It seemed to the little count as though he could not live without this “ child 
of song,” as her name was interpreted by the Tzigani. He flew to her side 
from the instructions of Father Niklas, and from those of Drechsier, his 
tutor in manly sports; and the peasantry said the boy was enchanted. It 
was true that with him existence had changed. Garfilena had become his 
companion when the sports of infancy had failed to please him. He had 
no brother, no sister, no friend to share the youthful feelings of his heart. 
He longed for a variation of the monotonous life he led at the castle, and 
hoped for it only in the wild tumults of war, and the chase. Yet there was 
a love of something better than these within him, and these holier impulses 
had blended with the dogmas of a rigid faith. He had an innate love of pu¬ 
rity ; his affection was strong for his gentle mother, he honored the nuns of 
St. Christine, and detested the bold daughters of the Tzigani. 

Garfilena differed from all these. Her strange gifts of person and mind 
exerted a powerful influence over him; the beauty of her countenance, and 
graces of her manner, deepened into enthusiasm the interest which he would 
have felt for any lovely child ; and the innate purity of her character pre¬ 
served, through years of intercourse, her involuntary sway over her young 

chapter v. 

The years, which passed thus happily over Garfilena, changed the child 
to a maiden. Yes, there was a change, though imperceptible to herself, and 
to others; and she would still have appeared the same had not those years 
changed her position in the little community around her, more than they did 
herself. Emerich and Garfilena could no longer frolic together with the 
freedom of childhood. There was something within which told them both 
of this, and they heard it from others. 

The differences in their characters became more perceptible as they grew 
older. Emerich was naturally in manner stern and blunt; in religion he 
was bigoted; and to his dependents be was haughty and severe. To the 
Tzigani he was cruel and contemptuous; and the countess feared that they 
might wreak their vengeance on her child. 

It had been fortunate for the young count that Garfilena had been his 


companion. When young girls feei a tender interest in one of the other sex 
they usually imbibe the same tone of character ; their minds become a faint 
reflection of the stronger influence which is upon them. But Garfilena had 
so much of character, and it was of so peculiar a kind, that she influenced 
Emepch more than she was influenced by him. 

They were unlike; but there is “ an attraction of antagonism,” and that 
was the spell upon the young count. How often when they had stood to¬ 
gether by the hill-side, and his hand had been raised to deal a deadly blow, 
had he let the reptile crawl away in safety, because her light touch upon his 
arm had said, “Forbear!” How often when he pointed with pride to the 
shields, helmets, corslets, and bucklers, in the armory, had she turned away 
with horror, and whispered, “ Forgive your enemies l” Hbw often when 
uttering anathemas against some blundering serf, or impudent Tzigani, had 
her hand been placed upon his mouth, and her eyes fixed upon his, with an 
intense upbraiding look, which shamed him into self-control. He felt that 
in her there was none of the rude pride of the Magyari, none of the fierce 
valor of the Tzigani, but there was a lofty fearlessness which said that she 
was not the child of a serf. Was she not some stolen princess, from a softer 
clime ? one worthy by birth, as by nature, to be, through life, what she had 
been in his boyhood, his better genius—his guardian angel ? Even in child¬ 
hood, there had been in her an exuberance of life which imbued all, suscep¬ 
tible to its influences, with its own tinge; and now he felt that he was differ¬ 
ent with her. In thp companionship of othere he was harsh and impetuous— 
with her he was kind and gentle, and her subduing graces were to him 
“ like shadows on a spring.” 

And if there was in him a latent gentleness, which responded only to hers, 
so there was in her a strength which, for his sake, could overcome the love 
of years. 

But she was not religious. So thought the countess, and her son. When 
Emerich urged her to the confessional she would say, with a smile, “ Says 
not Father Niklas that the universe is the habitation of its Creator ? Then 
is not one place holy as another ? Let him come to me, and Bit beneath the 
shade of the greenwood tree, and I will sing to him every thought and feel¬ 
ing of my life.” And, if they met the good man in their rambles, she would 
detain him with such lays as inspired them both with a love of Nature, and 
adoration of its Lord, as they had never felt before. She never knelt at the 
shrine of St. Josef, but she worshipped in silence the Madonna at St. Chris¬ 
tine’s, though her devotion was but the outpouring of one of the holiest in¬ 
stincts of our nature. 


The Count Sczhenevi, and his countess, had begun to fear for the future 
influence of Garfilena over their son. They had indulged him in his child¬ 
ish attachment, as in all else, but was it not to cease with maturer years ? 
Was that mysterious girl to be the bride of a Hungarian magnate ? or the 
slave of his selfish pleasures ? They feared either; and there was a strange 
coldness and anxiety in their manners towards her, which suggested the 
query to Garfilena. She was still in the bloom of early girlhood—just revel¬ 
ling in the ecstasies of feelings and sentiments which in her were early as¬ 
suming the character of love—of deep tender blissful love—such as is the 
joy and grief of genius . 

Garfilena was not ambitious; she cared not for the splendors of a life at 
the castle, but with Emerich she could live in happiness among the hills, if 



he would bp what he had been. But she heard tales of his harshness to the 
serfs, and cruelty to the Tzigani, which pained her heart. His indulgent 
father had delegated to him much authority, and he used it without mercy. 
Then came louder dissatisfaction; for, through the influence of Count Em- 
erich, was Father Niklas dismissed from the confessional at the castle, and 
the prior at St. Christine’s appointed to his place. Garfilena had ever avoided 
this stern old man, whose eyes had never met hers but with a piercing ex¬ 
pression of scorn. . 

What did it all portend ? 

But soon there came to her another sorrow. The irritated Tzigani had 
divulged to them the secret of the birth of the songstress they so loved and 
cherished. Garfilena was the discarded child of a gipsy girl, and a Hunga¬ 
rian serf; and had been carried to her father’s home when an infant, to avoid 
the trouble of supporting her, and the reproaches of her tribe. Envy soon 
carried the tale to the young lovers. Emerich raved, and threatened with 
death all who repeated the falsehood. He sought Garfilena. Of late she 
had avoided him, and their interviews had been short and unfrequent; though, 
when they were together, it seemed as if the bliss of a. whole life concen¬ 
trated in the fleeting moments. It was now long since they had met—they 
had parted then almost coldly, though each felt that the assumed indifference 
was but a veil over kinder feelings. 

Emerich now found her by the forest cascade, where they had first seen 
each other. She was sobbing violently, for she had learned to shed bitter 

“ It is false, Garfilena, my love, my princess! They have fabricated the 
lie, in revenge for my just punishment of their wickedness. Tzigani blood 
never glows through a skin like this. Tzigani bones have never made a 
a form like thine; and Tzigani flesh shows not such round developements 
as yours? And hast thou not ever felt an antipathy to them, and theirs, 
which moves their hate, and shows thee of another lineage ? Thy mind 
too, attuned by Nature to harmonize, with all that is lofty, good, and beauti¬ 
ful ! Thine has never been a Tzigani soul! Now cheer thee up, and sing 
a song of triumph, that their machinations have failed!” 

But the impetuosity of her lover could not reassure Garfilena. She could 
not sing; she still wept, though her tears fell more softly. She arose to 
depart, but the count detained her. 

“ Sing to me, Garfilena 1 Sing, as thou often hast by this fountain; for 
it is long since I have heard thy voice. Sing this time, Garfilena!” 

“ Count Emerich, I will sing to thee this once, and but this once ;, and I 
will sing my last Farewell /” 

The shades of eve were gathering over the spot when, upon its stillness, 
arose the plaintive notes of that parting song. In days gone by had Garfi¬ 
lena often sung to him a mournful melody, that they might share together 
“ the joy of griefbut ah! how different was it from this outpouring of the 
heart-wrung girl. 

Count Emerich wept, though ashamed of his tears, and though he be¬ 
lieved not her words that they should not meet again. The shades of night 
grew darker around them, and they arose to depart. Long and tender was 
their parting, for Garfilena had determined to look upon his face no more. 

This determination was formed from the impulse of the moment, but that 
impulse had been created by past reflections. Yes! she had reflected, though 
in childhood, every act of her life had been but a shadowing forth of the 
deep fervent impulses of her soul. But circumstances had awakened re- 



flection within her, and she had thought long and painfully. She felt that 
she dearly loved Count Emerich ; and she knew that he was fondly attached 
to her. With his strong passions, his disregard of consequences, his fear¬ 
lessness with every one, she felt that he would act his pleasure. They were 
both young, they had loved from childhood, and so they had never spoken 
of marriage ; but she believed that he intended to make her his wife. 

The rumor, that had just reached her, had awakened her to a livelier 
sense of her unfortunate position than she had ever felt before. Should she 
go to the castle to carry with her discord and misery ? Should she thus re¬ 
ward the countess, who had been so kind to her ? Should she deprive Em¬ 
erich of his birthright ? for he was surely entitled to the hand of a magnate’s 

There came to her another thought—no! not a thought; but the chill of 
a coming thought which cast its dark shadow before ; but her mind turned 
from it involuntarily, for she would not think that Emerich could ever wrong 
her. She felt that he was willing to do, dare, and suffer for her sake, and 
she would act as nobly to him. She would never link her fate with his— 
she would spare him, and his, this trouble; yet she felt that she could not 
be with him, and near him, and restrain, within her heart, the strong tide of 
affection, or send it forth in the small quiet stream of friendship. No I she 
must flee, or she must die. 

Garfilena reached the hut which had often been her home, and paused at 
the threshold. How life had changed! The future had heretofore been to 
her a bright perspective, on which she had loved to look; but now a black 
curtain had fallen before it, and all was blank to her vision. 

She looked around, upon the night. Such she felt would life now be to 
her. Oh! when one who has been the sun of our existence is suddenly 
withdrawn, what darkness must follow. Yet in time the blackness lessens; 
the stars look out upon us; they grow brighter and brighter; and their sweet 
influences are of love and peace. Yes! friends whom we have disregarded 
will become dear; those who have faintly shared our affections will grow 
dearer ; and those we have never known will now come forward. Garfilena’s 
sun of life had set, blit might not the eve be beautiful ? with the dewy in¬ 
cense of its folding flowers, its nightingale music, and the pale light of stars. 

Yet it is sad, when the pulses of life are bounding joyousy within us, to 
have them forcibly stilled—to feel that the night has hastened on, ere the 
pleasures and labors of the day are well begun—to know that we have naught 
to do but to muse upon the day that has passed, to hope for a morrow, and 
to wait for sleep . 

The past! And it comes to us with its sweet memories, and bright vis¬ 
ions. We were ambitious in early youth, and the future but looked the bril¬ 
liant vista of hopes enjoyed, and anticipations realized. We loved the noble 
and generous—were excited by the bold and daring—and how we worshipped 
the beautiful! 

But where are those visions now ?—where the bright fancy which colored 
in its own hues the picture of life ? Ah! they are all gone ! 

We have been in contact with the selfishness of the world, and have im¬ 
bibed its own spirit. We have learned distrust, and practised upon the su¬ 
perficial hypocrisy of common life, until the ambition of youth has fled ; its 
visions have vanished ; and its sparkling fancy has faded into the twilight of 
common reality, Este. 







The time had passed when the ear of Father Niklas had been the recipient 
of every tale of fear, doubt, and sorrow in the domains of Sczhenevi. But 
now the griefs and sins, which tried the proud hearts at the castle, were con¬ 
fessed to the stern prior; and the anguish and remorse of one young heart 
was never poured into the ear of mortal man. But the confessional of the 
little votive chapel of St. Josef was never empty; and a quick eye might 
have noted how uniform was the expression of the devotees. Day after day 
did the good father listen to words, uttered in tones of aught but penitence; 
and unwearied was he in the utterance of counsel and advice. And why 
were there not observers to see how much more conscience stricken were 
the serfs than were their wives and daughters, and with how much more in¬ 
terest the father listened to their confessions than to those which had been 
oftenest poured into his ears. 

There was rebellion among the serfs /—deep deadly heart-seated rebel¬ 
lion—the more to be dreaded because it was strengthening slowly and si¬ 
lently. And Father Niklas was, in reality, the chief of the rebels. Not 
that he counselled violence or bloodshed; but the feeling of hatred and 
wrong was the stronger in them, because they knew that the same feelings 
swelled the heart, and guided the purposes, of their priest. 

Father Niklas was the sbn of a serf—his superior intellect had attracted 
the notice of the count, who gave him freedom, and sent him to the commu¬ 
nity of St. Christine’s to be educated. Upon the death of fhe old confessor 
he had been chosen, by the countess, to fill his place; and from that time 
wntil his dismission, there had existed the warmest friendship between the 
priest and his kind patrons. It was a friendship founded on their side upon 
respect for his deep learning, his amiable disposition* and the love which we 
all feel for that which we have nurtured and cherished; and o'n his part it 
had its foundation in the deepest gratitude, and a feeling of congeniality with 
their generous tolerant dispositions. The count and the priest were of one 
vol. in. 23 


heart in their desires to elevate the rude serfs, who were so wholly dependent 
upon them, and mutually assisted each other in this great work. As years 
went by the old count grew more remiss; partly from a natural love of ease, 
which increased with time, and partly from the expostulations of his son, 
who foreboded ill in this connection of mental culture and serfdom . But 
Father Niklas had never faltered, and he grew more ardent in his desires, 
and more determined in his designs, at the first intimation of opposition from 
Count Emerich. He had always been gentle and lenient in the exercise of 
spiritual domination, and this, with the feelings of clanship which he still 
cherished, had strengthened almost to idolatry their attachment to him. His 
tolerance had equalled the count’s towards the heretics, and there were those 
who whispered that his own faith was not undarkened by their doubts. And 
this was why Count Emerich had urged his removal from the castle, and 
had threatened a final separation between him and his flock. 

Count Emerich was right in his fears for the plans and influence of Father 
Niklas. In ignorance alone can men be kept in abject bondage. In dark¬ 
ness alone will they hug their chains, and in stolid callousness alone can they 
be insensible to their pressure. The ties of love and gratitude had made 
these chains as flowery wreaths to the bondsmen of the old Count Sczhenevi, 
but there was no such feeling for his son. Had Count Emerich been con¬ 
tent to 44 walk in the footsteps of his father”—had he been willing to recog¬ 
nize, even tacitly, the natural rights of those over whom his country’s laws 
had made him lord and master, peace, contentment, and a higher degree of 
prosperity and happiness, might still have characterized the domains of 
Sczhenevi. But Count Emerich loved arbitrary rule ; he had always con¬ 
templated with pleasure the prospect of being 44 a man in authority”—of 
saying to one man Go / and he should go, or Come! and he should obey. 
But he found that his unreasonable commands were often disobeyed, his 
authority too much disregarded. 

He had given due weight to the silent influence of the Tzigani, with whom 
life was the most perfect freedom, and whose example was a dangerous one 
for serfs now chafing in bondage. To them he was not sparing of curses, 
and they waited for revenge . 

And how was Father Niklas to guide this deep dark tide ? which slowly 
swelled with the elements of destruction. He felt that a heavy responsibility 
rested upon him, and his head throbbed beneath its weight. He was natu¬ 
rally very gentle—averse to all violence; but the trodden worm will turn— 
he had been injured and disgraced, by those too whom he had so fondly 
trusted—he was not now in his right mind, for 

“ to be wroth with those we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain." 

Little did the inhabitants of the castle think of the chasm which yawned 
nt their threshold, and dark and dense was the cloud, whose shadow was not 

There was one, among that company of troubled spirits, whose heart was 
loo much engrossed with its own griefs to mark that which daily passed 
around her. There wt^one among them, though not of them, who was yet 
to be their source of inspiration; there was one who was to be their guide, 
and the guardian of those over whom Destruction hovered, who was as yet 
^unconscious of the existence of trial and danger. It was Garjilena. 



The knowledge of the meditated rebellion fell upon Garfilena like a thun¬ 
derbolt. Such a thing she could never have deemed possible, and it would 
never have been intimated to her had not those around her seen that, what¬ 
ever her feelings towards the count’s family might be, she strictly avoided 
the castle. Indeed no one knew where were her hidden haunts, or aught 
but that her mind was in a stupor—her voice was no more heard in song, 
and no smile ever flitted over her sad pale face. Count Emerich had sought 
her, it is true, but never with success, and the old count and countess seemed 
to have forgotten her existence. 

Sadly indeed had life changed to the beautiful girl, and but for one feeling 
it would have been mere passive existence. She felt that she had made a 
great sacrifice. She had given up the hopes that are dearest to every young 
girl’s heart; she had given up the hope of hope—the idea that she might 
ever love again. True, Count Emerich might not have been to her what 
she had believed he was ready to become, but she had acted upon an assur¬ 
ance of his devotion to her as strong, in her own mind, as the marriage vow 
itself could have made it. 

There is in every true woman’s heart a love of martyrdom, a desire to 
sacrifice for those she loves, and to cast upon the altar that which is dearest 
and holiest in her eyes. And Garfilena had done this. For his own sake 
she had resigned Count Emerich, and she had not even permitted herself 
the gratification, which in her situation might have been deemed somewhat 
excusable, the refusal in words of the young count. In his proud heart it 
must have rankled, and she felt that her memory would be dearer if uncon¬ 
nected with the thoughts of a discarded lover. For, while she knew that her 
life should be divested of every thought and memory of him, yet, in his heart, 
she hoped that she might ever dwell. 

One thing more had she crushed, as a worthless bauble, and it was the 
hope of one day discovering a noble parentage. This hope had been sug¬ 
gested and cherished by her lover, but now she was resolved to consider her¬ 
self, what she had been said to be, allied by blood to the serfs and gipsies. 
Terrible was this to her, but she was determined ; she mingled with them, 
as one of them ; she schooled her heart to regard them all with more of in¬ 
terest, and the effort which all this required rendered existence a life of he¬ 
roism. Stagnant and cold would its tide have otherwise been, but now it 
flowed on in a warm quick roseate stream, though colored and quickened by 
her own heart’s blood. He who can rule his own spirit has been said to be 
mightier than he who ruleth a city, and Garfilena, the companion of serfs 
and gipsies, was greater than she could have been as Countess Sczkenevi , 
for she did 

“ queen it well o’er her own sorrows, 

As o'er rightful subjects." 

If the knowledge of rebellion came upon Garfilena like a thunderbolt, it 
came with an electrifying, but not a destructive shock. It came from a 
dark cloud ; and through the rift it made she looked upon the sky beyond. 
She now saw how she might exercise her dormant powers, for the good of 
all she had ever loved, and her mind was roused to action. To one who 
had lived and wandered as she had done, the plan was easy of suggestion, 
by which she might prevent violence and bloodshed. But it was also one 


which would require her utmost and never-ceasing exertions. And this plan 
was, that all the dissatisfied serfs should leave that part of the country—that 
they should flee from bondage, rather than resist it. To submit to it she 
would never have counselled—her own love of liberty, and ideas of the natu¬ 
ral rights of man, were averse to this, and she hoped that in freedom and 
solitude she could infuse into them the detestation of human control which 
characterized the Tzigani, and the submission to a higher and holier influ¬ 
ence which she felt within herself, and which, with less refinement, was 
characteristic of the peasantry. A strange and heterogeneous compound of 
feelings, sentiments, and passions, was that which she hoped to blend into 
one—a love of true liberty. It was a visionary scheme, but Garfilena had 
always been a dreamer, and now that she had been so terribly awakened 
from early dreams, it was well that visions of another , kind arose before 
her. She was full of faith in others, of confidence in herself, and hope of 
ultimate success. Her plans, thoughts, and feelings, were revealed to Father 
Niklas, who had wavered, feared, and doubted, till he was assured of his 
own incompetence to lead in any design, and who readily yielded to the 
guidance of a firmer spirit. More easily than he could she sway the hearts 
of all, for she would appeal to the common feelings of those who differed 
in faiths she would soften passion to feeling, and strengthen sentiment into 
resolution. This was to be effected by her influence over the heart—by 
her gifts as poetess, for in her were blended the poetry of thought, sound, 
and motion. In Hungary this may be made a mighty influence, for it is in 
accordance with the genius of the people—they express their joy and sorrow, 
their love, penitence, remorse, and devotion, in dance and song. And the 
mystery, which surrounded Garfileria’s birth and character, was propitious to 
her designs. 

“ Let them believe. Father Niklas, if they will, that I am a supernatural 
being—they know that I am not evil—and it may be that the joys, sorrows, 
and trials, of all my past life have been overruled for this. I cannot live for 
myself alone; and there is not a maiden in the village so helpless as a house¬ 
hold drudge. But 1 was not made for naught—these gifts which seem to 
separate me from all others, were yet bestowed for their benefit. I would 
not live and suffer in vain; and with all my waywardness, my mysteries, 
and powers, I may yet do great good.” 

“ Be it as thou wilt, my daughter!” and the old man laid his hand upon 
her head. 44 The blessing of St. Josef be upon thee!” 

44 Of the Holy Mother!” replied Garfilena, quickly; and the picture of 
the Madonna came to her mind, with that strange vague remembrance, as 
though she once had been in that infant Savior’s place. 

“ The blessing of the Holy Virgin be ever upon thee!” and then the old 
man and the maiden went their different ways. 


It was a beautiful evening in the month of May. The cool balmy breezes 
came softly down, through the swelling vine sjichs on the hills, and rustled 
through the tops of the tall trees in the valley. And darkness was creeping 
up to the lower hills, though the highest summits were still gilded by the de¬ 
parted sun. There was a roseate hue upon the castle battlements, and con¬ 
vent towers, and far up, in the transparent sky of that country, the new moon 
was seen, like a delicate crescent of silver. Seldom is it seen in other lands 
in so early a period of its monthly course, and none could wonder, who saw 
it suspended “ like the bow of an angel in the heavens,” that it had been 


chosen as the national ensign. There was the fragrance of the blushing 
blossoms of the peach tree, and “ the leafless rods of the cherries” were hid¬ 
den by their “flowers of bridal whiteness.” The mists of night stole slowly 
up the highest hills, and the new moon bathed with silver the silken blossoms 
of the datura. 

In the castle of Sczhenevi was a party of magnates, and most beautiful of 
the young nobles was Count Emerich. His short purple-velvet mantle, and 
jacket, which form a part of the surpassingly beautiful national costume of 
Hungary, were studded with jewels, and in his girdle glittered a jewelled sword 
and dagger of exquisite workmanship. At his side, in the feast and the dance, 
was the lovely daughter of a Magyar noble, but though her voice was sweet, 
it could not efface the remembrance of one far sweeter; and though her face 
was very fair, it but recalled the memory of one which was far more beau¬ 
tiful. The old count and countess were in high spirits, and none thought 
then that there could be a gathering of deeper interest, and even within the 
shadow of the castle walls. 

Where the greensward was encircled by lindens the serfs had met. The 
retainers at the castle observed that the assemblage was unusually large, bat 
in the hurry and tumult of the feast, and the preparations for the chase on 
the morrow, it was unremarked. Of late also these gatherings had been 
frequent; and they knew that the explanation was not false, when they said 
that they met to behold the dance, and hear the song, of Garfilena. Those 
strange melodious tones had been borne to the ears of listeners, who little 
dreamed their purpose, and the serfs had never been molested. 

This had been the last day of bondage; and in the weather-beaten brow 
of every peasant was the impress of care and thought, which marks the free¬ 
man. They met there where they had often stood in thoughtless levity, with 
no anxiety for the morrow; and now, self-b&nished from that sheltering 
home, “ the world was all before them—where to choose” no place of rest,’ 
but a refuge from the avenger, and a subsistence for those whose lives would 
depend upon their exertions. There might have been sinkings of the heart; 
for those, who had never toiled in solicitude during the past, were well pre¬ 
pared to foresee the dangers and trials of the future. 

There was a slight rustle in the heretofore silent thtong, like the whisper¬ 
ing of the winds in the trees around them, when Garfilena advanced to the 
centre of the group. Her dress was one which she had recently adopted) 
a picturesque and graceful combination of the Tzigani costume, and that of 
the peasantry. A long white mantilla of the finest wool fell in soft folds 
around her person, and its purple border was of the hue worn by the proud 
Magyar. The beauty of her form, but not the gracefulness of her move¬ 
ments, was entirely concealed; and there, for a few moments, she stood like 
a statue before them. Her mantle was raised to her face, in the attitude of 
the Tzigani seers, and there was a breathless silence around her. She low¬ 
ered her hand slowly, and the snowy fold dropped from a face of its own 
pure whiteness, and the large dark radiant eyes turned, with a searching 
look, upon the company around her. One glance told her that no foes were 
there, and with another she read their hearts, and felt what would be re¬ 
quired of her. She knew that there were hopes and fears, doubts and de¬ 
pressions, among them, and her heart rose within her, in its solitary strength, 
to meet the demand which would be made upon it* It is far easier to arouse 
the fierce passions of man, and even to guide them, than to awaken and 
cherish that slow sure resolution which is the result of knowledge and re¬ 
flection. Had Garfilena foreseen all the difficulties she had already encoun- 



tered she would have shrunk from the task; but now her heart was in her 
work, and it warmed and strengthened within her as she toiled on. 

She cast aside her mantle, and the silvery moonlight played upon the long 
black tresses, which hung coifless around her, and even the veil of delicate 
lawn had been laid aside. Her hair was bound back from her marble brow 
by a small circlet of myrtle, and her fair bosom was concealed by plaits of 
fine linen. Her jerkin, or bodice, was of jet black velvet, ornamented with 
pearls which had been the gift of a countess. Her tunic was of the snowy 
hue,, and soft light fabric, as her mantle, with the same dark bordering. 
Her hands, arms, and feet, were bare, and might have been a model for a 
Phidias. So spiritual was her expression, so pure and graceful her attitude, 
that, when silent, her influence was felt by all who beheld her. 

She began with a low sweet mournful strain, which soon subdued into a 
pensive tone the changeful feelihgs of her listeners. She sang of forsaken 
homes, of parted friends, of blighted hopes, and their hearts were relieved, 
by tears, of their sorrow. During this prelude her motions had been slow, 
and almost imperceptible; but, when she changed her theme, they became 
quicker, and would have appeared rapid but for the ease with which they 
were performed. She sang now of newer friends, and higher sources of 
friendship; of better homes, and hearthstones of their own; of budding hopes, 
which promised sweeter joys; and she roused them all to high enthusiasm. 
Then, in a louder, stronger tone, she sang of liberty; and of the action and 
suffering which alone can fit men for it. Ere her last notes had died upon 
her lips they sprang to their feet, with the loud ringing, shout of freedom. 

chapter x. 

The plan of departure had been well matured, and promised success. A 
few of the Tzigani were to accompany them as guides, and protectors, 
’through the hills, and forests; and one strange old beldam had insisted upon 
being one of this band. Garfilena felt an unaccountable aversion to this 
woman, though she had done her many an act of kindness, and evidently 
felt a deep interest in her fate. 

The Tzigani, who were left in their old homes, were to oppose pursuit 
should it be made; to mislead them as to the direction of the fugitives; and 
to prevent, as long as possible, a knowledge of their departure, by taking 
possession, in disguise, of the huts of the peasantry. 

With the assistance of that portion of the clan, who were with them, the 
ci-devant bondmen could make a house in the greenwood shade, and a chim¬ 
ney smoke, at any place, of three cross poles. 

Father Niklas had performed mass when the bell of the convent rang for 
vespers, and they felt that the blessing of St. Josef would be with them. But 
stronger even than their religious faith was the enthusiasm which emanated 
from Garfilena. Her heart throbbed with hope, for she knew that pursuit 
.and violence would be repugnant to the old count, and she felt that Emerich 
would never seek blood in a band of which she was a leader. Yesl she led 
them, from home, from bondage, and oppression—in the stillness of that dark 
night they went forth, with their gipsy guides; and that dauntless girl pre¬ 
ceded the old father, who muttered prayers, and pressed to his heart the cru¬ 
cifix. We will not follow their wanderings—we will not say much of her 
who never failed or faltered in the toilsome march, and who cheered them 
on with her free firm voice by day, and her song and dance by night. They 
came to* the Danube, and followed for awhile its deep dark course. They 
eame to where it winds and doubles among the verdant hills, seeming like a 



quick succession of beautiful lakes, and then they came where its high rocky 
shores present the appearance of a petrified city, with Gothic spires and lofty 
towers intermingled with Moslem minerets. But they left the course of the 
rushing stream, and went afar among the rugged hills. At length they 
found a home. A rude village was soon created, a chapel was built for Fa¬ 
ther Niklas, and a hut for Garfilena. The site of her habitation, and in¬ 
deed of the village itself, was selected with reference to her wishes, and it 
was a wild romantic spot, which could not fail to please a taste like hers. 
Her cot was of a slight wicker frame, like the huts they had left, plastered 
within and without, and floored with unburnt clay, and with a long projecting 
roof thatched with reeds. Its exterior was not different from the other huts, 
excepting that she had transplanted flowering vines, which curtained the lat¬ 
tices and concealed the mud walls. But within it was w hitened to dazzling 
neatness, and through the thin plastering could be discovered the wicker, 
which looked like delicate fret-work. The floor was covered with a soft car¬ 
pet, which had been the gift of the old Tzigani hag to whom she felt such a 
strong antipathy; and, in one corner, was a matress, which w r as her seat by 
day, and couch by night. A brasier for coals, and her musical instruments, 
completed her furniture, and the only ornaments were daily garlands of fresh 
flowers. And life was now as pleasant as it could be to her—it was freedom 
among Nature’s wildest fastnesses by day, and the inspiring dance and song 
by night. It was her task to cheer, strengthen, and encourage those among 
whom she dwelt; to revive them when they drooped, and to enliven them 
when sad. She was regarded as their preserver, their inspiring genius, their 
guardian angel. She was still pale, and somewhat slighter than at first, per¬ 
haps from untiring exertion, but she was still most beautiful. Yet never did 
she hear a word of admiration, or devotion, which might not have been 
poured forth before the Madonna, at St. Christine’s. In her unguarded cot 
she was as safe as if surrounded by bands of soldiery, and it was the purity 
of her own lofty unselfish character which was her safeguard. 

Garfilena had learned of the nuns to play the harp, and of the gipsies to 
use the timbrel and castanets. She did not subject herself to the rules of 
her art, and only availed herself of them so far as they could regulate and 
increase her powers. There was something singularly sweet, wild, and 
touching, in all her chants, even in those by which she endeavored to dispel 
sorrow. She seldom accompanied her moonlight dance, and song, with in¬ 
struments, but when she sat amid her flowering vines, as the light of the de¬ 
parting sun came through the tall cypresses, she sang to the lyre, or arose 
and danced to the timbrel and castanets. 

Her voice alone possessed a wonderfully varied power. She would lower 
it till it chimed with the murmurs of the stream, which wound around her 
home ; she could harmonize it to the notes of every bird, even the rich tones 
of the nightingale. She could send it away, in a low sigh, upon the evening 
breeze; or pour it forth, in a rich gush of song, which brought her hearers 
to their feet, and made them tremble, and look up, to see if the soul of