CHAPTER I.

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MIND AMONGST THE SPINDLES.

A Miscellany,

WHOLLY COMPOSED BY THE FACTORY GIRLS.

SELECTED FROM THE

LOWELL OFFERING.

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE ENGLISH EDITOR,

AND A LETTER FROM

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

BOSTON:

JORDAN, SWIFT & WILEY.

1845.

[Illustration: DOW AND JACKSON'S PRESS]

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION. By the English Editor 5

Abby's Year in Lowell 21

The First Wedding in Salmagundi 28

"Bless, and curse not" 32

Ancient Poetry 33

The Spirit of Discontent 36

The Whortleberry Excursion 38

The Western Antiquities 43

The Fig Tree 45

Village Pastors 49

The Sugar-Making Excursion 61

Prejudice against Labor 65

Joan of Arc 73

Susan Miller 81

Scenes on the Merrimac 92

The First Bells 100

Evening before Pay-Day 108

The Indian Pledge 118

The First Dish of Tea 120

Leisure Hours of the Mill Girls 122

The Tomb of Washington 136

Life among Farmers 138

A Weaver's Reverie 147

Our Duty to Strangers 150

Elder Isaac Townsend 152

Harriet Greenough 153

Fancy 161

The Widow's Son 163

Witchcraft 167

Cleaning Up 170

Visits to the Shakers 172

The Lock of Gray Hair 178

Lament of the little Hunchback 183

This World is not our Home 185

Dignity of Labor 187

The Village Chronicle 188

Ambition and Contentment 197

A Conversation on Physiology 199

[Illustration: Decoration]

INTRODUCTION, BY THE ENGLISH EDITOR.

In the American state of Massachusetts, one of the New England states,

which was colonized by the stern Puritans who were driven from our

country by civil and religious persecution, has sprung up within the

last thirty years the largest manufacturing town of the vast republic.

Lowell is situated not a great distance from Boston, at the confluence

of the rivers Merrimac and Concord. The falls of these rivers here

afford a natural moving power for machinery; and at the latter end of

the year 1813 a small cotton manufacture was here set up, where the

sound of labor had not been heard before. The original adventure was not

a prosperous one. But in 1826 the works were bought by a company or

corporation; and from that time Lowell has gone on so rapidly increasing

that it is now held to be "the greatest manufacturing city in America."

According to Mr. Buckingham, there are now ten companies occupying or

working thirty mills, and giving employment to more than 10,000

operatives, of whom 7,000 are females. The situation of the female

population is, for the most part, a peculiar one. Unlike the greater

number of the young women in our English factories, they are not brought

up to the labor of the mills, amongst parents who are also workers in

factories. They come from a distance; many of them remain only a limited

time; and they live in boarding houses expressly provided for their

accommodation. Miss Martineau, in her "Society in America," explains

the cause not only of the large proportion of females in the Lowell

mills, but also of their coming from distant parts in search of

employment: "Manufactures can to a considerable degree be carried on by

the labor of women; and there is a great number of unemployed women in

New England, from the circumstance that the young men of that region

wander away in search of a settlement on the land, and after being

settled find wives in the south and west." Again, she says, "Many of the

girls are in the factories because they have too much pride for domestic

service."

In October, 1840, appeared the first number of a periodical work

entitled "The Lowell Offering." The publication arose out of the

meetings of an association of young women called "The Mutual Improvement

Society." It has continued at intervals of a month or six weeks, and the

first volume was completed in December, 1841. A second volume was

concluded in 1842. The work was under the direction of an editor, who

gives his name at the end of the second volume,--Abel C. Thomas. The

duties which this gentleman performed are thus stated by him in the

preface to the first volume:--

"The two most important questions which may be suggested shall receive

due attention.

"1st. Are all the articles, in good faith and exclusively the

productions of females employed in the mills? We reply, unhesitatingly

and without reserve, that THEY ARE, the verses set to music excepted. We

speak from personal acquaintance with all the writers, excepting four;

and in relation to the latter (whose articles do not occupy eight pages

in the aggregate) we had satisfactory proof that they were employed in

the mills.

"2d. Have not the articles been materially amended by the exercise of

the editorial prerogative? We answer, THEY HAVE NOT. We have taken

_less liberty_ with the articles than editors usually take with the

productions of other than the most experienced writers. Our corrections

and additions have been so slight as to be unworthy of special note."

Of the merits of the compositions contained in these volumes their

editor speaks with a modest confidence, in which he is fully borne out

by the opinions of others:--

"In estimating the talent of the writers for the 'Offering,' the fact

should be remembered, that they are actively employed in the mills for

more than twelve hours out of every twenty-four. The evening, after

eight o'clock, affords their only opportunity for composition; and

whoever will consider the sympathy between mind and body, must be

sensible that a day of constant manual employment, even though the labor

be not excessive, must in some measure unfit the individual for the full

development of mental power. Yet the articles in this volume ask no

unusual indulgence from the critics--for, in the language of 'The North

American Quarterly Review,'--'many of the articles are such as satisfy

the reader at once, that if he has only taken up the "Offering" as a

phenomenon, and not as what may bear criticism and reward perusal, he

has but to own his error, and dismiss his condescension, as soon as may

be.'"

The two volumes thus completed in 1842 were lent to us by a lady whose

well-earned literary reputation gave us the assurance that she would not

bestow her praise upon a work whose merit merely consisted in the

remarkable circumstance that it was written by young women, not highly

educated, during the short leisure afforded by their daily laborious

employments. She told us that we should find in those volumes some

things which might be read with pleasure and improvement. And yet we

must honestly confess that we looked at the perusal of these

closely-printed eight hundred pages as something of a task. We felt

that all literary productions, and indeed all works of art, should, in a

great degree, be judged without reference to the condition of the

producer. When we take up the poems of Burns, we never think that he was

a ploughman and an exciseman; but we have a painful remembrance of

having read a large quarto volume of verses by Ann Yearsly, who was

patronized in her day by Horace Walpole and Hannah More, and to have

felt only the conviction that the milkwoman of Bristol, for such was

their authoress, had better have limited her learning to the score and

the tally. But it was a duty to read the "Lowell Offering." The day that

saw us begin the first paper was witness to our continued reading till

night found us busy at the last page, not for a duty, but a real

pleasure.

The qualities which most struck us in these volumes were chiefly these:

_First_--there is an entire absence of all pretension in the writers to

be what they are not. They are factory girls. They always call

themselves "girls." They have no desire to be fine ladies, nor do they

call themselves "ladies," as the common fashion is of most American

females. They have no affectations of gentility; and by a natural

consequence they are essentially free from all vulgarity. They describe

the scenes amongst which they live, their labors and their pleasures,

the little follies of some of their number, the pure tastes and

unexpensive enjoyments of others. They feel, and constantly proclaim

without any effort, that they think it an honor to labor with their

hands. They recognize the real dignity of all useful employments. They

know that there is no occupation really unworthy of men or women, but

the selfish pursuits of what is called pleasure, without the desire to

promote the good of others by physical, intellectual, or moral

exertions. _Secondly_--many of these papers clearly show under what

influences these young women have been brought up. An earnest feeling

of piety pervades their recollections of the past, and their hopes for

the future. The thoughts of home, too, lie deep in their hearts. They

are constantly describing the secluded farm-house where they were

reared, the mother's love, the father's labors. Sometimes a reverse of

fortune falling upon a family has dispersed its once happy members.

Sometimes we see visions of past household joy through the orphan's

tears. Not unfrequently the ardent girl, happy in the confirmed

affection of some equal in rank, looks exultingly towards the day when

she may carry back from the savings' bank at Lowell a little dower to

furnish out their little farm on the hill side, where the barberries

grew, so deliciously red and sour, in her remembrance of childhood.

_Thirdly_--there is a genuine patriotism in the tone of many of these

productions, which is worthy the descendants of the stern freemen who,

in the New England solitudes, looked tearfully back upon their

father-land. The institutions under which these young women live are

different from our own; but there is scarcely a particle of what we have

been too apt to call republican arrogance. The War of Independence is

spoken of as it ought to be by every American, with feelings of honest

exultation. But that higher sentiments than those of military triumph

mingle with the memory of that war, and render patriotism something far

nobler than mere national pride, may be seen in the little poem which we

gladly reprint, "The Tomb of Washington." The paper called "The Lock of

Gray Hair" is marked by an honest nationality, which we would be ashamed

not to reverence.--_Fourthly_--like all writers of good natural taste,

who have not been perverted into mere imitators of other writers, they

perceive that there is a great source of interest in describing, simply

and correctly, what they have witnessed with their own eyes. Thus, some

of the home pictures of these volumes are exceedingly agreeable,

presenting to us manners and habits wholly different from our own, and

scenes which have all the freshness of truth in their delineations.--The

old stories, too, which they sometimes tell of past life in America, are

equally interesting; and they show us how deeply in all minds is

implanted the love of old things, which are tenderly looked back upon,

even though they may have been swept away by what is real

improvement.--_Lastly_--although there are necessarily in these volumes,

as in every miscellany, some things which are tedious, and some puerile,

mock sentimentalities and labored efforts at fine writing, we think it

would be difficult upon the whole for a large body of contributors,

writing under great indulgence, to produce so much matter with so little

bad taste. Of pedantry there is literally none. The writers are familiar

with good models of composition; they know something of ancient and

modern history; the literature of England has reached them, and given a

character and direction to their thoughts. But there is never any

attempt to parade what they know; and we see they have been readers,

only as we discover the same thing in the best educated persons, not in

a display of their reading, but in a general tone which shows that

cultivation has made them wiser and better.

Such were the opinions we had formed of "The Lowell Offering," before we

were acquainted with the judgment pronounced upon the same book by a

writer whose original and brilliant genius is always under the direction

of kindly feelings towards his fellow-creatures, and especially towards

the poor and lowly of his human brethren. Mr. Dickens, in his "American

Notes," thus mentions "The Lowell Offering," of which he says, "I

brought away from Lowell four hundred good solid pages, which I have

read from beginning to end:"--"Of the merits of 'The Lowell Offering,'

as a literary production, I will only observe, putting entirely out of

sight the fact of the articles having been written by these girls after

the arduous labors of the day, that it will compare advantageously with

a great many English annuals. It is pleasant to find that many of its

tales are of the mills and of those who work in them; that they

inculcate habits of self-denial and contentment, and teach good

doctrines of enlarged benevolence. A strong feeling for the beauties of

nature, as displayed in the solitudes the writers have left at home,

breathes through its pages like wholesome village air; and though a

circulating library is a favorable school for the study of such topics,

it has very scant allusion to fine clothes, fine marriages, fine houses,

or fine life. Some persons might object to the papers being signed

occasionally with rather fine names, but this is an American fashion.

One of the provinces of the state legislature of Massachusetts is to

alter ugly names into pretty ones, as the children improve upon the

tastes of their parents."

If the separate articles in "The Lowell Offering" bear signatures which

represent distinct writers, we have, in our selection of thirty-seven

articles, given the productions of twenty-nine individual contributors.

It is this circumstance which leads us to believe that many of the

papers are faithful representations of individual feelings. Tabitha,

from whose pen we have given four papers, is a simple, unpretending

narrator of old American scenes and customs. Ella, from whom we select

three papers, is one of the imaginative spirits who dwell on high

thoughts of the past, and reveries of the future--one who has been an

earnest thinker as well as a reader. Jemima prettily describes two

little home-scenes. Susanna, who to our minds exhibits natural powers

and feelings, that by cultivation might enable her to become as

interesting an historian of the old times of America in the days before

the Revolution as an Irving or a Cooper, furnishes us with two papers.

The rest are Lisettas, and Almiras, and Ethelindas, and Annettes, and

Theresas; with others who are contented with simple initials. They have

all afforded us much pleasure. We have read what they have written with

a deep interest. May the love of letters which they enjoy, and the power

of composition which they have attained, shed their charms over their

domestic life, when their days of mill service are ended. May their

epistles to their friends be as full of truthfulness and good feeling as

their contributions to "The Lowell Offering." May the success of this

their remarkable attempt at literary composition not lead them to dream

too much of the proud distinctions of authorship--uncertain prizes, won,

if won at all, by many a weary struggle and many a bitter

disappointment. The efforts which they have made to acquire the practice

of writing have had their own reward. They have united themselves as

familiar friends with high and gentle minds, who have spoken to them in

books with love and encouragement. In dwelling upon the thoughts of

others, in fixing their own thoughts upon some definite object, they

have lifted themselves up into a higher region than is attained by

those, whatever be their rank, whose minds are not filled with images of

what is natural and beautiful and true. They have raised themselves out

of the sphere of the partial and the temporary into the broad expanse of

the universal and the eternal. During their twelve hours of daily labor,

when there were easy but automatic services to perform, waiting upon a

machine--with that slight degree of skill which no machine can ever

attain--for the repair of the accidents of its unvarying progress, they

may, without a neglect of their duty, have been elevating their minds in

the scale of being by cheerful lookings-out upon nature, by pleasant

recollections of books, by imaginary converse with the just and wise who

have lived before them, by consoling reflections upon the infinite

goodness and wisdom which regulates this world, so unintelligible

without such a dependence. These habits have given them cheerfulness and

freedom amidst their uninterrupted toils. We see no repinings against

their twelve hours' labor, for it has had its solace. Even during the

low wages of 1842, which they mention with sorrow but without complaint,

the same cultivation goes on; "The Lowell Offering" is still produced.

To us of England these things ought to be encouraging. To the immense

body of our factory operatives the example of what the girls of Lowell

have done should be especially valuable. It should teach them that their

strength, as well as their happiness, lies in the cultivation of their

minds. To the employers of operatives, and to all of wealth and

influence amongst us, this example ought to manifest that a strict and

diligent performance of daily duties, in work prolonged as much as in

our own factories, is no impediment to the exercise of those faculties,

and the gratification of those tastes, which, whatever the world may

have thought, can no longer be held to be limited by station. There is a

contest going on amongst us, as it is going on all over the world,

between the hard imperious laws which regulate the production of wealth

and the aspirations of benevolence for the increase of human happiness.

We do not deplore the contest; for out of it must come a gradual

subjection of the iron necessity to the holy influences of love and

charity. Such a period cannot, indeed, be rashly anticipated by

legislation against principles which are secondary laws of nature; but

one thing, nevertheless, is certain--that such an improvement of the

operative classes, as all good men,--and we sincerely believe amongst

them the great body of manufacturing capitalists,--ardently pray for and

desire to labor in their several spheres to attain, will be brought

about in a parallel progression with the elevation of the operatives

themselves in mental cultivation, and consequently in moral excellence.

We believe that this great good may be somewhat advanced by a knowledge

diffused in every building throughout the land where there is a mule or

a loom, of what the factory girls of Lowell have done to exhibit the

cheering influences of "MIND AMONGST THE SPINDLES."

* * * * *

We had written thus far when we received the following most interesting

and valuable letter from Miss Martineau. We have the greatest pleasure

in printing this admirable account of the factory girls at Lowell, from

the pen of one who has labored more diligently and successfully than any

writer of our day, to elevate the condition of the operative classes. To

Miss Martineau we are deeply indebted for the ardent zeal with which she

has recommended the compilation, and for the sound judgment with which

she has assisted us in arranging the details of a plan which mainly owes

its origin to her unwearied solicitude for the good of her

fellow-creatures.

_Letter from Miss Martineau to the Editor._

_Tynemouth, May 20, 1844._

MY DEAR FRIEND,--Your interest in this Lowell book can scarcely

equal mine; for I have seen the factory girls in their Lyceum, and

have gone over the cotton-mills at Waltham, and made myself familiar

on the spot with factory life in New England; so that in reading the

"Offering," I saw again in my memory the street of houses built by

the earnings of the girls, the church which is their property, and

the girls themselves trooping to the mill, with their healthy

countenances, and their neat dress and quiet manners, resembling

those of the tradesman class of our country.

My visit to Lowell was merely for one day, in company with Mr.

Emerson's party,--he (the pride and boast of New England as an

author and philosopher) being engaged by the Lowell factory people

to lecture to them, in a winter course of historical biography. Of

course the lectures were delivered in the evening, after the mills

were closed. The girls were then working seventy hours a week, yet,

as I looked at the large audience (and I attended more to them than

to the lecture) I saw no sign of weariness among any of them. There

they sat, row behind row, in their own Lyceum--a large hall,

wainscoted with mahogany, the platform carpeted, well lighted,

provided with a handsome table, desk, and seat, and adorned with

portraits of a few worthies, and as they thus sat listening to their

lecturer, all wakeful and interested, all well-dressed and

lady-like, I could not but feel my heart swell at the thought, of

what such a sight would be with us.

The difference is not in rank, for these young people were all

daughters of parents who earn their bread with their own hands. It

is not in the amount of wages, however usual that supposition is,

for they were then earning from one to three dollars a-week, besides

their food; the children one dollar (4_s._ 3_d._), the second rate

workers two dollars, and the best three: the cost of their dress and

necessary comforts being much above what the same class expend in

this country. It is not in the amount of toil; for, as I have said,

they worked seventy clear hours per week. The difference was in

their superior culture. Their minds are kept fresh, and strong, and

free by knowledge and power of thought; and this is the reason why

they are not worn and depressed under their labors. They begin with

a poorer chance for health than our people; for the health of the

New England women generally is not good, owing to circumstances of

climate and other influences; but among the 3800 women and girls in

the Lowell mills when I was there, the average of health was not

lower than elsewhere; and the disease which was most mischievous was

the same that proves most fatal over the whole country--consumption;

while there were no complaints peculiar to mill life.

At Waltham, where I saw the mills, and conversed with the people, I

had an opportunity of observing the invigorating effects of MIND in

a life of labor. Twice the wages and half the toil would not have

made the girls I saw happy and healthy, without that cultivation of

mind which afforded them perpetual support, entertainment, and

motive for activity. They were not highly educated, but they had

pleasure in books and lectures, in correspondence with home; and had

their minds so open to fresh ideas, as to be drawn off from thoughts

of themselves and their own concerns. When at work they were amused

with thinking over the last book they had read, or with planning the

account they should write home of the last Sunday's sermon, or with

singing over to themselves the song they meant to practise in the

evening; and when evening came, nothing was heard of tired limbs and

eagerness for bed, but, if it was summer, they sallied out, the

moment tea was over, for a walk, and if it was winter, to the

lecture-room or to the ball-room for a dance, or they got an hour's

practice at the piano, or wrote home, or shut themselves up with a

new book. It was during the hours of work in the mill that the

papers in the "Offering" were meditated, and it was after work in

the evenings that they were penned.

There is, however, in the case of these girls, a stronger support, a

more elastic spring of vigor and cheerfulness than even an active

and cultivated understanding. The institution of factory labor has

brought ease of heart to many; and to many occasion for noble and

generous deeds. The ease of heart is given to those who were before

suffering in silent poverty, from the deficiency of profitable

employment for women, which is even greater in America than with us.

It used to be understood there that all women were maintained by the

men of their families; but the young men of New England are apt to

troop off into the West, to settle in new lands, leaving sisters at

home. Some few return to fetch a wife, but the greater number do

not, and thus a vast over proportion of young women remains; and to

a multitude of these the opening of factories was a most welcome

event, affording means of honorable maintenance, in exchange for

pining poverty at home.

As for the noble deeds, it makes one's heart glow to stand in these

mills, and hear of the domestic history of some who are working

before one's eyes, unconscious of being observed or of being the

object of any admiration. If one of the sons of a New England farmer

shows a love for books and thought, the ambition of an affectionate

sister is roused, and she thinks of the glory and honor to the whole

family, and the blessing to him, if he could have a college

education. She ponders this till she tells her parents, some day, of

her wish to go to Lowell, and earn the means of sending her brother

to college. The desire is yet more urgent if the brother has a pious

mind, and a wish to enter the ministry. Many a clergyman in America

has been prepared for his function by the devoted industry of

sisters; and many a scholar and professional man dates his elevation

in social rank and usefulness from his sister's, or even some

affectionate aunt's entrance upon mill life, for his sake. Many

girls, perceiving anxiety in their fathers' faces, on account of the

farm being incumbered, and age coming on without release from the

debt, have gone to Lowell, and worked till the mortgage was paid

off, and the little family property free. Such motives may well

lighten and sweeten labor; and to such girls labor is light and

sweet.

Some, who have no such calls, unite the surplus of their earnings to

build dwellings for their own residence, six, eight, or twelve

living together with the widowed mother or elderly aunt of one of

them to keep house for, and give countenance to the party. I saw a

whole street of houses so built and owned, at Waltham; pretty frame

houses, with the broad piazza, and the green Venitian blinds, that

give such an air of coolness and pleasantness to American village

and country abodes. There is the large airy eating-room, with a few

prints hung up, the piano at one end, and the united libraries of

the girls, forming a good-looking array of books, the rocking chairs

universal in America, the stove adorned in summer with flowers, and

the long dining-table in the middle. The chambers do not answer to

our English ideas of comfort. There is a strange absence of the wish

for privacy; and more girls are accommodated in one room than we

should see any reason for in such comfortable and pretty houses.

In the mills the girls have quite the appearance of ladies. They

sally forth in the morning with their umbrellas in threatening

weather, their calashes to keep their hair neat, gowns of print or

gingham, with a perfect fit, worked collars or pelerines, and

waistbands of ribbon. For Sundays and social evenings they have

their silk gowns, and neat gloves and shoes. Yet through proper

economy,--the economy of educated and thoughtful people,--they are

able to lay by for such purposes as I have mentioned above. The

deposits in the Lowell Savings' Bank were, in 1834, upwards of

114,000 dollars, the number of operatives being 5000, of whom 3800

were women and girls.

I thank you for calling my attention back to this subject. It is

one I have pleasure in recurring to. There is nothing in America

which necessitates the prosperity of manufactures as of agriculture,

and there is nothing of good in their factory system that may not be

emulated elsewhere--equalled elsewhere, when the people employed are

so educated as to have the command of themselves and of their lot in

life, which is always and everywhere controlled by mind, far more

than by outward circumstances.

I am very truly yours,

H. MARTINEAU.

[Illustration: Decoration]

MIND AMONGST THE SPINDLES.

ABBY'S YEAR IN LOWELL.

CHAPTER I.

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

says?"

"Any thing worth hearing?" was the responsive question of Mr. Atkins;

and he laid down the New Hampshire Patriot, and peered over his

spectacles, with a look which seemed to say, that an event so uncommon

deserved particular attention.

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

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

"But I do not see how I can spare her; the spring cleaning is not done,

nor the soap made, nor the boys' summer clothes; and you say that you

intend to board your own 'men-folks' and keep two more cows than you did

last year; and Charley can scarcely go alone. I do not see how I can get

along without her."

"But you say she does not assist you any about the house."

"Well, husband, she _might_."

"Yes, she might do a great many things which she does not think of

doing; and as I do not see that she means to be useful here; we will let

her go to the factory."

"Father, are you in earnest? may I go to Lowell?" said Abby; and she

raised her bright black eyes to her father's, with a look of exquisite

delight.

"Yes, Abby, if you will promise me one thing, and that is, that you will

stay a whole year without visiting us, excepting in case of sickness,

and that you will stay but one year."

"I will promise anything, father, if you will only let me go; for I

thought you would say that I had better stay at home, and pick rocks,

and weed the garden, and drop corn, and rake hay; and I do not want to

do such work any longer. May I go with the Slater girls next Tuesday?

for that is the day they have set for their return."

"Yes, Abby, if you will remember that you are to stay a year, and only a

year."

Abby retired to rest that night with a heart fluttering with pleasure;

for ever since the visit of the Slater girls, with new silk dresses, and

Navarino bonnets trimmed with flowers and lace veils, and gauze

handkerchiefs, her head had been filled with visions of fine clothes;

and she thought if she could only go where she could dress like them,

she would be completely happy. She was naturally very fond of dress, and

often, while a little girl, had she sat on the grass bank by the

road-side, watching the stage which went daily by her father's retired

dwelling; and when she saw the gay ribbons and smart shawls, which

passed like a bright phantom before her wondering eyes, she had thought

that when older she too would have such things; and she looked forward

to womanhood as to a state in which the chief pleasure must consist in

wearing fine clothes. But as years passed over her, she became aware

that this was a source from which she could never derive any enjoyment,

while she remained at home, for her father was neither able nor willing

to gratify her in this respect, and she had begun to fear that she must

always wear the same brown cambric bonnet, and that the same calico gown

would always be her "go-to-meeting dress." And now what a bright picture

had been formed by her ardent and uncultivated imagination.--Yes, she

would go to Lowell, and earn all that she possibly could, and spend

those earnings in beautiful attire; she would have silk dresses,--one of

grass green, and another of cherry red, and another upon the color of

which she would decide when she purchased it; and she would have a new

Navarino bonnet; far more beautiful than Judith Slater's; and when at

last she fell asleep, it was to dream of satin and lace, and her glowing

fancy revelled all night in a vast and beautiful collection of

milliners' finery.

But very different were the dreams of Abby's mother; and when she awoke

the next morning, her first words to her husband were, "Mr. Atkins,

were you serious last night when you told Abby that she might go to

Lowell? I thought at first that you were vexed because I interrupted

you, and said it to stop the conversation."

"Yes, wife, I was serious, and you did not interrupt me, for I had been

listening to all that you and Abby were saying. She is a wild,

thoughtless girl, and I hardly know what it is best to do with her; but

perhaps it will be as well to try an experiment, and let her think and

act a little while for herself. I expect that she will spend all her

earnings in fine clothes, but after she has done so she may see the

folly of it; at all events, she will be more likely to understand the

value of money when she has been obliged to work for it. After she has

had her own way for one year, she may possibly be willing to return

home, and become a little more steady, and be willing to devote her

active energies (for she is a very capable girl) to household duties,

for hitherto her services have been principally out of doors, where she

is now too old to work. I am also willing that she should see a little

of the world, and what is going on in it; and I hope that, if she

receives no benefit, she will at least return to us uninjured."

"O, husband, I have many fears for her," was the reply of Mrs. Atkins,

"she is so very giddy and thoughtless, and the Slater girls are as

hair-brained as herself, and will lead her on in all sorts of folly. I

wish you would tell her that she must stay at home."

"I made a promise," said Mr. Atkins, "and I will keep it; and Abby, I

trust, will keep _hers_."

Abby flew round in high spirits to make the necessary preparations for

her departure, and her mother assisted her with a heavy heart.

CHAPTER II.

The evening before she left home her father called her to him, and

fixing upon her a calm, earnest, and almost mournful look, he said,

"Abby, do you ever think?"--Abby was subdued, and almost awed, by her

father's look and manner. There was something unusual in it--something

in his expression which was unexpected in him, which reminded her of her

teacher's look at the Sabbath school, when he was endeavoring to

impress upon her mind some serious truth. "Yes, father," she at length

replied, "I have thought a great deal lately about going to Lowell."

"But I do not believe, my child, that you have had one serious

reflection upon the subject, and I fear that I have done wrong in

consenting to let you go from home. If I was too poor to maintain you

here, and had no employment about which you could make yourself useful,

I should feel no self-reproach, and would let you go, trusting that all

might yet be well; but now I have done what I may at some future time

severely repent of; and, Abby, if you do not wish to make me wretched,

you will return to us a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl."

That night Abby reflected more seriously than she had ever done in her

life before. Her father's words, rendered more impressive by the look

and tone with which they were delivered, had sunk into her heart as

words of his had never done before. She had been surprised at his ready

acquiescence in her wishes, but it had now a new meaning. She felt that

she was about to be abandoned to herself, because her parents despaired

of being able to do anything for her; they thought her too wild,

reckless, and untameable, to be softened by aught but the stern lessons

of experience. I will surprise them, said she to herself; I will show

them that I have some reflection; and after I come home, my father shall

never ask me if I _think_. Yes, I know what their fears are, and I will

let them see that I can take care of myself, and as good care as they

have ever taken of me. I know that I have not done as well as I might

have done; but I will begin _now_, and when I return, they shall see

that _I am_ a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl. And the money

which I intended to spend in fine dress shall be put into the bank; I

will save it all, and my father shall see that I can earn money, and

take care of it too. O, how different I will be from what they think I

am; and how very glad it will make my father and mother to see that I am

not so very bad, after all.

New feelings and new ideas had begotten new resolutions, and Abby's

dreams that night were of smiles from her mother, and words from her

father, such as she had never received nor deserved.

When she bade them farewell the next morning, she said nothing of the

change which had taken place in her views and feelings, for she felt a

slight degree of self-distrust in her own firmness of purpose.

Abby's self-distrust was commendable and auspicious; but she had a very

prominent development in that part of the head where phrenologists

locate the organ of firmness; and when she had once determined upon a

thing, she usually went through with it. She had now resolved to pursue

a course entirely different from that which was expected of her, and as

different from the one she had first marked out for herself. This was

more difficult, on account of her strong propensity for dress, a love of

which was freely gratified by her companions. But when Judith Slater

pressed her to purchase this beautiful piece of silk, or that splendid

piece of muslin, her constant reply was, "No, I have determined not to

buy any such things, and I will keep my resolution."

Before she came to Lowell, she wondered, in her simplicity, how people

could live where there were so many stores, and not spend all their

money; and it now required all her firmness to resist being overcome by

the tempting display of beauties which met her eye whenever she

promenaded the illuminated streets. It was hard to walk by the

milliners' shops with an unwavering step; and when she came to the

confectionaries, she could not help stopping. But she did not yield to

the temptation; she did not spend her money in them. When she saw fine

strawberries, she said to herself, "I can gather them in our own pasture

next year;" when she looked upon the nice peaches, cherries, and plums

which stood in tempting array behind their crystal barriers, she said

again, "I will do without them _this_ summer;" and when apples, pears,

and nuts were offered to her for sale, she thought that she would eat

none of them till she went home. But she felt that the only safe place

for her earnings was the savings' bank, and there they were regularly

deposited, that it might be out of her power to indulge in momentary

whims. She gratified no feeling but a newly-awakened desire for mental

improvement, and spent her leisure hours in reading useful books.

Abby's year was one of perpetual self-contest and self-denial; but it

was by no means one of unmitigated misery. The ruling desire of years

was not to be conquered by the resolution of a moment; but when the

contest was over, there was for her the triumph of victory. If the

battle was sometimes desperate, there was so much more merit in being

conqueror. One Sabbath was spent in tears, because Judith Slater did not

wish her to attend their meeting with such a dowdy bonnet; and another

fellow-boarder thought her gown must have been made in "the year one."

The color mounted to her cheeks, and the lightning flashed from her

eyes, when asked if she had "_just come down_;" and she felt as though

she should be glad to be away from them all, when she heard their sly

innuendoes about "bush-wackers." Still she remained unshaken. It is but

a year, said she to herself, and the time and money that my father

thought I should spend in folly, shall be devoted to a better purpose.

CHAPTER III.

At the close of a pleasant April day, Mr. Atkins sat at his kitchen

fire-side, with Charley upon his knees. "Wife," said he to Mrs. Atkins,

who was busily preparing the evening meal, "is it not a year since Abby

left home?"

"Why, husband, let me think: I always clean up the house thoroughly just

before _fast-day_, and I had not done it when Abby went away. I remember

speaking to her about it, and telling her that it was wrong to leave me

at such a busy time, and she said, 'Mother, I will be at home to do it

all next year.' Yes, it is a year, and I should not be surprised if she

should come this week."

"Perhaps she will not come at all," said Mr. Atkins, with a gloomy look;

"she has written us but few letters, and they have been very short and

unsatisfactory. I suppose she has sense enough to know that no news is

better than bad news, and having nothing pleasant to tell about herself,

she thinks she will tell us nothing at all. But if I ever get her home

again, I will keep her here. I assure you, her first year in Lowell

shall also be her last."

"Husband, I told you my fears, and if you had set up your authority,

Abby would have been obliged to stay at home; but perhaps she is doing

pretty well. You know she is not accustomed to writing, and that may

account for the few and short letters we have received; but they have

all, even the shortest, contained the assurance that she would be at

home at the close of the year."

"Pa, the stage has stopped here," said little Charley, and he bounded

from his father's knee. The next moment the room rang with the shout of

"Abby has come! Abby has come!" In a few moments more, she was in the

midst of the joyful throng. Her father pressed her hand in silence, and

tears gushed from her mother's eyes. Her brothers and sisters were

clamorous with delight, all but little Charley, to whom Abby was a

stranger, and who repelled with terror all her overtures for a better

acquaintance. Her parents gazed upon her with speechless pleasure, for

they felt that a change for the better had taken place in their once

wayward girl. Yes, there she stood before them, a little taller and a

little thinner, and, when the flush of emotion had faded away, perhaps a

little paler; but the eyes were bright in their joyous radiance, and the

smile of health and innocence was playing around the rosy lips. She

carefully laid aside her new straw bonnet, with its plain trimming of

light blue ribbon, and her dark merino dress showed to the best

advantage her neat symmetrical form. There was more delicacy of personal

appearance than when she left them, and also more softness of manner;

for constant collision with so many young females had worn off the

little asperities which had marked her conduct while at home.

"Well, Abby, how many silk gowns have you got?" said her father, as he

opened a large new trunk. "_Not one_, father," said she; and she fixed

her dark eyes upon him with an expression which told all. "But here are

some little books for the children, and a new calico dress for mother;

and here is a nice black silk handkerchief for you to wear around your

neck on Sundays; accept it, dear father, for it is your daughter's first

gift."

"You had better have bought me a pair of spectacles, for I am sure I

cannot see anything." There were tears in the rough farmer's eyes, but

he tried to laugh and joke, that they might not be perceived. "But what

did you do with all your money?"

"I thought I had better leave it there," said Abby, and she placed her

bank-book in her father's hand. Mr. Atkins looked a moment, and the

forced smile faded away. The surprise had been too great, and tears fell

thick and fast from the father's eyes.

"It is but a little," said Abby. "But it was all you could save,"

replied her father, "and I am proud of you, Abby; yes, proud that I am

the father of such a girl. It is not this paltry sum which pleases me so

much, but the prudence, self-command, and real affection for us which

you have displayed. But was it not sometimes hard to resist temptation?"

"Yes, father, _you_ can never know how hard; but it was the thought of

_this_ night which sustained me through it all. I knew how you would

smile, and what my mother would say and feel; and though there have been

moments, yes, hours, that have seen me wretched enough, yet this one

evening will repay for all. There is but one thing now to mar my

happiness, and that is the thought that this little fellow has quite

forgotten me;" and she drew Charley to her side. But the new

picture-book had already effected wonders, and in a few moments he was

in her lap, with his arms around her neck, and his mother could not

persuade him to retire that night until he had given "sister Abby" a

hundred kisses.

"Father," said Abby, as she arose to retire, when the tall clock struck

eleven, "may I not sometime go back to Lowell? I should like to add a

little to the sum in the bank, and I should be glad of _one_ silk gown!"

"Yes, Abby, you may do anything you wish. I shall never again be afraid

to let you spend a year in Lowell."

LUCINDA.

THE FIRST WEDDING IN SALMAGUNDI.

I have often heard this remark, "If their friends can give them nothing

else, they will surely give them a wedding." As I have nothing else to

present at this time, I hope my friends will not complain if I give them

an account of the first wedding in our town. The ceremony of marriage

being performed by his Excellency the Governor, it would not be amiss to

introduce him first of all.

Let me then introduce John Wentworth (the last governor of New Hampshire

while the colonies were subject to the crown of Great Britain), whose

country seat was in Salmagundi. The wedding which I am about to

describe was celebrated on a romantic spot, by the side of Lake

Winnipiseogee. All the neighbors within ten miles were invited, and it

was understood that all who came were expected to bring with them some

implements of husbandry, such as ploughs, harrows, yokes, bows,

wheelbarrows, hods, scythe-snaths, rakes, goads, hay-hooks, bar-pins,

&c. These articles were for a fair, the product of which was to defray

the expenses of the wedding, and also to fit out the bride with some

household furniture. All these implements, and a thousand and one

besides, being wanted on the farm of Wentworth, he was to employ persons

to buy them for his own especial use.

Johnny O'Lara, an old man, who used to chop wood at my father's door,

related the particulars of the wedding one evening, while I sat on a

block in the chimney-corner (the usual place for the greatest rogue in

the family), plying my knitting-needles, and every now and then, when

the eyes of my step-mother were turned another way, playing slyly with

the cat. And once, when we yonkers went upon a whortleberry excursion,

with O'Lara for our pilot, he showed us the spot where the wedding took

place, and described it as it was at the time. On the right was a grove

of birches; on the left a grove of bushy pines, with recesses for the

cows and sheep to retire from the noon-day sun. The background was a

forest of tall pines and hemlocks, and in front were the limpid waters

of the "Smile of the Great Spirit." These encircled about three acres of

level grass-land, with here and there a scattering oak. "Under yonder

oak," said O'Lara, "the ceremony was performed; and here, on this flat

rock, was the rude oven constructed, where the good wives baked the

lamb; and there is the place where crotched stakes were driven to

support a pole, upon which hung two huge iron kettles, in which they

boiled their peas. And on this very ground," said O'Lara, "in days of

yore, the elfs and fairies used to meet, and, far from mortal ken, have

their midnight gambols."

The wedding was on a fine evening in the latter part of the month of

July, at a time when the moon was above the horizon for the whole night.

The company were all assembled, with the exception of the Governor and

his retinue. To while away the time, just as the sun was sinking behind

the opposite mountains, they commenced singing an ode to sunset. They

had sung,

"The sunset is calm on the face of the deep,

And bright is the last look of Sol in the west;

And broad do the beams of his parting glance sweep,

Like the path that conducts to the land of the blest,"

when the blowing of a horn announced the approach of the Governor, whose

barge was soon seen turning a point of land. The company gave a salute

of nineteen guns, which was returned from the barge, gun for gun. The

Governor and retinue soon landed, and the fair was quickly over. The

company being seated on rude benches prepared for the occasion, the

blowing of a horn announced that it was time for the ceremony to

commence; and, being answered by a whistle, all eyes were turned toward

the right, and issuing from the birchen grove were seen three musicians,

with a bagpipe, fife, and a Scotch fiddle, upon which they were playing

with more good nature than skill. They were followed by the bridegroom

and grooms-man, and in the rear were a number of young men in their

holiday clothes. These having taken their places, soft music was heard

from the left; and from a recess in the pines, three maidens in white,

with baskets of wild flowers on the left arm, came forth, strewing the

flowers on the ground, and singing a song, of which I remember only the

chorus:

"Lead the bride to Hymen's bowers,

Strew her path with choicest flowers."

The bride and bridesmaid followed, and after them came several lasses in

gala dresses. These having taken their places, the father of the bride

arose, and taking his daughter's hand and placing it in that of

Clifford, gave them his blessing. The Governor soon united them in the

bonds of holy matrimony, and as he ended the ceremony with saying, "What

God hath joined let no man put asunder," he heartily saluted the bride.

Clifford followed his example, and after him she was saluted by every

gentleman in the company. As a compensation for this "rifling of

sweets," Clifford had the privilege of kissing every lady present, and

beginning with Madame Wentworth, he saluted them all, from the

gray-headed matron, to the infant in its mother's arms.

The cake and wine were then passed round. Being a present from Madame

Wentworth, they were no doubt excellent. After this refreshment, and

while the good matrons were cooking their peas, and making other

preparations, the young folks spent the time in playing

"blind-man's-buff," and "hide and go seek," and in singing "Jemmy and

Nancy," "Barbara Allen," "The Friar with Orders Grey," "The Lass of

Richmond Hill," "Gilderoy," and other songs which they thought were

appropriate to the occasion.

At length the ringing of a bell announced that dinner was ready. "What,

dinner at that time of night?" perhaps some will say. But let me tell

you, good friends (in Johnny O'Lara's words), that "the best time for a

wedding dinner, is when it is well cooked, and the guests are ready to

eat it." The company were soon arranged around the rude tables, which

were rough boards, laid across poles that were supported by crotched

stakes driven into the ground. But it matters not what the tables were,

as they were covered with cloth white as the driven snow, and well

loaded with plum puddings, baked lamb, and green peas, with all

necessary accompaniments for a well ordered dinner, which the guests

complimented in the best possible manner, that is, by making a hearty

meal.

Dinner being ended, while the matrons were putting all things to rights,

the young people made preparation for dancing; and a joyous time they

had. The music and amusement continued until the "blushing morn"

reminded the good people that it was time to separate. The rising sun

had gilded the sides of the opposite mountains, which were sending up

their exhalations, before the company were all on their way to their

respective homes. Long did they remember the first wedding in our town.

Even after the frost of seventy winters had whitened the heads of those

who were then boys, they delighted to dwell on the merry scenes of that

joyful night; and from that time to the present, weddings have been

fashionable in Salmagundi, although they are not always celebrated in

quite so romantic a manner.

TABITHA.

"BLESS, AND CURSE NOT."

The Athenians were proud of their glory. Their boasted city claimed

pre-eminence in the arts and sciences; even the savage bowed before the

eloquence of their soul-stirring orators; and the bards of every nation

sang of the glory of Athens.

But pre-eminent as they were, they had not learned to be merciful. The

pure precepts of kindness and love were not taught by their sages; and

their noble orators forgot to inculcate the humble precepts of

forgiveness, and the "charity which hopeth all things." They told of

patriotism, of freedom, and of that courage which chastises wrong or

injury with physical suffering; but they told not of that nobler spirit

which "renders good for evil," and "blesses, but curses not."

Alcibiades, one of their own countrymen, offended against their laws,

and was condemned to expiate the offence with his life. The civil

authorities ordered his goods to be confiscated, that their value might

swell the riches of the public treasury; and everything that pertained

to him, in the way of citizenship, was obliterated from the public

records. To render his doom more dreary and miserable,--to add weight to

the fearful fulness of his sentence,--the priests and priestesses were

commanded to pronounce upon him their curse. One of them, however, a

being gentle and good as the principles of mercy which dwelt within her

heart--timid as the sweet songsters of her own myrrh and orange groves,

and as fair as the acacia-blossom of her own bower--rendered courageous

by the all-stimulating and powerful influence of kindness, dared alone

to assert the divinity of her office, by refusing to curse her

unfortunate fellow-being--asserting that she was "PRIESTESS TO BLESS,

AND NOT TO CURSE."

LISETTA.

[Illustration: Decoration]

ANCIENT POETRY.

I love old poetry, with its obscure expressions, its obsolete words, its

quaint measure, and rough rhyme. I love it with all these, perhaps _for_

these. It is because it is different from modern poetry, and not that I

think it better, that it at times affords me pleasure. But when one has

been indulging in the perusal of the smooth and elegant productions of

later poets, there is at least the charm of variety in turning to those

of ancient bards. This is pleasant to those who love to exercise the

imagination--for if we would understand our author, we must go back into

olden times; we must look upon the countenances and enter into the

feelings of a long-buried generation; we must remember that much of what

we know was then unknown, and that thoughts and sentiments which may

have become common to us, glowed upon these pages in all their primal

beauty. Much of which our writer may speak has now been wholly lost; and

difficult, if not impossible, to be understood are many of his

expressions and allusions.

But these difficulties present a "delightful task" to those who would

rather push on through a tangled labyrinth, than to walk with ease in a

smooth-rolled path. Their self-esteem is gratified by being able to

discover beauty where other eyes behold but deformity: and a brilliant

thought or glowing image is rendered to them still more beautiful,

because it shines through a veil impenetrable to other eyes. They are

proud of their ability to perceive this beauty, or understand that

oddity, and they care not for the mental labor which they have been

obliged to perform.

When I turn from modern poetry to that of other days, it is like leaving

bright flowery fields to enter a dark tangled forest. The air is cooler,

but damp and heavy. A sombre gloom reigns throughout, occasionally

broken by flitting sunbeams, which force their way through the thick

branches which meet above me, and dance and glitter upon the dark

underwood below. They are strongly contrasted with the deep shade

around, and my eye rests upon them with more pleasure than it did upon

the broad flood of sunshine which bathes the fields without. My

searching eye at times discovers some lonely flower, half hidden by

decayed leaves and withered moss, yet blooming there in undecaying

beauty. There are briers and thistles and creeping vines around, but I

heedlessly press on, for I must enjoy the fragrance and examine the

structure of these unobtrusive plants. I enjoy all this for a while, but

at length I grow chilled and weary, and am glad to leave the forest for

a less fatiguing resort.

But there is one kind of old poetry to which these remarks may not

apply--I mean the POETRY OF THE BIBLE.--And how much is there of this!

There are songs of joy and praise, and those of woe and lamentation;

there are odes and elegies; there are prophecies and histories; there

are descriptions of nature and narratives of persons, and all written

with a fervency of feeling which embodies itself in lofty and glowing

imagery. And what is this but poetry? yet not that which can be compared

to some dark, mazy forest, but rather like a sacred grove, such as "were

God's first temples." There is no gloom around, neither is there bright

sunshine; but a calm and holy light pervades the place. The tall trees

meet not above me, but through their lofty boughs I can look up and see

the blue heavens bending their perfect dome above the hallowed spot,

while now and then some fleecy cloud sails slowly on, as though it loved

to shadow the still loneliness beneath. There are soft winds murmuring

through the high tree-tops, and their gentle sound is like a voice from

the spirit-land. There are delicate white flowers waving upon their

slight stems, and their sweet fragrance is like the breath of heaven. I

feel that I am in God's temple. The Spirit above waits for the

sacrifice. I can now erect an altar, and every selfish worldly thought

should be laid thereon, a free-will offering. But when the rite is over,

and I leave this consecrated spot for the busy path of life, I should

strive to bear into the world a heart baptized in the love of beauty,

holiness, and truth.

I have spoken figuratively--perhaps too much so to please the pure and

simple tastes of some--but He who made my soul and placed it in the body

which it animates, implanted within it a love of the beautiful in

literature, and this love was first awakened and then cherished by the

words of Holy Writ.

I have, when a child, read my Bible, from its earliest book to its

latest. I have gone in imagination to the plains of Uz, and have there

beheld the pastoral prince in all his pride and glory. I have marked

him; too, when in the depth of his sorrow he sat speechless upon the

ground for seven days and seven nights; but when he opened his mouth and

spake, I listened with eagerness to the heart-stirring words and

startling imagery which poured forth from his burning lips! But my heart

has thrilled with a delightful awe when "the Lord answered Job out of

the whirlwind," and I listened to words of more simplicity than

uninspired man may ever conceive.

I have gone, too, with the beloved disciple into that lonely isle where

he beheld those things of which he was commanded to write. My

imagination dared not conceive of the glorious throne, and of Him who

sat upon it; but I have looked with a throbbing delight upon the New

Jerusalem coming down from heaven in her clear crystal light, "as a

bride adorned for her husband." I have gazed upon the golden city,

flashing like "transparent glass," and have marked its pearly gates and

walls of every precious stone. In imagination have I looked upon all

this, till my young spirit longed to leave its earthly tenement and soar

upward to that brighter world, where there is no need of sun or moon,

for "the Lamb is the light thereof."

I have since read my Bible for better purposes than the indulgence of

taste. There must I go to learn my duty to God and my neighbor. There

should I look for precepts to direct the life that now is, and for the

promise of that which is to come; yet seldom do I close that sacred

volume without a feeling of thankfulness, that the truths of our holy

religion have been so often presented in forms which not only reason and

conscience will approve, but also which the fancy can admire and the

heart must love.

ELLA.

[Illustration: Decoration]

THE SPIRIT OF DISCONTENT.

"I will not stay in Lowell any longer; I am determined to give my notice

this very day," said Ellen Collins, as the earliest bell was tolling to

remind us of the hour for labor.

"Why, what is the matter, Ellen? It seems to me you have dreamed out a

new idea! Where do you think of going? and what for?"

"I am going home, where I shall not be obliged to rise so early in the

morning, nor be dragged about by the ringing of a bell, nor confined in

a close noisy room from morning till night. I will not stay here; I am

determined to go home in a fortnight."

Such was our brief morning's conversation.

In the evening, as I sat alone, reading, my companions having gone out

to public lectures or social meetings, Ellen entered. I saw that she

still wore the same gloomy expression of countenance, which had been

manifested in the morning; and I was disposed to remove from her mind

the evil influence, by a plain common-sense conversation.

"And so, Ellen," said I, "you think it unpleasant to rise so early in

the morning, and be confined in the noisy mill so many hours during the

day. And I think so, too. All this, and much more, is very annoying, no

doubt. But we must not forget that there are advantages, as well as

disadvantages, in this employment, as in every other. If we expect to

find all sunshine and flowers in any station in life, we shall most

surely be disappointed. We are very busily engaged during the day; but

then we have the evening to ourselves, with no one to dictate to or

control us. I have frequently heard you say, that you would not be

confined to household duties, and that you dislike the millinery

business altogether, because you could not have your evenings for

leisure. You know that in Lowell we have schools, lectures, and meetings

of every description, for moral and intellectual improvement."

"All that is very true," replied Ellen, "but if we were to attend every

public institution, and every evening school which offers itself for our

improvement, we might spend every farthing of our earnings, and even

more. Then if sickness should overtake us, what are the probable

consequences? Here we are, far from kindred and home; and if we have an

empty purse, we shall be destitute of _friends_ also."

"I do not think so, Ellen. I believe there is no place where there are

so many advantages within the reach of the laboring class of people, as

exist here; where there is so much equality, so few aristocratic

distinctions, and such good fellowship, as may be found in this

community. A person has only to be honest, industrious, and moral, to

secure the respect of the virtuous and good, though he may not be worth

a dollar; while on the other hand, an immoral person, though he should

possess wealth, is not respected."

"As to the morality of the place," returned Ellen, "I have no fault to

find. I object to the constant hurry of everything. We cannot have time

to eat, drink, or sleep; we have only thirty minutes, or at most

three-quarters of an hour, allowed us, to go from our work, partake of

our food, and return to the noisy chatter of machinery. Up before day,

at the clang of the bell--and out of the mill by the clang of the

bell--into the mill, and at work, in obedience to that ding-dong of a

bell--just as though we were so many living machines. I will give my

notice to-morrow: go, I will--I won't stay here and be a white slave."

"Ellen," said I, "do you remember what is said of the bee, that it

gathers honey even in a poisonous flower? May we not, in like manner, if

our hearts are rightly attuned, find many pleasures connected with our

employment? Why is it, then, that you so obstinately look altogether on

the dark side of a factory life? I think you thought differently while

you were at home, on a visit, last summer--for you were glad to come

back to the mill in less than four weeks. Tell me, now--why were you so

glad to return to the ringing of the bell, the clatter of the machinery,

the early rising, the half-hour dinner, and so on?"

I saw that my discontented friend was not in a humor to give me an

answer--and I therefore went on with my talk.

"You are fully aware, Ellen, that a country life does not exclude people

from labor--to say nothing of the inferior privileges of attending

public worship--that people have often to go a distance to meeting of

any kind--that books cannot be so easily obtained as they can here--that

you cannot always have just such society as you wish--that you"--

She interrupted me, by saying, "We have no bell, with its everlasting

ding-dong."

"What difference does it make?" said I, "whether you shall be awakened

by a bell, or the noisy bustle of a farm-house? For, you know, farmers

are generally up as early in the morning as we are obliged to rise."

"But then," said Ellen, "country people have none of the clattering of

machinery constantly dinning in their ears."

"True," I replied, "but they have what is worse--and that is, a dull,

lifeless silence all around them. The hens may cackle sometimes, and the

geese gabble, and the pigs squeal"----

Ellen's hearty laugh interrupted my description--and presently we

proceeded, very pleasantly, to compare a country life with a factory

life in Lowell. Her scowl of discontent had departed, and she was

prepared to consider the subject candidly. We agreed, that since we must

work for a living, the mill, all things considered, is the most

pleasant, and best calculated to promote our welfare; that we will work

diligently during the hours of labor; improve our leisure to the best

advantage, in the cultivation of the mind,--hoping thereby not only to

increase our own pleasure, but also to add to the happiness of those

around us.

ALMIRA.

THE WHORTLEBERRY EXCURSION.

About a dozen of us, lads and lasses, had promised friend H. that on the

first lowery day we would meet him and his family on the top of Moose

Mountain, for the purpose of picking whortleberries, and of taking a

view of the country around. We had provided the customary complement of

baskets, pails, dippers, &c.; and one morning, which promised a suitable

day for our excursion, we piled ourselves into a couple of waggons, and

rode to the foot of the mountain and commenced climbing it on foot. A

beaten path and spotted trees were our guides. A toilsome way we found

it--some places being so steep that we were obliged to hold by the

twigs, to prevent us from falling.

Three-quarters of an hour after we left our horses, we found ourselves

on the whortleberry ground--some of us singing, some chatting, and all

trying to see who could pick the most berries. Friend H. went from place

to place among the young people, and with his social conversation gave

new life to the party--while his chubby boys and rosy girls by their

nimbleness plainly told that they did not intend that any one should

beat them in picking berries.

Towards noon, friend H. conducted us to a spring, where we made some

lemonade, having taken care to bring plenty of lemons and sugar with us,

and also bread and cheese for a lunch. Seated beneath a wide-spreading

oak, we partook of our homely repast; and never in princely hall were

the choicest viands eaten with a keener relish. After resting a while,

we recommenced picking berries, and in a brief space our pails and

baskets were all full.

About this time, the clouds cleared away, the sun shone out in all the

splendor imaginable, and bright and beautiful was the prospect. Far as

the eye could reach, in a north and north-easterly direction, were to be

seen fields of corn and grain, with new mown grass-land, and potato

flats, farm-houses, barns, and orchards--together with a suitable

proportion of wood-land, all beautifully interspersed; and a number of

ponds of water, in different places, and of different forms and

sizes--some of them containing small islands, which added to the beauty

of the scenery. The little village at Wakefield corner, which was about

three miles distant, seemed to be almost under our feet; and with friend

H.'s spy-glass, we could see the people at work in their gardens,

weeding vegetables, picking cherries, gathering flowers, &c. But not one

of our number had the faculty that the old lady possessed, who, in the

time of the Revolution, in looking through a spy-glass at the French

fleet, brought the Frenchmen so near, that she could hear them chatter;

so we had to be content with ignorance of their conversation.

South-westerly might be seen Cropple-crown Mountain; and beyond it,

Merry-meeting Pond, where, I have been told, Elder Randall, the father

of the Free-will Baptist denomination, first administered the ordinance

of Baptism. West, might be seen Tumble-down-dick Mountain; and north,

the Ossipee Mountains; and far north, might be seen the White Mountains

of New Hampshire, whose snow-crowned summits seemed to reach the very

skies.

The prospect in the other directions was not so grand, although it was

beautiful--so I will leave it, and take the shortest route, with my

companions, with the baskets and pails of berries, to the house of

friend H. On our way, we stopped to view the lot of rock maples, which,

with some little labor, afforded a sufficient supply of sugar for the

family of friend H., and we promised that in the season of sugar-making

the next spring, we would make it convenient to visit the place, and

witness the process of making maple-sugar.

Our descent from the mountain was by a different path--our friends

having assured us, that although our route would be farther, we should

find it more pleasant; and truly we did--for the pathway was not so

rough as the one in which we travelled in the morning. And besides, we

had the pleasure of walking over the farm of the good Quaker, and of

hearing from his own lips many interesting circumstances of his life.

The country, he told us, was quite a wilderness when he first took up

his abode on the mountain; and bears, he said, were as plenty as

woodchucks, and destroyed much of his corn. He was a bachelor, and lived

alone for a number of years after he first engaged in clearing his land.

His habitation was between two huge rocks, at about seventy rods from

the place where he afterwards built his house.--He showed us this

ancient abode of his; it was in the midst of an old orchard. It appeared

as if the rocks had been originally one; but by some convulsion of

nature it had been sundered, midway, from top to bottom. The back part

of this dwelling was a rock wall, in which there was a fire-place and an

oven. The front was built of logs, with an aperture for a door-way; and

the roof was made of saplings and bark. In this rude dwelling, friend H.

dressed his food, and ate it; and here, on a bed of straw, he spent his

lonely nights. A small window in the rock wall admitted the light by

day; and by night, his solitary dwelling was illuminated with a

pitch-pine torch.

On being interrogated respecting the cause of his living alone so long

as he did, he made answer, by giving us to understand, that if he was

called "the bear," he was not so much of a brute as to marry until he

could give his wife a comfortable maintenance; "and moreover, I was

resolved," said he, "that Hannah should never have the least cause to

repent of the ready decision which she made in my favor." "Then," said

one of our company, "your wife was not afraid to trust herself with the

bear?" "She did not hesitate in the least," said friend H.; "for when I

'popped the question,' by saying, 'Hannah, will thee have me?' she

readily answered, 'Yes, To----;' she would have said, 'Tobias, I will;'

but the words died on her lips, and her face, which blushed like the

rose, became deadly pale; and she would have fallen on the floor, had I

not caught her in my arms. After Hannah got over her faintness, I told

her that we had better not marry, until I was in a better way of living;

to which she also agreed. And," said he, "before I brought home my bird,

I had built yonder cage"--pointing to his house; "and now, neighbors,

let us hasten to it; for Hannah will have her tea ready by the time we

get there." When we arrived at the house we found that tea was ready;

and the amiable Mrs. H., the wife of the good Quaker, was waiting for

us, with all imaginable patience.

The room in which we took tea was remarkably neat. The white floor was

nicely sanded, and the fire-place filled with pine-tops and rose-bushes;

and vases of roses were standing on the mantel-piece. The table was

covered with a cloth of snowy whiteness, and loaded with delicacies; and

here and there stood a little China vase, filled with white and damask

roses.

"So-ho!" said the saucy Henry L., upon entering the room; "I thought

that you Quakers were averse to every species of decoration; but see!

here is a whole flower-garden!" Friend H. smiled and said, "the rose is

a favorite with Hannah; and then it is like her, with one exception."

"And what is that exception?" said Henry.--"Oh," said our friend,

"Hannah has no thorns to wound." Mrs. H.'s heightened color and smile

plainly told us, that praise from her husband was "music to her ear."

After tea, we had the pleasure of promenading through the house; and

Mrs. H. showed us many articles of domestic manufacture, being the work

of her own and her daughters' hands. The articles consisted of sheets,

pillow-cases, bed-quilts, coverlets of various colors, and woven in

different patterns,--such as chariot wheels, rose-of-sharon, ladies'

delight, federal constitution--and other patterns, the names of which I

have forgotten. The white bed-spreads and the table-covers, which were

inspected by us, were equal, if not superior, to those of English

manufacture; in short, all that we saw proclaimed that order and

industry had an abiding place in the house of friend H.

Mrs. H. and myself seated ourselves by a window which overlooked a young

and thrifty orchard. A flock of sheep were grazing among the trees, and

their lambs were gambolling from place to place. "This orchard is more

beautiful than your other," said I; "but I do not suppose it contains

anything so dear to the memory of friend H. as his old habitation." She

pointed to a knoll, where was a small enclosure, and which I had not

before observed. "There," said she, "is a spot more dear to Tobias; for

there sleep our children." "Your cup has then been mingled with sorrow?"

said I. "But," replied she, "we do not sorrow without hope; for their

departure was calm as the setting of yonder sun, which is just sinking

from sight; and we trust that we shall meet them in a fairer world,

never to part." A tear trickled down the cheek of Mrs. H., but she

instantly wiped it away, and changed the conversation. Friend H. came

and took a seat beside us, and joined in the conversation, which, with

his assistance, became animated and amusing.

Here, thought I, dwell a couple, happily united. Friend H., though rough

in his exterior, nevertheless possesses a kindly affectionate heart; and

he has a wife whose price is above rubies.

The saucy Henry soon came to the door, and bawled out, "The stage is

ready." We obeyed the summons, and found that Henry and friend H.'s son

had been for our vehicles. We were again piled into the waggons--pails,

baskets, whortleberries, and all; and with many hearty shakes of the

hand, and many kind farewells, we bade adieu to the family of friend H.,

but not without renewing the promise, that, in the next sugar-making

season, we would revisit Moose Mountain.

JEMIMA.

THE WESTERN ANTIQUITIES.

In the valley of the Mississippi, and the more southern parts of North

America, are found antique curiosities and works of art, bearing the

impress of cultivated intelligence. But of the race, or people, who

executed them, time has left no vestige of their existence, save these

monuments of their skill and knowledge. Not even a tradition whispers

its _guess-work_, who they might be. We only know _they were_.

What proof and evidence do we gather from their remains, which have

withstood the test of time, of their origin and probable era of their

existence? That they existed centuries ago, is evident from the size

which forest trees have attained, which grow upon the mounds and

fortifications discovered. That they were civilized and understood the

arts, is apparent from the manner of laying out and erecting their

fortifications, and from various utensils of gold, copper, and iron

which have occasionally been found in digging below the earth's surface.

If I mistake not, I believe even glass has been found, which, if so,

shows them acquainted with chemical discoveries, which are supposed to

have been unknown until a period much later than the probable time of

their existence. That they were not the ancestors of the race which

inhabited this country at the time of its discovery by Columbus, appears

conclusive from the total ignorance of the Indian tribes of all

knowledge of arts and civilization, and the non-existence of any

tradition of their once proud sway. That they were a mighty people is

evident from the extent of territory where these antiquities are

scattered. The banks of the Ohio and Mississippi tell they once lived;

and even to the shore where the vast Pacific heaves its waves, there are

traces of their existence. Who were they? In what period of time did

they exist?

In a cave in one of the Western States, there is carved upon the walls a

group of people, apparently in the act of devotion; and a rising sun is

sculptured above them. From this we should infer that they were Pagans,

worshipping the sun and the fabulous gods. But what most strikingly

arrests the antiquarian's observation, and causes him to repeat the

inquiry, "who were they?" is the habiliments of the group. One part of

their habit is of the Grecian costume, and the remainder is of the

Phoenicians. Were they a colony from Greece? Did they come from that

land in the days of its proud glory, bringing with them a knowledge of

arts, science, and philosophy? Did they, too, seek a home across the

western waters, because they loved liberty in a strange land better than

they loved slavery at home? Or what may be as probable, were they the

descendants of some band who managed to escape the destruction of

ill-fated Troy?--the descendants of a people who had called Greece a

mother-country, but were sacrificed to her vindictive ire, because they

were prouder to be Trojans than the descendants of Grecians? Ay, who

were they? Might not America have had its Hector, its Paris, and Helen?

its maidens who prayed, and its sons who fought? All this might have

been. But their historians and their poets alike have perished. They

_have been_; but the history of their existence, their origin, and their

destruction, all, all are hidden by the dark chaos of oblivion.

Imagination alone, from inanimate landmarks, voiceless walls, and

soulless bodies, must weave the record which shall tell of their lives,

their aims, origin, and final extinction.

Recently, report says, in Mexico there have been discovered several

mummies, embalmed after the manner of the ancient Egyptians. If true, it

carries the origin of this fated people still farther back; and we might

claim them to be contemporaries with Moses and Joshua. Still, if I form

my conclusions correctly from what descriptions I have perused of these

Western relics of the past, I should decide that they corresponded

better with the ancient Grecians, Phoenicians, or Trojans, than with the

Egyptians. I repeat, I may be incorrect in my premises and deductions,

but as imagination is their historian, it pleases me better to fill a

world with heroes and beauties of Homer's delineations, than with those

of "Pharaoh and his host."

LISETTE.

[Illustration: Decoration]

THE FIG-TREE.

It was a cold winter's evening. The snow had fallen lightly, and each

tree and shrub was bending beneath its glittering burden. Here and there

was one, with the moonbeams gleaming brightly upon it, until it seemed,

with its many branches, touched by the ice-spirit, or some fairy-like

creation, in its loveliness and beauty. Every thing was hushed in

Dridonville.

Situated at a little distance, was a large white house, surrounded with

elm-trees, in the rear of which, upon an eminence, stood a summer-house;

and in the warm season might have been seen many a gay lady reclining

beneath its vine-covered roof. No pains had been spared to make the

situation desirable. It was the summer residence of Captain Wilson. But

it was now mid-winter, and yet he lingered in the country. Many were the

questions addressed by the villagers to the old gardener, who had grown

grey in the captain's service, as to the cause of the long delay; but he

could not, or would not, answer their inquiries.

The shutters were closed, the fire burning cheerfully, and the astral

lamp throwing its soft mellow light upon the crimson drapery and rich

furniture of one of the parlors. In a large easy chair was seated a

gentleman, who was between fifty and sixty years of age. He was in deep

and anxious thought; and ever and anon his lip curled, as if some bitter

feeling was in his heart. Standing near him was a young man. His brow

was open and serene; his forehead high and expansive; and his eyes

beamed with an expression of benevolence and mildness. His lips were

firmly compressed, denoting energy and decision of character.

"You may be seated," said Capt. Wilson, for it was he who occupied the

large chair, the young man being his only son. "You may be seated,

Augustus," and he cast upon him a look of mingled pride and scorn. The

young man bowed profoundly, and took a seat opposite his father. There

was a long pause, and the father was first to break silence. "So you

intend to marry a beggar, and suffer the consequences. But do you think

your love will stand the test of poverty, and the sneer of the world?

for I repeat, that not one farthing of my money shall you receive,

unless you comply with the promise which I long since made to my old

friend, that our families should be united. She will inherit his vast

possessions, as there is no other heir. True, she is a few years your

senior; but that is of no importance. Your mother is older than I am.

But I have told you all this before. Consider well ere you choose

between wealth and poverty."

"Would that I could conscientiously comply with your request," replied

Augustus, "but I have promised to be protector and friend to Emily

Summerville. She is not rich in this world's goods; but she has what is

far preferable--a contented mind; and you will allow that, in point of

education, she will compare even with Miss Clarkson." In a firm voice he

continued, "I have made my choice, I shall marry Emily;" and he was

about to proceed, but his father stamped his foot, and commanded him to

quit his presence. He left the house, and as he walked rapidly towards

Mr. Grant's, the uncle of Miss Summerville, he thought how unstable were

all earthly possessions, "and why," he exclaimed, "why should I make

myself miserable for a little paltry gold? It may wound my pride at

first to meet my gay associates; but that will soon pass away, and my

father will see that I can provide for my own wants."

Emily Summerville was the daughter of a British officer, who for many

years resided in the pleasant village of Dridonville. He was much

beloved by the good people for his activity and benevolence. He built

the cottage occupied by Mr. Grant. On account of its singular

construction, it bore the name of the "English cottage." After his death

it was sold, and Mr. Grant became the purchaser. There Emily had spent

her childhood. On the evening before alluded to, she was in their little

parlor, one corner of which was occupied by a large fig-tree. On a stand

were geraniums, rose-bushes, the African lily, and many other plants. At

a small table sat Emily, busily engaged with her needle, when the old

servant announced Mr. Wilson. "Oh, Augustus, how glad I am you are

come!" she exclaimed, as she sprung from her seat to meet him; "but you

look sad and weary," she added, as she seated herself by his side, and

gazed inquiringly into his face, the mirror of his heart. "What has

happened? you look perplexed."

"Nothing more than I have expected for a long time," was the reply; and

it was with heartfelt satisfaction that he gazed on the fair creature by

his side, and thought she would be a star to guide him in the way of

virtue. He told her all. And then he explained to her the path he had

marked out for himself. "I must leave you for a time, and engage in the

noise and excitement of my profession. It will not be long, if I am

successful. I must claim one promise from you, that is, that you will

write often, for that will be the only pleasure I shall have to cheer me

in my absence."

She did promise; and when they separated at a late hour, they dreamed

not that it was their last meeting on earth.

* * * * *

"Oh, uncle," said Emily, as they entered the parlor together one

morning, "do look at my fig-tree; how beautiful it is. If it continues

to grow as fast as it has done, I can soon sit under its branches." "It

is really pretty," replied her uncle; and he continued, laughing and

patting her cheek, "you must cherish it with great care, as it was a

present from ---- now don't blush; I do not intend to speak his name,

but was merely about to observe, that it might be now as in olden times,

that as _he_ prospers, the tree will flourish; if he is sick, or in

trouble, it will decay."

"If such are your sentiments," said Emily, "you will acknowledge that

thus far his path has been strewed with flowers."

Many months passed away, and there was indeed a change. The tree that

had before looked so green, had gradually decayed, until nothing was

left but the dry branches. But she was not superstitious: "It might be,"

she said, "that she had killed it with kindness." Her uncle never

alluded to the remark he had formerly made; but Emily often thought

there might be some truth in it. She had received but one letter from

Augustus, though she had written many.

Summer had passed, and autumn was losing itself in winter. Augustus

Wilson was alone in the solitude of his chamber.--There was a hectic

flush upon his cheek, and the low hollow cough told that consumption was

busy. Was that the talented Augustus Wilson? he whose thrilling

eloquence had sounded far and wide? His eyes were riveted upon a

withered rose. It was given him by Emily, on the eve of his departure,

with these words, "Such as I am, receive me. Would I were of more worth,

for your sake."

"No," he musingly said; "it is not possible she has forgotten me. I will

not, cannot believe it." He arose, and walked the room with hurried

steps, and a smile passed over his face, as he held communion with the

bright images of the past. He threw himself upon his couch, but sleep

was a stranger to his weary frame.

Three weeks quickly passed, and Augustus Wilson lay upon his death-bed.

Calm and sweet was his slumber, as the spirit took its flight to the

better land. And O, it was a sad thing to see that father, with the

frost of many winters upon his head, bending low over his son,

entreating him to speak once more; but all was silent. He was not there;

nought remained but the beautiful casket; the jewel which had adorned it

was gone. And deep was the grief of the mother; but, unlike her husband,

she felt she had done all she could to brighten her son's pathway in

life. She knew not to what extent Capt. W. had been guilty.

Augustus was buried in all the pomp and splendor that wealth could

command. The wretched father thought in this way to blind the eyes of

the world. But he could not deceive himself. It was but a short time

before he was laid beside his son at Mount Auburn. Several letters were

found among his papers, but they had not been opened. Probably he

thought that by detaining them, he should induce his son to marry the

rich Miss Clarkson, instead of the poor Emily Summerville.

* * * * *

Emily Summerville firmly stood amidst the desolation that had withered

all her bright hopes in life. She had followed her almost idolized uncle

to the grave; she had seen the cottage, and all the familiar objects

connected with her earliest recollections, pass into the hands of

strangers; but there was not a sigh, nor a quiver of the lip, to tell of

the anguish within. She knew not that Augustus Wilson had entered the

spirit-land, until she saw the record of his death in a Boston paper.

"O, if he had only sent me one word," she said; "even if it had been to

tell me that I was remembered no more, it would have been preferable to

this." The light which had shone so brightly on her pathway was

withdrawn, and the darkness of night closed around her.

Long and fearful was the struggle between life and death; but when she

arose from that sick bed, it was with a chastened spirit. "I am young,"

she thought, "and I may yet do much good." And when she again mingled in

society, it was with a peace that the world could neither give nor take

away.

She bade adieu to her native village, and has taken up her abode in

Lowell. She is one of the class called "factory girls." She recently

received the letters intercepted by Capt. Wilson, and the melancholy

pleasure of perusing them is hallowed by the remembrance of him who is

"gone, but not lost."

IONE.

VILLAGE PASTORS.

The old village pastor of New England was "a man having authority." His

deacons were _under_ him, and not, as is now often the case, his

tyrannical rulers; and whenever his parishioners met him, they doffed

their hats, and said "Your Reverence." Whatever passed his lips was both

law and gospel; and when too old and infirm to minister to his charge,

he was not turned away, like an old worn-out beast, to die of hunger, or

gather up, with failing strength, the coarse bit which might eke out a

little longer his remaining days; but he was still treated with all the

deference, and supported with all the munificence which was believed due

to him whom they regarded as "God's vicegerent upon earth." He deemed

himself, and was considered by his parishioners, if not infallible, yet

something approaching it. Those were indeed the days of glory for New

England clergymen.

Perhaps I am wrong. The present pastor of New England, with his more

humble mien and conciliatory tone, his closer application and untiring

activity, may be, in a wider sphere, as truly glorious an object of

contemplation. Many are the toils, plans and enterprises entrusted to

him, which in former days were not permitted to interfere with the

duties exclusively appertaining to the holy vocation; yet with added

labors, the modern pastor receives neither added honors, nor added

remuneration. Perhaps it is well--nay, perhaps it is _better_; but I am

confident that if the old pastor could return, and take a bird's-eye

view of the situations of his successors, he would exclaim, "How has the

glory departed from Israel, and how have they cast down the sons of

Levi!"

I have been led to these reflections by a contemplation of the

characters of the first three occupants of the pulpit in my native

village.

Our old pastor was settled, as all then were, for life. I can remember

him but in his declining years, yet even then was he a hale and vigorous

old man. Honored and beloved by all his flock, his days passed

undisturbed by the storms and tempests which have since then so often

darkened and disturbed the theological world. The opinions and creeds,

handed down by his Pilgrim Fathers, he carefully cherished, neither

adding thereto, nor taking therefrom; and he indoctrinated the young in

all the mysteries of the true faith, with an undoubting belief in its

infallibility. There was much of the patriarch in his look and manner;

and this was heightened by the nature of his avocations, in which

pastoral labors were mingled with clerical duties. No farm was in better

order than that of the parsonage; no fields looked more thriving, and no

flocks were more profitable than were those of the good clergyman.

Indeed he sometimes almost forgot his spiritual field, in the culture of

that which was more earthly.

One Saturday afternoon the minister was very busily engaged in

hay-making. His good wife had observed that during the week he had been

unusually engrossed in temporal affairs, and feared for the well-being

of his flock, as she saw that he could not break the earthly spell, even

upon this last day of the week. She looked, and looked in vain for his

return; until, finding him wholly lost to a sense of his higher duties,

she deemed it her duty to remind him of them. So away she went to the

haying field, and when she was in sight of the reverend haymaker, she

screamed out, "Mr. W., Mr. W."

"What, my dear?" shouted Mr. W. in return.

"Do you intend to feed your people with hay to-morrow?"

This was a poser--and Mr. W. dropped his rake; and, repairing to his

study, spent the rest of the day in the preparation of food more meat

for those who looked so trustfully to him for the bread of life.

His faithful companion was taken from him, and those who knew of his

strong and refined attachment to her, said truly, when they prophesied,

that he would never marry again.

She left one son--their only child--a boy of noble feelings and superior

intellect; and his father carefully educated him with a fond wish that

he would one day succeed him in the sacred office of a minister of God.

He hoped indeed that he might even fill the very pulpit which he must at

some time vacate; and he prayed that his own life might be spared until

this hope had been realized.

Endicott W. was also looked upon as their future pastor by many of the

good parishioners; and never did a more pure and gentle spirit take upon

himself the task of preparing to minister to a people in holy things. He

was the beloved of his father, the only child who had ever blessed

him--for he had not married till late in life, and the warm affections

which had been so tardily bestowed upon one of the gentler sex, were now

with an unusual fervor lavished upon this image of her who was gone.

When Endicott W. returned home, having completed his studies at the

University, he was requested by our parish to settle as associate pastor

with his father, whose failing strength was unequal to the regular

discharge of his parochial duties. It was indeed a beautiful sight to

see that old man, with bending form and silvery locks, joining in the

public ministrations with his young and gifted son--the one with a calm

expression of trusting faith; the countenance of the other beaming with

that of enthusiasm and hope.

Endicott was ambitious. He longed to see his own name placed in the

bright constellation of famed theologians; and though he knew that years

must be spent in toil for the attainment of that object, he was willing

that they should be thus devoted. The midnight lamp constantly witnessed

the devotions of Endicott W. at the shrine of science; and the wasting

form and fading cheek told what would be the fate of the infatuated

worshipper.

It was long before our young pastor, his aged father, and the idolizing

people, who were so proud of his talents, and such admirers of his

virtues,--it was long ere these could be made to believe he was dying;

but Endicott W. departed from life, as a bright cloud fades away in a

noon-day sky--for his calm exit was surrounded by all which makes a

death-bed glorious. His aged father said, "The Lord gave, and the Lord

hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." And then he went

again before his flock, and endeavored to reconcile them to their loss,

and dispense again the comforts and blessings of the gospel, trusting

that his strength would still be spared, until one, who was even then

preparing, should be ready to take his place.

* * * * *

Shall I tell you now of my own home? It was a rude farm-house, almost

embowered by ancient trees, which covered the sloping hill-side on which

it was situated; and it looked like an old pilgrim, who had crawled into

the thicket to rest his limbs, and hide his poverty. My parents were

poor, toiling, care-worn beings, and in a hard struggle for the comforts

of this life had almost forgotten to prepare for that which is to come.

It is true, the outward ordinances of religion were never neglected; but

the spirit, the feeling, the interest, in short all that is truly

deserving the name of piety, was wanting. My father toiled through the

burning heat of summer, and the biting frost of winter, for his loved

ones; and my mother also labored, from the first dawn of day till a late

hour at night in behalf of her family. She was true to her duties as

wife and mother, but it was from no higher motive than the instincts

which prompt the fowls of the air to cherish their brood; and though she

perhaps did not believe that "labor was the end of life," still her

conduct would have given birth to that supposition.

I had been for some time the youngest of the family, when a little

brother was born. He was warmly welcomed by us, though we had long

believed the family circle complete.--We were not then aware at how dear

a price the little stranger was to be purchased. From the moment of his

birth, my mother never knew an hour of perfect health. She had

previously injured her constitution by unmitigated toil, and now were

the effects to be more sensibly felt. She lived very many years; but it

was the life of an invalid.

Reader, did you ever hear of the "thirty years' consumption?" a disease

at present unknown in New England--for that scourge of our climate will

now complete in a few months the destruction which it took years of

desperate struggle to perform upon the constitutions of our more hardy

ancestors.

My mother was in such a consumption--that disorder which comes upon its

victim like the Aurorean flashes in an Arctic sky, now vivid in its pure

loveliness, and then shrouded in a sombre gloom. Now we hoped, nay,

almost believed, she was to be again quite well, and anon we watched

around a bed from which we feared she would never arise.

It was strange to us, who had always seen her so unremitting in her

toilsome labors, and so careless in her exposure to the elements, to

watch around her now--to shield her from the lightest breeze, or the

slightest dampness of the air--to guard her from all intrusion, and

relieve her from all care--to be always reserving for her the warmest

place by the fire-side, and preparing the choicest bit of food--to be

ever ready to pillow her head and bathe her brow--in short, to be never

unconscious of the presence of disease.--Our steps grew softer, and our

voices lower, and the stillness of our manners had its influence upon

our minds. The hush was upon our spirits; and there can surely be

nothing so effectual in carrying the soul before its Maker, as disease;

and it may truly be said to every one who enters the chamber of

sickness, "The place whereon thou standest is holy ground."

My little brother was to us an angel sent from heaven.--He possessed a

far more delicate frame and lofty intellect than any other member of the

family; and his high, pale brow, and brilliant eyes, were deemed sure

tokens of uncommon genius. My mother herself watched with pleasure these

indications of talent, although the time had been when a predilection

for literary pursuits would have been thought inconsistent with the

common duties which we were all born to fulfil.

We had always respected the learned and talented, but it was with a

feeling akin to the veneration we felt for the inhabitants of the

spiritual world. They were far above us, and we were content to bow in

reverence. Our thoughts had been restricted to the narrow circle of

every-day duties, and our highest aspirations were to be admitted at

length, as spectators, to the glory of a material heaven, where streets

of gold and thrones of ivory form the magnificence of the place. It was

different now.--With a nearer view of that better world, to which my

mother had received her summons, came also more elevated spiritual and

blissful views of its glory and perfection. It was another heaven, for

she was another being; and she would have been willing at any moment to

have resigned the existence which she held by so frail a tenure, had it

not been for the sweet child which seemed to have been sent from that

brighter world to hasten and prepare her for departure.

Our pastor was now a constant visitant. Hitherto he had found but little

to invite him to our humble habitation. He had been received with awe

and constraint, and the topics upon which he loved to dwell touched no

chord in the hearts of those whom he addressed. But now my mother was

anxious to pour into his ears all the new-felt sentiments and emotions

with which her heart was filled. She wished to share his sympathy, and

receive his instructions; for she felt painfully conscious of her

extreme ignorance.

It was our pastor who first noticed in my little brother the indications

of mental superiority; and we felt then as though the magical powers of

some favored order of beings had been transferred to one in our own

home-circle; and we loved the little Winthrop (for father had named him

after the old governor) with a stronger and holier love than we had

previously felt for each other. And in these new feelings how much was

there of happiness! Though there was now less health, and of course less

wealth, in our home, yet there was also more pure joy.

I have sometimes been out upon the barren hill-side, and thought that

there was no pleasure in standing on a spot so desolate. I have been

again in the same bare place, and there was a balmy odor in the

delicious air, which made it bliss but to inhale the fragrance. Some

spicy herb had carpeted the ground, and though too lowly and simple to

attract the eye, yet the charm it threw around the scene was not less

entrancing because so viewless and unobtrusive.

Such was the spell shed around our lowly home by the presence of

religion. It was with us the exhalation from lowly plants, and the pure

fragrance went up the more freely because they had been bruised. In our

sickness and poverty we had joy in the present, and bright hopes for the

future.

It was early decided that Winthrop should be a scholar.--Our pastor said

it must be so, and Endicott, who was but a few years older, assisted him

in his studies. They were very much together, and excepting in their own

families, had no other companion. But when my brother returned from the

pastor's study with a face radiant with the glow of newly-acquired

knowledge, and a heart overflowing in its desire to impart to others, he

usually went to his pale, emaciated mother to give vent to his

sensations of joy, and came to me to bestow the boon of knowledge. I was

the nearest in age. I had assisted to rear his infancy, and been his

constant companion in childhood; and now our intercourse was to be

continued and strengthened, amidst higher purposes and loftier feelings.

I was the depository of all his hopes and fears, the sharer of all his

plans for the future; and his aim was then to follow in the footsteps of

Endicott W. If he could only be as good, as kind and learned, he should

think himself one of the best of mankind.

When Endicott became our pastor, my brother was ready to enter college,

with the determination to consecrate himself to the same high calling.

It seemed hardly like reality to us, that one of our own poor household

was to be an educated man. We felt lifted up--not with pride--for the

feeling which elevated us was too pure for that; but we esteemed

ourselves better than we had ever been before, and strove to be more

worthy of the high gift which had been bestowed upon us. When my brother

left home, it was with the knowledge that self-denial was to be

practised, for his sake, by those who remained; but he also knew that it

was to be willingly, nay, joyously performed. Still he did not know

_all_. Even things which heretofore, in our poverty, we had deemed

essential to comfort, were now resigned.--We did not even permit my

mother to know how differently the table was spread for her than for our

own frugal repast. Neither was she aware how late and painfully I toiled

to prevent the hire of additional service upon our little farm. The joy

in the secret depths of my heart was its own reward; and never yet have

I regretted an effort or a sacrifice made then. It was a discipline like

the refiner's fire, and but for my brother, I should never have been

even as, with all my imperfections, I trust I am now.

My brother returned from college as the bright sun of Endicott W.'s

brief career was low in a western sky. He had intended to study with him

for the same vocation--and with him he _did_ prepare. O, there could

have been no more fitting place to imbue the mind with that wisdom which

cometh from above, than the sick room at our pastor's.

"The chamber where the good man meets his fate,

Is privileged beyond the common walks of life,"--

and Endicott's was like the shelter of some bright spirit from the other

world, who, for the sake of those about him, was delaying for a while

his return to the home above.--My brother was with him in his latest

hours, and received as a dying bequest the charge of his people. The

parish also were anxious that he should be Endicott's successor; and in

the space requested for farther preparation, our old pastor returned to

his pulpit.

But he had overrated his own powers; and besides, he was growing blind.

There were indeed those who said that, notwithstanding his calmness in

the presence of others, he had in secret wept his sight away; and that

while a glimmer of it remained, the curtain of his window, which

overlooked the grave-yard, had never been drawn. He ceased his labors,

but a temporary substitute was easily found--for, as old Deacon S.

remarked, "There are many ministers _now_, who are glad to go out to

day's labor."

My mother had prayed that strength might be imparted to her feeble

frame, to retain its rejoicing inhabitant until she could see her son a

more active laborer in the Lord's vineyard; "and then," said she, "I can

depart in peace." For years she had hoped the time would come, but dared

not hope to see it. But life was graciously spared; and the day which

was to see him set apart as peculiarly a servant of his God, dawned upon

her in better health than she had known for years. Perhaps it was the

glad spirit which imparted its renewing glow to the worn body, but she

went with us that day to the service of ordination. The old church was

thronged; and as the expression of thankfulness went up from the

preacher's lips, that one so worthy was then to be dedicated to his

service, my own heart was subdued by the solemn joy that he was one of

us. My own soul was poured out in all the exercises; but when the charge

was given, there was also an awe upon all the rest.

Our aged pastor had been led into his pulpit, that he might perform this

ceremony; and when he arose with his silvery locks, thinned even since

he stood there last, and raised his sightless eyes to heaven, I freely

wept. He was in that pulpit where he had stood so many years, to warn,

to guide, and to console; and probably each familiar face was then

presented to his imagination. He was where his dear departed son had

exercised the ministerial functions, and the same part of the service

which he had performed at his ordination, he was to enact again for his

successor. The blind old man raised his trembling hand, and laid it upon

the head of the young candidate; and as the memories of the past came

rushing over him, he burst forth in a strain of heart-stirring

eloquence. There was not a tearless eye in the vast congregation; and

the remembrance of that hour had doubtless a hallowing influence upon

the young pastor's life.

My brother was settled for five years, and as we departed from the

church, I heard Deacon S. exclaim, in his bitterness against modern

degeneracy in spiritual things, that "the old pastor was settled _for

life_." "So is the new one," said a low voice in reply; and for the

first time the idea was presented to my mind that Winthrop was to be,

like Endicott W., one of the early called.

But the impression departed in my constant intercourse with him in his

home--for our lowly dwelling was still the abode of the new pastor. He

would never remove from it while his mother lived, and an apartment was

prepared for him adjoining hers. They were pleasant rooms, for during

the few past years he had done much to beautify the place, and the

shrubs which he had planted were already at their growth. The thick

vines also which had struggled over the building, were now gracefully

twined around the windows, and some of the old trees cut down, that we

might be allowed a prospect. Still all that could conduce to beauty was

retained; and I have often thought how easily and cheaply the votary of

true taste can enjoy its pleasures.

Winthrop was now so constantly active and cheerful, that I could not

think of death as connected with him. But I knew that he was feeble, and

watched and cherished him, as I had done when he was but a little child.

Though in these respects his guardian, in others I was his pupil. I sat

before him, as Mary did at the Messiah's feet, and gladly received his

instructions. My heart went out with him in all the various functions of

his calling. I often went with him to the bed-side of the sick, and to

the habitations of the wretched. None knew better than he did, how to

still the throbbings of the wrung heart, and administer consolation.

I was present also, when, for the first time, he sprinkled an infant's

brow with the waters of consecration; and when he had blessed the babe,

he also prayed that we might all become even as that little child. I was

with him, too, when for the first time he joined in holy bands, those

whom none but God should ever put asunder; and if the remembrance of the

fervent petition which went up for them, has dwelt as vividly in their

hearts as it has in mine, that prayer must have had a holy influence

upon their lives.

I have said that I remember his first baptism and wedding; but none who

were present will forget his first funeral. It was our mother's. She had

lived so much beyond our expectations, and been so graciously permitted

to witness the fulfilment of her dearest hope, that when at length the

spirit winged its flight, we all joined in the thanksgiving which went

up from the lips of her latest-born, that she had been spared so long.

It was a beautiful Sabbath--that day appointed for her funeral--but in

the morning a messenger came to tell us that the clergyman whom we

expected was taken suddenly ill. What could be done? Our old pastor was

then confined to his bed, and on this day all else were engaged. "I will

perform the services myself," said Winthrop. "I shall even be happy to

do it."

"Nay," said I, "you are feeble, and already spent with study and

watching. It must not be so."

"Do not attempt to dissuade me, sister," he replied. "There will be many

to witness the interment of her who has hovered upon the brink of the

grave so long; and has not almost every incident of her life, from my

very birth, been a text from which important lessons may be drawn?" And

then, fixing his large mild eyes full upon me, as though he would utter

a truth which duty forbade him longer to suppress, he added, "I dare not

misimprove this opportunity. This first death in _my_ parish may also be

the last. Nay, weep not, my sister, because I may go next. The time at

best is short, and I must work while the day lasts."

I did not answer. My heart was full, and I turned away. That day my

brother ascended his pulpit to conduct the funeral services, and in them

he _did_ make of her life a lesson to all present. But when he addressed

himself particularly to the young, the middle-aged and the old, his eyes

kindled, and his cheeks glowed, as he varied the subject to present the

"king of terrors" in a different light to each. Then he turned to the

mourners. And who were _they?_ His own aged father, the companion for

many years of her who was before them in her shroud. His own brothers

and sisters, and the little ones of the third generation, whose childish

memories had not even yet forgotten her dying blessing. He essayed to

speak, but in vain. The flush faded from his cheek till he was deadly

pale. Again he attempted to address us, and again in vain. He raised his

hand, and buried his face in the folds of his white handkerchief. I also

covered my eyes, and there was a deep stillness throughout the assembly.

At that moment I thought more of the living than of the dead; and then

there was a rush among the great congregation, like the sudden bursting

forth of a mighty torrent.

I raised my eyes, but could see no one in the pulpit. The next instant

it was filled. I also pressed forward, and unimpeded ascended the steps,

for all stood back that I might pass. I reached him as he lay upon the

seat where he had fallen, and the handkerchief, which was still pressed

to his lips, was wet with blood. They bore him down, and through the

aisle; and when he passed the coffin, he raised his head, and gazed a

moment upon that calm, pale face. Then casting upon all around a

farewell glance, he sunk gently back, and closed his eyes.

* * * * *

A few evenings after, I was sitting by his bed-side. The bright glow of

a setting sun penetrated the white curtains of his windows, and fell

with softened lustre upon his face. The shadows of the contiguous

foliage were dancing upon the curtains, the floor, and the snowy drapery

of his bed; and as he looked faintly up, he murmured, "It is a beautiful

world; but the other is glorious! and my mother is there, and Endicott.

See! they are beckoning to me, and smiling joyfully!--Mother, dear

mother, and Endicott, I am coming!"

His voice and looks expressed such conviction of the reality of what he

saw, that I also looked up to see these beautiful spirits. My glance of

disappointment recalled him; and he smiled as he said, "I think it was a

dream; but it will be reality soon.--Do not go," said he, as I arose to

call for others. "Do not fear, sister. The bands are very loose, and the

spirit will go gently, and perhaps even before you could return."

I reseated myself, and pressing his wasted hand in mine, I watched,--

"As through his breast, the wave of life

Heaved gently to and fro."

A few moments more, and I was alone with the dead.

We buried Winthrop by the side of Endicott W., and the old pastor was

soon laid beside them. * * * *

Years have passed since then, and I still love to visit those three

graves. But other feelings mingle with those which once possessed my

soul. I hear those whose high vocation was once deemed a sure guarantee

for their purity, either basely calumniated, or terribly condemned.

Their morality is questioned, their sincerity doubted, their usefulness

denied, and their pretensions scoffed at. It may be that unholy hands

are sometimes laid upon the ark, and that change of times forbids such

extensive usefulness as was in the power of the clergymen of New England

in former days. But when there comes a muttering cry of "Down with the

priesthood!" and a denial of the good which they have effected, my soul

repels the insinuation, as though it were blasphemy. I think of the

first three pastors of our village, and I reverence the ministerial

office and its labors,

"If I but remember only,

That such as these have lived, and died."

SUSANNA.

[Illustration: Decoration]

THE SUGAR-MAKING EXCURSION.

It was on a beautiful morning in the month of March, (one of those

mornings so exhilarating that they make even age and decrepitude long

for a ramble), that friend H. called to invite me to visit his

sugar-lot--as he called it--in company with the party which, in the

preceding summer, visited Moose Mountain upon the whortleberry

excursion. It was with the pleasure generally experienced in revisiting

former scenes, in quest of novelty and to revive impressions and

friendships, that our party set out for this second visit to Moose

Mountain.

A pleasant sleigh-ride of four or five miles, brought us safely to the

domicile of friend H., who had reached home an hour previously, and was

prepared to pilot us to his sugar-camp. "Before we go," said he, "you

must one and all step within doors, and warm your stomachs with some

gingered cider." We complied with his request, and after a little social

chat with Mrs. H., who welcomed us with a cordiality not to be

surpassed, and expressed many a kind wish that we might spend the day

agreeably, we made for the sugar-camp, preceded by friend H., who walked

by the side of his sleigh, which appeared to be well loaded, and which

he steadied with the greatest care at every uneven place in the path.

Arrived at the camp, we found two huge iron kettles suspended on a pole,

which was supported by crotched stakes, driven in the ground, and each

half full of boiling syrup. This was made by boiling down the sap, which

was gathered from troughs that were placed under spouts which were

driven into rock-maple trees, an incision being first made in the tree

with an auger. Friend H. told us that it had taken more than two barrels

of sap to make what syrup each kettle contained. A steady fire of oak

bark was burning underneath the kettles, and the boys and girls, friend

H.'s sons and daughters, were busily engaged in stirring the syrup,

replenishing the fire, &c.

Abigail, the eldest daughter, went to her father's sleigh, and taking

out a large rundlet, which might contain two or three gallons, poured

the contents into a couple of pails. This we perceived was milk, and as

she raised one of the pails to empty the contents into the kettles, her

father called out, "Ho, Abigail! hast thee strained the milk?"

"Yes, father," said Abigail.

"Well," said friend H., with a chuckle, "Abigail understands what she is

about, as well as her mother would; and I'll warrant Hannah to make

better maple-sugar than any other woman in New England, or in the whole

United States--and you will agree with me in that, after that sugar is

turned off and cooled." Abigail turned to her work, emptied her milk

into the kettles, and then stirred their contents well together, and put

some bark on the fire.

"Come, Jemima," said Henry L., "let us try to assist Abigail a little,

and perhaps we shall learn to make sugar ourselves; and who knows but

what she will give us a 'gob' to carry home as a specimen to show our

friends; and besides, it is possible that we may have to make sugar

ourselves at some time or other; and even if we do not, it will never do

us any harm to know how the thing is done." Abigail furnished us each

with a large brass scummer, and instructed us to take off the scum as it

arose, and put it into the pails; and Henry called two others of our

party to come and hold the pails.

"But tell me, Abigail," said Henry, with a roguish leer, "was that milk

really intended for whitening the sugar?"

"Yes," said Abigail with all the simplicity of a Quakeress, "for thee

must know that the milk will all rise in a scum, and with it every

particle of dirt or dust which may have found its way into the kettles."

Abigail made a second visit to her father's sleigh, accompanied by her

little brother, and brought from thence a large tin baker, and placed it

before the fire. Her brother brought a peck measure two-thirds full of

potatoes, which Abigail put into the baker, and leaving them to their

fate, returned to the sleigh, and with her brother's assistance carried

several parcels, neatly done up in white napkins, into a little log hut

of some fifteen feet square, with a shed roof made of slabs. We began to

fancy that we were to have an Irish lunch. Henry took a sly peep into

the hut when we first arrived, and he declared that there was nothing

inside, save some squared logs, which were placed back against the

walls, and which he supposed were intended for seats. But he was

mistaken in thinking that seats were every convenience which the

building contained,--as will presently be shown.

Abigail and her brother had been absent something like half an hour, and

friend H. had in the mean time busied himself in gathering sap, and

putting it in some barrels hard by. The kettles were clear from scum,

and their contents were bubbling like soap. The fire was burning

cheerfully, the company all chatting merrily, and a peep into the baker

told that the potatoes were cooked.

Abigail and her brother came, and taking up the baker, carried it inside

the building, but soon returned, and placed it again before the fire.

Then she called to her father, who came and invited us to go and take

dinner.

We obeyed the summons; but how were we surprised, when we saw how neatly

arranged was every thing. The walls of the building were ceiled around

with boards, and side tables fastened to them, which could be raised or

let down at pleasure, being but pieces of boards fastened with leather

hinges and a prop underneath. The tables were covered with napkins,

white as the driven snow, and loaded with cold ham, neat's tongue,

pickles, bread, apple-sauce, preserves, dough-nuts, butter, cheese, and

_potatoes_--without which a Yankee dinner is never complete. For

beverage, there was chocolate, which was made over a fire in the

building--there being a rock chimney in one corner. "Now, neighbors,"

said friend H., "if you will but seat yourselves on these squared logs,

and put up with these rude accommodations, you will do me a favor. We

might have had our dinner at the house, but I thought that it would be a

novelty, and afford more amusement to have it in this little hut, which

I built to shelter us from what stormy weather we might have in the

season of making sugar."

We arranged ourselves around the room, and right merry were we, for

friend H.'s lively chat did not suffer us to be otherwise. He

recapitulated to us the manner of his life while a bachelor; the many

bear-fights which he had had; told us how many bears he had killed; how

a she-bear denned in his rock dwelling the first winter after he

commenced clearing his land--he having returned home to his father's to

attend school; how, when he returned in the spring, he killed her two

cubs, and afterwards the old bear, and made his Hannah a present of

their skins to make a muff and tippet; also his courtship, marriage, &c.

In the midst of dinner, Abigail came in with some hot mince-pies, which

had been heating in the baker before the fire out of doors, and which

said much in praise of Mrs. H.'s cookery.

We had finished eating, and were chatting as merrily as might be, when

one of the little boys called from without, "Father, the sugar has

grained." We immediately went out, and found one of the boys stirring

some sugar in a bowl to cool it. The fire was raked from beneath the

kettles, and Abigail and her eldest brother were stirring their contents

with all haste. Friend H. put a pole within the bail of one of the

kettles, and raised it up, which enabled two of the company to take the

other down, and having placed it in the snow, they assisted friend H. to

take down the other; and while we lent a helping hand to stir and cool

the sugar, friend H.'s children ate their dinners, cleared away the

tables, put what fragments were left into their father's sleigh,

together with the dinner-dishes, tin baker, rundlet, and the pails of

scum, which were to be carried home for the swine. A firkin was also put

into the sleigh; and after the sugar was sufficiently cool, it was put

into the firkin, and covered up with great care.

After this we spent a short time promenading around the rock-maple

grove, if leafless trees can be called a grove. A large sap-trough,

which was very neatly made, struck my fancy, and friend H. said he would

make me a present of it for a cradle. This afforded a subject for mirth.

Friend H. said that we must not ridicule the idea of having sap-troughs

for cradles; for that was touching quality, as his eldest child had been

rocked many an hour in a sap-trough, beneath the shade of a tree, while

his wife sat beside it knitting, and he was hard by, hoeing corn.

Soon we were on our way to friend H.'s house, which we all reached in

safety; and where we spent an agreeable evening, eating maple sugar,

apples, beech-nuts, &c. We also had tea about eight o'clock, which was

accompanied by every desirable luxury--after which we started for home.

As we were about taking leave, Abigail made each of us a present of a

cake of sugar, which was cooled in a tin heart.--"Heigh ho!" said Henry

L., "how lucky! We have had an agreeable visit, a bountiful feast--have

learned how to make sugar, and have all got sweethearts!"

We went home, blessing our stars and the hospitality of our Quaker

friends.

I cannot close without telling the reader, that the sugar which was

that day made, was nearly as white as loaf sugar, and tasted much

better.

JEMIMA.

PREJUDICE AGAINST LABOR.

CHAPTER I.

Mrs. K. and her daughter Emily were discussing the propriety of

permitting Martha to be one of the party which was to be given at Mr.

K.'s the succeeding Tuesday evening, to celebrate the birth-day of

George, who had lately returned from college. Martha was the niece of

Mr. K. She was an interesting girl of about nineteen years of age, who,

having had the misfortune to lose her parents, rather preferred working

in a factory for her support, than to be dependent on the charity of her

friends. Martha was a favorite in the family of her uncle; and Mrs. K.,

notwithstanding her aristocratic prejudices, would gladly have her niece

present at the party, were it not for fear of what people might say, if

Mr. and Mrs. K. suffered their children to appear on a level with

factory operatives.

"Mother," said Emily, "I do wish there was not such a prejudice against

those who labor for a living; and especially against those who work in a

factory; for then Martha might with propriety appear at George's party;

but I know it would be thought disgraceful to be seen at a party with a

factory girl, even if she is one's own cousin, and without a single

fault. And besides, the Miss Lindsays are invited, and if Martha should

be present, they will be highly offended, and make her the subject of

ridicule. I would not for my life have Martha's feelings wounded, as I

know they would be, if either of the Miss Lindsays should ask her when

she left Lowell, or how long she had worked in a factory."

"Well, Emily," said Mrs. K., "I do not know how we shall manage to keep

up appearances, and also spare Martha's feelings, unless we can persuade

your father to take her with him to Acton, on the morrow, and leave her

at your uncle Theodore's. I do not see any impropriety in this step, as

she proposes to visit Acton before she returns to Lowell."

"You will persuade me to no such thing," said Mr. K., stepping to the

door of his study, which opened from the parlor, and which stood ajar,

so that the conversation between his wife and daughter had been

overheard by Mr. K., and also by the Hon. Mr. S., a gentleman of large

benevolence, whose firmness of character placed him far above popular

prejudice. These gentlemen had been in the study unknown to Mrs. K. and

Emily.

"You will persuade me to no such thing," Mr. K. repeated, as he entered

the parlor accompanied by Mr. S.; "I am determined that my niece shall

be at the party. However loudly the public opinion may cry out against

such a measure, I shall henceforth exert my influence to eradicate the

wrong opinions entertained by what is called good society, respecting

the degradation of labor; and I will commence by placing my children and

niece on a level. The occupations of people have made too much

distinction in society. The laboring classes, who are in fact the wealth

of a nation, are trampled upon; while those whom dame Fortune has placed

above, or if you please, _below_ labor, with some few honorable

exceptions, arrogate to themselves all of the claims to good society.

But in my humble opinion, the rich and the poor ought to be equally

respected, if virtuous; and equally detested, if vicious."

"But what will our acquaintances say?" said Mrs. K.

"It is immaterial to me what 'they say' or think," said Mr. K., "so long

as I know that I am actuated by right motives."

"But you know, my dear husband," replied his wife, "that the world is

censorious, and that much of the good or ill fortune of our children

will depend on the company which they shall keep. For myself, I care but

little for the opinion of the world, so long as I have the approbation

of my husband, but I cannot bear to have my children treated with

coldness; and besides, as George is intended for the law, his success

will in a great measure depend on public opinion; and I do not think

that even Esq. S. would think it altogether judicious, under existing

circumstances, for us to place our children on a level with the laboring

people."

"If I may be permitted to express my opinion," said Mr. S. "I must say,

in all sincerity, that I concur in sentiment with my friend K.; and,

like him, I would that the line of separation between good and bad

society was drawn between the virtuous and the vicious; and to bring

about this much-to-be-desired state of things, the affluent, those who

are allowed by all to have an undisputed right to rank with good

society, must begin the reformation, by exerting their influence to

raise up those who are bowed down. Your fears, Mrs. K., respecting your

son's success, are, or should be, groundless; for, to associate with the

laboring people, and strive to raise them to their proper place in the

scale of being, should do more for his prosperity in the profession

which he has chosen, than he ought to realize by a contrary course of

conduct; and, I doubt not, your fears will prove groundless. So, my dear

lady, rise above them; and also above the opinions of a gainsaying

multitude--opinions which are erroneous, and which every philanthropist,

and every Christian, should labor to correct."

The remarks of Esq. S. had so good an effect on Mrs. K., that she

relinquished the idea of sending Martha to Acton.