At the age of fourteen he left home to pursue his studies for two

years at a public institution. At the end of that period he became a

clerk in a large commercial establishment in the city. At the close of

the first year he accompanied one of the principals abroad, and

remained there in charge of the business for nearly four years. He was

now on the high road to wealth.

Soon after George Mason had gone abroad, Emily Earl went to the city

to complete her education. She was in due time initiated into the

mysteries of fashionable life. Introduced to _society_ by a relative

of unquestionable rank, her face and form presented attractions

sufficient to make her the object of attention and flattery. Four

successive winters were passed in the city. She was the foremost

object of all "who flattered, sought, and sued." Is it strange that

her judgment was perverted, and her heart eaten out? Is it strange

that her cousin found her a changed being?

She had engaged to marry one whose claim to her regard was the

thousands he possessed, and the eagerness with which he was sought by

those whose chief end was an establishment in life. She had taught

herself to believe that the yearnings of the heart were to be classed

with the follies of childhood.

Henry Ralston was the son of a small farmer, or rather of a man who

was the possessor of a small farm, and of a large soul. Henry was

modest, yet aspiring; gentle, yet intense in his affections. The

patient toil and rigid self-denial of his father gave him the

advantage of an excellent education. In childhood he was the frequent

companion of George and Emily. Even then an attachment sprung up in

his heart for his fair playmate. This was quietly cherished; and when

he entered upon the practice of the law in his native village, he

offered Emily his hand. It was, without hesitation or apparent pain,

rejected. Thus she cast away the only true heart which was ever laid

upon the altar of her beauty. He bore the disappointment with outward

calmness, though the iron entered his soul. He gave all his energies

to the labors of his profession. Such was the impression of his

ability and worth, that he was about to be supported, apparently

without opposition, for a seat in the national councils.

Eliza Austin was the daughter of a deceased minister, who had worn

himself out in the cause of benevolence, and died, leaving his wife

and daughter penniless. She was several years younger than George and

Emily; but early trials seemed to give an early maturity to her mind.

She was seldom their companion, for her young days were spent in toil,

aiding her mother in her efforts to obtain a scanty subsistence. Her

intelligence, her perception of the beautiful, and her devotion to her

mother made a deep impression upon George, and led him to regard her

as he regarded no other earthly being. Long before the idea of love

was associated with her name, he felt for her a respect approaching to

veneration. He had often desired to write to her during his absence,

but his entire ignorance of her situation rendered it unwise.

The waters of affliction had been wrung out to her in a full cup. The

long and distressing sickness of her mother was ended only by the

grave. She was then invited to take up her abode with her father's

sister, whose intemperate husband had broken her spirit, but had not

exhausted her heart. It was sad for Eliza to exchange the quiet home,

the voice of affection, of prayer, and of praise, for the harsh

criminations of the drunkard's abode. She would have left that abode

for service, but for the distress it would have given her aunt.

Death at length removed the tormentor, and those who had ministered to

his appetite swept away all his property.

The mind of Aunt Mary, now more than half a wreck, utterly revolted at

the idea of separation from her niece. Eliza could not leave her.

Declining an eligible situation as a teacher in a distant village, she

rendered her aunt all the assistance in her power in her lowly

employment--believing that the path dictated by affection and duty,

though it might meet with the neglect and the scorn of men, would not

fail to secure the approbation of God.

CHAPTER III.

"Well, George," said Mr. Earl, as they were seated at the

breakfast-table, "how do you intend to dispose of yourself to-day?"

"I have a great many old friends to visit, sir."

"It may not be convenient for some of them to see you early in the

morning."

"Some of them, I think, will not be at all particular respecting the

time of my visits. There is the white rock by the falls which I must

give an hour to; and I must see if the old trout who lived under it

has taken as good care of himself during my absence as he did before I

went away. And there is the willow grove, too, which I wish very much

to see."

"It has been cut down."

"Cut down!--what for?"

"Mr. Bullard thought it interfered with his prospect."

"Why did you not interfere, cousin?" turning to Emily.

"It was nothing to me what he did with his grove," said Emily.

"Oh, I had forgotten--" George did not finish the sentence. He turned

the conversation to some of the ordinary topics of the day.

After breakfast, he set out for Willow Brook, and seated himself upon

the white rock. The years that had passed since in childhood he sat

upon that rock, were reviewed by him. Though he had met with trials

and temptations, yet he was thankful that he could return to that rock

with so many of the feelings of childhood; that his heart's best

emotions had not been polluted by the world, but were as yet pure as

the crystal stream before him.

When he rose from that rock, instead of visiting the other haunts of

his early days, he found himself moving toward the village. Now and

then a familiar face was seen. By those who recognized him, he was

warmly greeted. It was not until he met a stranger that he inquired

for the residence of the widow and her niece. He was directed to a

small dwelling in a narrow lane. He knocked at the open door. The

widow, who was busily employed in smoothing the white linen before

her, bade him enter, but paused not from her work.

"Is Eliza at home?" said Mason.

"Who can you be that want to see Eliza?" said the poor woman, still

not lifting her eyes from her work.

"I am an old friend of hers," said Mason.

"A friend! a friend!" said she, pausing and looking upward, as if

striving to recall the idea belonging to the word. "Yes, she had

friends once--where have they gone?"

Again she plied her task, as if unconscious of his presence. He seated

himself and watched her countenance, which revealed so sad a history.

Her lips kept moving, and now and then she spoke aloud. "Poor girl! a

hard life has she had--it may all be right, but I can't see how; and

now she might be a lady if she would leave her poor, half-crazy aunt."

Her whispers were then inaudible. Soon she turned to Mason and said,

as if in reply to a question, "No, I never heard her complain. When

those she used to visit don't know her, and look the other way when

they meet her, she never complains. What will become of her when her

poor old aunt is gone? Who will take care of her?"

"I will," said Mason.

"Who may you be?" said she, scanning his countenance as if she had now

seen him for the first time.

"A friend of her childhood."

"What is your name?"

"George Mason."

"George Mason! George Mason!--I have heard that name before. It was

the name she had over so often when she had the fever, poor thing! I

did not know what she said, though she did not say a word during the

whole time that would not look well printed in a book. Did you use to

live in the big white house?"

"Yes, I used to live with my Uncle Earl."

"And with that _lady_," laying a fierce emphasis upon the word, "who

never speaks to Eliza now, though Eliza watched night after night with

her when she was on the borders of the grave. Are you like her?"

observing him to hesitate, she asked in a more excited manner, "are

you like Emily Earl?" Fearing that her clouded mind might receive an

impression difficult to remove, he promptly answered "No."

"I am glad of it," said the widow, resuming her work.

The last question and its answer was overheard by Eliza, as she was

coming in from the garden where she had been attending to a few

flowers. She turned deadly pale as she saw Mason, and remained

standing in the door. He arose and took her hand in both of his, and

was scarcely able to pronounce her name. The good aunt stood with

uplifted hands, gazing with ludicrous amazement at the scene. Eliza

was the first to recover her self-possession. She introduced Mason to

her aunt as an old friend.

"Friend!--are you sure he is a friend?"

"He is a friend," said Mason, "who is very grateful to you for the

love you have borne her, and the care you have taken of her."

"There," said she, opening a door which led to a parlor, perhaps ten

feet square, motioning to them to enter. Mason, still retaining her

trembling hand, led Eliza into the room, and seated her on the sofa,

the chief article of furniture it contained. Her eyes met his earnest

gaze. They were immediately filled with tears. His own overflowed. He

threw his arm around her, and they mingled their tears in silence. It

was long ere the first word was spoken. Eliza at length seemed to wake

as from a dream.

"What am I doing?" said she, attempting to remove his arm, "we are

almost strangers."

"Eliza," said he, solemnly, "do you say what you feel?"

"No, but I know not--" she could not finish the sentence.

"Eliza, you are dearer to me than any one upon earth." She made no

efforts to resist the pressure of his arm. There were moments of

eloquent silence.

"Eliza, will you become my wife?"

"Do you know how utterly destitute I am?"

"That has no connection with my question."

"If you are the same George Mason you used to be, you wish for a

direct answer. I will." It was not till this word was spoken that he

ventured to impress a kiss upon her cheek.

"I have not done right," said Eliza; "you can never know how much I

owe to that dear aunt. I ought not to engage myself without her

consent--I can never be separated from her."

"You cannot suppose that I would wish you to be separated."

"You are the same--" she was about to add some epithets of praise, but

checked herself. "How is it that you have remained unchanged?"

"By keeping bright an image in my heart of hearts."

With some difficulty Eliza rose, and opening the door, spoke to her

aunt. She came and stood in the door.

"Well, ma'am," said Mason, "I have gained Eliza's consent to change

her name, if you will give your consent." She stood as one bewildered.

The cloud which rested on her countenance was painful to behold. It

was necessary to repeat his remark before she could apprehend it.

"Ah, is it so? It has come at last. He doeth all things well. I hadn't

faith to trust Him. He doeth all things well."

"We have your consent?"

"If she is half as loving to you as she has been to me, you will never

be sorry. But what will become of me?"

"We have no idea of parting with you. She has given her consent only

on condition that you go with us." The old lady fixed her gaze upon

her niece. It was strange that features so plain, so wrinkled by age

and sorrow, could beam with such affection. She could find no words to

express her feelings. She closed the door, and was heard sobbing like

a child.

Hour after hour stole away unnoted by the lovers. They were summoned

to partake of the frugal meal spread by Aunt Mary's hands, and no

apologies were made for its lack of store. Again they retired to the

little parlor, and it was not till the sun was low in the west, that

he set out on his return to the "white house."

"We conclude that you have passed a happy day," said Mrs. Earl, "at

least your countenance says so. We began to feel anxious about you."

"I went to the brook first, and then to the village."

"Have you seen many of your old friends?"

"Several of them."

Mason was released from the necessity of answering further questions

by the arrival of a carriage at the door. Mr. Earl rose and went to

the window. "Mr. Benfield has come," said he. Emily arose and left the

room to return in another dress, and with flowers in her hair.

Mr. Benfield was shown to his room, and in a few moments joined the

family at the tea-table. Emily received him with a smile, which,

however beautiful it may have been, was not like the smile of Eliza

Austin. Mason saw that Mr. Benfield belonged to a class with which he

was perfectly well acquainted. "It is well," thought he, "that she has

filed down her mind, if she must spend her days with a man like him."

Mason passed the evening with his uncle, though he was sadly

inattentive to his uncle's remarks. Emily and Mr. Benfield took a

walk, and on their return did not join the family. Benfield's object

in visiting the country at this time was to fix a day for his

marriage. The evening was spent by them in discussing matters

pertaining to that event.

It was necessary for Mr. Benfield to return to the city on the

afternoon of the following day. Mason, for various reasons, determined

to accompany him. Part of the morning was spent with Eliza, and

arrangements for their union were easily fixed upon. No costly

preparations for a wedding were thought to be necessary.

Emily devoted herself so entirely to Mr. Benfield, that Mason had no

opportunity of informing her respecting the state of his affairs.

He sought his uncle, expressed to him his gratitude for his kindness,

informed him of the state of his pecuniary affairs, and of his

affections, and asked his approbation of his intended marriage.

"I can't say, George," said the old gentleman, "but that you have done

the wisest thing you could do. Emily may not like it. I have nothing

to say against it. I didn't do very differently myself, though it

would hardly do to say so aloud now. Emily is to be married in three

weeks. You must be with us then."

"Suppose I wish to be married myself on the same evening?"

"Well, I don't know. I think you had better be with us, then make such

arrangements as you please, and say nothing to us about it. It may

make a little breeze at first, but it will soon blow over. Nobody will

like you the worse for it in the end." Heartily thanking his uncle for

his frankness and affection, and taking a courteous leave of Emily, he

took his departure, with Mr. Benfield, for the city.

CHAPTER IV.

The white house was a scene of great activity as the wedding-day drew

near. Aunt Mary's services were put in requisition to a much greater

extent than usual. When she protested that she could do no more, Mrs.

Earl suggested that her niece would help her. Aunt Mary could not help

remarking that Eliza might have something else to do as well as Miss

Emily.

It was understood that a large number of guests were to be invited.

Many dresses were ordered in anticipation of an invitation. The

services of the village dress-maker were in great demand. Eliza

ordered a plain white dress--a very unnecessary expenditure, it was

thought, since it was certain that she would not receive an

invitation. It was a pity that she should thus prepare disappointment

for herself, poor thing!

Benfield and Mason arrived together on the appointed day. All things

were in order. The preparations were complete. The guests

assembled--the "big white house" was filled as it never had been

filled before. Suddenly there is a _hush_ in the crowd--the

folding-doors are thrown open--the bride and bride-groom are seen,

prepared for the ceremony that is to make them one--in law. The words

are spoken, the ceremony is performed, the oppressive silence is

removed--the noise and gayety common to such occasions take place.

After a time, it was noticed by some that the pastor, and Mason, and

Esq. Ralston had disappeared.

They repaired to Aunt Mary's, where a few tried friends had been

invited to pass the evening. These friends were sorry that Eliza had

not been invited to the wedding, but were pleased to find that she did

not seem to be disappointed--she was in such fine spirits. She wore

her new white dress, and a few roses in her hair.

The entrance of the pastor, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Ralston, seemed to

cause no surprise to Aunt Mary, though it astonished the assembled

guests. After a kind word from the pastor to each one present, for

they were all members of his flock, Mason arose, and taking Eliza by

the hand, said to him, "We are ready." Prayer was offered, the

wedding-vows were spoken, and George Mason and Eliza Austin were

pronounced husband and wife.

Joy seemed to have brushed away the clouds from Aunt Mary's mind. She

conversed with the intelligence of her better days. The guests

departed, and ere the lights were extinguished in the parlors of the

white house, it was known throughout the village that there had been

two weddings instead of one.

Early in the morning, before the news had reached them, Mr. and Mrs.

Benfield set out upon their wedding tour. Emily learned her cousin's

marriage from the same paper which informed the public of her own.

George Mason had no time for a wedding tour. He removed his wife and

her aunt immediately to the city, and at once resumed the labors of

his calling.

Emily did not become acquainted with Mrs. Mason, until Mr. Benfield

had failed in business, and was enabled to commence again, with

capital furnished by her cousin, who had become the leading member of

his firm.

THE DAYSPRING.

BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON.

Mourner, bending o'er the tomb

Where thy heart's dear treasure lies,

Dark and dreary is thy gloom,

Deep and burdened are thy sighs:

From thy path the light, whose rays

Cheered and guided thee, is gone,

And the future's desert waste

Thou must sadly tread alone.

'Neath the drooping willow's shade,

Where the mourning cypress grows,

The beloved and lost is laid

In a quiet, calm repose.

Silent now the voice whose tones

Wakened rapture in thy breast--

Dull the ear--thy anguished groans

Break not on the sleeper's rest.

Grace and loveliness are fled,

Broken is the "golden bowl,"

Loosed the "silver chord," whose thread

Bound to earth th' immortal soul.

Closed the eyes whose glance so dear

Once love's language fond could speak,

And the worm, foul banqueter,

Riots on that matchless cheek.

And the night winds, as they sweep

In their solemn grandeur by,

With a cadence wild and deep,

Mournfully their requiem sigh.

And each plant and leaf and flower

Bows responsive to the wail,

Chanted, at the midnight hour,

By the spirits of the gale.

Truly has thy sun gone down

In the deepest, darkest gloom,

And the fondest joys thou'st known

Buried are within that tomb.

Earth no solace e'er can bring

To thy torn and bleeding heart--

Time nor art extract the sting

From the conqueror's poisoned dart.

But, amid thy load of wo,

Turn, thou stricken one, thine eyes

Upward, and behold that glow

Spreading brightly o'er the skies!

'Tis the day-star, beaming fair

In the blue expanse above;

Look on high, and know that there

Dwells the object of thy love,

Life's bright harp of thousand strings

By the spoiler's hand was riven,

But the realm seraphic rings

With the victor notes of heaven.

Over death triumphant--lo!

See thy cherished one appear!

Mourner, dry thy tears of wo,

Trust, believe, and meet her there!

SONNET.--CULTIVATION.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

Weeds grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers

Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air,

And bloom on hills, in vales and everywhere--

As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers--

But wither while our lips pronounce them fair!

Flowers of more worth repay alone the care,

The nurture, and the hopes of watchful hours;

While plants most cultured have most lasting powers.

So, flowers of Genius that will longest live

Spring not in Mind's uncultivated soil,

But are the birth of time, and mental toil,

And all the culture Learning's hand can give:

Fancies, like wild flowers, in a night may grow;

But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow.

FIRST LOVE.

OR LILLIE MASON'S DEBUT.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

Maybe without a further thought,

It only pleased you thus to please,

And thus to kindly feelings wrought

You measured not the sweet degrees;

Yet though you hardly understood

Where I was following at your call,

You might--I dare to say you should--

Have thought how far I had to fall.

And even now in calm review

Of all I lost and all I won,

I cannot deem you wholly true,

Nor wholly just what you have done. MILNES.

There is none

In all this cold and hollow world, no fount

Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within

A mother's heart. HEMANS.

On paying a visit to my friend Agnes Mason one morning, the servant

told me his mistress would be pleased to see me in her dressing-room.

Thither I repaired, and found her, to my surprise, surrounded by all

sorts of gay, costly articles, appertaining to the costume of a woman

of the world. To my surprise, I say, for Agnes has always been one of

the greatest home-bodies in the whole circle of my acquaintances. A

party, or a ball she has scarcely visited since the first years of her

marriage, although possessing ample means to enjoy every gayety of

fashionable life.

Over the Psyche glass was thrown a spotless _crepe_ dress, almost

trembling with its rich embroidery; and near it, as if in contrast, on

a dress-stand, was a velvet robe, falling in soft, luxurious folds.

Flowers, caps, _coiffures_ of various descriptions, peeped out of

sundry boxes, and on a commode table was an open _ecrin_ whose

sparkling, costly contents dazzled the eyes.

"Hey-day!" I exclaimed to my friend, as she advanced to meet me,

"what's the meaning of all this splendor?"

"I was just on the point of sending for you," she replied

laughingly--"Madame M---- has sent home these lovely things for Lillie

and I--and I want your opinion upon them."

"And you are really going to re-enter society?" I asked.

"Lillie is eighteen this winter, you know," was my gentle friend's

reply. "Who would have thought time could have flown around so

quickly. Mr. Mason is very anxious she should make her _entree_ this

season. You can scarcely fancy how disagreeable it is to me, but I

must not be selfish. I cannot always have her with me."

"And you, like a good mother," I said, "will throw aside your love for

retirement and accompany her?"

"Certainly," replied Agnes eagerly, and she added with a slight

expression of feeling which I well understood--"I will watch over her,

for she will need my careful love now even more than in childhood."

"Where is the pretty cause of all this anxiety and attention?" I

inquired.

"Charlie would not dress for his morning walk," answered the mother,

"unless sister Lillie assisted in the robing of the young tyrant, so

she is in the nursery."

We inspected the different robes and gay things spread out so

temptingly before us, and grew femininely eloquent over these

beautiful trifles, and were most earnestly engaged in admiring the

_parure_ of brilliant diamonds, and the spotless pearls, with which

the fond, proud father and husband had presented them that morning,

when a slight tap was heard at the door, and our pet Lillie entered. A

bright-eyed, light-hearted creature is Lillie Mason--a sunbeam to her

home. She ran up to me with affectionate greetings, and united in our

raptures over the glittering _bijouterie_.

"How will you like this new life, Lillie?" I asked, as the lovely girl

threw herself on a low _marchepied_ at our feet, as if wearied of the

pretty things.

"I can scarcely tell," she replied, and she rested her head on her

mother's lap, whose hand parted the clustering ringlets on the fair,

smooth brow, while Lillie's eyes looked up most lovingly to that

beloved mother, as she added--"How we shall miss the quiet reading

hours, mother, darling. What time shall we have during our robing and

unrobing for 'the _gentle Una and her milk-white lamb_,' and '_those

bright children of the bard, Imogen, the fair Fidele and lovely

Desdemona_?' What use is there in all this decking and adorning? Life

is far happier spent in one's own home."

"I fear," said Agnes, as she fondly caressed her daughter, "that I

have made my Lillie too much of a household darling; but I have done

it to avoid a greater evil. We women must love something--such a

wealth of affection is stored within our hearts, that we are rendered

miserable if it is poured out upon one human being, after being pent

up within bounds, during childhood and girlhood up to womanhood.

Should my Lillie be unfortunate in her love--I mean her wedded

love--the misery will not be half so intense, for her heart belongs,

at least two-thirds, to her family and mother, and no faithless lover

can ever boast the possession of the whole of it."

"No, indeed," exclaimed the dear girl, drawing her mother's face down

to hers--"my whole heart is yours, _chere maman_, and yours it shall

always be."

With what rapture gleamed the mother's eyes, as she returned the

daughter's fond caresses. Some day, dear reader, I may tell you what

happened to Lillie Mason's heart, but now my thoughts are o'er-hung

with the dark mantle of the past, and I can only think of the mother's

former life.

Agnes Howell was a beautiful girl--there was so much purity in her

appearance. The gentle beam of her blue eye was angelic, and her

auburn ringlets hung over her clear fair brow and soft cheek as if

caressing that lovely face. Then she was such a contrast to her

family--an only daughter among a troop of strong, stout clever

brothers--merry healthy-minded boys were they, but the gentle Madonna

sister in their midst seemed an "angel unawares." Agnes' mother was an

excellent woman, strong-minded, pains-taking, but a little hard and

obtuse in feeling. She no more understood the gentle spirit and deep

heart-yearnings of the daughter God had given her than she did the

mystery of life. She loved her with all the strength of her nature,

but she made no companion of the quiet girl, and thought if she kept

her wardrobe in good order, watched her general health, and directed

her serious reading, she did all that was required of her. Agnes grew

up a dreamer, an enthusiast; quiet and self-possessed her home

training had made her, and a stranger would have wondered at the tide

of deep feeling that ebbed and flowed within the breast of that

gentle, placid girl. She shrunk from the rude _badinage_ of her

boisterous brothers, and finding that little was required of her in

the _heart-way_ from her matter-of-fact mother and good-natured, easy

father, she lavished the wealth of her love upon an ideal. A woman

soon finds, or fancies she finds, the realization of her ideal. Chance

threw in Agnes' path one who was superior enough in mind and person to

realize any image of a romantic girl's fancy.

I remember well the time Agnes first met Mr. Preston. We were on a

visit one summer to some friends together, and while there we met with

this accomplished gentleman. How delighted were we both with him, and

how enthusiastically did we chant to each other his praises, when in

our own room we assisted each other in undressing for the night, or

decking ourselves for the gay dinner or evening party. We met with

many other gentlemen, and agreeable ones too, on this eventful visit,

but Mr. Preston was a star of the first magnitude. I was a few years

Agnes' junior, and well satisfied with the attentions I received from

the other gentlemen, who deigned to notice so tiny a body as I was;

but Mr. Preston soon singled out Agnes. He walked, rode and drove with

her: hung over her enraptured when she sung, and listened with

earnestness to every word that fell from her lips. She was "many

fathom deep in love" ere she knew it--poor girl--and how exquisitely

beautiful did this soul's dawning cause her lovely face to appear. The

wind surely was not answerable for those burning cheeks and bright,

dancing eyes, which she bore after returning from long rides, during

which Mr. Preston was her constant companion--and the treasured sprigs

of jessamine and verveine which she stored away in the leaves of her

journal, after a moonlight ramble in the conservatory, with the same

fascinating attendant--did not love cause all this? Naughty love, can

the moments of rapture, exquisite though they be, which thou givest,

atone for the months and years of deep heart-rending wretchedness

which so often ensues?

During the six weeks of that happy visit, Agnes Howell lived out the

whole of her heart's existence. Blissful and rapturous were the

moments, sleeping or waking, for Hope and Love danced merrily before

her. But, alas! while it was the turning point--the event of her

life--"it was but an episode" in the existence of the one who

entranced her--"but a piping between the scenes." I do not think Mr.

Preston ever realized the mischief he did. He was pleased with her

appearance. Her purity and _naivete_ were delightful to him. Her ready

appreciation of the true and beautiful in nature and art, interested

him; and he sought her as a companion, because she was the most

congenial amongst those who surrounded him. He was a man of society,

and never stopped to think that the glowing, enthusiastic creature,

whose eyes gazed up so confidingly to him, as he conversed of

literature and poesy, or whose lips overflowed with earnest, eloquent

words, was an innocent, guileless child, into whose Undine nature he

had summoned the soul. He had been many years engaged, heart and hand,

to another; and circumstances alone had delayed the fulfillment of

that engagement. This Agnes knew nothing of, and surrendered herself

up, heart and soul, to him, unasked, poor girl! He regarded her as an

interesting, lovely girl, but he attributed the enthusiasm and feeling

which he unconsciously had called into birth, to the exquisite

formation of her spirit, and thought her a most superior creature. No

one marked the _affaire_ as I did, for we were surrounded by those who

knew of Mr. Preston's situation in life, and his engagement, and who,

moreover, regarded Agnes as a child in comparison to him--an unformed

woman, quite beneath the choice of one so _distingue_ as was Mr.

Preston.

Our visit drew near to a close; the evening before our departure I was

looking over some rare and beautiful engravings in the library. A gay

party were assembled in the adjoining apartments, and Mr. Preston had

been Agnes' partner during the quadrilles and voluptuous waltz. I had

lingered in the library, partly from shyness, partly from a desire to

take a farewell of my favorite haunt, and look over my pet books and

pictures, while the rich waves of melody floated around my ears. At

the close of a brilliant waltz, Mr. Preston and Agnes joined me, and I

found myself listening with as much earnestness as Agnes to the mellow

tones of his voice, while he pointed out to us beauties and defects in

the pictures, and heightened the interest we already took in them by

classical allusion or thrilling recital. If the subject of a picture

was unknown, he would throw around it the web of some fancied story,

improvised on the instant. I listened to him with delight; every thing

surrounding us tended to increase the effect of the spell. Music

swelled in voluptuous cadences, merry voices, and the gushing sound of

heart-felt laughter greeted our ears. Opposite the table over which we

were leaning was a door, which opened into a conservatory, through

whose glasses streamed the cold, pure moonlight, beaming on the

exotics that in silence breathed an almost over-powering odor; and my

eyes dwelt upon that quiet, cool spot, while the soft, harmonious

conversation of my companions, and the merry, joyous sounds of the

ball-room, blended half dreamily in my ears.

"You are wishing to escape into that conservatory, Miss Duval," said

Mr. Preston to me suddenly.

A warm blush mantled my face, for I fancied he thought I was weary of

his conversation. I stammered out some reply, I scarce knew what,

which was not listened to, however, for Agnes, catching sight of an

Ethiop gypsey flower at the far end of the conservatory, expressed a

wish to see it. Mr. Preston with earnestness opposed the change--the

atmosphere there, he feared, was too chilling; but as she rested her

hand on his, with childish confidence, to prove to him the excitement

and flush of the gay waltz had passed, and looked up with such beaming

joyfulness out of her dark, violet eyes, he smilingly yielded; but

first wrapped around her shoulders, with affectionate solicitude, an

Indian _crepe_ shawl, that hung near him on a chair. "_Poor little

me_" was not thought of; I might take cold if I could, he would not

have noted it; but I ejaculated to myself, "If I am too young for Mr.

Preston to feel any interest in, a few years will make a vast

difference, and maybe in the future I shall be an object of care to

some one."

We reached the beautiful flower, over which Agnes hung; and as she

inhaled its fragrance, she murmured in low words, which Mr. Preston

bent his tall, graceful form to hear,

"Thou dusky flower, I stoop to inhale

Thy fragrance--thou art one

That wooeth not the vulgar eye,

Nor the broad-staring sun.

"Therefore I love thee! (selfish love

Such preference may be,)

That thou reservest all thy sweets,

Coy thing, for night and me."

"This flower must be mine, Miss Agnes," said Mr. Preston, with

gallantry; "and when I look on it, it will tell me of the delicate

taste and pure spirit of one who has rendered six weeks of my

cheerless life bright."

The chill moonlight shone down on Agnes, and its rays nestled between

the ringlets and her downy cheek, but its cold beams could not blench

the rosy hue, that mounted to her blue veined temples, as Mr. Preston

severed the fragrant exotic from its stem, and carefully pressed it

between the leaves of his tablets. Many such words followed, and I

walked unheeded beside them, as they lingered in this lovely place.

Pity that such blessed hours should ever be ended--that life's lights

should need dark shadows. Midnight swept over us ere good-night was

said; and in a half-dreamy state of rapture, Agnes rested her head on

her pillow. Nothing had been said; no love had been actually

expressed, in the vulgar sense of the word, and according to the

world's view of such matters, Mr. Preston was entirely guiltless of

the dark, heavy cloud that hung over the pathway of that young

creature from that night.

We returned to our homes; I benefited by my visit, for my mind had

been improved by the association with older and superior persons--and

I returned with renewed zeal to my studies and reading, that I might

understand that which had appeared but "darkly to my mind's eye." But

Agnes found her companionless home still more cheerless. The bustling,

thrifty mother, and hearty, noisy brothers, greeted her with earnest

kindness; but after a few weeks had passed, her spirit flagged. She

lived for awhile upon the recollection of the past, and that buoyed

her up; but, as day after day went noiselessly and uneventfully by,

her heart grew aweary of the dear "hope deferred," and a listlessness

took possession of her. Poor girl! the rosy hue of her cheek faded,

and the bright light of her eye grew dim. Her bustling, active family

did not take notice of the change in her appearance and spirits; but

I, thrown daily with her, noted it with anxiety. I sought to interest

her in my studies, and asked her assistance in my music. With labor

she would exert herself to aid me; and at times her old enthusiasm

would burst forth, but only as the gleams of an expiring taper; every

thing seemed wearisome to her.

One morning I heard that she had been seized with a dangerous illness,

and I hastily obeyed the summons which I had received from her mother.

What a commotion was that bustling family thrown into. The physicians

pronounced her sickness a brain fever. When I reached her bedside, she

was raving, and her beautiful eyes gazed vacantly on the nearest and

dearest of her friends; even the mother that bore her hung over her

unrecognized. She had retired as usual the night before, her mother

said, apparently well; but at midnight the family had been awakened by

her shrieks and cries. I watched beside her bed weepingly, for I never

hoped to see her again in health. The dark wing of Death I felt

already drooping over her; and with anguish I listened to the snatches

of poetry and song that fell in fragments from her lips. As I was

placing a cup on a table in her room, during the day, my eye caught

sight of two cards tied with white satin ribbon, and on them I read

the names of Mr. Ralph Preston and his bride, with these words hastily

written in pencil in Mr. Preston's handwriting on the larger of the

two cards,

"You will, my lovely friend, rejoice in my happiness, I am sure. Short

was our acquaintance, but with the hope that I am not forgotten, I

hasten to inform you that the cheerless life-path you deigned to

brighten for a few short hours by your kind smiles, is now rendered

calm and joyous. I am at last married to the one I have secretly

worshiped for years. We both pray you may know happiness exquisite as

ours."

How quickly I divined the cause of my friend's illness; no longer was

it a mystery to me as it was to her family. Those silent cards had

been the messengers of evil, and had been mute witnesses of the bitter

anguish that had wrung her young heart. There, in the silent night,

had she struggled with her agony; and I fancied I heard her calling on

Heaven for strength--that Heaven to which we only appeal when

overwhelmed by the sad whirldwind caused by our errors or passions.

But strength had been denied, and her spirit sank fainting.

For weeks we watched the fluttering life within her, at times giving

up all hope; but youth and careful nursing aided the struggle of

Nature with Death, and at last Agnes opened her languid eyes upon us,

and was pronounced out of immediate danger. The sickening pallor that

overspread her face an instant after her returning consciousness, I

well understood; the thought of her heart's desolation came to her

memory, and I fear life was any thing but a blessing to her then. Her

health continued delicate; and at last it was deemed advisable to take

her to a more genial climate--that change of scene and air might

strengthen her constitution, and raise her spirits, depressed, the

physician said, by sickness. I knew better than the wise Esculapius;

but my knowledge could not restore her. Her father was a man of

considerable wealth, therefore no expense was spared for her benefit.

They resided some years in Europe, and the letters I received from

Agnes proved that the change had, indeed, been of benefit. New

associations surrounded her, and dissipated the sad foreboding

thoughts, bringing her to a more healthy state of mind. I was a little

surprised, however, when I heard of her approaching marriage with Mr.

Mason. Had I been as old as I am now, I would not have felt that

wonder; but I was still young and sentimental enough to fancy the

possibility of cherishing an "unrequited, luckless love, even unto

death." Agnes had never spoken openly to me of her unfortunate

attachment, but there was always a tacit understanding between us. She

was too delicate and refined, too sensitive to indulge in the eager

confidence which a coarser mind would have luxuriated in; but in

writing to, or talking with me, she many times expressed herself in

earnest, feeling words, that to a stranger would have seemed only as

"fine sentiments," while to me, who knew her sad history, they bore a

deeper meaning; therefore, the letter I received from her, on her

marriage, was well understood, and quietly appreciated by me.

"I wonder if you will be surprised, my dear Enna," she wrote, "when

you hear that I am married? A few years ago it would have surprised

me, and I should have thought it impossible. Moreover, I am marrying a

man for whom I do not entertain that 'rapturous, soul-engrossing,

enthusiastic love' which we have always deemed so necessary in

marrying, and which, Heaven knows, I was once capable of bestowing on

a husband. Mr. Mason, whom I am about to marry, is not a man who

requires such love. The calm, quiet respect and friendship I entertain

for him, suits him far better. He is matter-of-fact--think of that,

Enna--not at all like the imaginary heroes of love we have talked of

together. But he is high-minded, and possesses much intelligence and

cultivation. We have been friends a long while, and I am confident

that, if life and health are spared, happiness will result to both

from our union."

She did not return to her country for many years after her marriage;

and when I again saw her, she presented a strong contrast, in

appearance, to the pale, heart-broken creature I had parted with ten

years before. She was more beautiful even than in her youth--still

delicate and spiritual in appearance; and the calm, matronly dignity

that pervaded her manner rendered her very lovely. Several children

she had--for our Lillie can boast a Neapolitan birth; but in her whole

troop she has but this one darling girl. Calm and quiet is Agnes Mason

in her general deportment; but her intercourse with her children

presents a strong contrast--then it is her "old enthusiasm" bursts

forth. She has been a devoted mother; and her children think her the

most perfect creature on earth. The intercourse between Agnes and

Lillie is, indeed, interesting. On the mother's part there is intense

devotion, which is fully returned by the daughter, blended with

reverential feelings. She has superintended her education, and

rendered what would have been wearisome tasks, "labors of love." How

often have I found them in the library with heads bent over the same

page, and eyes expressive of the same enthusiasm; or at the piano,

with voices and hands uniting to produce what was to my ears exquisite

harmony. Agnes' love-requiring heart, "like the Deluge wanderer," has

at last found a resting-place, and on her daughter, and on her noble,

beautiful boys, the whole rich tide of her love has been poured.

Lillie Mason, with all her beauty and wealth, will never be a belle,

as her mother says she has been made too much of "a household

darling." I watched her one evening, not a long while since, at a gay

ball, where her mother and I sat as spectatresses. She had been

persuaded from our side by a dashing _distingue_ youth, and was moving

most gracefully with him through a quadrille. In the pauses of the

dance he seemed most anxious to interest her, and I saw his fine, dark

eyes bend on her very tender glances. Her _bouquet_ seemed to him an

object of especial attention, and though a graceful dancer himself, he

seemed so wrapt up in his notice of these fragrant flowers as to

derange the quadrille more than once. I drew Agnes' attention to this.

"But see," said Agnes, "how coolly and calmly Lillie draws his

attention to the forgotten figures. I'll answer for it, she spoils

many of that youth's fine sentiments."

"I wonder," said Lillie, with a half-vexed air, after her partner had

placed her beside her mother, while he hastened to procure some

refreshments for us, "I wonder what Mr. Carlton dances for. I would

not take the trouble to stand up in a quadrille, if I were in his

place. He always talks so much as to quite forget the movements of the

dance. He renders me more nervous than any partner I ever have, for I

dislike to see my _vis-a-vis_ so bored. Just now he went through the

whole "language of flowers" in my bouquet, which would have been

interesting elsewhere, for he quotes poetry right cleverly; but it was

a little out of place where the bang of the instruments, and the

_chazzez_ and the _balancez_ made me lose one half of his pretty

eloquence. Quadrilles are senseless things any how;" and our pretty

Lillie actually yawned as she begged to know if it was not time to

go. "You know, dear mamma," she said, "that I have to arise very early

to-morrow morning, to help Tom in that hard lesson he groaned so

pitifully over to-night."

As we left the ball-room, and were making our adieux to the fair

hostess, I overheard young Carlton say reproachfully to Lillie,

"And so you are going to leave without dancing that next quadrille

with me. I know my name is on your tablets. This is too unkind, Miss

Mason."

Young Carleton is very devoted; but if his devotion is only a passing

caprice, our Lillie will not be injured by it. There is no danger of

her "falling in love" hastily, even if the lover be as handsome and

interesting as the one in question. Luckily for her happiness, her

mother, profiting by her own sad experience, has cultivated the sweet

blossoms of domestic love, and, as she says, "My Lillie's heart will

always belong, at least two-thirds, to her mother and family."

MIDNIGHT.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

The moon looks down on a world of snow,

And the midnight lamp is burning low,

And the fading embers mildly glow

In their bed of ashes soft and deep;

All, all is still as the hour of death--

I only hear what the old clock saith,

And the mother and infant's easy breath,

That flows from the holy land of Sleep.

Or the watchman who solemnly wakes the dark,

With a voice like a prophet's when few will hark,

And the answering hounds that bay and bark

To the red cock's clarion horn--

The world goes on--the restless world,

With its freight of sleep through darkness hurled,

Like a mighty ship, when her sails are furled,

On a rapid but noiseless river borne.

Say on old clock--I love you well,

For your silver chime, and the truths you tell--

Your every stroke is but the knell

Of Hope, or Sorrow buried deep;

Say on--but only let me hear

The sound most sweet to my listening ear,

The child and the mother breathing clear

Within the harvest-fields of Sleep.

Thou watchman, on thy lonely round,

I thank thee for that warning sound--

The clarion cock and the baying hound

Not less their dreary vigils keep;

Still hearkening, I will love you all,

While in each silent interval

I can hear those dear breasts rise and fall

Upon the airy tide of Sleep.

Old world, on Time's benighted stream

Sweep down till the stars of morning beam

From orient shores--nor break the dream

That calms my love to pleasures deep;

Roll on and give my Bud and Rose

The fullness of thy best repose,

The blessedness which only flows

Along the silent realms of Sleep.

A VISION.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

I saw the Past, in heaven a mighty train,

A countless multitude of solemn years,

Standing like souls of martyred saints, and tears

Ran down their pallid cheeks like summer rain;

They clasped and wrung their white hands evermore,

Wailing, demanding vengeance on the world:

And Judgment, with his garments sprinkled o'er

With guilty blood, and dusky wings unfurled,

And sword unsheathed, expectant of His nod,

Stood waiting by the burning throne, and God

Rose up in heaven in ire--but Mercy fair,

A piteous damsel clad in spotless white,

In supplication sweet and earnest prayer

Knelt at his feet and clung around his robe of light.

THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL.

A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE.

BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.

For naught its power to STRENGTH can teach

Like EMULATION--and ENDEAVOR. SCHILLER.

CHAPTER I.

HOPING AND PLANNING.

The family of Deacon Gordon were gathered in the large kitchen, at the

commencement of the first snow-storm of the season. With what delight

the children watched the driving clouds--and shouted with exultation

as they tried to count the fleecy flakes floating gently to the

earth--nestling upon its bleak, bare surface as if they would fain

shield it with a pure and beautiful mantle. Faster and faster came the

storm, even the deacon concluded that it would amount to something,

after all; perhaps there might be sleighing on Thanksgiving-day;

though he thought it rather uncertain. His wife did not reply, she was

bidding the children be a little less noisy in their mirth.

"We can get out our sleds in the morning, can't we, Mary?" said Master

Ned. "I'm so glad you finished my mittens last Saturday. I told Tom

Kelly I hoped it would snow soon, for I wanted to see how warm they

were. Wont I make the ice-balls fly!"

Ned had grown energetic with the thought, and seizing his mother's

ball of worsted aimed it at poor puss, who was sleeping quietly before

the blazing fire. Alas! for Neddy--puss but winked her great sleepy

eyes as the ball whizzed past, and was buried in the pile of ashes

that had gathered around the huge "back-log." His mother did not

scold; she had never been known to disturb the serenity of the good

deacon by an ebullition of angry words. Indeed, the neighbors often

said she was _too_ quiet, letting the children have their own way.

'Mrs. Gordon chose to rule by the law of love, a mode of government

little understood by those around her. Could they have witnessed Ned's

penitent look, when his mother simply said--"Do you see how much

trouble you have given me, my son?" they would not have doubted its

efficacy.

The deacon said nothing, but opened the almanac he had just taken down

from its allotted corner, and thought, as he searched for "Nov. 25th,"

that he had the best wife in the world, and if his children were not

good it was their own fault. The great maxim of the deacon's life had

been "let well enough alone"--but not always seeing clearly what was

"well enough," he was often surprised when he found matters did not

turn out as he had expected. This had made him comparatively a poor

man, though the fine farm he had inherited from his father should

have rendered him perfectly independent of the world. Little by little

had been sold, until it was not more than half its original size, and

the remainder, far less fertile than of old, scarce yielded a

sufficient support for his now numerous family. He had a holy horror

of debt, however--and with his wife's rigid and careful economy, he

managed to balance accounts at the end of the year. But this was

all--there was nothing in reserve--should illness or misfortune

overtake him, life's struggle would be hard indeed for his youthful

family.

The deacon was satisfied--he had found the day of the month, and in a

spirit of prophecy quite remarkable, the context added, "Snow to be

expected about this time."

"It's late enough for snow, that's true," said he, as he carefully

replaced his "farmer's library," then remarking it was near time for

tea, he took up his blue homespun frock, and went out in the face of

the storm to see that the cattle were properly cared for. The deacon

daily exemplified the motto--"A merciful man is merciful to his

beast."

"Father is right," said Mrs. Gordon, using the familiar title so

commonly bestowed upon the head of the family in that section of

country. "Mary, it is quite time you were busy, and you, James, had

better get in the wood."

The young people to whom she spoke had been conversing apart at the

furthest window of the room. Mary, a girl of fifteen, James, scarce

more than a year her senior. They started at their mother's voice, as

if they had quite forgotten where they were, but in an instant

good-humoredly said she was right, and without delay commenced their

several tasks. James was assisted by Ned, who, since he had come into

possession of his first pair of boots--an era in the life of every

boy--had been promoted to the office of chip-gatherer; and Sue, a rosy

little girl of eight or nine, spread the table, while her sister

prepared the tea, cutting the snowy loaves made by her own hand; and

bringing a roll of golden butter she herself had moulded, Mrs. Gordon

gave a look of general supervision, and finished the preparations for

the evening meal by the addition of cheese--such as city people never

see--just as Mr. Gordon and James returned, stamping the snow from

their heavy boots, and sending a shower of drops from the already

melting mass which clung to them.

Never was there a happier group gathered about a farmer's table, and

when, with bowed head and solemn voice, the father had begged the

blessing of Heaven upon their simple fare, the children did ample

justice to the plain but substantial viands. Mrs. Gordon wondered how

they found time to eat, there was so much to be said on all sides; but

talk as they would--and it is an established fact that the

conversational powers of children are developed with greater

brilliancy at table than elsewhere--when the repast was finished there

was very little reason to complain on the score of bad appetites.

Then commenced the not unpleasant task of brightening and putting away

the oft used dishes. Mary and Sue were no loiterers, and by the time

their mother had swept the hearth, and arranged the displaced

furniture, cups and plates were shining on the dresser, as the red

fire-light gleamed upon them. The deacon sat gazing intently upon the

glowing embers--apparently in deep meditation, though it is to be

questioned whether he thought at all. Mrs. Gordon had resumed her

knitting, while Sue and Ned, after disputing some time whose turn it

was to hold the yarn, were busily employed in winding a skein of

worsted into birds-nest balls.

"Seven o'clock comes very soon, don't it Eddy?" said Sue, as their

heads came in contact at the unraveling of a terrible "tangle"--"I

wish it would be always daylight, and then wouldn't we sit up a great

many hours? I'd go to school at night instead of the daytime, and do

all my errands, and go to meeting too--then we should have all day

long to play in, and if we got tired we could lie down on the grass in

the orchard and take a little nap, or here before the fire if it was

winter. Oh, dear! I'm sure I can't see why there's any dark at all!"

"You girls don't know any thing," answered Master Ned, with the

inherent air of superiority which alike animates the boy and the man,

where women are concerned--"If there was no night what would become of

the chickens? They can't go to sleep in the daylight, can they, I'd

like to know? And if they didn't go to sleep how would they ever get

fat, or large; and maybe they wouldn't have feathers; then what would

we do for bolsters, and beds, and pillows? You didn't think of that, I

guess, Susy."

Ned's patronizing air quite offended his sister, but she did not stop

to show it, for she had, as she thought, found an admirable plan for

the chickens.

"Well," said she slowly, not perceiving in her abstraction that the

skein was nearly wound, "we could make a dark room in the barn for the

biddies, and they could go in there when it ought to be sundown. I

guess they'd know--" but here there came an end to the skein and their

speculations, for seven o'clock rung clearly and loudly from the

wooden time-piece in the corner, and the children obeyed the signal

for bed, not without many "oh, dears," and wishes that the clock could

not strike.

"James," said his elder sister, as their mother left the room with the

little ones, "let us tell father and mother all about it to-night.

They might as well know now as any time; and Stephen will be back in

the morning."

"Don't speak so loud," whispered the boy, "father will hear you. I

suppose we might as well; but I do so dread it, I'm sure it would kill

me if they were to say no, and now I can hope at least."

"I know it all," said his stronger minded adviser, "but I shall feel

better when they are told. I know mother wonders what we are always

whispering about; and it does not seem right to hide any thing from

her. Here she is, and when we've got father's cider and the apples, I

shall tell them if you don't."

Poor James! it was evident that he had a cherished project at stake.

Never before had he been so long in drawing the cider. Mary had heaped

her basket with rosy-cheeked apples before he had finished; and when

at length he came from the cellar, his hand trembled, so that the

brown beverage was spilled upon the neat hearth.

"You are a little careless," said his mother; but the boy offered no

excuse; he cast an imploring glance at his sister, and walked to the

window, though the night was dark as Erebus, and the sleet struck

sharply against the glass.

"James and I want to talk with you a little while, father and mother,

if you can listen now," said Mary, boldly; and then there was a

pause--for she had dropped a whole row of stitches in her knitting,

and numberless were the loops which were left, as she took them up

again.

Her father looked at her with a stare of astonishment, or else he was

getting sleepy, and was obliged to open his eyes very widely, lest

they should close without his knowledge.

"Well, my child," said Mrs. Gordon, in a gentle tone of

encouragement--for she thought, from Mary's manner, that the

development of the confidential communications of the brother and

sister was at hand.

"We have been making a plan, mother--" but James could go no further,

and left the sentence unfinished. "Mary will tell you all," he added,

in a choking voice, as he turned once more to the window.

Mary did tell all, clearly, and without hesitation; while her mother's

pride, and her father's astonishment increased as the narrative

progressed. James, young as he was, had fixed his heart upon gaining a

classical education--a thing not so rare in the New England States as

with us, for there the false idea still prevails, that a man is unfit

to enter upon a profession until he has served the four years'

laborious apprenticeship imposed upon all "candidates for college

prizes." With us, the feeling has almost entirely passed away; a man

is not judged by the number of years he is supposed to have devoted to

the literature of past ages--the question is, what does he know? not,

how was that knowledge gained? But in the rigid and formal atmosphere

by which it was the fortune of our little hero to be surrounded, the

prejudice was strong as ever; and the ambitious boy, in dreaming out

for himself a life of fame and honor, saw before him, as an obstacle

hardly possible of being surmounted, a collegiate education.

For months he had kept the project a secret in his own heart, and had

daily, and almost hourly, gone over and over again, every difficulty

which presented itself. He saw at once that he could expect no aid

from his father, for he knew the constant struggle going on in the

household to narrow increasing expenses to their humble means. His

elder brother, Stephen, would even oppose the plan--for, he being very

like their father, was plodding and industrious, content with the

present hour, and heartily despised books and schools, as being

entirely beneath his notice. His mother would, he hoped, aid him by

her approval and encouragement--this was all _she_ could bestow; and

Mary, however willing, had not more to offer. At length he resolved to

tell his sister, who had ever been his counsellor, the project which

he had so long cherished.

"I am not selfish about it," said he, as he dilated upon the success

which he felt sure would be his, could this first stumbling-block but

be removed. "Think how much I could do for you all. Father would be

relieved from the burden of supporting me, for he does not need my

assistance now, the farm is so small, and Ed is growing old enough to

do all my work. Then you should have a capital education, for you

ought to have it; and you could teach a school that would be more to

the purpose than the district school. After I had helped you all, then

I could work for myself; and mother would be so proud of her son. But,

oh! Mary," and the boy's heart sank within him, "I know it can never

be."

The two, brother and sister, as they sat there together, were a fair

illustration of the "dreamer and the worker." Mary was scarce fifteen,

but she was thoughtful beyond her years, yet as hopeful as the child.

"Yes, I could keep school," thought she, as she looked into her

brother's earnest eyes. "What can hinder my keeping school now; and

the money I can earn, with James having his vacations to work in,

might support him."

But with this thought came another. She knew that the pay given to

district schoolteachers--women especially--was at best a bare

pittance, scarce more than sufficient for herself--for she could not

think of burdening her parents with her maintenance when her time and

labor was not theirs; and she knew that her education was too limited

to seek a larger sphere of action. So she covered her bright young

face with her hands, and it was clouded for a time with deep thought;

then looking suddenly up, the boy wondered at the change which had

passed over it, there was so much joy, even exultation in every

feature.

"I have it," said she, throwing her arms fondly about his neck. "I

know how I can earn a deal of money, more than I want. If mother will

let me, I can go to Lowell and work in a factory. Susan Hunt paid the

mortgage on her father's farm in three years; and I'm sure it would

not take any more for you than she earned."

At first the boy's heart beat wildly; for the moment it seemed as if

his dearest wishes were about to be accomplished. Then came a feeling

of reproach at his own selfishness, in gaining independence by dooming

his fair young sister to a life of constant labor and self-denial;

wasting, or at least passing the bright hours of her girlhood in the

midst of noise and heat, with rude associations for her refined and

gentle nature.

"Oh! no, Mary," said he, passionately--"never, never! You are too

good, too generous!" yet the wish of his life was too strong to be

checked at once; and when Mary pleaded, and urged him to consent to

it, and gave a thousand "woman's reasons" why it was best, and how

easy the task would be to her, when lightened by the consciousness

that she was aiding him to take a lofty place among his fellow-men, he

gave a reluctant consent to the plan, ashamed of himself the while,

and dreading lest his parents should oppose what would seem to their

calmer judgment an almost impossible scheme.

Day after day he had begged Mary to delay asking their consent, though

the suspense was an agony to the enthusiastic boy. Mary knew the

disappointment would be terrible; yet she thought if it was to come,

it had best be over with at once; and, beside, she was more hopeful

than her brother, for she had not so much at stake. Was it any wonder,

then, that James could scarce breathe while his sister calmly told

their plans, and that he dared not look into his mother's face when

the recital was ended.

There was no word spoken for some moments--the deacon looked into his

wife's face, as if he did not fully understand what he had been

listening to, and sought the explanation from her; but she gazed

intently at the fire, revealing nothing by the expression of her

features until she said, "Your father and I will talk the matter over,

children, and to-morrow you shall hear what we think of it." Without

the least idea of the decision which would be made, James was obliged

to subdue his impatience; and the evening passed wearily enough in

listening to his father's plans for repairing the barn, and making a

new ox-sled. Little did the boy hear, though he seemed to give

undivided attention.

"Have you well considered all this, my child," said Mrs. Gordon, as

she put her hand tenderly upon her daughter's forehead, and looked

earnestly into her sweet blue eyes. "James is in his own room, so do

not fear to speak openly. Are you not misled by your love for him, and

your wish that he should succeed."

"No, mother, I have thought again and again, and I know I could work

from morning till night without complaining, if I thought he was

happy. Then it will be but three or four years at the farthest, and I

shall be hardly nineteen then. I can study, too, in the evenings and

mornings, and sometimes I can get away for whole weeks, and come up

here to see you all; Lowell is not very far, you know."

"But there is another thing, Mary. Do you not know that there are many

people who consider it as a disgrace to toil thus--who would ridicule

you for publicly acknowledging labor was necessary for you; they would

perhaps shun your society, and you would be wounded by seeing them

neglect, and perhaps openly avoid you."

"I should not care at ail for that, mother. Why is it any worse to

work at Lowell than at home; and you tell me very often that I support

myself now. People that love me would go on loving me just as well as

ever; and those who don't love me, I'm sure I'm willing they should

act as they like."

"I think myself," replied her mother, pleased at the true spirit of

independence that she saw filled her daughter's heart, "that the

opinion of those who despise honest labor, is not worth caring for.

But you are young, and sneers will have their effect. You must

remember this--it is but natural. There is one thing else--we may both

be mistaken about James' ability; he may be himself--and you could not

bear to see him fail, after all. Think, it may be so; and then all

your time and your earnings will be lost."

"Not lost, mother," said the young girl, her eyes sparkling with love

and hope, "I should have done all I could to help James, you know."

Mrs. Gordon kissed her good-night with a full heart. She was proud of

her children; and few mothers have more reason for the natural

feeling. "I cannot bear to disappoint her," thought she, yet the

scheme seemed every moment more childish and impracticable.

James rose, not with the sun, but long before it; and when his father

came down, he was already busily employed in clearing a path to the

well and the barn--for the snow had fallen so heavily, that the drifts

gathered by the night wind, in its rude sport, were piled to the very

windows, obscuring the misty light of the winter's morn. How beautiful

were those snow-wreaths in their perfect purity! The brown and knotted

fences, the dingy out-buildings, were all covered with dazzling

drapery; and the leafless trees were bowed beneath the weight of a

fantastic foliage that glittered in the clear beams of the rising sun

with a splendor that was almost painful to behold.

"It wont last long with this sun," said the deacon, as he tied a

'comforter' about his throat; "but perhaps you'll have time to give

Mary and the children a ride before the roads are bare again. Mary

must do all her sleighing this winter, for she won't have much time if

she goes to the factory, poor child!"

The deacon passed on with heavy strides to the barn-yard, and left

James to hope that their petition was not rejected. It was not many

minutes after that Mary came bounding down the stone-steps, heedless

of the snow in which she trod; and the instant he looked upon her face

he was no longer in doubt.

"_Isn't_ mother good, James! She just called me into her room, and

told me that father and she have concluded we can try it at least; and

Stephen is not to know any thing about it until next April, when I am

to go. We must both of us study very hard this winter, and I shall

have such a deal of sewing to do."

Mary spoke with delighted eagerness. One would have thought, beholding

her joy, that it was a pleasant journey which she anticipated, or that

a fortune had unexpectedly been left to her; and yet the spring so

longed for, would find her among strangers, working in a close and

crowded room through the bright days. But a contented spirit hath its

own sunshine; and the dearest pleasure that mankind may know, is

contributing to the happiness of those we love. The less selfish our

devotion to friends, the more sacrificing our self-denial in their

behalf, the greater is the reward; so Mary's step was more elastic

than ever, and her bright eyes shone with a steady, cheerful light, as

she went about her daily tasks.

As she said, it was necessary that they should both be very busy

through the winter, for James hoped to be able to enter college in

August; and Mary, who had heretofore kept pace with him in most of his

studies, though she did stumble at "tupto, tupso, tetupha," and vow

that Greek was not intended for girls, did not wish to give up her

Latin and Geometry. They had such a kind instructor in Mr. Lane, the

village lawyer, that an ambition to please him made them at first

forget the difficulties of the dry rudiments; and then it was that

James first began to dream of one day being able to plead causes

himself--of studying a profession. Mr. Lane, unconsciously, had

encouraged this, by telling his little pupils, to whom he was much

attached, the difficulties that had beset his youthful career, and how

he had gained an honest independence, when he had at first been

without friends or means. Then he would look up at his pretty young

wife, or put out his arms to their little one, as if he thought, and

is not this a sufficient reward for those years of toil and

despondence. James remembered, when he was a student, teaching in

vacations to aid in supporting himself through term time. He had

boarded at Mr. Gordon's, and when he came to settle in the village,

years after, he had offered to teach James and Mary, as a slight

recompense for Mrs. Gordon's early kindness to the poor student. Two

hours each afternoon were passed in Mr. Lane's pleasant little study;

and though Stephen thought it was time wasted, he did not complain

much, for James was doubly active in the morning. Mary, too,

accomplished twice as much as ever before; and after the day's routine

of household labor and study were over, her needle flew quickly, as

she prepared her little wardrobe for leaving home. March was nearly

through before they felt that spring had come; and though Mary's eyes

were sometimes filled with tears at the thought of the coming

separation, they were quickly dried, and the first of April found her

unshaken in her resolution.

CHAPTER II.

LEAVING HOME--FACTORY LIFE.

"To-morrow will be the last day at home," thought Mary, as she bade

her mother good-night, and turned quickly to her own room to conceal

the tears that would start; and, though they fringed the lashes of the

drooping lid when at last she slept, the repose was gentle and

undisturbed--and she awoke at early dawn content, almost happy. The

morning air came freshly to her face as she leaned out of the window

to gaze once more on the extended landscape. Far away upon the

swelling hill-side, patches of snow yet lingered, while near them the

fresh grass was springing; and the old wood, at the back of the

house, was clothed anew in emerald verdure. The sombre pines were

lighted by the glittering sunlight, as it lingered lovingly among

their dim branches ere bursting away to illumine the very depths of

the solitude with smiles. A pleasant perfume was wafted from the

Arbutus, just putting forth its delicate blossoms from their

sheltering covert of dark-green leaves, mingled with the breath of the

snowy-petaled dogwood, and the blue violets that were bedded in the

rich moss on the banks of the little stream. The brook itself went

singing on its way as it wound through the darksome forest, and fell

with a plash, and a murmur, over the huge stones that would have

turned it aside from its course.

It was the first bright day of spring; and it seemed as if nature had

assumed its loveliest dress to tempt the young girl to forego her

resolve. "Home never looked so beautiful," thought she, turning from

the window; and her step was not light as usual when she joined the

family. Mrs. Gordon was serene as ever; no one could have told from

her manner that she was about to part with her daughter for the first

time; but the children were sobbing bitterly--for they had just been

told that the day had come when their sister was to leave them. They

clung to her dress as she entered, and begged her not to go.

"What shall we do without _you_, Mary?" said they; "the house will be

so lonesome."

Even Stephen, although when the plan was first revealed to him had

opposed it obstinately, was melted to something like forgiveness when

he saw that nothing could change her firm determination.

"I suppose we must _learn_ to live without you, Molly," said he; "take

good care of yourself, child--but let's have breakfast now."

The odd combination, spite of her sadness, brought the old smile to

Mary's lip; and when breakfast was over, and the deacon took the large

family Bible from its appointed resting-place, and gathered his little

flock about him, they listened quietly and earnestly to the truths of

holy writ. That family Bible! It was almost the first thing that Mary

could recollect. She remembered sitting on her father's knee, in the

long, bright Sabbath afternoons, and looking with profound awe and

astonishment into the baize-covered volume, at the quaint unartistic

prints that were scattered through it. She recalled the shiver of

horror with which she looked on "_Daniel in the den of lions_," the

curiosity which the picture of the Garden of Eden called forth, and

the undefined, yet calm and placid feeling which stole over her as she

dwelt longest upon the "Baptism of our Savior." Then there was the

family record--her own birth, and that of her brothers and sisters,

were chronicled underneath that of generations now sleeping in the

shadow of the village church. But this train of thought was broken, as

they reverentially knelt when the volume was closed, and listened to

their father's humble and fervent petition, that God would watch and

guard them all, especially commending to the protection of Heaven,

"the lamb now going out from their midst."

There were tears even upon Mrs. Gordon's face when the prayer was

ended, but there was no time to indulge in a long and sorrowful

parting. The trunks were standing already corded in the hall; the

little traveling-basket was filled with home-baked luxuries for the

way-side lunch; and Mary was soon arrayed in her plain merino dress

and little straw bonnet. There are some persons who receive whatever

air of fashion and refinement they may have from their dress; others

who impart to the coarsest material a grace that the most _recherche_

costume fails to give. Our heroine was one of the last--and never was

Chestnut street belle more beautiful than our simple country lassie,

as she stood with her mother's arm twined about her waist, receiving

her parting counsel.

The last words were said--James, in an agony of grief, had kissed her

again and again, reproaching himself constantly for his selfishness in

consenting that she should go. The children, forgetting their tears in

the excitement of the moment, ran with haste to announce that the

stage was just coming over the hill. Yes, it was standing before the

garden-gate--the trunks were lifted from the door-stone--the

clattering steps fell at her feet--a moment more and Mary was whirled

away from her quiet home, with her father's counsel, and her mother's

earnest "God bless you, and keep you, my child!" ringing in her ears.

It was quite dark ere the second day's weary journey was at an end.

Mary could scarce believe it possible that she had, indeed, arrived in

the great city, until the confused tumult that rose everywhere

around--the endless lines of glittering lamps that stretched far away

in the darkness, and the rough jolting of the coach over the hard

pavements, told too plainly that she was in a new world, surrounded by

a new order of things. As they drove rapidly through the crowded

streets, she caught a glance at the brilliantly lighted stores, and

the many gayly-dressed people that thronged them. Again the scene

changed, and she looked upon the dark-brick walls that loomed up

before her, and knew that in one of those buildings she was destined

to pass many sad and solitary days. How prison-like they seemed! Her

heart sunk within her as she gazed; the lights--the confusion

bewildered her already wearied brain; and as she sunk back into the

corner of the coach, and buried her face in her hands, she would have

given worlds to have been once more in her still, pleasant home. The

feeling of utter desolation and loneliness overcame completely, for

the time, her firm and buoyant spirit.

She was roused from her gloomy reverie as the stage stopped before the

door of a small but very comfortable dwelling, at some distance from

the principal thoroughfares. This was the residence of a sister of

Mrs. Jones, to whom she had a letter, and who was expecting her

arrival. She met Mary upon the step with a pleasant smile of welcome,

not at all as if she had been a stranger; and her husband assisted the

coachman to remove the various packages to a neat little room into

which Mary was ushered by her kind hostess, Mrs. Hall. She was very

like her sister, but older and graver. Mary's heart yearned toward her

from the moment of kindly greeting; and when they entered the cheerful

parlor together, the young guest was almost happy once more. The

children of the family, two noisy little rogues, who were very proud

of a baby sister, came for a kiss, ere they left the room for the

night; and then, with Mrs. Hall's piano, and her husband's pleasant

conversation, Mary forgot her timidity and her sadness as the evening

wore away.

"Mr. Hall will go with you to-morrow to the scene of your new life,"

said her hostess, as she bade her young charge good-night. "We have

arranged every thing, and I trust you may be happy, even though away

from your friends. We must try to make a new home for you."

Mary "blessed her unaware" for her kindness to a stranger; and though

nearly a hundred miles from those she loved, felt contented and

cheerful, and soon fell asleep to dream that she was once more by her

mother's side.

Again that feeling of desolation returned, when, upon the morrow,

leaning upon the arm of Mr. Hall, she passed through the crowded

streets, and shrank back as the passing multitude jostled against each

other. It seemed as if every one gazed curiously at her, yet,

perchance, not one amid the throng heeded the timid little stranger.

She was first conducted to the house they had chosen for her

boarding-place, and though the lady at its head received her kindly,

she felt more lonely than ever, as she passed through the long halls,

and was regarded with looks of curiosity by the groups of young girls

who were just leaving the house to enter upon their daily tasks. They

were laughing and chatting gayly with each other; and poor Mary

wondered if she should ever feel as careless and happy as they seemed

to be.

Then they turned toward the "corporation," or factory, in which a

place had been engaged for her. Oh, how endless seemed those long,

noisy rooms; how weary she grew of new faces, and the strange din that

rose up from the city. "I never shall endure this," thought the poor

girl. "I shall never be able to learn my work. How can they go about

so careless and unconcerned, performing their duties, as it were,

mechanically, without thought or annoyance. But for poor Jamie I would

return to-morrow;" and with the thought of her brother came new hope,

new energy--and she resolved to enter upon her task boldly, and

without regret.

Yet for many days, even weeks, much of her time was spent in sadness,

struggle as she would against the feeling. The girls with whom she was

called daily to associate, were, most of them, kind and good tempered:

and though her instructors did laugh a little at her awkwardness at

first, she had entered so resolutely upon her new tasks that they

soon became comparatively easy to her; and she was so indefatigable

and industrious, that her earnings, after a time, became more even

than she had hoped for.

Still she was often weary, and almost tempted to despond. The

confinement and the noise was so new to her, that at first her health

partially gave way, and for several weeks she feared that after all

she would be obliged to return to the free mountain-air of her country

home. At such times she went wearily to her labors, and often might

have uttered Miss Barret's "Moan of the Children," as she pressed her

hands upon her throbbing temples.

"All day long the wheels are droning, turning,

Their wind comes in our faces,

Till our hearts turn, and our heads with pulses burning;

And the walls turn in their places!

Turns the sky in the high window, blank and reeling;

Turns the long light that droopeth down the wall;

Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling--

All are turning all the day, and we with all.

All day long the iron wheels are droning,

And sometimes we could pray,

'Oh, ye wheels,' (breaking off in a mad moaning)

Stop! be silent for to-day!'"

Then, when despondency was fast crushing her spirit, there would,

perhaps, come a long hopeful letter from her brother, who was studying

almost night and day, and a new ambition would rise in her heart, a

fresh strength animate her, until at last, in the daily performance of

her duties, in the knowledge of the happiness she was thus enabled to

confer upon others, her mind became calm and contented, and her health

fully restored.

Thus passed the first year of her absence from home. She had become

accustomed to the habits and manners of those around her; and though

some of the girls called her a little Methodist, and sneered at her

plain economical dress, even declaring she was parsimonious, because

they knew that she rigidly limited her expenses to a very small

portion of her earnings, there were others among her associates who

fully appreciated the generous self-sacrificing spirit which animated

her, and loved her for the gentleness and purity, which all noticed,

pervaded her every thought and act.

Then, too, Mrs. Hall was ever her steadfast friend. One evening in

every week was spent in that happy family circle; and there she often

met refined and agreeable society, from which she insensibly look a

tone of mind and manner, that was far superior to that of her

companions. Mrs. Hall directed her reading, and furnished many books

Mary herself was unable to procure. Thus month after month slipped by,

and our heroine had almost forgotten she was among strangers, until

she began to look forward to a coming meeting with those she loved in

her own dear home.

[_To be concluded in our next._

REVOLUTION.

"Anger is madness," said the sage of old;

And 'tis with nations as it is with man,

Their storms of passion scatter ills untold--

Thus 'tis, and has been, since the world began.

Change, to be blessed, must be calm and clear,

Thoughtful and pure, sinless, and sound of mind;

Else power unchained and change are things of fear--

Let not the struggling to this truth be blind.--ARIAN.

FAIR MARGARET.

A LEGEND OF THOMAS THE RHYMER.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

Old yews in the church-yard are crumbled to dust

Deep shade on her grave-mound once flinging;

But oral tradition, still true to its trust,

Her name by the hearth-stone is singing;

For never enshrined by the bard in his lay

Was a being more lovely than Margaret Gray.

Her father, a faithful old tenant, had died

On lands of Sir Thomas the Seer--

And the child who had sprung like a flower by his side,

Sole mourner, had followed his bier;

But Ereildoun's knight to the orphan was kind,

And watched like a parent the growth of her mind.

The wizard knew well that her eye was endowed

With sight mortal vision surpassing--

_Now_ piercing the heart of Oblivion's cloud,

The _Past_, in its depths, clearly glassing;

_Anon_ sending glance through that curtain of dread

Behind which the realm of the Future lies spread.

He gave her a key to decipher dim scrolls,

With characters wild, scribbled over;

And taught her dark words that would summon back souls

Of the dead round the living to hover;

Or oped, high discourse with his pupil to hold,

Old books of enchantment with clasps of bright gold.

The elf queen had met her in green, haunted dells

When stars in the zenith were twinkling,

And time kept the tramp of her palfry to bells,

At her bridle rein merrily tinkling:

By Huntley Burn oft, in the gloaming, she strolled

Weird shapes, that were not of this earth, to behold.

One eve came true Thomas to Margaret's bower,

In this wise the maiden addressing--

"No more will I visible be from this hour,

Save to those sight unearthly possessing;

But when I am seen at feast, funeral or fair

Let the mortal who makes revelation beware!"

Long years came and passed, and the Rhymer's dread seat

Was vacant the Eildon Tree under,

And oft would old friends by the ingle-side meet,

And talk of his absence in wonder:

Some thought that, afar from the dwellings of men,

He had died in some lone Highland forest or glen:

But others believed that in bright fairy land

The mighty magician was living--

That newness of life to worn heart and weak hand,

Soft winds and pure waters were giving;

That back to the region of heather and pine

Would he come unimpaired by old age or decline.

Astir was all Scotland! from mountain and moor,

With banner folds streaming in air,

Proud lord and retainer, the wealthy and poor,

Thronged forth in their plaids to the fair;

Steeds, pricked by their riders, loud clattering made,

And, cheered by his clansmen, the bag-piper played.

Gay lassies with snoods from the border and hills

In holyday garb hurried thither,

With eyes like the crystal of rock-shaded rills,

And cheeks like the bells of the heather;

But fairest of all, in that goodly array,

Was the Lily of Bemerside, Margaret Gray.

While Ayr with a gathering host overflowed,

She marked with a look of delight

A white-bearded horseman who gallantly rode

On a mettlesome steed black as night,

And cried, forcing wildly her way through the throng,

"_Oh! master, thy pupil hath mourned for thee long!_"

Then, checking his courser, the brow of the seer

Grew dark, through its locks long and frosted,

And making a sign with his hand to draw near,

Thus the lovely offender accosted--

"By which of thine eyes was thy master descried?"

"With my _left_ I behold thee!" the damsel replied.

One moment he gazed on the beautiful face,

In fondness upturned to his own,

As if anger at length to relenting gave place,

Then fixed grew his visage like stone:--

On the violet lid his cold finger he laid,

And extinguished forever the sight of the maid.

* * * * *

NOTE.

I am indebted to Hugh Cameron, Esquire, of Buffalo, N. Y., for this

strange and strikingly beautiful legend. Mr. C. informs me that it has

long formed a part of the fire-side lore of his own clan; and, from a

remote period, has lived in the memory of Scotland's peasantry.

He expressed surprise that men of antiquarian taste, in compiling

border ballads, and tales of enchantment, had not given "Fair

Margaret" a conspicuous place in their pages; and at his suggestion I

have attempted to clothe the fanciful outlines of the original in the

drapery of English verse.

The Eildon tree referred to in the poem was the favorite seat of

Thomas the Rhymer, and there he gave utterance to his prophecies.

STANZAS.

The rain-bird shakes her dusty wings

And leaves the sunny strand,

For mossy springs, and sweetly sings,

To greet her native land.

The camel in the desert heeds

Where distant waters lay,

And onward speeds, to flowery meads,

And fountains far away.

The freshest drops will Beauty choose

To keep her floweret wet,

The purest dews, to save its hues--

Her gentle violet.

So--may sweet Grace our hearts renew

With waters from above,

So--keep in view what Mercy drew

From this deep well of love. W. H. DENNY.

THE LONE BUFFALO.

BY CHARLES LANMAN, AUTHOR OF "A SUMMER IN THE WILDERNESS," ETC.

Among the many legends which the traveler frequently hears, while

crossing the prairies of the Far West, I remember one, which accounts

in a most romantic manner for the origin of thunder. A summer-storm

was sweeping over the land, and I had sought a temporary shelter in

the lodge of a Sioux Indian on the banks of the St. Peters. Vividly

flashed the lightning, and an occasional peal of thunder echoed

through the firmament. While the storm continued my host and his

family paid but little attention to my comfort, for they were all

evidently stricken with terror. I endeavored to quell their fears, and

for that purpose asked them a variety of questions respecting their

people, but they only replied by repeating, in a dismal tone, the name

of the Lone Buffalo. My curiosity was of course excited, and it may be

readily imagined that I did not resume my journey without obtaining an

explanation of the mystic words; and from him who first uttered them

in the Sioux lodge I subsequently obtained the following legend:

* * * * *

There was a chief of the Sioux nation whose name was the Master Bear.

He was famous as a prophet and hunter, and was a particular favorite

with the Master of Life. In an evil hour he partook of the white-man's

fire-water, and in a fighting broil unfortunately took the life of a

brother chief. According to ancient custom blood was demanded for

blood, and when next the Master Bear went forth to hunt, he was

waylaid, shot through the heart with an arrow, and his body deposited

in front of his widow's lodge. Bitterly did the woman bewail her

misfortune, now mutilating her body in the most heroic manner, and

anon narrating to her only son, a mere infant, the prominent events of

her husband's life. Night came, and with her child lashed upon her

back, the woman erected a scaffold on the margin of a neighboring

stream, and with none to lend her a helping hand, enveloped the corpse

in her more valuable robes, and fastened it upon the scaffold. She

completed her task just as the day was breaking, when she returned to

her lodge, and shutting herself therein, spent the three following

days without tasting food.

During her retirement the widow had a dream, in which she was visited

by the Master of Life. He endeavored to console her in her sorrow, and

for the reason that he had loved her husband, promised to make her son

a more famous warrior and medicine man than his father had been. And

what was more remarkable, this prophecy was to be realized within the

period of a few weeks. She told her story in the village, and was

laughed at for her credulity.

On the following day, when the village boys were throwing the ball

upon the plain, a noble youth suddenly made his appearance among the

players, and eclipsed them all in the bounds he made and the wildness

of his shouts. He was a stranger to all, but when the widow's dream

was remembered, he was recognized as her son, and treated with

respect. But the youth was yet without a name, for his mother had told

him that he should win one for himself by his individual prowess.

Only a few days had elapsed, when it was rumored that a party of

Pawnees had overtaken and destroyed a Sioux hunter, when it was

immediately determined in council that a party of one hundred warriors

should start upon the war-path and revenge the injury. Another council

was held for the purpose of appointing a leader, when a young man

suddenly entered the ring and claimed the privilege of leading the

way. His authority was angrily questioned, but the stranger only

replied by pointing to the brilliant eagle's feathers on his head, and

by shaking from his belt a large number of fresh Pawnee scalps. They

remembered the stranger boy, and acknowledged the supremacy of the

stranger man.

Night settled upon the prairie world, and the Sioux warriors started

upon the war-path. Morning dawned, and a Pawnee village was in ashes,

and the bodies of many hundred men, women, and children were left upon

the ground as food for the wolf and vulture. The Sioux warriors

returned to their own encampment, when it was ascertained that the

nameless leader had taken more than twice as many scalps as his

brother warriors. Then it was that a feeling of jealousy arose, which

was soon quieted, however, by the news that the Crow Indians had

stolen a number of horses and many valuable furs from a Sioux hunter

as he was returning from the mountains. Another warlike expedition was

planned, and as before, the nameless warrior took the lead.

The sun was near his setting, and as the Sioux party looked down upon

a Crow village, which occupied the centre of a charming valley, the

Sioux chief commanded the attention of his braves and addressed them

in the following language:

"I am about to die, my brothers, and must speak my mind. To be

fortunate in war is your chief ambition, and because I have been

successful you are unhappy. Is this right? Have you acted like men? I

despise you for your meanness, and I intend to prove to you this night

that I am the bravest man in the nation. The task will cost me my

life, but I am anxious that my nature should be changed and I shall be

satisfied. I intend to enter the Crow village alone, but before

departing, I have one favor to command. If I succeed in destroying

that village, and lose my life, I want you, when I am dead, to cut off

my head and protect it with care. You must then kill one of the

largest buffaloes in the country and cut off his head. You must then

bring his body and my head together, and breathe upon them, when I

shall be free to roam in the Spirit-land at all times, and over our

great Prairie-land wherever I please. And when your hearts are

troubled with wickedness remember the Lone Buffalo."

The attack upon the Crow village was successful, but according to his

prophecy the Lone Buffalo received his death wound, and his brother

warriors remembered his parting request. The fate of the hero's mother

is unknown, but the Indians believe that it is she who annually sends

from the Spirit-land the warm winds of spring, which cover the

prairies with grass for the sustenance of the Buffalo race. As to the

Lone Buffalo, he is never seen even by the most cunning hunter,

excepting when the moon is at its full. At such times he is invariably

alone, cropping his food in some remote part of the prairies; and

whenever the heavens resound with the moanings of the thunder, the

red-man banishes from his breast every feeling of jealousy, for he

believes it to be the warning voice of the Lone Buffalo.

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

BY MRS. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON.

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away?

While through its chambers wandering, weary hearted,

I languish for thy voice which passed me still,

Even as a singing rill."

My gentle child--my own sweet May--

Come sit thee by my side,

Thy wonted place in by-gone years,

Whatever might betide.

Come--I would press that cloudless brow,

And gaze into those eyes,

Whose azure hue and brilliancy

Seemed borrowed from the skies.

Thou ne'er hast known a mother's love,

Save what my heart hath given;

Thy fair young mother--long years since--

Found rest in yonder Heaven.

Where waves and dashing spray ran high

We took thee from her grasp;

All vainly had the Tyrant striven

To rend that loving clasp.

We strove in vain life to recall,

And 'neath the old oak's shade

We laid her calmly down to rest,

In our own woodland glade.

Gently--the turf by stranger hands

Was o'er her bright head pressed;

And burning tears from stranger hearts

Fell o'er that place of rest.

We took thee to our hearts and home,

With blessings on thy head;

We looked on thy blue eye--and wept--

_Remembered was our dead_.

For parted from our lonely hearth

Was childhood's sunny smile;

And hushed the household melody

That could each care beguile.

Thy name--we knew it not--and then

For many a livelong day

We sought for one, all beautiful--

And, sweetest, called thee May.

With thee--came Spring-lime to our home,

Love's wealth of buds and flowers,

Lingering--till in its fairy train

Shone Summer's golden hours.

How will I miss thine own dear voice

In Summer's soft, bright eve;

A blight will rest on tree and flower--

The hue of things that grieve;

And when the wintry hour hath come,

And 'round the blazing hearth

Shall cluster faces we have loved--

Lost--lost thy joyous mirth.

Another hand will twine those curls

That gleam so brightly now;

Another heart will thrill to hear

From _thee_ affection's vow;

For I have marked the rosy blush

Steal o'er thy brow and cheek,

When gentle words fell on thy ear,

Which only love can speak.

Tears--tears!--a shadow should not rest

Upon thy bridal day;

My spirit's murmurings shall cease

And joy be thine, sweet May.

They come with flowers--pure orange flowers--

To deck thy shining hair;

Young bride--go forth--and bear with thee,

My blessing and my prayer.

WHEN SHALL I SEE THE OBJECT THAT I LOVE.

A FAVORITE SWISS AIR.

ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE

BY

JOHN B. MUeLLER.

COPYRIGHTED BY GEORGE WILLIG, NO. 171 CHESNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA.

[Illustration:]

_Not too slow_.

PIANO.

Wann wer-de oh wan wer-de ich, Die fer-nen blau-en Hoeh'n, Von

When shall I see, when shall I see, The ob-ject that I love? The

mei-nem Vat-er-land wenn dich, Hel-ve-lien wie-der seh'n? Denk'

friends, the home of in-fan-cy, The mai-den and the grove. The

[Illustration:]

ich da-ran, Schlaegt, selbst als Mann, Mir meine Brust mil Schmerz und lust', Denn

Val-leys fair, The wa-ter clear, The low-ing herds, The sing-ing birds, When

al-len Freu-den noch be-wust Moecht ich's noch ein-mal seh'n.

shall I see, when shall I see, The things I love so dear?

2.

When shall I see, when shall I see,

As I have seen before,

The gathering crowd beneath the tree,

With her that I adore?

And happy hear

Her voice so clear,

Blend with my own,

In liquid tone.

When shall I see, when shall I see,

The things I hold so dear?

2.

Zwar glaenzt die Sonne ueberall

Dem Menschen in der Welt;

Doch we zuerst ihr goldner Strahl

Ihm in das Auge faellt?

Wo er als Kind,

Sanft und gelind,

An muetter Hand,

Sprach und empfand,

Da ist allein sein Vaterland

Koennt' ich's noch einmal seh'n?

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Edith Kinnaird, By the Author of "The Maiden Aunt."

Boston: E. Littell & Co._

Fiction has exercised an important influence over the public from the

earliest ages of the world. Nor is the reason difficult to determine.

Where one man takes delight in the subtleties of logic, ten derive

pleasure from the indulgence of the fancy. The love of fiction is

common to the unlettered savage as well as to the civilized European,

and has marked alike the ancient and the modern world. The oldest

surviving book, if we except the narrative of Moses, is, perhaps, a

fiction--we mean the book of Job. To reach its date we must go back

beyond the twilight of authentic history, far into the gloom of the

antique past, to the very earliest periods of the earth's existence.

We must ascend to the time when the Assyrian empire was yet in its

youth, when the patriarchs still fed their flocks on the hills of

Palestine, when the memory of the visible presence of the Almighty

among men remained fresh in the traditions of the East. The beautiful

story of Ruth comes next, but ages later than its predecessor. Then

follows the sonorous tale of Homer, clanging with a martial spirit

that will echo to all time. Descending to more modern eras, we reach

the legends of Haroun El Reschid; the tales of the Provencal

troubadours; the romances of chivalry; and finally the novels of this

and the past century. For nearly four thousand years fiction has

delighted and moulded mankind. It has survived, too, when all else has

died. The Chaldean books of astrology are lost to the moderns; but the

story of the Idumean has reached us unimpaired. The lawgivers of Judah

are no more, and the race of Abraham wanders over the earth; but the

simple tale of Ruth preserves the memory of their customs, and keeps

alive the glory of the past.

It will not do to despise that which is so indestructible, and which

everywhere exercises such powerful influence. Pedants may scorn

fiction as beneath them, and waste their lives in composing dry

treatises that will never be read; but the wise man, instead of

deriding this tremendous engine, will endeavor to bend it to his

purposes; and whether he seeks to shape the tale that is to be

rehearsed on the dreamy banks of the Orontes, or to write the novel

that will be read by thousands in England and America, will labor so

to mix instruction with amusement, that his audience shall insensibly

become moulded to his views. The moral teachers of both ancient and

modern times have chosen the vehicle of fiction to inculcate truth;

and even inspiration has not scorned to employ it in the service of

religion. The most beautiful fictions ever written were the parables

of the Savior. But it is also true that some of the most deleterious

books we have are romances. This, however, is no reason why fiction

should be abandoned to bad men, or proscribed as it is by many

well-meaning moralists. Wesley said, with his strong Saxon sense, that

he did not see why the devil should have all the good tunes.

Hence, in criticising a novel, it becomes important to examine the

tendency of the work. We utterly repudiate the idea that a reviewer

has nothing to do with the morality of a book. We reject the specious

jargon to the contrary urged by the George Sand school. A novel

should be something more than a mere piece of intellectual mechanism,

because if not, it is injurious. There can be no medium. A fiction

which does not do good does harm. There never was a romance written

which had not its purpose, either open or concealed, from that of

Waverley, which inculcated loyalty, to that of Oliver Twist, which

teaches the brotherhood of man. Some novels are avowedly and

insolently vicious; such are the Adventures of Faublas and the Memoirs

of a Woman of Quality. Others, under the guise of philanthropy, sap

every notion of right and duty: such are Martin the Foundling,

Consuelo, _et id omne genus_. It is the novels of this last class

which are the most deleterious; for, with much truth, they contain

just enough poison to vitiate the whole mass. Chemists tell us that

the smallest atom of putrid matter, if applied to the most gigantic

body, will, in time, infect the whole: just so the grain of sophistry

in Consuelo, admitting there is no more, in the end destroys all that

the book contains of the beautiful and true. Said a lady in conversing

on this subject: "I always find that people who read such books

remember only what is bad in them." Her plain common sense hit the

nail on the head, while transcendental folly hammered all around it in

vain. We have spoken of Consuelo thus particularly because it is the

best of its class: and of that enervating fiction we here record our

deliberate opinion, that it will turn more than one foolish Miss into

a strolling actress, under the insane and preposterous notion that it

is her mission.

We do not say that art should be despised by the novelist; we only

contend that it should not be polluted. We would have every novel a

work of art, but the art should be employed on noble subjects, not on

indifferent or disgraceful ones. If authors plead a mission to write,

it must be to write that which will do good. A Raphael may boast of

inspiration when he paints a Madonna, but not when his brush stoops to

a Cyprian or a Satyr. The Pharisees of old prayed unctuously in the

market-places: so the George Sands of our day boast of their superior

insight into the beautiful and true. We doubt whether both are not

impudent hypocrites.

The novel, which has proved the text to these remarks, belongs to a

different, and, we hold, a better school. It originally appeared in

Sharpe's London Magazine, and has just been republished by E. Littell

& Co. Edith Kinnaird is a fiction which the most artistic mind will

feel delight in perusing, yet one which the humblest will understand,

and from which both may derive improvement. The heroine is neither a

saint nor a fool, but a living woman; her sufferings spring from her

errors, and are redeemed by her repentance: all is natural, beautiful,

refreshing and noble. We rise from the perusal of such a fiction

chastened and improved.

Instead of rendering its readers dissatisfied with themselves, with

their lot in life, with society, with every thing, this novel makes

them feel that life is a battle, yet that victory is sure to reward

all who combat aright--that after the dust and heat of the struggle

comes the repose of satisfied duty. Yet there is nothing didactic in

the volume. Its influence upon the heart is like that of the dew of

heaven, silent, gradual, imperceptible. Is not this a proof of its

intrinsic merit?

Consuelo herself, as an ideal, is not more lovely than Edith Kinnaird,

while the latter, in the eyes of truth, is infinitely the nobler

woman. We hope to hear from the author again. Let us have more of such

novels: there cannot be too many of them. How can noble and talented

souls do more good than by furnishing the right kind of novels. Just

as the old religious painters used to limn saints and Madonnas, let us

now write works of artistic and moral fiction.

_Jane Eyre. An Autobiography. Boston: William D.

Ticknor & Co._ 1 _vol._ 12_mo._

Few novels published within the last ten years have made so great a

stir among readers of all classes as this. The Harpers have sold a

vast number of their cheap reprint, and we have here to notice its

appearance in the old duodecimo shape, with large type and white

paper. That the work bears unmistakable marks of power and originality

cannot be questioned, and in a limited range of characterization and

description evinces sagacity and skill. The early portions of the

novel are especially truthful and vivid. The description of the

heroine's youthful life--the exact impression which is conveyed of the

child's mind--the influences which went to modify her character--the

scenes at the boarding-school--all have a distinctness of delineation

which approaches reality itself. But when the authoress comes to deal

with great passions, and represent morbid characters, we find that she

is out of her element. The character of Rochester is the character of

a mechanical monster. The authoress has no living idea of the kind of

person she attempts to describe. She desires to represent a reckless

man, made bad by circumstances, but retaining many marks of a noble

character, and she fills his conversation with slang, makes him

impudent and lustful, a rascal in every sense of the word, without the

remotest idea of what true chivalric love for a woman means; and this

mechanical automaton, whose every motion reveals that he moves not by

vital powers but by springs and machinery, she makes her pure-minded

heroine love and marry.

There has been a great deal of discussion about the morality of this

part of the novel. The question resolves itself into a question of

art, for we hold that truth of representation and morality of effect

are identical. Immoral characters may be introduced into a book, and

the effect be moral on the reader's mind, but a character which is

both immoral and unnatural ever produces a pernicious effect. Now the

authoress of Jane Eyre has drawn in Rochester an unnatural character,

and she has done it from an ignorance of the inward condition of mind

which immorality such as his either springs from or produces. The

ruffian, with his fierce appetites and Satanic pride, his mistresses

and his perjuries, his hard impudence and insulting sarcasms, she

knows only verbally, so to speak. The words which describe such a

character she interprets with her fancy, enlightened by a reminiscence

of Childe Harold and the Corsair. The result is a compound of vulgar

rascalities and impotent Byronics. Every person who interprets her

description by a knowledge of what profligacy is, cannot fail to see

that she is absurdly connecting certain virtues, of which she knows a

good deal, with certain vices, of which she knows nothing. The

coarseness of portions of the novel, consisting not so much in the

vulgarity of Rochester's conversation as the _naive_ description of

some of his acts--his conduct for three weeks before his intended

marriage, for instance, is also to be laid partly to the ignorance of

the authoress of what ruffianism is, and partly to her ignorance of

what love is. No woman who had ever truly loved could have mistaken so

completely the Rochester type, or could have made her heroine love a

man of proud, selfish, ungovernable appetites, which no sophistry can

lift out of lust.

We accordingly think that if the innocent young ladies of our land lay

a premium on profligacy, by marrying dissolute rakes for the honor of

reforming them, _a la_ Jane Eyre, their benevolence will be of

questionable utility to the world. There is something romantic to

every inexperienced female mind in the idea of pirates and debauchees,

who have sentiment as well as slang, miseries as well as vices. Such

gentlemen their imaginations are apt to survey under the light of the

picturesque instead of under the light of conscience. Every poet and

novelist who addresses them on this weak side is sure of getting a

favorable hearing. Byron's popularity, as distinguished from his fame,

was mainly owing to the felicity with which he supplied the current

demand for romantic wickedness. The authoress of Jane Eyre is not a

Byron, but a talented woman, who, in her own sphere of thought and

observation, is eminently trustworthy and true, but out of it hardly

rises above the conceptions of a boarding-school Miss in her teens.

She appears to us a kind of strong-minded old maid, but with her

strong-mindedness greatly modified by the presumption as well as the

sentimentality of romantic humbug.

_Novum Testamentum Domini Nostri Jesu Christi.

Interpetre Theodora Beza. Philadelphia: Geo. S.

Appleton._

In relation to the character of this version it is scarcely necessary

for us to speak. It has for centuries received the approbation of the

wisest and the best; and the copy before us seems to us, upon a brief

examination, to be accurate. The work is admirably printed, and does

credit to the publishers. We confess that we believe that the use of

this sacred work, in our seminaries and colleges, in the Latin, is

desirable in reference to every interest of religion and morality.

While we hesitate to affirm that Theodore de Beza's version of the New

Testament Scriptures is a study of the classic Latin, we still believe

that, stamped as it has been with the approbation of centuries, it is,

in relation to all the moral considerations which should control our

direction of the study of youth, worthy of all acceptance. The preface

informs us that several editions were published during the lifetime of

Beza, to which he made such improvements as his attention was directed

to, or as were prompted by his familiarity, as Greek Professor, with

the original. Since 1556, when it first appeared at Geneva, this work

has kept its place in the general esteem.

The propriety of the use of this sacred volume in schools has been

regarded as a question by some persons; but we cannot consider it a

subject of doubt. After a careful consideration of every objection, we

cannot see a reason why its gentle and holy truths should not be given

to the mind and heart at the earliest period. There is nothing so

likely to mark out the destiny of man and woman for goodness and

honor, and prosperity, as the early and earnest study of the New

Testament. Its Divine Inspirer said, "Suffer little children to come

unto me;" and one of the great evidences of its heavenly origin, is

the fact, that while its sublimity bows the haughtiest intellect to

humility and devotion, its simplicity renders its most important

teachings as intelligible to the child as the man, to the unlettered

as to the philosopher. The work is worthy the attention of all who

desire to unite education with religion.

_The Princess. A Medley. By Alfred Tennyson. Boston:

Wm. D. Ticknor & Co._ 1 _vol._ 12_mo_.

The success of this poem is indicated not only by the discussion it

has provoked, but its swift passage through three editions. Taken

altogether we deem it the most promising of Tennyson's productions,

evincing a growth in his fine powers, and a growth in the right

direction. It has his customary intellectual intensity, and more than

his usual heartiness and sweetness. As a poem it is properly called by

its author a medley, the plan being to bring the manners and ideas of

the chivalric period into connection with those of the present day;

the hero being a knight who adores his mistress, his mistress being a

lady who spurns his suit, and carries to its loftiest absurdities the

chimera of woman's rights. There is no less fascination in the general

conduct of the story, than truth in the result. The whole poem is

bathed in beauty, and invites perusal after perusal. In Tennyson's

other poems the general idea is lost sight of in the grandeur or

beauty of particular passages. In the present we read the poem through

as a whole, eager to follow out the development of the characters and

plot, and afterward return to admire the excellence of single images

and descriptions. In characterization the Princess evinces an

improvement on Tennyson's manner, but still we observe the manner. He

does not so much paint as engrave; the lines are so fine that they

seem to melt into each other, but the result is still not a portrait

on canvas, but an engraving on steel. His poetic power is not

sufficiently great to fuse the elements of a character indissolubly

together.

_The Origin, Progress and Conclusion of the Florida

War. By John T. Sprague, Brevet Captain Eighth Regiment

U. S. Infantry. New York: D. Appleton & Co._ 1 _vol._

8_vo._

This large volume seems to have been a labor of love with its author.

It is full of interesting and valuable matter regarding a very

peculiar contest in which our government was engaged; and to the

future historian Captain Sprague has spared a great deal of trouble

and research. The work is well got up, is illustrated with numerous

engravings, and contains full accounts of the origin and progress of

the war, the Indian chiefs engaged in it, and a record of all the

officers and privates of the army, navy, and marine corps, who were

killed in battle or died of disease. Captain Sprague says, "the causes

of the difficulties in Florida must be apparent to the minds of

careful and intelligent readers; causes not springing up in a day, but

nourished for years, aggravated as opportunities offered to enrich

adventurers, who had the temerity to hazard the scalping-knife and

rifle, and were regardless of individual rights or of law. It must be

remembered that Florida, at the period referred to, was an Indian

border, the resort of a large number of persons, more properly

_temporary inhabitants_ of the territory than citizens, who sought the

outskirts of civilization to perpetrate deeds which would have been

promptly and severely punished if committed within the limits of a

well regulated community. . . . They provoked the Indians to

aggressions; and upon the breaking out of the war, ignominiously fled,

or sought employment in the service of the general government, and

clandestinely contributed to its continuance." In these few sentences

we have the philosophy of almost all our Indian border wars. The

criminals of a community are ever its most expensive curses.

_The Poetical Works of John Milton. A New Edition. With

Notes, and a Life of the Author. By John Mitford.

Lowell: D. Bixby & Co._ 2 _vols_. _8vo._

Lowell is a manufacturing city of Massachusetts, the Manchester of

America, and a place where we might expect every thing in the shape of

manufactures except classical books. Yet it rejoices in a publisher

who has really done much for good literature. If our readers will look

at their American editions of Faust, of Goethe's Correspondence with a

Child, of Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, they will find Mr. Bixby on

the title page, and Lowell as the city whence their treasures came. We

have now to chronicle another feat of the same enterprising

publisher--an edition of Milton, in two splendid octavos, printed in

large type on the finest paper, after the best and most complete

London edition, illustrated with foot notes of parallel passages from

other poets, and constituting altogether the best American edition

extant of the sublimest of poets, and having few rivals even among the

finest English editions. The life of the poet by Mitford, extending to

about a hundred pages, embodies in a clear style all the facts which

have been gathered by previous biographers, without reproducing any of

their bigotries. All the lies regarding Milton's character are

disposed of with summary justice; and the man stands out in all the

grandeur of his genius and his purity. We hope that Mr. Bixby will be

adequately remunerated for his enterprise in getting out this splendid

edition. It is an honor to the American press.

_Eleventh Annual Report of the Secretary of the Board

of Education of Massachusetts. Boston: Dutton &

Wentworth._ 1 _vol._

We strongly advise our readers to procure this document, and not be

frightened from its perusal by the idea of its being a legislative

paper. It is written by Horace Mann, one of the ablest champions of

the cause of education now living, a man as distinguished for

industry, energy, and practical skill, as for eloquence and loftiness

of purpose. His report, considered simply as a composition, is written

with such splendid ability, glows throughout with so much genuine

philanthropy, and evinces so wide a command of the resources of

expression and argument, that, apart from its importance as a

contribution to the cause of education, it has general merits of mind

and style which will recommend it to every reader of taste and

feeling. The leading characteristic of Mr. Mann's writings on

education, which lifts them altogether out of the sphere of pedants

and pedagogues, is soul--a true, earnest, aspiring spirit, on fire

with a love of rectitude and truth. This gives inspiration even to his

narrative of details, and hurries the reader's mind on with his own,

through all necessary facts and figures, directly to the object. The

present report cannot but shame a mean spirit out of any person with a

spark of manliness in him. We wish its accomplished author all success

in his great and noble work.

_Aurelian, or Rome in the Third Century. By Wm. Ware,

Author of Zenobia and Julian. New York: C. S. Francis &

Co._

This work has been known to the public for ten years as "_Probus_,"

and has now a reputation that promises to be as enduring as it is

brilliant. It manifests an intimate knowledge of the manners, customs

and character of the Romans; and conveys the most sacred truths

through the medium of the most elevated fiction. It is for sale at the

store of the Appletons, in Philadelphia.